“Naturally.”
Although he pronounced this word, his voice, his manner, his face
clearly said:
“This comedy is well acted; but nevertheless it is a comedy, and I don’t
intend to be duped by it.”
Alas! After Prosper’s answer, and the iron-founder’s coarsely expressed
opinion, the clerks knew not what to think.
The fact was, that Paris had just been startled by several financial
crashes. The thirst for speculation caused the oldest and most reliable
houses to totter. Men of the most unimpeachable honor had to sacrifice
their pride, and go from door to door imploring aid.
Credit, that rare bird of security and peace, rested with none, but
stood with upraised wings, ready to fly off at the first rumor of
suspicion.
Therefore this idea of a comedy arranged beforehand between the banker
and his cashier might readily occur to the minds of people who, if not
suspicious, were at least aware of all the expedients resorted to
by speculators in order to gain time, which with them often meant
salvation.
M. Fauvel had had too much experience not to instantly divine the
impression produced by Prosper’s answer; he read the most mortifying
doubt on the faces around him.
“Oh! don’t be alarmed, monsieur,” said he to M. de Clameran, “this house
has other resources. Be kind enough to await my return.”
He left the room, went up the narrow steps leading to his study, and
in a few minutes returned, holding in his hand a letter and a bundle of
securities.
“Here, quick, Couturier!” he said to one of his clerks, “take my
carriage, which is waiting at the door, and go with monsieur to M. de
Rothschild’s. Hand him this letter and these securities; in exchange,
you will receive three hundred thousand francs, which you will hand to
this gentleman.”
The iron-founder was visibly disappointed; he seemed desirous of
apologizing for his impertinence.
“I assure you, monsieur, that I had no intention of giving offence. Our
relations, for some years, have been such that I hope--”
“Enough, monsieur,” interrupted the banker, “I desire no apologies. In
business, friendship counts for nothing. I owe you money: I am not ready
to pay: you are pressing: you have a perfect right to demand what is
your own. Follow my clerk: he will pay you your money.”
Then he turned to his clerks who stood curiously gazing on, and said:
“As for you, gentlemen, be kind enough to resume your desks.”
In an instant the room was cleared of everyone except the clerks who
belonged there; and they sat at their desks with their noses almost
touching the paper before them, as if too absorbed in their work to
think of anything else.
Still excited by the events so rapidly succeeding each other, M.
Andre Fauvel walked up and down the room with quick, nervous steps,
occasionally uttering some low exclamation.
Prosper remained leaning against the door, with pale face and fixed
eyes, looking as if he had lost the faculty of thinking.
Finally the banker, after a long silence, stopped short before Prosper;
he had determined upon the line of conduct he would pursue.
“We must have an explanation,” he said. “Let us go into your office.”
The cashier mechanically obeyed without a word; and his chief followed
him, taking the precaution to close the door after him.
The cash-room bore no evidences of a successful burglary. Everything was
in perfect order; not even a paper was misplaced.
The safe was open, and on the top shelf lay several rouleaus of gold,
overlooked or disdained by the thieves.
M. Fauvel, without troubling himself to examine anything, took a seat,
and ordered his cashier to do the same. He had entirely recovered his
equanimity, and his countenance wore its usual kind expression.
“Now that we are alone, Prosper,” he said, “have you nothing to tell
me?”
The cashier started, as if surprised at the question. “Nothing,
monsieur, that I have not already told you.”
“What, nothing? Do you persist in asserting a fable so absurd and
ridiculous that no one can possibly believe it? It is folly! Confide in
me: it is your only chance of salvation. I am your employer, it is true;
but I am before and above all your friend, your best and truest friend.
I cannot forget that in this very room, fifteen years ago, you were
intrusted to me by your father; and ever since that day have I had cause
to congratulate myself on possessing so faithful and efficient a
clerk. Yes, it is fifteen years since you came to me. I was then just
commencing the foundation of my fortune. You have seen it gradually
grow, step by step, from almost nothing to its present height. As my
wealth increased, I endeavored to better your condition; you, who,
although so young, are the oldest of my clerks. At each inventory of my
fortune, I increased your salary.”
Never had Prosper heard him express himself in so feeling and paternal a
manner. Prosper was silent with astonishment.
“Answer,” pursued M. Fauvel: “have I not always been like a father to
you? From the first day, my house has been open to you; you were treated
as a member of my family; Madeleine and my sons looked upon you as a
brother. But you grew weary of this peaceful life. One day, a year ago,
you suddenly began to shun us; and since then----”
The memories of the past thus evoked by the banker seemed too much for
the unhappy cashier; he buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.
“A man can confide everything to his father without fear of being
harshly judged,” resumed M. Fauvel. “A father not only pardons, he
forgets. Do I not know the terrible temptations that beset a young man
in a city like Paris? There are some inordinate desires before which the
firmest principles must give way, and which so pervert our moral sense
as to render us incapable of judging between right and wrong. Speak,
Prosper, Speak!”
“What do you wish me to say?”
“The truth. When an honorable man yields, in an hour of weakness, to
temptation, his first step toward atonement is confession. Say to me,
Yes, I have been tempted, dazzled: the sight of these piles of gold
turned my brain. I am young: I have passions.”
“I?” murmured Prosper. “I?”
“Poor boy,” said the banker, sadly; “do you think I am ignorant of the
life you have been leading since you left my roof a year ago? Can you
not understand that all your fellow-clerks are jealous of you? that they
do not forgive you for earning twelve thousand francs a year? Never have
you committed a piece of folly without my being immediately informed of
it by an anonymous letter. I could tell the exact number of nights
you have spent at the gaming-table, and the amount of money you have
squandered. Oh, envy has good eyes and a quick ear! I have great
contempt for these cowardly denunciations, but was forced not only to
heed them, but to make inquiries myself. It is only right that I should
know what sort of a life is led by the man to whom I intrust my fortune
and my honor.”
Prosper seemed about to protest against this last speech.
“Yes, my honor,” insisted M. Fauvel, in a voice that a sense of
humiliation rendered still more vibrating: “yes, my credit might have
been compromised to-day by this M. de Clameran. Do you know how much
I shall lose by paying him this money? And suppose I had not had the
securities which I have sacrificed? you did not know I possessed them.”
The banker paused, as if hoping for a confession, which, however, did
not come.
“Come, Prosper, have courage, be frank. I will go upstairs. You will
look again in the safe: I am sure that in your agitation you did not
search thoroughly. This evening I will return; and I am confident that,
during the day, you will have found, if not the three hundred and fifty
thousand francs, at least the greater portion of it; and to-morrow
neither you nor I will remember anything about this false alarm.”
M. Fauvel had risen, and was about to leave the room, when Prosper
arose, and seized him by the arm.
“Your generosity is useless, monsieur,” he said, bitterly; “having
taken nothing, I can restore nothing. I have searched carefully; the
bank-notes have been stolen.”
“But by whom, poor fool? By whom?”
“By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me.”
The banker’s face turned crimson. “Miserable wretch!” cried he, “do you
mean to say that I took the money?”
Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.
“Ah! it is thus, then,” said M. Fauvel, unable to contain himself any
longer. “And you dare--. Then, between you and me, M. Prosper Bertomy,
justice shall decide. God is my witness that I have done all I could to
save you. You will have yourself to thank for what follows. I have sent
for the commissary of police: he must be waiting in my study. Shall I
call him down?”
Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who abandons himself,
replied, in a stifled voice:
“Do as you will.”
The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after giving the
cashier a last searching look, said to an office-boy:
“Anselme, ask the commissary of police to step down.”