Beatrice trembled violently, and became pale as marble at this portion of the narration, but impatiently beckoned to Andrea to proceed.

"This charming creature, youthful and fresh as Hebe, was rather under the middle size, and slender and graceful as a sylph. Her bright golden tresses fell, in their natural unrestrained luxuriance, far below her waist; her large liquid blue eyes, fringed with long lashes much darker than her hair, beamed with an almost indefinable sweetness and modesty, and were in perfect harmony with the general softness and extreme delicacy of her other features. A skin of unrivalled fairness was relieved from insipidity by the brilliant roseate bloom of her cheek. Her dress was of muslin, of a hue and texture adapted to the fairy-like character of her beauty. Her small white hands held up the corners of a white silk apron, filled with roses, lilies, and evergreens, freshly culled from the garden. Her first surprise ended, she thus accosted me, in a sweet silvery voice:

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Holy father, you are most welcome to the rest and food our cottage affords. You seem tired and way worn. Whither are you travelling?' "Towards Rome, fair lady, on a mission to his holiness, from the superior of my monastery."

"May God speed you,' she answered, on your journey. Take with you, holy father, a slight remembrance of us,' giving me some of the fairest flowers from her apron, and leave us your blessing in return.'

"So saying, we exchanged salutations, and I saw her no more."

Beatrice, who had till now listened to Andrea's recital with that species of unnatural calm which but too often precedes a violent storm, could no longer repress the manifestation of her jealousy and indignation. Rising from her seat, her eyes dilated with anger, her features convulsed by passion," Andrea!" she exclaimed, "if you be faithful to your allegiance, you will not quit this apartment until you have taken a solemn oath to execute all my commands! My injured love and dignity, the insulted honour of my family must be vindicated! Your master is that worst of traitors-a domestic one! He has forsaken and betrayed the wife of his bosom; from henceforth I tear his image from my heart! My outraged feelings shall be avenged, or I will die in the attempt!"

Poor Vanozzi in vain endeavoured to allay the storm which he had raised in the bosom of the princess-vainly did he beseech her to pause, and to make inquiry, ere she carried out her fatal purpose. The evidence of her husband's disloyalty was to her as certain as truth itself; and Andrea, ere he was permitted to leave her presence, was persuaded to bind himself by the required oath.

261

THE BANKER'S STRONG-BOX.*

PART I.

I. THE STRONG-BOX.

THERE is generally in every French regiment of the Line one man who is more or less looked up to by the rest. He is a better fencer, a

better shot, more energetic, and more fortunate in his amours and in his duels, than any other. He is generally a little wiry fellow, by no means young, with long moustache, and he rejoices in the yellow epaulettes of the company of Voltigeurs. His duels are all the more frequent, as it is a point of honour to have fought with him, and he is always ready to give every tourlourou a touch of his quality. So it is with the agents of police or detectives of Paris, whilst the superiority of one or two is tacitly admitted, there is great jealousy of success; and as a wondrous amount of vanity mixes itself up with the acuteness necessary to their functions, not a little pride and envy find their way into almost every investigation. The feelings are, indeed, sometimes so much engaged in the matter as to involve many an innocent man, and a wise magistrate is as much on his guard against prejudiced officers of police as against prevaricating witnesses. M. Gaboriau is master of details of this kind, which often, by their obscurity and entanglement, present features of deepest interest. Such was the nature of the case now before us.

The bank of André Fauvel, No. 87, Rue de Provence, was in high repute, and did a considerable business. The offices were on the ground floor, and the windows looking upon the street were carefully protected by iron-bars. M. André Fauvel's private room was on the first floor, and communicated with the house; but it also communicated by a steep, narrow, dark staircase with the office of the principal cashier, and through it, with the other offices below. The closet, in which was the strong-box, was so defended as almost to have been able to have stood a seige. The doors were lined with plates of iron, and the chimney secured by bars, whilst the strong-box itself was let into the wall. It was opened by a small key and five letter-locks. The word adapted to open the latter was changed from time to time, and was only known to M. Fauvel and to the chief cashier-they alone had keys.

