At the imperious tone of his father, Prosper arose. So many successive blows had reduced him to a state of torpor.
“First of all,” began M. Bertomy, “how much have you remaining of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs?”
“Once more, father,” replied the unfortunate man in a tone of hopeless resignation, “once more I swear I am innocent.”
“So I supposed you would say. Then our family will have to repair the injury you have done M. Fauvel.”
“What do you mean?”
“The day he heard of your crime, your brother-in-law brought me your sister’s dowry, seventy thousand francs. I succeeded in collecting a hundred and forty thousand francs more. This makes two hundred and ten thousand francs which I have brought with me to give to M. Fauvel.”
This threat aroused Prosper from his torpor.
“You shall do nothing of the kind!” he cried with unrestrained indignation.
“I will do so before the sun goes down this day. M. Fauvel will grant me time to pay the rest. My pension is fifteen hundred francs. I can live upon five hundred, and am strong enough to go to work again; and your brother-in-law—”
M. Bertomy stopped short, frightened at the expression of his son’s face. His features were contracted with such furious rage that he was scarcely recognizable, and his eyes glared like a maniac’s.