The baker seemed prostrated.
“And my money?” he asked.
“What money?”
“Why, my ten thousand francs! Ten thousand francs which I brought to M. Favoral, in gold, you hear? in ten rolls, which I placed there, on that very table, and for which he gave me a receipt. Here it is,—his receipt.”
He held out a paper; but Maxence did not take it.
“I do not doubt your word, sir,” he replied; “but my father’s business is not ours.”
“You refuse to give me back my money?”
“Neither my mother, my sister, nor myself, have any thing.”
The blood rushed to the man’s face, and, with a tongue made thick by anger,
“And you think you are going to pay me off in that way?” he exclaimed. “You have nothing! Poor little fellow! And will you tell me, then, what has become of the twenty millions your father has stolen? for he has stolen twenty millions. I know it: I have been told so. Where are they?”