“If your death could repair your fault,” returned the Director, gravely; “if it could restore the money to the poor girl, I could understand why you should wish to die. But—”
“What shall be done, then,” she asked, plaintively; and all at once she became the Clarisse of old. Her unwonted courage and determination failed her.
“First, we must know what has become of this money; he must have some of it still.”
Clarisse shook her head. She knew too well how madly that gambler played. She knew that he had thrust her aside, almost walked over her, to procure this money, and that he would play until he had lost his last sou.
The superintendent touched his bell. A gendarme entered:
“Go at once to Saint Nazarre,” said his chief; “say to Chariot that I require his presence here at once. You will wait for him.”
“Chariot is here, sir; I just saw him come out from Madame Rondic’s; he cannot be far off.”
“That is all right. Go after him quickly. Do not tell him, however, that Madame Rondic is here.”
The man hurried away. Neither the superintendent nor Clarisse spoke. She stood leaning against the corner of the desk. The jar of the machinery, the wild whistling of the steam, made a fitting accompaniment to the tumult of her soul. The door opened.
“You sent for me,” said Chariot, in a gay voice.