Doubtless, in the bottom of his heart, he wished that Paris might be destroyed, and, with it, the evidences of his crime. And perhaps he was not the only one to form that impious wish. “That’s why, then,” exclaimed Maxence,--“that’s why my father treated me so rudely: that’s why he so obstinately persisted in closing the offices of the Mutual Credit against me.” He was interrupted by a violent ringing of the door-bell. He looked at the clock: ten o’clock was about to strike. “Who can call so late?” said Mme. Favoral. Something like a discussion was heard in the hall,--a voice hoarse with anger, and the servant’s voice. “Go and see who’s there,” said Gilberte to her brother. It was useless; the servant appeared. “It’s M. Bertan,” she commenced, “the baker--” He had followed her, and, pushing her aside with his robust arm, he appeared himself. He was a man about forty years of age, tall, thin, already bald, and wearing his beard trimmed close. “M. Favoral?” he inquired. “My father is not at home,” replied Maxence. “It’s true, then, what I have just been told?” “What?” “That the police came to arrest him, and he escaped through a window.” “It’s true,” replied Maxence gently. The baker seemed prostrated. “And my money?” he asked. “What money?” “Why, my ten thousand francs! Ten thousand francs which I brought to M. Favoral, in gold, you hear? in ten rolls, which I placed there, on that very table, and for which he gave me a receipt. Here it is,--his receipt.” He held out a paper; but Maxence did not take it. “I do not doubt your word, sir,” he replied; “but my father’s business is not ours.” “You refuse to give me back my money?” “Neither my mother, my sister, nor myself, have any thing.” The blood rushed to the man’s face, and, with a tongue made thick by anger, “And you think you are going to pay me off in that way?” he exclaimed. “You have nothing! Poor little fellow! And will you tell me, then, what has become of the twenty millions your father has stolen? for he has stolen twenty millions. I know it: I have been told so. Where are they?” “The police, sir, has placed the seals over my fathers papers.” “The police?” interrupted the baker, “the seals? What do I care for that? It’s my money I want: do you hear? Justice is going to take a hand in it, is it? Arrest your father, try him? What good will that do me? He will be condemned to two or three years’ imprisonment. Will that give me a cent? He will serve out his time quietly; and, when he gets out of prison, he’ll get hold of the pile that he’s got hidden somewhere; and while I starve, he’ll spend my money under my very nose. No, no! Things won’t suit me that way. It’s at once that I want to be paid.” And throwing himself upon a chair his head back, and his legs stretched forward-- “And what’s more,” he declared, “I am not going out of here until I am paid.” It was not without the greatest efforts that Maxence managed to keep his temper.