"How the devil did you hear of that? But that time, believe me, I was very excusable."
M. Langevin here made his appearance, freshly shaven and rubicund—a fine specimen of the sub-prefect in embryo.
"It's wonderful," thought Fougas, "how well all our family bear their years! One wouldn't call that chap over thirty-five, and he's forty-six if he's a day. He doesn't look a bit like me, by the way; he takes after his mother!"
"My dear!" said Mme. Langevin, "here's a tough subject, who promises to be wiser in future."
"You are welcome, young man!" said the Counsellor, offering his hand to Fougas.
This reception appeared cold to our poor hero. He had been dreaming of a shower of kisses and tears, and here his children contented themselves with offering their hands.
"My chi—— monsieur," said he to Langevin, "there is one person still needed to complete our reunion. A few mutual wrongs, and those smoothed over by time, ought not to build an insurmountable barrier between us. May I venture to request the favor of being presented to your mother?"
M. Langevin and his wife opened their eyes in astonishment.
"How, monsieur?" said the husband. "Paris life must have affected your memory. My poor mother is no more. It is now three years since we lost her!"
The good Fougas burst into tears.