“Ah! pride!” murmured Herzog. “After all it is your right—It is you who pay!”
Without answering a word the Prince went out.
At that same hour, Madame Desvarennes, tired by long waiting, was pacing up and down her little drawing-room. A door opened and Marechal, the long-looked for messenger, appeared. He had been to Cayrol’s, but could not see him. The banker, who had shut himself up in his private office where he had worked all night, had given orders that no one should interrupt him. And as Madame Desvarennes seemed to have a question on her lips which she dared not utter, Marechal added that nothing unusual seemed to have happened at the house.
But as the mistress was thanking her secretary, the great gate swung on its hinges, and a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Marechal flew to the window, and uttered one word,
“Cayrol!”
Madame Desvarennes motioned to him to leave her, and the banker appeared on the threshold.
At a glance the mistress saw the ravages which the terrible night he had passed through had caused. Yesterday, the banker was rosy, firm, and upright as an oak, now he was bent, and withered like an old man. His hair had become gray about the temples, as if scorched by his burning thoughts. He was only the shadow of himself.
Madame Desvarennes advanced toward him, and in one word asked a world of questions.
“Well?” she said.
Cayrol, gloomy and fierce, raised his eyes to the mistress, and answered: