The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is an
important establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks,
presents very much the appearance of a government department.
On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on the street,
fortified by strong iron bars sufficiently large and close together to
discourage all burglarious attempts.
A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule where three or four
office-boys are always in waiting.
On the right are the rooms to which the public is admitted, and from
which a narrow passage leads to the principal cash-room.
The offices of the corresponding clerk, book-keeper, and general
accounts are on the left.
At the farther end is a small court on which open seven or eight little
wicket doors. These are kept closed, except on certain days when notes
are due; and then they are indispensable.
M. Fauvel’s private office is on the first floor over the offices, and
leads into his elegant private apartments.
This private office communicates directly with the bank by means of
a narrow staircase, which opens into the room occupied by the head
cashier.
This room, which in the bank goes by the name of the “cash-office,” is
proof against all attacks, no matter how skilfully planned; indeed, it
could almost withstand a regular siege, sheeted as it is like a monitor.
The doors, and the partition where the wicket door is cut, are covered
with thick sheets of iron; and a heavy grating protects the fireplace.
Fastened in the wall by enormous iron clamps is a safe, a formidable
and fantastic piece of furniture, calculated to fill with envy the poor
devil who easily carries his fortune in a pocket-book.
This safe, which is considered the masterpiece of the firm of Becquet,
is six feet in height and four and a half in width, made entirely of
wrought iron, with triple sides, and divided into isolated compartments
in case of fire.
The safe is opened by an odd little key, which is, however, the least
important part of the mechanism. Five movable steel buttons, upon which
are engraved all the letters of the alphabet, constitute the real power
of this ingenious safe.
Before inserting the key into the lock, the letters on the buttons must
be in the exact position in which they were placed when the safe was
locked.
In M. Fauvel’s bank, as everywhere, the safe was always closed with a
word that was changed from time to time.
This word was known only to the head of the bank and the cashier, each
of whom had also a key to the safe.
In a fortress like this, a person could deposit more diamonds than the
Duke of Brunswick’s, and sleep well assured of their safety.
But one danger seemed to threaten, that of forgetting the secret word
which was the “Open sesame” of the safe.
On the morning of the 28th of February, the bank-clerks were all busy
at their various desks, about half-past nine o’clock, when a middle-aged
man of dark complexion and military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared
in the office adjoining the “safe,” and announced to the five or six
employees present his desire to see the cashier.
He was told that the cashier had not yet come, and his attention was
called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the “cash-room” was
opened at ten o’clock.
This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the newcomer.
“I expected,” he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, “to find someone
here ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to M. Fauvel
yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, an iron-manufacturer at Oloron,
and have come to draw three hundred thousand francs deposited in this
bank by my late brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that no
direction was given about it.”
Neither the title of the noble manufacturer, nor his explanations,
appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks.
“The cashier has not yet arrived,” they repeated, “and we can do nothing
for you.”
“Then conduct me to M. Fauvel.”
There was a moment’s hesitation; then a clerk named Cavaillon, who was
writing near a window, said:
“The chief is always out at this hour.”
“Then I will call again,” replied M. de Clameran.
And he walked out, as he had entered, without saying “Good-morning,” or
even touching his hat.
“Not very polite, that customer,” said little Cavaillon, “but he will
soon be settled, for here comes Prosper.”
Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel’s banking-house, was a tall,
handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and large dark-blue eyes,
fastidiously neat, and dressed in the height of fashion.
He would have been very prepossessing but for a cold, reserved
English-like manner, and a certain air of self-sufficiency which spoiled
his naturally bright, open countenance.
“Ah, here you are!” cried Cavaillon, “someone has just been asking for
you.”
“Who? An iron-manufacturer, was it not?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, he will come back again. Knowing that I would get here late this
morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday.”
Prosper had unlocked his office-door, and, as he finished speaking,
entered, and closed it behind him.
“Good!” exclaimed one of the clerks, “there is a man who never lets
anything disturb him. The chief has quarrelled with him twenty times for
always coming too late, and his remonstrances have no more effect upon
him than a breath of wind.”
“And very right, too; he knows he can get anything he wants out of the
chief.”
“Besides, how could he come any sooner? a man who sits up all night, and
leads a fast life, doesn’t feel like going to work early in the morning.
Did you notice how very pale he looked when he came in?”
“He must have been playing heavily again. Couturier says he lost fifteen
thousand francs at a sitting last week.”
“His work is none the worse done for all that,” interrupted Cavaillon.
“If you were in his place--”
He stopped short. The cash-room door suddenly opened, and the cashier
appeared before them with tottering step, and a wild, haggard look on
his ashy face.
“Robbed!” he gasped out: “I have been robbed!”
Prosper’s horrified expression, his hollow voice and trembling limbs,
betrayed such fearful suffering that the clerks jumped up from their
desks, and ran toward him. He almost dropped into their arms; he was
sick and faint, and fell into a chair.
His companions surrounded him, and begged him to explain himself.
“Robbed?” they said; “where, how, by whom?”
Gradually, Prosper recovered himself.
“All the money I had in the safe,” he said, “has been stolen.”