On the morning of the 28th of February the clerks arrived at the offices at the usual hour-nine o'clock. At half-past nine a middleaged military-looking man, dressed in black, made his appearance. He said he wished to speak with the chief cashier. He was told that the chief cashier had not come yet, and that his office did not open till ten o'clock.

"I expected," observed the stranger, in a haughty tone of voice, "to have met with more attention, as I had arranged matters yesterday with M. Fauvel. I am Count Louis de Clameron, the head of a factory at Oloron, and I have come to withdraw the sum of three hundred thousand francs (12,5004.) entrusted to the house by my brother, whose heir I am. It it surprising that orders have not been given."

* Le Dossier, No. 113. Par Emile Gaborian. Paris: E. Dentu.

Neither the titles of the visitor nor his explanations had much weight with the clerks, who contented themselves with replying,

"It is not time yet."

"But cannot I see M. Fauvel, then?" persisted M. de Clameron, "No; he is not visible at this hour," retorted a junior clerk— Cavaillon by name.

"Then I will call again," replied M. de Clameron, apparently much annoyed.

He had scarcely left the house than Prosper Bertomy, the chief cashier, made his appearance. He was a handsome young man, about thirty years of age, and dressed in the height of fashion.

"Ah! here you are at last," exclaimed Cavaillon; "why you have already been asked after."

"What, by a factor at Oloron?"

"Exactly so."

"Oh! well he will soon come back again."

So saying, Prosper opened the door of his cabinet and went in; but he had not been in long before he returned into the office, with an expression of the utmost alarm:

"Robbed!" he exclaimed.

"I have been robbed!"

All the clerks put down their pens and rushed up to Prosper. "Robbed!" they exclaimed; "by whom?"

They have taken all that was in the strong-box, three hundred and fifty thousand francs in three parcels of one hundred thousand, and one of fifty thousand, tied in a bundle," replied Prosper, in a state of the most distressing anxiety.

The news of the robbery spread like wild-fire through the establishment. People rushed in from all quarters of the house; the place was crowded. M. Fauvel was one of the last to make his appearance. M. Fauvel was a man of about fifty years of age, hair just turning to grey, middle-sized, slightly bent in the shoulders, like most hard-workers, with a tendency to corpulence, and a candid benevolent expression of

countenance.

"What do they tell me ?" he said to the clerks, as they respectfully made way for him.

The voice of M. Fauvel seemed to arouse Prosper, who was almost stupified by the blow, to his senses. He explained that he had sent to the Bank of France the previous evening for three hundred and fifty thousand francs, as M. de Clameron wished to withdraw three hundred thousand at an early hour.

"But why did you send for it yesterday?" observed the banker. "I have told you a hundred times to wait for the day itself."

"I am aware of it, and I am sorry for what I have done; for the strong-box has been opened and the money removed."

"Why you are mad!" exclaimed M. Fauvel. "Who could have opened the box, when only you and I have the key and know the word?" "True!" replied Prosper, scarcely knowing in his terror what he was saying; "only you or I could have opened the box."

The banker became so irate, at the mere idea of a suspicion attaching to himself, that there is no telling what might have happened had not M. de Clameron appeared on the scene. He stepped forward with a rude, haughty manner, observing:

F "It is ten o'clock, gentlemen!" And then addressing M. Fauvel, he added, with a touch of impertinence in his manner, "I am glad to see you here, sir; I have had to call once already this morning, and yet I had made arrangements yesterday."

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True, sir," M. Flauvel replied, "yesterday; but this morning I have just learnt that I am the victim of a robbery of three hundred and fifty thousand francs. You must grant me a brief delay."

"Shall I have to wait long ?" retorted the factor, with an ironical expression of countenance.

"Merely the time to send to the bank," replied M. Fauvel. "Prosper, make out an order, and send it at once."

"It is useless to send," replied the latter. "We have not a hundred thousand francs at the bank."

"I suspected as much," observed M. de Clameron. The banker turned white and then purple with passion. "You need not be under any apprehension," he controlled himself sufficiently to reply with his usual courtesy ; 66 we have other resources." Going to a desk, he hastily wrote a few words, then handing them over to a clerk, he said, "Take this note to M. de Rothschild; monsieur will be kind enough to accompany you, and you will see that he receives three hundred thousand francs.'

