“I know not, Raoul. I have made no plans yet. My mind is too confused for me to think.”
“I will tell you what to do,” replied Raoul quickly, “you must start afresh; until this mysterious robbery is explained you must keep away from Paris. It will never do for you to remain here.”
“And suppose it never should be explained?”
“Only the more reason for your remaining in oblivion. I have been talking about you to Clameran. ‘If I were in Prosper’s place,’ he said, ‘I would turn everything into money, and embark for America; there I would make a fortune, and return to crush with my millions those who have suspected me.’”
This advice offended Prosper’s pride, but he said nothing. He was thinking of what the stranger had said to him.
“I will think it over,” he finally forced himself to say. “I will see. I would like to know what M. Fauvel says.”
“My uncle? I suppose you know that I have declined the offer he made me to enter his banking-house, and we have almost quarrelled. I have not set foot in his house for over a month; but I hear of him occasionally.”
“Through whom?”
“Through your friend Cavaillon. My uncle, they say, is more distressed by this affair than you are. He does not attend to his business, and wanders about as if he had lost every friend on earth.”
“And Mme. Fauvel, and”—Prosper hesitated—“and Mlle. Madeleine, how are they?”