“Oh, uncle, uncle!” cried poor Oscar, plunged by these words into all the horrors of his position, and falling on his knees before his uncle, with clasped hands, “It is twelve o’clock! I am lost, dishonored! Monsieur Desroches will have no pity! He gave me the money for an important affair, in which his pride was concerned. I was to get a paper at the Palais in the case of Vandernesse versus Vandernesse! What will become of me? Oh, save me for the sake of my father and aunt! Come with me to Monsieur Desroches, and explain it to him; make some excuse,--anything!” These sentences were jerked out through sobs and tears that might have moved the sphinx of Luxor. “Old skinflint!” said the danseuse, who was crying, “will you let your own nephew be dishonored,--the son of the man to whom you owe your fortune?--for his name is Oscar Husson. Save him, or Titine will deny you forever!” “But how did he come here?” asked Cardot. “Don’t you see that the reason he forgot to go for those papers was because he was drunk and overslept himself. Georges and his cousin Frederic took all the clerks in his office to a feast at the Rocher de Cancale.” Pere Cardot looked at Florentine and hesitated. “Come, come,” she said, “you old monkey, shouldn’t I have hid him better if there had been anything else in it?” “There, take your five hundred francs, you scamp!” said Cardot to his nephew, “and remember, that’s the last penny you’ll ever get from me. Go and make it up with your master if you can. I’ll return the thousand francs which you borrowed of mademoiselle; but I’ll never hear another word about you.” Oscar disappeared, not wishing to hear more. Once in the street, however, he knew not where to go. Chance which destroys men and chance which saves them were both making equal efforts for and against Oscar during that fateful morning. But he was doomed to fall before a master who forgave no failure in any affair he had once undertaken. When Mariette reached home that night, she felt alarmed at what might happen to the youth in whom her brother took interest and she wrote a hasty note to Godeschal, telling him what had happened to Oscar and inclosing a bank bill for five hundred francs to repair his loss. The kind-hearted creature went to sleep after charging her maid to carry the little note to Desroches’ office before seven o’clock in the morning. Godeschal, on his side, getting up at six and finding that Oscar had not returned, guessed what had happened. He took the five hundred francs from his own little hoard and rushed to the Palais, where he obtained a copy of the judgment and returned in time to lay it before Desroches by eight o’clock. Meantime Desroches, who always rose at four, was in his office by seven. Mariette’s maid, not finding the brother of her mistress in his bedroom, came down to the office and there met Desroches, to whom she very naturally offered the note. “Is it about business?” he said; “I am Monsieur Desroches.”