He walked along the Rue Saint-Honore, in no special direction, and feeling much discomposed.  At the corner of a street he ran against Alexandre Crottat, just as a ram, or a mathematician absorbed in the solution of a problem, might have knocked against another of his kind.

“Ah, monsieur,” said the future notary, “one word!  Has Roguin given your four hundred thousand francs to Monsieur Claparon?”

“The business was settled in your presence.  Monsieur Claparon gave me no receipt; my acceptances were to be—­negotiated.  Roguin was to give him—­my two hundred and forty thousand francs.  He was told that he was to pay for the property definitely.  Monsieur Popinot the judge said —­The receipt!—­but—­why do you ask the question?”

“Why ask the question?  To know if your two hundred and forty thousand francs are still with Roguin.  Roguin was so long connected with you, that perhaps out of decent feeling he may have paid them over to Claparon, and you will escape!  But, no! what a fool I am!  He has carried off Claparon’s money as well!  Happily, Claparon had only paid over, to my care, one hundred thousand francs.  I gave them to Roguin just as I would give you my purse, and I have no receipt for them.  The owners of the land have not received one penny; they have just been talking to me.  The money you thought you raised upon your property in the Faubourg du Temple had no existence for you, or the borrower; Roguin has squandered it, together with your hundred thousand francs, which he used up long ago,—­and your last hundred thousand as well, for I just remember drawing them from the bank.”

The pupils of Cesar’s eyes dilated so enormously that he saw only red flames.

“Your hundred thousand francs in his hands, my hundred thousand for his practice, a hundred thousand from Claparon,—­there’s three hundred thousand francs purloined, not to speak of other thefts which will be discovered,” exclaimed the young notary.  “Madame Roguin is not to be counted on.  Du Tillet has had a narrow escape.  Roguin tormented him for a month to get into that land speculation, but happily all his funds were tied up in an affair with Nucingen.  Roguin has written an atrocious letter to his wife; I have read it.  He has been making free with his clients’ money for years; and why? for a mistress,—­la belle Hollandaise.  He left her two weeks ago.  The squandering hussy hasn’t a farthing left; they sold her furniture,—­she had signed promissory notes.  To escape arrest, she took refuge in a house in the Palais-Royal, where she was assassinated last night by a captain in the army.  God has quickly punished her; she has wasted Roguin’s whole fortune and much more.  There are some women to whom nothing is sacred:  think of squandering the trust moneys of a notary!  Madame Roguin won’t have a penny, except by claiming her rights of dower; the scoundrel’s whole property is encumbered to its full value.  I bought the practice for three hundred thousand francs,—­I,