The Vallins lived comfortably, thanks to the pension.  That was the cause of the unappeasable fury of the Tuvaches, who had remained miserably poor.  Their eldest went away to serve his time in the army; Charlot alone remained to labor with his old father, to support the mother and two younger sisters.

He had reached twenty-one years when, one morning, a brilliant carriage stopped before the two cottages.  A young gentleman, with a gold watch-chain, got out, giving his hand to an aged, white-haired lady.  The old lady said to him:  “It is there, my child, at the second house.”  And he entered the house of the Vallins as though at home.

The old mother was washing her aprons; the infirm father slumbered at the chimney-corner.  Both raised their heads, and the young man said: 

“Good-morning, papa; good-morning, mamma!”

They both stood up, frightened!  In a flutter, the peasant woman dropped her soap into the water, and stammered: 

“Is it you, my child?  Is it you, my child?”

He took her in his arms and hugged her, repeating:  “Good-morning, mamma,” while the old man, all a-tremble, said, in his calm tone which he never lost:  “Here you are, back again, Jean,” as if he had just seen him a month ago.

When they had got to know one another again, the parents wished to take their boy out in the neighborhood, and show him.  They took him to the mayor, to the deputy, to the cure, and to the schoolmaster.

Charlot, standing on the threshold of his cottage, watched him pass.  In the evening, at supper, he said to the old people:  “You must have been stupid to let the Vallins’ boy be taken.”

The mother answered, obstinately:  “I wouldn’t sell my child.”

The father remained silent.  The son continued: 

“It is unfortunate to be sacrificed like that.”

Then Father Tuvache, in an angry tone, said: 

“Are you going to reproach us for having kept you?” And the young man said, brutally: 

“Yes, I reproach you for having been such fools.  Parents like you make the misfortune of their children.  You deserve that I should leave you.”  The old woman wept over her plate.  She moaned, as she swallowed the spoonfuls of soup, half of which she spilled:  “One may kill one’s self to bring up children!”

Then the boy said, roughly:  “I’d rather not have been born than be what I am.  When I saw the other, my heart stood still.  I said to myself:  ’See what I should have been now!’” He got up:  “See here, I feel that I would do better not to stay here, because I would throw it up to you from morning till night, and I would make your life miserable.  I’ll never forgive you for that!”

The two old people were silent, downcast, in tears.

He continued:  “No, the thought of that would be too much.  I’d rather look for a living somewhere else.”

He opened the door.  A sound of voices came in at the door.  The Vallins were celebrating the return of their child.