“Don’t distress yourself, M. Bertomy,” he said: “perhaps the chief disposed of the money.”
The unhappy cashier started up with a look of relief; he eagerly caught at the idea.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, “you are right: the chief must have taken it.”
But, after thinking a few minutes, he said in a tone of deep discouragement:
“No, that is impossible. During the five years that I have had charge of the safe, M. Fauvel has never opened it except in my presence. Several times he has needed money, and has either waited until I came, or sent for me, rather than touch it in my absence.”
“Well,” said Cavaillon, “before despairing, let us ascertain.”
But a messenger had already informed M. Fauvel of the disaster.
As Cavaillon was about to go in quest of him, he entered the room.
M. Andre Fauvel appeared to be a man of fifty, inclined to corpulency, of medium height, with iron-gray hair; and, like all hard workers, he had a slight stoop.
Never did he by a single action belie the kindly expression of his face.