upon the horror of the
conduct of the supposed Raoul de Clameran to fancy that this last wild
menace was but a means for obtaining money.

Forgetting the past, ignoring the future, and concentrating her
thought on the present situation, she saw but one thing--that her son
was about to kill himself, and that she was powerless to arrest his
suicide.

"Wait, wait," she said; "Andre will soon return, and I will tell him
that I have need of--How much did you lose?"

"Thirty thousand francs."

"You shall have them to-morrow."

"I must have them to-night."

She seemed to be going mad; she wrung her hands in despair.

"To-night!" she said: "why didn't you come sooner? Do you lack
confidence in me? To-night there is no one to open the safe--without
that--"

The expectant Raoul caught the word. He gave an exclamation of joy, as
if a light had broken upon his dark despair.

"The safe!" he cried; "do you know where the key is?"

"Yes, it is here."

"Thank heaven!"

He looked at Madame Fauvel with such a demoniacal glance that she
dropped her eyes.

"Give it to me, mother," he entreated.

"Miserable boy!"

"It is life that I ask of you."

This prayer decided her. Taking a candle, she stepped quickly into her
room, opened the writing-desk, and there found M. Fauvel's own key.

But as she was handing it to Raoul, reason returned.

"No," she murmured; "no, it is impossible."

He did not insist, and indeed seemed willing to retire.

"Ah, well!" he said. "Then, my mother, one last kiss."

She stopped him:--"What will you do with the key, Raoul? Have you also
the secret word?"

"No, but I can try."

"You know there is never money in the safe."

"Let us try. If I open it by a miracle, and if there is money in the
box, then I shall believe that God has taken pity upon us."

"And if you do not succeed? Then will you swear that you will wait
until to-morrow?"

"Upon the memory of my father, I swear it."

"Then here is the key! Come." ...

They had now reached Prosper's office, and Raoul had placed the lamp
on a high shelf, from which point it lighted the entire room. He had
recovered all of his self-possession, or rather that peculiar
mechanical precision of action which seems to be independent of the
will, and which men accustomed to peril always find at their service
in times of pressing need. Rapidly, and with the dexterity of
experience, he placed the five buttons of the iron box upon the
letters fo