evenings were pleasant enough to seem short; so while papa dozed in his chair, Victorine and I talked and sang to our heart’s content.
M. Vernay came about once a week to dinner, and contrived then, and indeed at all times, to give my uncle the idea that I was in need of much teaching as regarded business matters.
“How many years do you think, Charles” (we were cousins, reader), “it will take you to learn to conduct papa’s business?”
“How many months you mean, Victorine. These practical men, your father and M. Vernay, are greatly mistaken in their estimate of me: they fancy that because I never looked into a day-book, or journal, or ledger before I came here, I shall be years learning their use; it’s a mistake of theirs. I have ever since I was old enough to think, done little else but think, and discipline of this kind enables me to learn in a month what their undisciplined minds would require twelve for. As for M. Vernay, and his ‘Système,’ as he calls it, it is a good one, and a workable one; but there are fifty methods of applying the same principles. He boasts that by his system fraud is rendered impossible, because discovery is certain; he’s wrong, and greatly wrong, and if I had access to his books, I believe I could prove to demonstration that it is so.”
Victorine somewhat incautiously defended me the next time I was attacked, and repeated my remark that if I had access to his books I could prove fraud to be possible.
M. Vernay started, turned pale, and turned on me a glance that made me sure of two things; first, that this chance bolt had hit the mark—that there was fraud; and next, that if M. Vernay could put me out of his way he would not be very particular as to the means of doing it.
This one idea of fraud kept forcing itself before me constantly; M. Vernay’s jealous care of particular books and keys, his constant endeavours to make my uncle take “one glass more” than was good for him, and the strange, suspicious-looking people who came to him first, and then drew out money from the bank; all compelled me to think of it. I was more than confirmed in my suspicions by an incident which occurred some few months after this idea first entered my mind.
I had lost myself in one of the Faubourgs rather late one evening, and entered a small, mean-looking restaurant to ask my way. There were a number of men in the room, and as I glanced in a looking-glass I saw a face there was no mistaking—that of M. Vernay. He was sitting at one of the little round marble-topped tables, with two companions, with his face to the wall, and his side-face reflected in the glass. I saw him clearly, but from his position he could not see me. Instead of asking my way, I took a seat near the party, and took up the paper. They spoke in French and rapidly, in an under tone.
“I tell you,” said Vernay, “it will not do; you always have to ask me before you draw, and unless you can do it in my way it cannot be done.”
“Repeat,” said one, “repeat; what is your way?”
“This,” said Vernay. “I will give you a cheque now for 50,000 francs, with the Marquis de ’s signature. Lizette will bring it; she must come in her carriage and cash it to-morrow—and—”
“That’s it exactly”—and—“what are we to do?”
“Give me notes for 45,000 francs to-night.”
“45,000—that is only 5,000 francs, and a carriage and horses and Lizette’s dress—it is too little; besides, we have not got the money; I like the old way best; I will come as usual.”
“You cannot do that without risk of discovery. That prying English nephew is suspicious—he has the eyes of an eagle—an owl I ought to say, for he sees in the dark. ”
“Can’t you quiet him? There is water under all the bridges of the Seine, still.”
“He’s too happy for that: happy men don’t drown themselves.”
“Does he go out at night? An appointment with a pretty girl might tempt him.”
“Not at all—he’s in love with Victorine.”
“That is serious, Vernay—she was to be yours.”
“That may be, yet. Now, will you have it, or shall I go to Hamburger, and make him the offer?”
The two consulted for a moment, and one of them left the room. In a few minutes he returned (I was deeply absorbed in the paper which completely hid my face); he said to his companion:
“I have it.”
“You are agreed, then?”
“Yes. Where is the cheque?”
Vernay drew from his pocket-book a blank cheque, filled it for 50,000 francs, and dated it.
“Now the notes. All good?”
“All good! To be sure.”
Vernay looked carefully at the notes, and then, signing the cheque, handed it over to his companions.
“What time?”
“O, at two; and tell her not to talk too much.”
He rose and left the room with his companions. I hardly knew when I saw the table vacant whether I had dreamt it or not. I looked at the table, and there was nothing that would help me to realise the truth; but under the table lay a piece of paper. I pounced upon it, and found that it was a piece of blotting paper similar to that I had used in the office, and on it was the thickened impression of the signature of the cheque. I reached home in a state of anxiety that may easily be imagined, and found my uncle rather worse than usual. He was always a little “comfortable,” as kind wives say, towards evening; to-night he was asleep in his arm-chair, and snoring violently. Victorine came down, hearing I had come in.
“Charles, what is the matter with you—you look so ill and pale. What has happened? Do, pray, tell me; so cold, too. Come up-stairs, there’s a fire in the drawing-room.”
She made me go with her—made me take some brandy, and then again asked me what was the matter. I told her. We had reached that deli-