“I never mentioned my son to you, eh?... Well, I’ll tell you everything. You must know all about it now. There’s no one else I can tell.... Yes, it was over my son’s bringing up. As you see, it’s a long time ago. The first years of our married life had been delightful. I was very pure when I married Madame de La Pérouse. I loved her with innocence ... yes, that’s the best word for it, and I refused to allow that she had any faults. But we hadn’t the same ideas about bringing up children. Every time that I wanted to reprove my son, Madame de La Pérouse took his side against me; according to her, he was to be allowed to do anything he liked. They were in league together against me. She taught him to lie.... When he was barely twenty he took a mistress. She was a pupil of mine--a Russian girl, with a great talent for music, to whom I was very much attached. Madame de La Pérouse knew all about it; but of course, as usual, everything was kept from me. And of course I didn’t notice she was going to have a baby. Not a thing--I tell you; I never suspected a thing. One fine day, I am informed that my pupil is unwell, that she won’t be able to come for some time. When I speak about going to see her, I am told that she has changed her address--that she is travelling.... It was not till long after that I learnt that she had gone to Poland for her confinement. My son joined her there.... They lived together for several years, but he died before marrying her.” “And ... she? did you ever see her again?” He seemed to be butting with his head against some obstacle: “I couldn’t forgive her for deceiving me. Madame de La Pérouse still corresponds with her. When I learnt she was in great poverty, I sent her some money for the child’s sake. But Madame de La Pérouse knows nothing about that. No more does she ... she doesn’t know the money came from me.” “And your grandson?” A strange smile flitted over his face; he got up. “Wait a moment. I’ll show you his photograph.” And again he trotted quickly out of the room, poking his head out in front of him. When he came back, his fingers trembled as he looked for the picture in a large letter-case. He held it towards me and, bending forward, whispered in a low voice: “I took it from Madame de La Pérouse without her noticing. She thinks she has lost it.” “How old is he?” I asked. “Thirteen. He looks older, doesn’t he? He is very delicate.” His eyes filled with tears once more; he held out his hand for the photograph, as if he were anxious to get it back again as quickly as possible. I leant forward to look at it in the dim light of the street lamp; I thought the child was like him; I recognized old La Pérouse’s high, prominent forehead and dreamy eyes. I thought I should please him by saying so; he protested: “No, no; it’s my brother he’s like--a brother I lost....” The child was oddly dressed in a Russian embroidered blouse. “Where does he live?”