"Very well! So much the worse for you! No one seems to want a father of the name of Fougas! As for sons by the name of Langevin, one only has to stoop to pick them up.

I know where to find one who is not a Counsellor of the Prefecture, it is true, and who does not put on a laced coat to go to mass, but who has an honest and simple heart, and is named Pierre, just like me! But, I beg your pardon, when one shows gentlemen the door, one ought at least to return what belongs to them." "I don't prevent your collecting the bon-bons which my children have scattered over the floor." "Yes, I'm talking about bon-bons with a vengeance! My million, sir!" "What million ?" "Your brother's million!---- No! The million that belongs to him who is not your brother--to Clementine's son, my dear and only child, the only scion of my race, Pierre Langevin, called Pierrot, a miller at Vergaville!" "But I assure you, monsieur, that I haven't your million, or anybody's else." "You dare to deny it, scoundrel, when I sent it to you by mail, myself!" "Possibly you sent it, but I certainly have not received it!" "Aha! Defend yourself!" He made at his throat, and perhaps France would have lost a Counsellor of Prefecture that day, if the servant had not come in with two letters in her hand.

Fougas recognized his own handwriting and the Berlin postmark, tore open the envelope, and displayed the check.
"Here," said he, "is the million I intended for you, if you had seen fit to be my son! Now it's too late for you to retract.

The voice of Nature calls me to Vergaville.

Your servant, sir!" On the 4th of September, Pierre Langevin, miller at Vergaville, celebrated the marriage of Cadet Langevin, his second son.