Her calmness never left her when M. Fauvel and Lucien returned, although she was in terror lest her husband should go down to the cash-room to see that everything was safely locked up.  It was not his habit to open the money-safe at night, but he sometimes did.

As fate would have it, the banker, as soon as he entered the room, began to speak of Prosper, saying how distressing it was that so interesting a young man should be thus throwing himself away, and wondering what could have happened to make him suddenly cease his visits at the house, and resort to bad company.

If M. Fauvel had looked at the faces of his wife and niece while he harshly blamed the cashier, he would have been puzzled at their strange expressions.

All night long Mme. Fauvel suffered the most intolerable agony.  She counted each stroke of the town-clock, as the hours dragged on.

“In six hours,” she said to herself, “in five hours—­in four hours—­in three hours—­in one hour—­all will be discovered; and then what will happen?  Heaven help me!”

At sunrise she heard the servants moving about the house.  Then the office-shutters opened; then, later, she heard the clerks going into the bank.

She attempted to get up, but felt so ill and weak that she sank back on her pillow; and lying there, trembling like a leaf, bathed in cold perspiration, she awaited the discovery of the robbery.

She was leaning over the side of the bed, straining her ear to catch a sound from the cash-room, when Madeleine, who had just left her, rushed into the room.

The white face and wild eyes of the poor girl told Mme. Fauvel that the crime was discovered.

“Do you know what has happened, aunt?” cried Madeleine, in a shrill, horrified tone.  “Prosper is accused of robbery, and the police have come to take him to prison!”

A groan was Mme. Fauvel’s only answer.

“Raoul or the marquis is at the bottom of this,” continued Madeleine excitedly.

“How can they be concerned in it, my child?”

“I can’t tell yet; but I only know that Prosper is innocent.  I have just seen him, spoken to him.  He would never have looked me in the face had he been guilty.”

Mme. Fauvel opened her lips to confess all:  fear kept her silent.

“What can these wretches want?” said Madeleine:  “what new sacrifice do they demand?  Dishonor Prosper!  Good heavens!  Why did they not kill him at once?  He would rather be dead than disgraced!”

Here the entrance of M. Fauvel interrupted Madeleine.  The banker was so angry that he could scarcely speak.

“The worthless scoundrel!” he cried; “to think of his daring to accuse me!  To insinuate that I robbed my own safe!  And that Marquis de Clameran must needs doubt my good faith in keeping my engagement to pay his money!”

Then, without noticing the effect of his story upon the two women, he proceeded to relate all that had occurred downstairs.