“I promised the father, I must not break my promise.” Then he gave a push to the door of the house bearing the number 18, which stood ajar, discovered a gloomy-looking staircase, ascended three flights, perceived a door, then a second door, came upon the string of a bell, and pulled it. The ringing, which resounded in the apartment before which he stood, sent a shiver through his frame. The door was opened, and he found himself facing a young lady very well dressed, a brunette with a fresh complexion, who gazed at him with eyes of astonishment. He did not know what to say to her, and she, who suspected nothing, and who was waiting for him to speak, did not invite him to come in. They stood looking thus at one another for nearly half a minute, at the end of which she said in a questioning tone: “You have something to tell me, Monsieur?” He falteringly replied: “I am M. Hautot's son.” She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as if she had known him for a long time: “Monsieur César?” “Yes.” “And what next?” “I have come to speak to you on the part of my father.” She articulated: “Oh, my God!” She then drew back so that he might enter. He shut the door and followed her into the interior. Then he saw a little boy of four or five years playing with a cat, seated on the floor in front of a stove, from which rose the steam of dishes which were being kept hot. “Take a seat,” she said. He sat down. She asked: “Well?” He no longer ventured to speak, keeping his eyes fixed on the table which stood in the center of the room, with three covers laid on it, one of which was for a child. He glanced at the chair which had its back turned to the fire. They had been expecting him. That was his bread which he saw, and which he recognized near the fork, for the crust had been removed on account of Hautot's bad teeth. Then, raising his eyes, he noticed on the wall his father's portrait, the large photograph taken at Paris the year of the exhibition, the same as that which hung above the bed in the sleeping apartment at Ainville. The young woman again asked: “Well, Monsieur César?” He kept staring at her. Her face was livid with anguish; and she waited, her hands trembling with fear. Then he took courage. “Well, Mam'zelle, papa died on Sunday last just after he had opened the shooting.” She was so much overwhelmed that she did not move. After a silence of a few seconds, she faltered in an almost inaudible tone: “Oh! it is not possible!” Then, on a sudden, tears showed themselves in her eyes, and covering her face with her hands, she burst out sobbing.