Now in the letter which informed the victim that in future the Kellers would make no further advances without security, there was a tolerably wide space left between the forms of an exaggerated respect and the signature.  It was quite easy to tear off the best part of the letter and convert it into a bill of exchange for any amount.  The diabolical missive had been enclosed in an envelope, so that the other side of the sheet was blank.  When it arrived, Victurnien was writhing in the lowest depths of despair.  After two years of the most prosperous, sensual, thoughtless, and luxurious life, he found himself face to face with the most inexorable poverty; it was an absolute impossibility to procure money.  There had been some throes of crisis before the journey came to an end.  With the Duchess’ help he had managed to extort various sums from bankers; but it had been with the greatest difficulty, and, moreover, those very amounts were about to start up again before him as overdue bills of exchange in all their rigor, with a stern summons to pay from the Bank of France and the commercial court.  All through the enjoyments of those last weeks the unhappy boy had felt the point of the Commander’s sword; at every supper-party he heard, like Don Juan, the heavy tread of the statue outside upon the stairs.  He felt an unaccountable creeping of the flesh, a warning that the sirocco of debt is nigh at hand.  He reckoned on chance.  For five years he had never turned up a blank in the lottery, his purse had always been replenished.  After Chesnel had come du Croisier (he told himself), after du Croisier surely another gold mine would pour out its wealth.  And besides, he was winning great sums at play; his luck at play had saved him several unpleasant steps already; and often a wild hope sent him to the Salon des Etrangers only to lose his winnings afterwards at whist at the club.  His life for the past two months had been like the immortal finale of Mozart’s Don Giovanni; and of a truth, if a young man has come to such a plight as Victurnien’s, that finale is enough to make him shudder.  Can anything better prove the enormous power of music than that sublime rendering of the disorder and confusion arising out of a life wholly give up to sensual indulgence? that fearful picture of a deliberate effort to shut out the thought of debts and duels, deceit and evil luck?  In that music Mozart disputes the palm with Moliere.  The terrific finale, with its glow, its power, its despair and laughter, its grisly spectres and elfish women, centres about the prodigal’s last effort made in the after-supper heat of wine, the frantic struggle which ends the drama.  Victurnien was living through this infernal poem, and alone.  He saw visions of himself—­a friendless, solitary outcast, reading the words carved on the stone, the last words on the last page of the book that had held him spellbound—­THE END!

Yes; for him all would be at an end, and that soon.  Already he saw the cold, ironical eyes which his associates would turn upon him, and their amusement over his downfall.  Some of them he knew were playing high on that gambling-table kept open all day long at the Bourse, or in private houses at the clubs, and anywhere and everywhere in Paris; but not one of these men could spare a banknote to save an intimate.  There was no help for it—­Chesnel must be ruined.  He had devoured Chesnel’s living.