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for some years, have been such that I hope—”

      “Enough, monsieur,” interrupted the banker, “I desire no apologies. In business, friendship counts for nothing. I owe you money: I am not ready to pay: you are pressing: you have a perfect right to demand what is your own. Follow my clerk: he will pay you your money.”

      Then he turned to his clerks who stood curiously gazing on, and said:

      “As for you, gentlemen, be kind enough to resume your desks.”

      In an instant the room was cleared of everyone except the clerks who belonged there; and they sat at their desks with their noses almost touching the paper before them, as if too absorbed in their work to think of anything else.

      Still excited by the events so rapidly succeeding each other, M. Andre Fauvel walked up and down the room with quick, nervous steps, occasionally uttering some low exclamation.

      Prosper remained leaning against the door, with pale face and fixed eyes, looking as if he had lost the faculty of thinking.

      Finally the banker, after a long silence, stopped short before Prosper; he had determined upon the line of conduct he would pursue.

      “We must have an explanation,” he said. “Let us go into your office.”

      The cashier mechanically obeyed without a word; and his chief followed him, taking the precaution to close the door after him.

      The cash-room bore no evidences of a successful burglary. Everything was in perfect order; not even a paper was misplaced.

      The safe was open, and on the top shelf lay several rouleaus of gold, overlooked or disdained by the thieves.

      M. Fauvel, without troubling himself to examine anything, took a seat, and ordered his cashier to do the same. He had entirely recovered his equanimity, and his countenance wore its usual kind expression.

      “Now that we are alone, Prosper,” he said, “have you nothing to tell me?”

      The cashier started, as if surprised at the question. “Nothing, monsieur, that I have not already told you.”

      “What, nothing? Do you persist in asserting a fable so absurd and ridiculous that no one can possibly believe it? It is folly! Confide in me: it is your only chance of salvation. I am your employer, it is true; but I am before and above all your friend, your best and truest friend. I cannot forget that in this very room, fifteen years ago, you were intrusted to me by your father; and ever since that day have I had cause to congratulate myself on possessing so faithful and efficient a clerk. Yes, it is fifteen years since you came to me. I was then just commencing the foundation of my fortune. You have seen it gradually grow, step by step, from almost nothing to its present height. As my wealth increased, I endeavored to better your condition; you, who, although so young, are the oldest of my clerks. At each inventory of my fortune, I increased your salary.”

      Never had Prosper heard him express himself in so feeling and paternal a manner. Prosper was silent with astonishment.

      “Answer,” pursued M. Fauvel: “have I not always been like a father to you? From the first day, my house has been open to you; you were treated as a member of my family; Madeleine and my sons looked upon you as a brother. But you grew weary of this peaceful life. One day, a year ago, you suddenly began to shun us; and since then——”

      The memories of the past thus evoked by the banker seemed too much for the unhappy cashier; he buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

      “A man can confide everything to his father without fear of being harshly judged,” resumed M. Fauvel. “A father not only pardons, he forgets. Do I not know the terrible temptations that beset a young man in a city like Paris? There are some inordinate desires before which the firmest principles must give way, and which so pervert our moral sense as to render us incapable of judging between right and wrong. Speak, Prosper, Speak!”

      “What do you wish me to say?”

      “The truth. When an honorable man yields, in an hour of weakness, to temptation, his first step toward atonement is confession. Say to me, Yes, I have been tempted, dazzled: the sight of these piles of gold turned my brain. I am young: I have passions.”

      “I?” murmured Prosper. “I?”

      “Poor boy,” said the banker, sadly; “do you think I am ignorant of the life you have been leading since you left my roof a year ago? Can you not understand that all your fellow-clerks are jealous of you? that they do not forgive you for earning twelve thousand francs a year? Never have you committed a piece of folly without my being immediately informed of it by an anonymous letter. I could tell the exact number of nights you have spent at the gaming-table, and the amount of money you have squandered. Oh, envy has good eyes and a quick ear! I have great contempt for these cowardly denunciations, but was forced not only to heed them, but to make inquiries myself. It is only right that I should know what sort of a life is led by the man to whom I intrust my fortune and my honor.”

      Prosper seemed about to protest against this last speech.

      “Yes, my honor,” insisted M. Fauvel, in a voice that a sense of humiliation rendered still more vibrating: “yes, my credit might have been compromised to-day by this M. de Clameran. Do you know how much I shall lose by paying him this money? And suppose I had not had the securities which I have sacrificed? you did not know I possessed them.”

      The banker paused, as if hoping for a confession, which, however, did not come.

      “Come, Prosper, have courage, be frank. I will go upstairs. You will look again in the safe: I am sure that in your agitation you did not search thoroughly. This evening I will return; and I am confident that, during the day, you will have found, if not the three hundred and fifty thousand francs, at least the greater portion of it; and to-morrow neither you nor I will remember anything about this false alarm.”

      M. Fauvel had risen, and was about to leave the room, when Prosper arose, and seized him by the arm.

      “Your generosity is useless, monsieur,” he said, bitterly; “having taken nothing, I can restore nothing. I have searched carefully; the bank-notes have been stolen.”

      “But by whom, poor fool? By whom?”

      “By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me.”

      The banker’s face turned crimson. “Miserable wretch!” cried he, “do you mean to say that I took the money?”

      Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.

      “Ah! it is thus, then,” said M. Fauvel, unable to contain himself any longer. “And you dare—. Then, between you and me, M. Prosper Bertomy, justice shall decide. God is my witness that I have done all I could to save you. You will have yourself to thank for what follows. I have sent for the commissary of police: he must be waiting in my study. Shall I call him down?”

      Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who abandons himself, replied, in a stifled voice:

      “Do as you will.”

      The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after giving the cashier a last searching look, said to an office-boy:

      “Anselme, ask the commissary of police to step down.”

      III

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      If there is one man in the world whom no event can move or surprise, who is always on his guard against deceptive appearances, and is capable of admitting everything and explaining everything, it certainly is a Parisian commissary of police.

      While the judge, from his lofty place, applies the code to the facts submitted to him, the commissary of police observes and watches all the odious circumstances that the law cannot reach. He is perforce the confidant of disgraceful details, domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.

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