ost frightful
apprehensions!

Fearing lest she might take cold, her children had removed her to
the sofa, and there, all shivering,

"Isn't it horrible," she said, "not to know any thing of your father?
--to think that at this very moment, perhaps, pursued by the police,
he is wandering in despair through the streets, without daring to
ask anywhere for shelter."

Her children had no time to answer and comfort her; for at this
moment the door-bell rang again.

"Who can it be now?" said Mme. Favoral with a start.

This time there was no discussion in the hall. Steps sounded on the
floor of the dining-room; the door opened; and M. Desclavettes, the
old bronze-merchant, walked, or rather slipped into the parlor.

Hope, fear, anger, all the sentiments which agitated his soul, could
be read on his pale and cat-like face.

"It is I," he commenced.

Maxence stepped forward.

"Have you heard any thing from my father, sir?"

"No," answered the old merchant, "I confess I have not; and I was
just coming to see if you had yourselves. Oh, I know very well that
this is not exactly the hour to call at a house; but I thought,
that, after what took place this evening, you would not be in bed
yet. I could not sleep myself. You understand a friendship of
twenty years' standing! So I took Mme. Desclavettes home, and here
I am."

"We feel very thankful for your kindness," murmured Mme. Favoral.

"I am glad you do. The fact is, you see, I take a good deal of
interest in the misfortune that strikes you,--a greater interest
than any one else. For, after all, I, too, am a victim. I had
intrusted one hundred and twenty thousand francs to our dear Vincent."

"Alas, sir!" said Mlle. Gilberte.

But the worthy man did not allow her to proceed. "I have no fault
to find with him," he went on--"absolutely none. Why, dear me!
haven't I been in business myself? and don't I know what it is?
First, we borrow a thousand francs or so from the cash account,
then ten thousand, then a hundred thousand. Oh! without any bad
intention, to be sure, and with the firm resolution to return them.
But we don't always do what we wish to do. Circumstances sometimes
work against us, if we operate at the bourse to make up the deficit
we lose. Then we must borrow again, draw from Peter to pay Paul.
We are afraid of being caught: we are compelled, reluctantly of
course, to alter the books. At last a day comes when we find that
millions are go