This time there was no discussion in the hall. Steps sounded on the floor of the dining-room; the door opened; and M. Desclavettes, the old bronze-merchant, walked, or rather slipped into the parlor.
Hope, fear, anger, all the sentiments which agitated his soul, could be read on his pale and cat-like face.
“It is I,” he commenced.
Maxence stepped forward.
“Have you heard any thing from my father, sir?”
“No,” answered the old merchant, “I confess I have not; and I was just coming to see if you had yourselves. Oh, I know very well that this is not exactly the hour to call at a house; but I thought, that, after what took place this evening, you would not be in bed yet. I could not sleep myself. You understand a friendship of twenty years’ standing! So I took Mme. Desclavettes home, and here I am.”
“We feel very thankful for your kindness,” murmured Mme. Favoral.
“I am glad you do. The fact is, you see, I take a good deal of interest in the misfortune that strikes you,—a greater interest than any one else. For, after all, I, too, am a victim. I had intrusted one hundred and twenty thousand francs to our dear Vincent.”
“Alas, sir!” said Mlle. Gilberte.
But the worthy man did not allow her to proceed. “I have no fault to find with him,” he went on—“absolutely none. Why, dear me! haven’t I been in business myself? and don’t I know what it is? First, we borrow a thousand francs or so from the cash account, then ten thousand, then a hundred thousand. Oh! without any bad intention, to be sure, and with the firm resolution to return them. But we don’t always do what we wish to do. Circumstances sometimes work against us, if we operate at the bourse to make up the deficit we lose. Then we must borrow again, draw from Peter to pay Paul. We are afraid of being caught: we are compelled, reluctantly of course, to alter the books. At last a day comes when we find that millions are gone, and the bomb-shell bursts. Does it follow from this that a man is dishonest? Not the least in the world: he is simply unlucky.”