“A half a billion!”

      He glanced at himself, while passing in front of the windows of a shop.

      “I’ll have a mansion, horses! There’ll be one for Marcel. From the moment I get rich, it’s quite clear, it’ll be as though he were, too. It has all worked out perfectly! … A half a billion! … And a baronet too! … It’s so strange; now that it’s happened, it seems to me that I was almost expecting it! Something told me that I wouldn’t always be grubbing along over books or drafting boards all my life! … Nevertheless, it’s an amazing dream come true!”

      As he ruminated upon these ideas, Octave walked along the arcades of the rue de Rivoli. He arrived at the Champs-Elysées, turned the corner onto the rue Royale, and came out at the Boulevards. Formerly he had regarded these elegant shops with indifference, like useless things with no place in his life. Now he stopped and thought with a thrill of pleasure that all those treasures could belong to him whenever he wished.

      “It’s for me,” he said to himself, “that the spinners of Holland turn their spindles, that the factories of Elbeuf weave their softest cloth, that the watchmakers produce their timepieces, that the candelabra of the Opera shine their light, that violins play, that sopranos sing at the top of their voices! It’s for me that thoroughbreds are raised in their stables and that the Café Anglais is all lit up! … Paris is mine! … Everything is mine! … I’ll travel! … I’ll visit my barony in India! … I could afford a pagoda someday, including the monks and ivory idols! … I’ll have elephants! … I’ll hunt tigers! … and have splendid arms! … and a handsome boat! … A boat? No! A fine steam-yacht rather, to take me wherever I want, to put into port or to sail off, whatever I chose! … Speaking of steam, I really must let my mother know about this news. Suppose I left for Douai! … There’s school … Oh! school! I can get along without it! … But Marcel! He’ll have to be told. I’ll send him a message. He’ll fully understand that I’m eager to see my mother and my sister under such a circumstance!”

      Octave entered a telegraph bureau, informed his friend that he was leaving and would return in two days. Then, he hailed a carriage to take him to the Gare du Nord.

      Once on the train he continued to savor his dream.

      At two o’clock in the morning, Octave chimed the night bell so noisily at the door of his parents that he stirred up the peaceful neighborhood of the Aubettes.

      “Who do you suppose is ill?” the gossips asked from one window to another.

      “The doctor isn’t in town!” shouted the old servant from the dormer window on the top floor.

      “It’s me, Octave! … Come down and let me in, Francine!”

      After a ten-minute wait, Octave succeeded in entering the house. His mother and his sister Jeanne, having hurriedly come downstairs in their dressing-gowns, were awaiting an explanation of this unexpected visit.

      Read out loud, the letter from the doctor soon gave them the key to the mystery.

      For a moment Mme Sarrasin was astounded. She embraced her son and her daughter, weeping for joy. It seemed to her that the universe was theirs from now on, and that no misfortune could ever befall young people who possessed several hundred million francs. Yet, women tend to adjust more quickly than men to such wondrous changes in fate. Mme Sarrasin reread the letter from her husband, said to herself that it was her husband who was the one to decide on her destiny and that of their children, and calm was restored to her heart. As for Jeanne, she was happy at her mother and brother’s joy, but her thirteen-year-old heart could not dream of any happiness exceeding that of the modest home where their life flowed by gently between the lessons of her teachers and the love of her parents. She did not quite see how a few bundles of banknotes could change her life very much, and this view did not trouble her for an instant.

      Mme Sarrasin, married quite young to a man entirely absorbed by the quiet occupations of a devoted intellectual, respected the passion of her husband whom she loved tenderly, without, however, understanding him. Being unable to share the happiness that the doctor derived from his studies, she felt sometimes a bit lonely beside this relentless worker, and had as a result placed all her hope in her two children. She had always dreamed of a brilliant future for them, one that would make them happy. Octave, she was sure, was destined for great things. Since he had entered the Ecole Centrale, this unassuming and practical college for young engineers had been transformed in her mind into a breeding ground for illustrious men. Her sole concern had been that their modest fortune might eventually be an obstacle, a problem at least for the glorious career of her son, and might also harm the prospects of her daughter. Now, from what she had understood in her husband’s letter, her fears were no longer justified. Her satisfaction was complete.

      The mother and the son spent a great part of the night talking and making plans, whereas Jeanne, very happy with the present, without any concern for the future, had fallen asleep in an armchair.

      Then, before finally retiring, Mme Sarrasin said to her son:

      “You haven’t talked to me about Marcel. Didn’t you let him know about this letter from your father? What did he say about it?”

      “Oh,” replied Octave, “you know Marcel! He’s more than an intellectual, he’s a stoic! I think he was concerned by the enormity of this inheritance and its influence on us! I say ‘us,’ since his concern did not seem to extend to my father, whose good sense, he said, and scientific reasoning reassured him. But what else can I think? As far as you’re concerned, mother, and Jeanne as well, and especially me, he did not hide the fact that he would have preferred our receiving a modest inheritance, say twenty-five thousand pounds of annual income …”

      “Marcel might have been right,” replied Mme Sarrasin, looking at her son. “Sudden wealth can pose a great danger for some people!”

      Jeanne had just awoken. She had heard her mother’s last words:

      “You know, mother,” she said to her, rubbing her eyes and heading for her little bedroom, “you know what you told me one day, that Marcel was always right! I, for one, always believe what our friend Marcel says!”