“But the money is still in Mme. de Maufrigneuse’s keeping,” exclaimed Victurnien.

“Ah!” exclaimed Chesnel.  “Well, there is some hope left—­a faint hope.  Could we soften du Croisier, I wonder, or buy him over?  He shall have all the lands if he likes.  I will go to him; I will wake him and offer him all we have.—­Besides, it was not you who forged that bill; it was I. I will go to jail; I am too old for the hulks, they can only put me in prison.”

“But the body of the bill is in my handwriting,” objected Victurnien, without a sign of surprise at this reckless devotion.

“Idiot! . . . that is, pardon, M. le Comte.  Josephin should have been made to write it,” the old notary cried wrathfully.  “He is a good creature; he would have taken it all on his shoulders.  But there is an end of it; the world is falling to pieces,” the old man continued, sinking exhausted into a chair.  “Du Croisier is a tiger; we must be careful not to rouse him.  What time is it?  Where is the draft?  If it is at Paris, it might be bought back from the Kellers; they might accommodate us.  Ah! but there are dangers on all sides; a single false step means ruin.  Money is wanted in any case.  But there! nobody knows you are here, you must live buried away in the cellar if needs must.  I will go at once to Paris as fast as I can; I can hear the mail coach from Brest.”

In a moment the old man recovered the faculties of his youth—­his agility and vigor.  He packed up clothes for the journey, took money, brought a six-pound loaf to the little room beyond the office, and turned the key on his child by adoption.

“Not a sound in here,” he said, “no light at night; and stop here till I come back, or you will go to the hulks.  Do you understand, M. le Comte?  Yes, to the hulks! if anybody in a town like this knows that you are here.”

With that Chesnel went out, first telling his housekeeper to give out that he was ill, to allow no one to come into the house, to send everybody away, and to postpone business of every kind for three days.  He wheedled the manager of the coach-office, made up a tale for his benefit—­he had the makings of an ingenious novelist in him—­and obtained a promise that if there should be a place, he should have it, passport or no passport, as well as a further promise to keep the hurried departure a secret.  Luckily, the coach was empty when it arrived.

In the middle of the following night Chesnel was set down in Paris.  At nine o’clock in the morning he waited on the Kellers, and learned that the fatal draft had returned to du Croisier three days since; but while obtaining this information, he in no way committed himself.  Before he went away he inquired whether the draft could be recovered if the amount were refunded.  Francois Keller’s answer was to the effect that the document was du Croisier’s property, and that it was entirely in his power to keep or return it.  Then, in desperation, the old man went to the Duchess.