ture notary, "one word! Has Roguin given your
four hundred thousand francs to Monsieur Claparon?"

"The business was settled in your presence. Monsieur Claparon gave me
no receipt; my acceptances were to be--negotiated. Roguin was to give
him--my two hundred and forty thousand francs. He was told that he was
to pay for the property definitely. Monsieur Popinot the judge said--The
receipt!--but--why do you ask the question?"

"Why ask the question? To know if your two hundred and forty thousand
francs are still with Roguin. Roguin was so long connected with you,
that perhaps out of decent feeling he may have paid them over to
Claparon, and you will escape! But, no! what a fool I am! He has carried
off Claparon's money as well! Happily, Claparon had only paid over, to
my care, one hundred thousand francs. I gave them to Roguin just as I
would give you my purse, and I have no receipt for them. The owners of
the land have not received one penny; they have just been talking to me.
The money you thought you raised upon your property in the Faubourg du
Temple had no existence for you, or the borrower; Roguin has squandered
it, together with your hundred thousand francs, which he used up long
ago,--and your last hundred thousand as well, for I just remember
drawing them from the bank."

The pupils of Cesar's eyes dilated so enormously that he saw only red
flames.

"Your hundred thousand francs in his hands, my hundred thousand for
his practice, a hundred thousand from Claparon,--there's three hundred
thousand francs purloined, not to speak of other thefts which will be
discovered," exclaimed the young notary. "Madame Roguin is not to be
counted on. Du Tillet has had a narrow escape. Roguin tormented him for
a month to get into that land speculation, but happily all his funds
were tied up in an affair with Nucingen. Roguin has written an atrocious
letter to his wife; I have read it. He has been making free with
his clients' money for years; and why? for a mistress,--la belle
Hollandaise. He left her two weeks ago. The squandering hussy hasn't
a farthing left; they sold her furniture,--she had signed promissory
notes. To escape arrest, she took refuge in a house in the Palais-Royal,
where she was assassinated last night by a captain in the army. God has
quickly punished her; she has wasted Roguin's whole fortune and
much more. There are some women to whom nothing is sacred: think of
squandering the trust moneys of a notary! M