On reaching the pier, he walked straight before him like a man in a trance, who knows neither where he is going nor what is to become of him.  He saw himself irretrievably lost, possessing no longer a shelter, no means of rescue and, of course, no longer any friends.  Alone, wandering on the sea-shore, he felt tempted to drown himself, then and there.  Just at the moment when, yielding to this thought, he was advancing to the edge of a high cliff, an old servant named Jean, who had served his family for a number of years, arrived on the scene.

“Ah! my poor Jean!” he exclaimed, “you know all that has happened since I went away.  Is it possible that my father could leave us without warning, without farewell?”

“He is gone,” answered Jean, “but indeed not without saying good-bye to you.”

At the same time he drew from his pocket a letter, which he gave to his young master.  Croisilles recognized the handwriting of his father, and, before opening the letter, kissed it rapturously; but it contained only a few words.  Instead of feeling his trouble softened, it seemed to the young man still harder to bear.  Honorable until then, and known as such, the old gentleman, ruined by an unforeseen disaster (the bankruptcy of a partner), had left for his son nothing but a few commonplace words of consolation, and no hope, except, perhaps, that vague hope without aim or reason which constitutes, it is said, the last possession one loses.

“Jean, my friend, you carried me in your arms,” said Croisilles, when he had read the letter, “and you certainly are to-day the only being who loves me at all; it is a very sweet thing to me, but a very sad one for you; for, as sure as my father embarked there, I will throw myself into the same sea which is bearing him away; not before you nor at once, but some day I will do it, for I am lost.”

“What can you do?” replied Jean, not seeming to have understood, but holding fast to the skirt of Croisilles’ coat; “What can you do, my dear master?  Your father was deceived; he was expecting money which did not come, and it was no small amount either.  Could he stay here?  I have seen him, sir, as he made his fortune, during the thirty years that I served him.  I have seen him working, attending to his business, the crown-pieces coming in one by one.  He was an honorable man, and skilful; they took a cruel advantage of him.  Within the last few days, I was still there, and as fast as the crowns came in, I saw them go out of the shop again.  Your father paid all he could, for a whole day, and, when his desk was empty, he could not help telling me, pointing to a drawer where but six francs remained:  ‘There were a hundred thousand francs there this morning!’ That does not look like a rascally failure, sir?  There is nothing in it that can dishonor you.”

“I have no more doubt of my father’s integrity,” answered Croisilles, “than I have of his misfortune.  Neither do I doubt his affection.  But I wish I could have kissed him, for what is to become of me?  I am not accustomed to poverty, I have not the necessary cleverness to build up my fortune.  And, if I had it, my father is gone.  It took him thirty years, how long would it take me to repair this disaster?  Much longer.  And will he be living then?  Certainly not; he will die over there, and I cannot even go and find him; I can join him only by dying.”