Mascarin knew all this story better than Paul, but here he interrupted his young friend.

“I do not understand you,” said he, “nor whether your grief arises from indignation or remorse.  Has there been a robbery?”

“How can I tell?  I have never seen M. Tantaine from that day.  There is a rumor that he has been plundered and important papers taken from him, and that he has consequently been arrested.”

“Why did you not explain the facts?”

“It would have been of no use.  It would clearly prove that Tantaine was no friend of mine, not even an acquaintance, and they would have laughed me to scorn had I declared that the evening before he came into my room and made me a present of five hundred francs.”

“I think that I can solve the riddle,” remarked Mascarin.  “I know the old fellow so well.”

Paul listened with breathless eagerness.

“Tantaine,” resumed Mascarin, “is the best and kindest fellow in the world, but he is not quite right in the upper story.  He was a wealthy man once, but his liberality was his ruin.  He is as poor as a church-mouse now, but he is as anxious as ever to be charitable.  Unfortunately in the place I procured for him he had a certain amount of petty cash at his disposal, and moved to pity at the sight of your sufferings, he gave you the money that really belonged to others.  Then he sent in his accounts, and the deficiency was discovered.  He lost his head, and declared that he had been robbed.  You lived in the next room; you were known to be in abject poverty on the one day and in ample funds on the next; hence these suspicions.”

All was too clear to Paul, and a cold shiver ran through his frame as he saw himself arrested, tried, and condemned.

“But,” stammered he, “M.  Tantaine holds my note of hand, which is a proof that I acted honestly.”

“My poor boy, do you think that if he hoped to save himself at your expense he would produce it?”

“Luckily, sir, you know the real state of the case.”

Mascarin shook is head.

“Would my story be credited?” asked he.  “Justice is not infallible, and I must confess that appearances are against you.”

Paul was crushed down beneath this weight of argument.  “There is no resource for me then but death,” murmured he, “for I will not live a dishonored man.”

The conduct of Paul was precisely what Mascarin had expected, and he felt that the moment had arrived to strike a final blow.

“You must not give way to despair, my boy,” said he.

But Paul made no reply; he had lost the power of hearing.  Mascarin, however, had no time to lose, and taking him by the arm, shook him roughly.  “Rouse yourself.  A man in your position must help himself, and bring forward proofs of his innocence.”

“There is no use in fighting,” replied Paul.  “Have you not just shown me that it is hopeless to endeavor to prove my innocence?”