Mme. Favoral, usually so indulgent, was too severe this time; andit was very unjustly that she accused her son. She forgot, andwhat mother does not forget, that he was twenty-five years of age,that he was a man, and that, outside of the family and of herself,he must have his own interests and his passions, his affections andhis duties. Because he happened to leave the house for a few hours,Maxence was surely not forsaking either his mother or his sister.
It was not without a severe internal struggle that he had made uphis mind to go out, and, as he was going down the steps,"Poor mother," he thought. "I am sure I am making her very unhappy;but how can I help it?"This was the first time that he had been in the street since hisfarther's disaster had been known; and the impression produced uponhim was painful in the extreme. Formerly, when he walked throughthe Rue St. Gilles, that street where he was born, and where he usedto play as a boy, every one met him with a friendly nod or a familiarsmile. True he was then the son of a man rich and highly esteemed;whereas this morning not a hand was extended, not a hat raised, onhis passage. People whispered among themselves, and pointed himout with looks of hatred and irony. That was because he was nowthe son of the dishonest cashier tracked by the police, of the manwhose crime brought disaster upon so many innocent parties.
Mortified and ashamed, Maxence was hurrying on, his head down, hischeek burning, his throat parched, when, in front of a wine-shop,"Halloo!" said a man; "that's the son. What cheek!"And farther on, in front of the grocer's.
"I tell you what," said a woman in the midst of a group, "they stillhave more than we have."Then, for the first time, he understood with what crushing weighthis father's crime would weigh upon his whole life; and, whilstgoing up the Rue Terrain,"It's all over," he thought: "I can never get over it." And hewas thinking of changing his name, of emigrating to America, andhiding himself in the deserts of the Far West, when, a littlefarther on, he noticed a group of some thirty persons in frontof a newspaper-stand. The vender, a fat little man with a redface and an impudent look, was crying in a hoarse voice,"Here are the morning papers! The last editions! All about therobbery of twelve millions by a poor cashier. Buy the morningpapers!"And, to stimulate the sale of his wares, he added all sorts ofjokes of his own invention, saying that the thief belonged to theneighborhood; that it was quite flattering, etc.
The crowd laughed; and he went on,"The cashier Favoral's robbery! twelve millions! Buy the paper,and see how it's done."And so the scandal was public, irreparable. Maxence was listeninga few steps off. He felt like going; but an imperative feeling,stronger than his will, made him anxious to see what the papers said.
Suddenly he made up his mind, and, stepping up briskly, he threwdown three sous, seized a paper, and ran as if they had all knownhim.
"Not very polite, the gentleman," remarked two idlers whom he hadpushed a little roughly.
Quick as he had been, a shopkeeper of the Rue Terrain had had timeto recognize him.
"Why, that's the cashier's son!" he exclaimed. Is it possible?""Why don't they arrest him?"Half a dozen curious fellows, more eager than the rest, ran afterhim to try and see his face. But he was already far off.
Leaning against a gas-lamp on the Boulevard, he unfolded the paperhe had just bought. He had no trouble looking for the article. Inthe middle of the first page, in the most prominent position, heread in large letters,"At the moment of going to press, the greatest agitation prevailsamong the stock-brokers and operators at the bourse generally,owing to the news that one of our great banking establishmentshas just been the victim of a theft of unusual magnitude.
"At about five o'clock in the afternoon, the manager of theMutual Credit Society, having need of some documents, went tolook for them in the office of the head cashier, who was thenabsent. A memorandum forgotten on the table excited hissuspicions. Sending at once for a locksmith, he had all thedrawers broken open, and soon acquired the irrefutable evidencethat the Mutual Credit had been defrauded of sums, which, as faras now, known, amount to upwards of twelve millions.
"At once the police was notified; and M. Brosse, commissary ofpolice, duly provided with a warrant, called at the guiltycashier's house.
"That cashier, named Favoral, - we do not hesitate to name him,since his name has already been made public, - had just sat downto dinner with some friends. Warned, no one knows how, hesucceeded in escaping through a window into the yard of theadjoining house, and up to this hour has succeeded in eludingall search.
"It seems that these embezzlements had been going on for years,but had been skillfully concealed by false entries.
"M. Favoral had managed to secure the esteem of all who knew him.
He led at home a more than modest existence. But that was only,as it were, his official life. Elsewhere, and under another name,he indulged in the most reckless expenses for the benefit of awoman with whom he was madly in love.
"Who this woman is, is not yet exactly known.
"Some mention a very fascinating young actress, who performs ata theatre not a hundred miles from the Rue Vivienne; others, alady of the financial high life, whose equipages, diamonds, anddresses are justly famed.
"We might easily, in this respect, give particulars which wouldastonish many people; for we know all; but, at the risk ofseeming less well informed than some others of our morningcontemporaries, we will observe a silence which our readers willsurely appreciate. We do not wish to add, by a prematureindiscretion, any thing to the grief of a family already socruelly stricken; for M. Favoral leaves behind him in the deepestsorrow a wife and two children, - a son of twenty-five, employedin a railroad office, and a daughter of twenty, remarkablyhandsome, who, a few months ago, came very near marrying M.
C. -.
Next -"Tears of rage obscured Maxence's sight whilst reading the last fewlines of this terrible article. To find himself thus held up topublic curiosity, though innocent, was more than he could bear.
And yet he was, perhaps, still more surprised than indignant. Hehad just learned in that paper more than his father's most intimatefriends knew, more than he knew himself. Where had it got itsinformation? And what could be these other details which the writerpretended to know, but did not wish to publish as yet? Maxence feltlike running to the office of the paper, fancying that they couldtell him there exactly where and under wh............