In the place of the branding contrivance, he inserted a kind of cat’s-claw, which would make a slight scratch on the hand—a mere superficial wound, readily healed. The Count was satisfied with the alteration, and the apparatus was secretly fixed to the desk in the nobleman’s bed-room. In order to stimulate the cupidity of the robber, the Count drew considerable money from his bankers. He even made a pretence of leaving Paris on a trip to a short distance. But the bait did not take. Sixteen days passed away. The Count had almost despaired of catching the culprit, when one morning while reading in his library, which was some little distance from the bed-room, he heard the report of a pistol. “Ah,” he exclaimed, excitedly. “The robber at last.” Picking up the first weapon to hand, a battle axe from a stand of ancestral armor near by, he ran quickly to the bed-room. There stood his trusted valet, Bernard, who had been in his household for many years. “What are you doing here?” asked the Count. With great coolness and audacity, Bernard explained that he had been brought thither by the noise of the explosion, and had just seen a man making his escape down the back stairs. The Count rushed down the stairs only to find the door locked. A frightful thought overcame him: “Could Bernard be the thief?” He returned to the bed-room. The valet, he noticed, kept his right hand behind him. The Count dragged it forcibly in sight, and saw that it was covered with blood. “Infamous scoundrel!” said the nobleman, as he flung the man from him in disgust. “Mercy, mercy!” cried the criminal, falling upon his knees. {131} “How long have you been robbing me?” asked the Count, sternly. “For nearly two years.” “And how much have you taken?” “I cannot tell exactly. Perhaps 15,000 francs, or thereabouts.” “We will call it 15,000 francs. You may keep the rest. What have you done with the money?” “I have invested it in Government stock. The scrip is in my desk.” The thief yielded up the securities to the amount of fifteen thousand francs, and wrote a confession of his guilt, which he signed in the presence of a witness. The kind-hearted nobleman, bidding the valet repent of his crime, forthwith dismissed him from his employ, agreeing not to prosecute him provided he led an honest life. One year from that date, the wretched Bernard died. Remorse hastened his end. M. de l’Escalopier took the money thus recovered to Houdin, saying: “I do hope, my dear friend, that you will no longer refuse me the pleasure of lending you this sum, which I owe entirely to your ingenuity and mechanical skill. Take it, return it to me just when you like, with the understanding that it is to be repaid only out of the profits of your theatre.” Overcome by emotion at the generosity of his benefactor, Houdin embraced the Count. “This embrace,” he says, “was the only security which M. de l’Escalopier would accept from me.”