A Million

      They were a modest middle-class couple. The husband was a government employé and attended strictly to his duties. His name was Léopold Bonnin, and he was a young man whose opinions on every subject were precisely what they should be. He had been brought up in a religious atmosphere, but ever since the Republic had shown a tendency toward a complete separation of Church and State, he had become less strict in his observances. In the office, he would loudly exclaim: “I am religious, in fact, very religious; but only with God; I have no use for the priests.” He laid claim, above all things, to being an upright man and, swelling his chest, went about proclaiming the fact. Of course, he was an upright man in the most commonplace acceptance of the word. He would reach the office on time, leave at the stroke of the hour, despatch his work without dawdling and was always most punctilious about money matters.

      He had wedded the daughter of an impecunious fellow employé, whose sister, however, was wealthy. Married to a rich man, who was deeply in love with her, she had had no children, a fact which had been a great sorrow to both, and consequently she had no one but her niece to whom her fortune might be bequeathed.

      This inheritance was the prevailing preoccupation of the family. It hovered over the household, and even over the government department, in which Bonnin was employed. It was whispered around that “the Bonnins were to inherit a million.”

      The young couple were also childless, a fact which did not distress them in the least, as they were perfectly satisfied with their humdrum, narrow life. Their home was well-kept, clean and thrifty; they were both very placid and calm, and they firmly believed that a child would upset their tranquillity and interfere with their habits.

      They would not have endeavored to remain without heirs; but, since Heaven had not blessed them in that particular respect, they thought it was no doubt for the best.

      The wealthy aunt, however, was not to be consoled, and was profuse with practical advice. Years ago, she had vainly tried a number of methods recommended by clairvoyants and her women friends, and since she had reached the age where all thought of offspring had to be abandoned, she had heard of many more, which she supposed to be unfailing, and which she persisted in revealing to her niece. Every now and then she would inquire: “Well, have you tried what I told you about the other day?”

      Finally she died. The young people experienced a delighted relief which they sought to conceal from themselves as well as from the outside world. Often one’s conscience is garbed in black while the soul sings with joy.

      They were notified that a will had been deposited with a lawyer, and they went to the latter’s office immediately after leaving the church.

      The aunt, faithful to her life-long idea, had bequeathed her fortune to their first-born child, with the provision that the income was to be used by the parents until their decease. Should the young couple have no offspring within three years, the money was to go to the poor and needy.

      They were completely overwhelmed. Bonnin collapsed and stayed away from the office for a week. When he recovered, he resolved with sudden energy to become a parent.

      He persisted in his endeavors for six months, until he was but the shadow of his former self. He remembered all the hints his aunt had given and put them into practice conscientiously, but without results. His desperate determination lent him a factitious strength, which, however, proved almost fatal.

      He became hopelessly anæmic. His physician stood in dread of tuberculosis, and terrified him to such an extent, that he forthwith resumed his peaceful habits and began a restorative treatment.

      Broad rumors had begun to float around the department. All the clerks had heard about the disappointing will, and they made much fun over what they termed the “million franc clause.”

      Some ventured to give Bonnin facetious advice; while others offered themselves for the accomplishment of the distressing clause. One tall fellow, especially, who had the reputation of being quite a roué and whose many affairs were notorious throughout the department, teased him constantly with veiled allusions, broad hints and the boast that he, Morel, could make him, Bonnin, inherit in about twenty minutes.

      However, one day, Bonnin became suddenly infuriated, and jumping out of his chair, his quill behind his ear, he shouted: “Monsieur, you are a cur; if I did not respect myself, I would spit in your face.”

      Witnesses were despatched to the antagonists, and for days the whole department was in an uproar. They were to be found everywhere, in and out of the offices, meeting in the halls to discuss some important point and to exchange their views of the affair. Finally a document was drawn up by the four delegates and accepted by the interested parties, who gravely shook hands and mumbled a few words of apology in the presence of the department chief.

      During the month that followed, the two men bowed ceremoniously and with affected courtesy, as became adversaries who had met on the field of honor. But one day, they happened to collide against each other in the hall, outside of the office, whereupon Monsieur Bonnin inquired with dignity: “I trust I did not hurt you, Monsieur?” And Monsieur Morel replied: “Not in the least, Monsieur.”

      After that encounter, they saw fit to speak a few words whenever they met. And little by little they became more friendly, appreciated one another and grew to be inseparable.

      But Léopold was unhappy. His wife kept taunting him w:ith allusions, torturing him with thinly veiled sarcasm.

      And the days were flitting by. One year had already elapsed since the aunt’s demise. The inheritance seemed lost to them.

      When sitting down to dinner Madame Bonnin would remark: “We have not very much to eat; it would be different if we were well-off.”

      Or, when Léopold was ready to start for the office, his wife would hand him his cane and observe: “If we had an income of fifty thousand francs, you would not have to kill yourself working.”

      When Madame Bonnin went out on a rainy day, she would invariably murmur: “If we had a carriage, I would not be compelled to ruin my clothes on a day like this.”

      In fact, at all times, she seemed to blame her husband, rendering him alone responsible for the state of affairs and the loss of the fortune.

      Finally, growing desperate, he took her to a well-known physician, who, after a lengthy consultation, expressed no opinion and declared