In his days of poverty, Raoul had often risked his life to obtain a few guineas, and would not have hesitated to make short work of a person like Clameran.

But with money prudence had come.  He wished to enjoy his four hundred thousand francs without being compromised by committing a murder which might be discovered; he therefore began to devise some other means of getting rid of his dreaded accomplice.  Meanwhile, he devoted his thoughts to some discreet way of thwarting Clameran’s marriage with Madeleine.  He was sure that he would thus strike him to the heart, and this was at least a satisfaction.

Raoul was persuaded that, by openly siding with Madeleine and her aims, he could save them from Clameran’s clutches.  Having fully resolved upon this course, he wrote a note to Mme. Fauvel asking for an interview.

The poor woman hastened to Vesinet convinced that some new misfortune was in store for her.

Her alarm was groundless.  She found Raoul more tender and affectionate than he had ever been.  He saw the necessity of reassuring her, and winning his old place in her forgiving heart, before making his disclosures.

He succeeded.  The poor lady had a smiling and happy air as she sat in an arm-chair, with Raoul kneeling beside her.

“I have distressed you too long, my dear mother,” he said in his softest tones, “but I repent sincerely:  now listen to my—­”

He had not time to say more; the door was violently thrown open, and Raoul, springing to his feet, was confronted by M. Fauvel.

The banker had a revolver in his hand, and was deadly pale.

It was evident that he was making superhuman efforts to remain calm, like a judge whose duty it is to justly punish crime.

“Ah,” he said with a horrible laugh, “you look surprised.  You did not expect me?  You thought that my imbecile credulity insured your safety.”

Raoul had the courage to place himself before Mme. Fauvel, and to stand prepared to receive the expected bullet.

“I assure you, uncle,” he began.

“Enough!” interrupted the banker with an angry gesture, “let me hear no more infamous falsehoods!  End this acting, of which I am no longer the dupe.”

“I swear to you—­”

“Spare yourself the trouble of denying anything.  I know all.  I know who pawned my wife’s diamonds.  I know who committed the robbery for which an innocent man was arrested and imprisoned.”

Mme. Fauvel, white with terror, fell upon her knees.

At last it had come—­the dreadful day had come.  Vainly had she added falsehood to falsehood; vainly had she sacrificed herself and others:  all was discovered.

She saw that all was lost, and wringing her hands she tearfully moaned: 

“Pardon, Andre!  I beg you, forgive me!”

At these heart-broken tones, the banker shook like a leaf.  This voice brought before him the twenty years of happiness which he had owed to this woman, who had always been the mistress of his heart, whose slightest wish had been his law, and who, by a smile or a frown, could make him the happiest or the most miserable of men.  Alas! those days were over now.