d francs each."

The old man paused an instant as if to dwell on that moment; then he
went on:--

"Mongenod looked at me fixedly and said: 'My poor Alain, you have
suffered, I know; but we did divine your sufferings; we did try every
means to send the money to you, and failed in every attempt. You told
me you could not marry,--that I had prevented it. But here is our eldest
daughter; she has been brought up in the thought of becoming your wife,
and she will have a dowry of five hundred thousand francs.' 'God forbid
that I should make her miserable!' I cried hastily, looking at the girl,
who was as beautiful as her mother when I first saw her. I drew her to
me to kiss her brow. 'Don't be afraid, my beautiful child!' I said. 'A
man of fifty to a girl of seventeen?--never! and a man as plain and ugly
as I am?--never!' I cried. 'Monsieur,' she said, 'my father's benefactor
could not be ugly for me.' Those words, said spontaneously, with simple
candor, made me understand how true was all that Mongenod had said. I
then gave him my hand, and we embraced each other again. 'My friend,'
I said, 'I have done you wrong. I have often accused you, cursed
you.' 'You had the right to do so, Alain,' he replied, blushing; 'you
suffered, and through me.' I took Mongenod's note from my desk and
returned it to him. 'You will all stay and breakfast with me, I hope?' I
said to the family. 'On condition that you dine with us,' said Mongenod.
'We arrived yesterday. We are going to buy a house; and I mean to open
a banking business between Paris and North America, so as to leave it to
this fellow here,' he added, showing me his eldest son, who was fifteen
years old. We spent the rest of the day together and went to the play;
for Mongenod and his family were actually hungry for the theatre. The
next morning I placed the whole sum in the Funds, and I now had in all
about fifteen thousand francs a year. This fortune enabled me to give up
book-keeping at night, and also to resign my place at the Mont-de-piete,
to the great satisfaction of the underling who stepped into my shoes. My
friend died in 1827, at the age of sixty-three, after founding the great
banking-house of Mongenod and Company, which made enormous profits
from the first loans under the Restoration. His daughter, to whom he
subsequently gave a million in dowry, married the Vicomte de Fontaine.
The eldest son, whom you know, is not yet married; he lives with his
mother and brother. We o