"Sacrebleu! yes, I am sure of my facts, sure of what I say!"
"You are aware of his existence—where is he?"
"Oh! he ain't far away!"
And Sans-Cravate opened the door behind him, took Paul by the hand, and pushed him into his father's arms.
"I robbed you of one son," he said, "but I give you back another. That goes a little way toward reconciling me to myself."
Monsieur Vermoncey strained Paul to his heart, then gazed affectionately into his face, crying:
"I am not mistaken—it is the same young man who aroused such a deep interest in my heart. Yes, yes, he is my son, my heart divined it long ago; and the more I look at him, the more clearly I recognize the unhappy Marie's features in his."
"Yes, but we want you to be certain of the fact," said Sans-Cravate. "Here is Madame Desroches, the widow of the excellent man who took Paul away from—where he was; she will tell you what paper he had about him when they—and then you will see the cross on his left arm. You'll find that it's all just as that beautiful lady—who is so vindictive—told you the other day; and you'll find out, too, that you not only have recovered your son, but that he's the finest fellow on earth; and if they gave the cross to everyone that deserves it, it would have been shining on his breast long ago."
Monsieur Vermoncey needed no further proofs to convince him that Paul was his son; however, he listened with profound interest to good Madame Desroches, who did not fail to tell of the young messenger's noble conduct toward herself.
When the old lady had finished, Monsieur Vermoncey took his son's hand and gazed proudly at him. But in a moment he said, in a faltering tone: