Gradually he had awakened to the true state of affairs; prospective happiness no longer seemed impossible, and he felt that he was indebted to the man before him for more than life.  But for M. Verduret, where would have been his honor and domestic peace?

With earnest gratitude he seized M. Verduret’s hand as if to carry it to his lips, and said, in broken tones: 

“Oh, monsieur! how can I ever find words to express how deeply I appreciate your kindness?  How can I ever repay the great service you have rendered me?”

M. Verduret reflected a moment, and then said: 

“If you feel under any significant obligations to me, monsieur, you have it in your power to return them.  I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor? you ask of me?  Speak, monsieur, you have but to name it.  My fortune and life are at your disposal.”

“I will not hesitate, then, to explain myself.  I am Prosper’s friend, and deeply interested in his future.  You can exonerate him from this infamous charge of robbery; you can restore him to his honorable position.  You can do more than this, monsieur.  He loves Mlle. Madeleine.”

“Madeleine shall be his wife, monsieur,” interrupted the banker:  “I give you my word of honor.  And I will so publicly exonerate him, that not a shadow of suspicion will rest upon his name.  I will place him in a position which will prevent slander from reproaching him with the painful remembrance of my fatal error.”

The fat man quietly took up his hat and cane, as if he had been paying an ordinary morning call, and turned to leave the room, after saying, “Good-morning.”  But, seeing the weeping woman raise her clasped hands appealingly toward him, he said hesitatingly: 

“Monsieur, excuse my intruding any advice; but Mme. Fauvel—­”

“Andre!” murmured the wretched wife, “Andre!”

The banker hesitated a moment; then, following the impulse of his heart, ran to his wife, and, clasping her in his arms, said tenderly: 

“No, I will not be foolish enough to struggle against my deep-rooted love.  I do not pardon, Valentine:  I forget; I forget all!”

M. Verduret had nothing more to do at Vesinet.

Without taking leave of the banker, he quietly left the room, and, jumping into his cab, ordered the driver to return to Paris, and drive to the Hotel du Louvre as rapidly as possible.

His mind was filled with anxiety about Clameran.  He knew that Raoul would give him no more trouble; the young rogue was probably taking his passage for some foreign land at that very moment.  But Clameran should not escape unpunished; and how this punishment could be brought about without compromising Mme. Fauvel, was the problem to be solved.

M. Verduret thought over the various cases similar to this, but not one of his former expedients could be applied to the present circumstances.  He could not deliver the villain over to justice without involving Mme. Fauvel.