you are,’ said Cavaillon. ‘Someone has been asking for you already!’
‘Who was it? An ironmaster, was it not?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Ah, well, he will came back. Knowing I should be late this morning, I made preparations yesterday.’ Prosper having opened the door of his room as he spoke went in and shut it after him.
‘He is a cashier who does not worry,’ one of the staff said. ‘The chief has had twenty scenes with him for being late, and he takes as much notice as he does of the year forty.’
‘He is quite right, too, for he gets all he wants out of the chief.’
‘Besides, how does he look in the morning? Like a fellow who leads a terrible life and enjoys himself every night. Did you notice his ghastly look this morning?’
‘He must have been playing again, like he did last month. I found out from Couturier that he lost 1,500 francs at a single sitting!’
‘Does he neglect business?’ asked Cavaillon. ‘If you were in his place—’
He stopped short. The strong room door opened, and the cashier came in tottering.
‘I have been robbed!’ he cried.
Prosper’s look, his raucous voice, his tremors, expressed such frightful anguish, that all the staff got up and rushed to him. He almost fell into their arms, he could not stand, he felt ill and had to sit down.
But his colleagues surrounded him, all asking questions at the same time and pressing him to explain.
‘Robbed,’ they said; ‘where, how, by whom?’
Prosper gradually recovered.
‘All I had in the safe,’ he replied, ‘has been taken.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes, three packets of a hundred one thousand franc notes, and one of fifty. The four packets were wrapped round by a piece of paper and tied together.’ With the rapidity of a flash of lightning the news of the robbery spread through the bank, and the room was quickly filled with a curious crowd.
‘Has the safe been forced?’ Cavaillon asked Prosper.
‘No, it is intact.’
‘Well, then?’
‘It is none the less a fact that last evening I had 350,000 francs and this morning they are gone.’ Everybody was silent; one old servant did not share the general consternation.
‘Do not lose your head like this, M. Bertomy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the chief has disposed of the money?’
The unfortunate cashier jumped at the idea.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you are right; it must be the chief.’
Then, after reflection, he went on in a deeply discouraged tone:
‘No, it is not possible. Never during the five years I have been cashier has M. Fauvel opened the safe without me! Two or three times he has needed funds and has waited for me, or sent for me rather, than touch it in my absence.’
‘That does not matter,’ objected Cavaillon.
‘Before distressing ourselves, we must let him know.’ But M. André Fauvel knew already. A clerk had gone up to his private room and told him what had taken place.
Just as Cavaillon suggested going to tell him he appeared.
M. André Fauvel was a man of about fifty, of medium height, and hair turning grey, who walked with a slight slouch. He had an air of benevolence, a frank open face and red lips. He was born near Aix, and in times of excitement he spoke with a slight provincial accent.
The news he had heard had disturbed him, for he was very pale.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked the employees, who respectfully drew back as he approached. The cashier got up and advanced to meet him.
‘Sir,’ he began, ‘yesterday I sent for 350,000 francs from the bank to make the payment today of which you are
aware.’
‘Why yesterday?’ the banker interrupted ‘I have told you a hundred times to wait till the day.’
‘I know, sir, I was wrong, but the mischief is done. The money has disappeared, without the safe being forced.’
‘You must be mad or dreaming!’ cried M. Fauvel.
Prosper answered almost without trouble or rather with the indifference of one in a hopeless position.
‘I am not mad nor dreaming. I am telling you the truth.’
This calmness seemed to exasperate M. Fauvel. He seized Prosper by the arm and shook him, as he said:
‘Speak! Speak! Who opened the safe?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Only you and I knew the word; only you and I had the key.’
After these words, which were almost an accusation, Prosper gently freed his arm and continued:
‘No one but I could have taken the money, or you.’
‘You rascal!’ the banker cried with a threatening gesture. Just then there was the noise of an argument outside. A client insisted upon coming in. It was M. de Clameran. He entered with his hat on and said:
‘It is after ten, gentlemen.’
No one replied, but he espied the banker and went to him.
‘I am delighted to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘I called once before this morning, but the cashier had not arrived and you were out.’
‘You are mistaken, sir. I was in my private room.’
‘This young man,’ pointing to Cavaillon, ‘told me so; but on my return just now I was refused admittance. Will you be good enough to tell me whether I can withdraw my money or not.’
M. Fauvel listened to him, trembling with rage the while, and then replied:
‘I shall be glad of a little delay. I have just become aware of a theft of 350,000 francs.’ M. de Clameran bowed ironically. ‘Shall I have long to wait?’ he asked.
‘The time it will take to send to the bank,’ M. Fauvel said, as he turned to his cashier and instructed him to write a note and send a messenger as quickly as possible to the bank.
Prosper made no movement.
‘Don’t you hear me?’ the banker shouted.
The cashier shuddered, as if awakening out of a dream, and answered:
‘That is useless, there is not a hundred thousand francs to your credit.’
At that time Paris was in a state of financial panic. Many old and honourable firms had gone to the wall, ruined by the wave of speculation which had swept over the country.
M. Fauvel noticed the impression produced on the ironmaster and, turning to him, said:
‘Have a little patience, sir, I have plenty of other securities. I shall be back in a minute.’
He went upstairs to his private room and returned in a few minutes with a letter and a packet of securities in his hand.
‘Take this, he said to Couturier, one of the clerks, ‘and go to Rothschild’s with this gentleman. Give them the letter and they will hand you 300,000 francs, which you are to give to this gentleman.’
The ironmaster seemed anxious to excuse his impertinence, but the banker cut him short.
‘All I can do,’ he said, ‘is to offer you my apologies. In business a man has neither friends nor acquaintances. You are quite within your rights. Follow my clerk and you will receive your money.’
Turning