Fromont and Risler, vol 4 | Page 6

in not asking Planus why he bore
him ill-will. But, on that evening, Risler felt so strongly the need of
cordial sympathy, of pouring out his heart to some one, and then it was
such an excellent opportunity for a tete-a-tete with his former friend,
that he did not try to avoid him but boldly entered the counting-room.
The cashier was sitting there, motionless, among heaps of papers and
great books, which he had been turning over, some of which had fallen
to the floor. At the sound of his employer's footsteps he did not even
lift his eyes. He had recognized Risler's step. The latter, somewhat

abashed, hesitated a moment; then, impelled by one of those secret
springs which we have within us and which guide us, despite ourselves,
in the path of our destiny, he walked straight to the cashier's grating.
"Sigismond," he said in a grave voice.
The old man raised his head and displayed a shrunken face down which
two great tears were rolling, the first perhaps that that animate column
of figures had ever shed in his life.
"You are weeping, old man? What troubles you?"
And honest Risler, deeply touched, held out his hand to his friend, who
hastily withdrew his. That movement of repulsion was so instinctive, so
brutal, that all Risler's emotion changed to indignation.
He drew himself up with stern dignity.
"I offer you my hand, Sigismond Planus!" he said.
"And I refuse to take it," said Planus, rising.
There was a terrible pause, during which they heard the muffled music
of the orchestra upstairs and the noise of the ball, the dull, wearing
noise of floors shaken by the rhythmic movement of the dance.
"Why do you refuse to take my hand?" demanded Risler simply, while
the grating upon which he leaned trembled with a metallic quiver.
Sigismond was facing him, with both hands on his desk, as if to
emphasize and drive home what he was about to say in reply.
"Why? Because you have ruined the house; because in a few hours a
messenger from the Bank will come and stand where you are, to collect
a hundred thousand francs; and because, thanks to you, I haven't a sou
in the cash-box--that's the reason why!"
Risler was stupefied.

"I have ruined the house--I?"
"Worse than that, Monsieur. You have allowed it to be ruined by your
wife, and you have arranged with her to benefit by our ruin and your
dishonor. Oh! I can see your game well enough. The money your wife
has wormed out of the wretched Fromont, the house at Asnieres, the
diamonds and all the rest is invested in her name, of course, out of
reach of disaster; and of course you can retire from business now."
"Oh--oh!" exclaimed Risler in a faint voice, a restrained voice rather,
that was insufficient for the multitude of thoughts it strove to express;
and as he stammered helplessly he drew the grating toward him with
such force that he broke off a piece of it. Then he staggered, fell to the
floor, and lay there motionless, speechless, retaining only, in what little
life was still left in him, the firm determination not to die until he had
justified himself. That determination must have been very powerful; for
while his temples throbbed madly, hammered by the blood that turned
his face purple, while his ears were ringing and his glazed eyes seemed
already turned toward the terrible unknown, the unhappy man muttered
to himself in a thick voice, like the voice of a shipwrecked man
speaking with his mouth full of water in a howling gale: "I must live! I
must live!"
When he recovered consciousness, he was sitting on the cushioned
bench on which the workmen sat huddled together on pay-day, his
cloak on the floor, his cravat untied, his shirt open at the neck, cut by
Sigismond's knife. Luckily for him, he had cut his hands when he tore
the grating apart; the blood had flowed freely, and that accident was
enough to avert an attack of apoplexy. On opening his eyes, he saw on
either side old Sigismond and Madame Georges, whom the cashier had
summoned in his distress. As soon as Risler could speak, he said to her
in a choking voice:
"Is this true, Madame Chorche--is this true that he just told me?"
She had not the courage to deceive him, so she turned her eyes away.
"So," continued the poor fellow, "so the house is ruined, and I--"

"No, Risler, my friend. No, not you."
"My wife, was it not? Oh! it is horrible! This is how I have paid my
debt of gratitude to you. But you, Madame Chorche, you could not
have believed that I was a party to this infamy?"
"No, my