George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little son with concentrated affection and attention, as little George piled up the sand into heaps during one of their walks. He would take up the sand with both hands, make a mound¹ of it, and put a chestnut² leaf on top. His father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.

 

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the Rue³ Saint-Lazare, but still shed its rays obliquely⁴ on that little, overdressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up by its yellow rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church had the appearance of liquid silver.

 

Monsieur Parent, accidentally looking up at the church clock, saw that he was five minutes late. He got up, took the child by the arm, shook his dress, which was covered with sand, wiped his hands, and led him in the direction of the Rue Blanche. He walked quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, and the child could not keep up with him. He took him up and carried him, though it made him pant when he had to walk up the steep street. He was a man of forty, already turning gray, and rather stout⁵. At last he reached his house. An old servant who had brought him up, one of those trusted servants who are the tyrants⁶ of families, opened the door to him.

 

“Has madame come in yet?” he asked anxiously.

 

The servant shrugged⁷ her shoulders:

 

“When have you ever known madame to come home at half-past six, monsieur?”

 

“Very well; all the better; it will give me time to change my things, for I am very warm.”

 

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity. “Oh, I can see that well enough,” she grumbled

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