"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!"