ef 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!"