Bocardon hugged his wife in his vast embrace. The tears ran down his cheeks.
“Ah, my little Zette, my little Zette, will you ever pardon me?”
“Oui, je te pardonne, gros jaloux,” said Zette.
“And you!” shouted Bocardon, falling on Aristide; “I must embrace you also.” He kissed him on both cheeks, in his expansive way, and thrust him towards Zette.
“You can also kiss my wife. It is I, Bocardon, who command it.”
The fire of a not ignoble pride raced through Aristide’s veins. He was a hero. He knew it. It was a moment worth living.
The embraces and other expressions of joy and gratitude being temporarily suspended, attention was turned to the unheroic couple who up to then had said not one word to each other. The explanation of their conduct, too, was simple, apparently. They were in love. She had no dowry. He could not marry her, as his parents would not give their consent. She, for her part, was frightened to death by the discovery of the letter, lest Bocardon should turn her out of the house.
“What dowry will satisfy your parents?”
“Nothing less than twelve thousand francs.”
“I give it,” said Bocardon, reckless in his newly-found happiness. “Marry her.”