Louis had the money sent to the Imperial Bank.
A short time after this, when Louis passed the Bardé Bank, a crowd of people were besieging the doors and reading the placards; the Bank had suspended payment. The shrewdness of Potvin had saved his seventy-five thousand.
When he next met Jacques, he hugged him to his heart. Jacques laid his finger on his nose:
“Deeper still,” he said. “I know, I know that the Imperial itself is totterish. This affair of the Bardés has made things shaky; see? Everything is on three legs. If I were you, now; if I were you, I’d just draw that seventy-five thousand dollars and lay it away in a strong-box till this blows over.”
“But,” said Louis, in a panic, “I have no strong-box.”
“But I have,” said Jacques.
Louis laid his hands on his shoulders, and could have wept.
Christmas passed, but no sign of Hugo Armand Theophile. But the second week in January brought a letter, two days old, from New York. Rioux would be in Viger in a week at the latest. Louis was in great spirits. He planned a surprise for his master. He went off to find Jacques Potvin, but Jacques was not to be found.
Louis arranged that Jacques was to meet him at a tavern called “The Blue Bells” the next day.
“But,” said Jacques, when they met, “this is absurd. What do you want the money for?”