M. de Clameron thought proper upon this to alter his style of address, and formulated an apology for his rudeness, laying stress upon an old acquaintanceship. M. Fauvel turned his back upon him, merely observing,

"In matters of business there are neither friends nor acquaintances. I owed-you were-pressing. You have good claims; follow my clerk; you will be paid."

No sooner the client gone than M. Fauvel intimated to Prosper that he wished to speak to him in his own room. When they were alone the worthy banker endeavoured to extract a confession from the cashier by reminding him of the confidence he had always placed in him, and the friendship he had shown him. He had been fifteen years in the bank; he had been treated as one of the house till about a year ago, when he had ceased to avail himself of his privileges; his prospects had been ensured by a constant advancement and augmentation of salary; nay, an alliance with his niece, Madeleine, had been looked forward to as an opening to a future partnership with his sons! Prosper wept bitterly at this enumeration of benefits heaped upon him, and the mention of Madeleine's name visibly affected him, but there were no confidences to make. The banker then changed his tone; he told Prosper that a young man was exposed to many temptations in a city like Paris, that he was aware that he was addicted to play, that latterly his life had been disorderly, and that he frequented the society of young men of dissipated habits. But all the answer he could get was, "It was not me. I swear it was

not me !"

"Then it must have been me!" exclaimed the banker, exasperated in the highest degree," and the police shall decide between us."

"As you like!" Prosper almost mechanically replied, in his profound dejection.

The banker

rang the bell.

"Anselme," he said, when it was answered, "tell the commissary of police to step down."

The commissary entered, followed by a little man in seedy black.

"You have been already informed," said the banker, "that a robbery has been committed. The large sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs has been abstracted from that strong box; my cashier alone had a key and the pass-word."

"I beg your pardon," observed Prosper; "my master had also a key and the pass-word."

The commissary looked alternately at the one and at the other; the one was red and excited with anger and indignation, the other pale and cast down as if with horror and affliction.

"Such a robbery," continued M. Fauvel, determined not to notice the additional insult put upon him, "might have had serious consequences— might, in fact, have compromised the credit of my house."

"I can understand that," replied the commissary. "For example, a sudden demand

"Precisely so. And I had this very day a large sum to meet." "Oh, indeed !" observed the commissary.

"I must add," persevered the banker, not noticing how thoughtful his last communication had made the commissary, "that, had my orders been obeyed, this would not have happened. The cashier had strict injunctions not to have a large sum of money in the box, but to obtain it from the bank the same day that it was wanted."

The commissary turned towards Prosper. The latter contented himself with replying that what his master said was true.

"Could the robbery have been effected from without ?” "I do not think so," replied the banker, hesitatingly.

"And I am sure it could not," added Prosper, rousing himself. Whilst this conversation was going on, the little man in black, Monsieur Fanferlot, better known as "the Squirrel," had not been idle. He had subjected the chimney, the doors, the window-bars, and the strong box to the closest scrutiny. No indications of force were to be detected; only on the strong-box, close by the key-hole, there was a fresh scratch. The detective said to himself, if the cashier had opened it he would have had no cause for hurry; if the banker had opened it he might have had. Turning to the staircase which led up to the banker's study he expressed a wish to continue his researches in that direction. The four accordingly proceeded together. M. Fauvel's private apartment was composed of two pieces; the first was the reception-room. It had three doors, one opening on the staircase which led to the offices, the other on the landing of the principal staircase by which visitors were admitted, the third into M. Fauvel's study. This had another door, which communicated with his bedroom. Nothing being found in the first, the parties proceeded, headed by M. Fauvel, to the examination of the second, with the exception of Prosper, who remained behind buried in painful reflections, from which, however, he was suddenly aroused by the door opening, and a beautiful young girl walking in. It was M. Fauvel's niece, Madeleine. "What, you here!" she exclaimed. "I thought to have met my uncle."

"Madeleine !" was all Prosper could utter" Madeleine !"