“Bah!” he said. “If I had that money under my fingers, I would be a rich man before the year was out.”
The fever was in Louis’ blood again. He tossed a sleepless night, and then resolved desperately. He shut Fidele up in the attic, and went off and bought a ticket with his master’s money. When he came back from the bank, the first thing he saw was Fidele seated in one of the dormer-windows, watching him. It would be six months before he could get any news of his venture; six months of Fidele and an accusing conscience.
Half the time was scarcely over when, to his horror and joy, came a letter from his master. It was dated at Rio. He was on his way home; he would arrive in about six months. The probable failure of his scheme gave Louis agony now. He would have to face his master, who would arrive at Christmas if his plans were discharged, with a rifled bank account. On the other hand, if he should be successful!—Oh! that gold, how it haunted him!
One night, on the eve of his expectation, Louis fell asleep as he was cooking his supper. He slept long, and when he awoke his stove was red-hot. He started up, staring at something figured on the red stove door.
It was only the number of the stove, but it was also the number of his ticket. He waited, after that, in perfect serenity, and when his notice came he opened it with calmness. He had won the seventy-five-thousand-dollar prize.
He went off hot foot to Potvin.
“Of course,” he said, “I’ll have them send it to the Bardé Bank.”
“Just keep cool,” said Potvin. “Of course you’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“But why?”
“Why? Wait and see. The Imperial Bank is safe enough for you.”