“All?”
“Yes, all; three packages, each containing one hundred notes of a
thousand francs, and one package of fifty thousand. The four packages
were wrapped in a sheet of paper, and tied together.”
With the rapidity of lightning, the news of the robbery spread
throughout the banking-house, and the room was soon filled with curious
listeners.
“Tell us, Prosper,” said young Cavaillon, “did you find the safe broken
open?”
“No; it is just as I left it.”
“Well then, how, why----”
“Yesterday I put three hundred and fifty thousand francs in the safe;
and this morning they are gone.”
All were silent except one old clerk, who did not seem to share the
general consternation.
“Don’t distress yourself, M. Bertomy,” he said: “perhaps the chief
disposed of the money.”
The unhappy cashier started up with a look of relief; he eagerly caught
at the idea.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, “you are right: the chief must have taken it.”
But, after thinking a few minutes, he said in a tone of deep
discouragement:
“No, that is impossible. During the five years that I have had charge of
the safe, M. Fauvel has never opened it except in my presence. Several
times he has needed money, and has either waited until I came, or sent
for me, rather than touch it in my absence.”
“Well,” said Cavaillon, “before despairing, let us ascertain.”
But a messenger had already informed M. Fauvel of the disaster.
As Cavaillon was about to go in quest of him, he entered the room.
M. Andre Fauvel appeared to be a man of fifty, inclined to corpulency,
of medium height, with iron-gray hair; and, like all hard workers, he
had a slight stoop.
Never did he by a single action belie the kindly expression of his face.
He had a frank air, a lively, intelligent eye, and large, red lips.
Born in the neighborhood of Aix, he betrayed, when animated, a slight
Provencal accent that gave a peculiar flavor to his genial humor.
The news of the robbery had extremely agitated him, for his usually
florid face was now quite pale.
“What is this I hear? what has happened?” he said to the clerks, who
respectfully stood aside when he entered the room.
The sound of M. Fauvel’s voice inspired the cashier with the factitious
energy of a great crisis. The dreaded and decisive moment had come; he
arose, and advanced toward his chief.
“Monsieur,” he began, “having, as you know, a payment to make this
morning, I yesterday drew from the Bank of France three hundred and
fifty thousand francs.”
“Why yesterday, monsieur?” interrupted the banker. “I think I have a
hundred times ordered you to wait until the day of the payment.”
“I know it, monsieur, and I did wrong to disobey you. But the evil is
done. Yesterday evening I locked the money up: it has disappeared, and
yet the safe has not been broken open.”
“You must be mad!” exclaimed M. Fauvel: “you are dreaming!”
These few words destroyed all hope; but the very horror of the situation
gave Prosper, not the coolness of a matured resolution, but that sort
of stupid, stolid indifference which often results from unexpected
catastrophes.
It was with apparent calmness that he replied:
“I am not mad; neither, unfortunately, am I dreaming: I am simply
telling the truth.”
This tranquillity at such a moment appeared to exasperate M. Fauvel. He
seized Prosper by the arm, and shook him roughly.
“Speak!” he cried out. “Speak! who do you pretend to say opened the
safe? Answer me!”
“I cannot say.”
“No one but you and I knew the secret word. No one but you and myself
had keys.”
This was a formal accusation; at least, all the auditors present so
understood it.
Yet Prosper’s strange calmness never left him for an instant. He quietly
released himself from M. Fauvel’s grasp, and very slowly said:
“In other words, monsieur, I am the only person who could have taken
this money.”
“Unhappy wretch!”
Prosper drew himself to his full height, and, looking M. Fauvel full in
the face, added:
“Or you!”
The banker made a threatening gesture; and there is no knowing what
would have happened if they had not been interrupted by loud and angry
voices at the entry-door.
A man insisted upon entering in spite of the protestations of the
errand-boys, and succeeded in forcing his way in. It was M. de Clameran.
The clerks stood looking on, bewildered and motionless. The silence was
profound, solemn.
It was easy to see that some terrible question, a question of life or
death, was being weighed by all these men.
The iron-founder did not appear to observe anything unusual. He
advanced, and without lifting his hat said, in the same impertinent
tone:
“It is after ten o’clock, gentlemen.”
No one answered; and M. de Clameran was about to continue, when, turning
around, he for the first time saw the banker, and walking up to him
said:
“Well, monsieur, I congratulate myself upon finding you in at last. I
have been here once before this morning, and found the cash-room not
opened, the cashier not arrived, and you absent.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur, I was in my office.”
“At any rate, I was told you were out; that gentleman over there assured
me of the fact.”
And the iron-founder pointed out Cavaillon.
“However, that is of little importance,” he went on to say. “I return,
and this time not only the cash-room is closed, but I am refused
admittance to the banking-house, and find myself compelled to force my
way in. Be so good as to tell me whether I can have my money.”
M. Fauvel’s flushed face turned pale with anger as he listened to this
insolence; yet he controlled himself.
“I would be obliged to you monsieur, for a short delay.”
“I thought you told me--”
“Yes, yesterday. But this morning, this very instant, I find I have been
robbed of three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”