“He is a perfectly honest man,” answered some.

“He is simply a speculator,” affirmed others.

But all agreed that he was a sharp one; who would surely make his fortune, and without passing through the police-courts, either.

“How can our father and such a man be so intimately connected?” wondered Maxence and his sister.

And they were lost in conjectures, when suddenly, at an hour when he never set his foot in the house, M. Favoral appeared.

Throwing a letter upon his daughter’s lap,

“See what I have just received from Costeclar,” he said in a hoarse voice.  “Read.”

She read, “Allow me, dear friend, to release you from your engagement.  Owing to circumstances absolutely beyond my control, I find myself compelled to give up the honor of becoming a member of your family.”

What could have happened?

Standing in the middle of the parlor, the cashier of the Mutual Credit held, bowed down beneath his glance, his wife and children, Mme. Favoral trembling, Maxence starting in mute surprise, and Mlle. Gilberte, who needed all the strength of her will to control the explosion of her immense joy.

Every thing in M. Favoral betrayed, nevertheless, much more the excitement of a disaster than the rage of a deception.

Never had his family seen him thus,—­livid, his cravat undone, his hair wet with perspiration, and clinging to his temples.

“Will you please explain this letter?” he asked at last.

And, as no one answered him, he took up that letter again from the table where Mlle. Gilberte had laid it, and commenced reading it again, scanning each syllable, as if in hopes of discovering in each word some hidden meaning.

“What did you say to Costeclar?” he resumed, “what did you do to him to make him take such a determination?”

“Nothing,” answered Maxence and Mlle. Gilberte.

The hope of being at last rid of that man inspired Mme. Favoral with something like courage.

“He has doubtless understood,” she meekly suggested, “that he could not triumph over our daughter’s repugnance.”

But her husband interrupted her,

“No,” he uttered, “Costeclar is not the man to trouble himself about the ridiculous caprices of a little girl.  There is something else.  But what is it?  Come, if you know it, any of you, if you suspect it even, speak, say it.  You must see that I am in a state of fearful anxiety.”

It was the first time that he thus allowed something to appear of what was passing within him, the first time that he ever complained.

“M.  Costeclar alone, father, can give you the explanation you ask of us,” said Mlle. Gilberte.