"What's that? what's that?" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, stepping back and looking Monsieur Vermoncey squarely in the eye. "What are you coming at with all your talk about money? It isn't money that we ask, but the honor that your son has taken away from us and must give back. In a word, monsieur, for I don't go to a place by thirty-six roads, I have come here to demand your consent to Monsieur Albert's marriage to my sister." "My son marry your sister!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, with a slight upward movement of the shoulders. "Nonsense, my friend; surely, you can't think of such a thing; such a marriage is impossible! There are distinctions, conventions, in society, which we are bound to respect. In fact, my son cannot ally himself to a--messenger!" "Then why could he dishonor my sister?" cried Sans-Cravate, in a loud voice and with an angry glance at his interlocutor. "Hush, my friend, not so loud, for heaven's sake!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, astonished by the tone the messenger had assumed. But Sans-Cravate paid no heed; he was no longer the timid creature who trembled when he entered the presence of the man of the world and could not speak to him without stammering; now he was a brother demanding justice for his sister, and firmly resolved to obtain it. "Monsieur," he said, "I am no boaster; I haven't come here to fling words in the air without any result; I have come to tell you what is going to happen. Either monsieur your son will marry my sister, you understand--either he'll marry her, or I'll kill him--unless he kills me. But as I believe there is such a thing as divine justice, and I am the injured party, I can afford to think that I shall kill him." Monsieur Vermoncey dropped into a chair. "Kill my son!" he cried; "my Albert! the only child left to me--the only tie that binds me to life! Do you mean to kill me too?" "Then consent to his marriage to my sister, monsieur, and don't think you'll have any reason to blush for the connection. There's nothing dishonorable, monsieur, in being connected with honest folk who never injured anyone. The dishonorable thing is to carry trouble and despair into a family, to seduce a girl, and to abandon her when she may be carrying within her a token of her weakness; and if that should be so, monsieur, what would become of the child? He wouldn't have any father--he----" Monsieur Vermoncey sprang to his feet, ran to Sans-Cravate, and grasped his hand, saying: "You are right, my friend, and I must give way. Yes, I consent to my son's marrying your sister." "Can it be possible?" cried Sans-Cravate, jumping for joy; "you consent--you are willing? I am not deceiving myself?" "Yes, my friend, I consent; you have my word; but you must leave your present business; I will find you some more suitable employment." "Oh! whatever you choose, monsieur; mon Dieu! I'll go back to the old home, I'll take care of the barnyard, I'll never go out of the house, if you say so."