“My dear fellow, I’m heartily sorry!” exclaimed his friend in an accent of sincere distress; “with all my heart I’m sorry! And to think of you having read this and said nothing, and I raving away about my own troubles like a selfish dog as I am! Why did you not tell me at once?” “What good would it have done?” Raymond shrugged his shoulders, and with another involuntary sigh threw the letter on the table. “It’s hard, though. I was so little prepared for it; the house bore such a good name.…” “I should have said it was the safest bank in the country. So it was, very likely; only one did not reckon with the dishonesty of this scheming villain of a partner--if it be true that he is the cause of it.” “No doubt it is; why should they tell lies about it? The whole affair will be in the papers one of these days, I suppose.” “And you can stand there and not curse the villain!” “What good would cursing him do? It would not bring back my poor scrapings.” Raymond laughed gently. “I dare say his own conscience will curse him before long--the unhappy man! But who knows what terrible temptation may have driven him to the deed? Perhaps he got into some difficulty that nothing else could extricate him from, and he may have had a wife and children pulling at his conscience by his heart-strings! Libera nos a malo, Domine!” And looking upwards, Raymond sighed again. “What a strange being you are, Raymond!” exclaimed Sir Simon, eyeing him curiously. “Verily, I believe your philosophy is worth something after all.” M. de la Bourbonais laughed outright. “Well, it’s worth nearly the money to have brought you to that!” “To see you stand there coolly and philosophize about the motives that may possibly have led an unprincipled scoundrel to rob you of every penny you possessed! Many a man has got a fit from less.” “Many a fool, perhaps; but it would be a poor sort of man that such a blow would send into a fit!” returned the count with mild contempt. “But I must not be forgetful of the difference of conditions,” he added quickly. “It all depends on what the money is worth to one, and what its loss involves. I don’t want it at present. It was a little hoard for the rainy day; and--qui sait?--the rainy day may never come!” “No; Franceline may marry a rich man,” suggested the baronet, not with any intent to wound. “Just so! I may never want the money, and so never be the poorer for losing it.” “And supposing there was at this moment some pressing necessity for it--that your child was in absolute need of it for some reason or other--what then?” queried Sir Simon. Raymond winced and started imperceptibly, as if a pain went through him. “Thank heaven there is no necessity to answer that,” he said. “We were taught to pray to be delivered from temptation; let us be thankful when we are, and not set imaginary traps for ourselves.”