Tapping her foot with impatience, Madame d'Hubieres granted it at once, and, as she wished to carry off the child with her, she gave a hundred francs extra, as a present, while her husband drew up a paper. And the young woman, radiant, carried off the howling brat, as one carries away a wished-for knick-knack from a shop. The Tuvaches, from their door, watched her departure, silent, serious, perhaps regretting their refusal. Nothing more was heard of little Jean Vallin. The parents went to the lawyer every month to collect their hundred and twenty francs. They had quarrelled with their neighbors, because Mother Tuvache grossly insulted them, continually, repeating from door to door that one must be unnatural to sell one's child; that it was horrible, disgusting, bribery. Sometimes she would take her Charlot in her arms, ostentatiously exclaiming, as if he understood: “I didn't sell you, I didn't! I didn't sell you, my little one! I'm not rich, but I don't sell my children!” 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: