And, forgetting his hundred and sixty thousand francs lost, he took out his pocket-book. Mme. Favoral stopped him. “We have more than we need,” said she.     

       She took from the table, and held out to her husband, the roll of bank notes which the director of the Mutual Credit Society had thrown down before going.     

       He refused them with a gesture of rage.     

       “Rather starve to death!” he exclaimed. “’Tis he, ‘tis that wretch—” But he interrupted himself, and more gently:     

       “Put away those bank-bills,” said he to his wife, “and let Maxence take them back to M. de Thaller to-morrow.”     

       The bell rang violently.     

       “The police!” groaned Mme. Desclavettes, who seemed on the point of fainting away.     

       “I am going to negotiate,” said M. Desormeaux. “Fly, Vincent: do not lose a minute.”     

       And he ran to the front-door, whilst Mme. Favoral was hurrying her husband towards Mlle. Gilberte’s room.     

       Rapidly and stoutly Maxence had fastened four sheets together by the ends, which gave a more than sufficient length. Then, opening the window, he examined carefully the courtyard of the adjoining house.     

       “No one,” said he: “everybody is at dinner. We’ll succeed.”     

       M. Favoral was tottering like a drunken man. A terrible emotion convulsed his features. Casting a long look upon his wife and children:     

       “O Lord!” he murmured, “what will become of you?”     

       “Fear nothing, father,” uttered Maxence. “I am here. Neither my mother nor my sister will want for any thing.”     

       “My son!” resumed the cashier, “my children!”     

       Then, with a choking voice:     

       “I am worthy neither of your love nor your devotion, wretch that I am! I made you lead a miserable existence, spend a joyless youth. I imposed upon you every trial of poverty, whilst I—And now I leave you nothing but ruin and a dishonored name.”     

      

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