“It has not been honoured. See, monsieur. ‘Not known. No account.’” The cashier pointed to the grim words across the cheque.
“Comprends pas,” faltered Aristide.
“It means that the person who gave you the cheque has no account at this bank.”
Aristide took the cheque and looked at it in a dazed way.
“Then I do not get my twenty-five thousand francs?”
“Evidently not,” said the cashier.
Aristide stood for a while stunned. What did it mean? His thousand pounds could not be lost. It was impossible. There was some mistake. It was an evil dream. With a heavy weight on the top of his head, he went out of the Crédit Lyonnais and mechanically crossed the little street separating the Bank from the café on the Place Carnot. There he sat stupidly and wondered. The waiter hovered in front of him. “Monsieur désire?” Aristide waved him away absently. Yes, it was some mistake. Mrs. Errington in her agitation must have used the wrong cheque book. But even rich English people do not carry about with them a circulating library assortment of cheque books. It was incomprehensible—and meanwhile, his thousand pounds....
The little square blazed before him in the August sunshine. Opposite flashed the white mass of the Etablissement des Bains. There was the old Roman Arch of Titus, gray and venerable. There were the trees of the gardens in riotous greenery. There on the right marking the hour of eleven on its black face was the clock of the Comptoir National. It was Aix; familiar Aix; not a land of dreams. And there coming rapidly across from the Comptoir National was the well knit figure of the young man from Atlanta.
“Nom de Dieu,” murmured Aristide. “Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!”
Eugene Miller, in a fine frenzy, threw himself into a chair beside Aristide.