Then, as everyone was silent, he resumed: 

“Before leaving I hand over to you the books, papers, and accounts necessary for my successor.  I must at the same time inform you that, without speaking of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs, I leave a deficit in cash.”

“A deficit!” This ominous word from the lips of a cashier fell like a bombshell upon the ears of Prosper’s hearers.

His declaration was interpreted in divers ways.

“A deficit!” thought the commissary:  “how, after this, can his guilt be doubted?  Before stealing this whole contents of the safe, he has kept his hand in by occasional small thefts.”

“A deficit!” said the detective to himself, “now, no doubt, the very innocence of this poor devil gives his conduct an appearance of great depravity; were he guilty, he would have replaced the first money by a portion of the second.”

The grave importance of Prosper’s statement was considerably diminished by the explanation he proceeded to make.

“There is a deficit of three thousand five hundred francs on my cash account, which has been disposed of in the following manner:  two thousand taken by myself in advance on my salary; fifteen hundred advanced to several of my fellow-clerks.  This is the last day of the month; to-morrow the salaries will be paid, consequently—­”

The commissary interrupted him: 

“Were you authorized to draw money whenever you wished to advance the clerks’ pay?”

“No; but I knew that M. Fauvel would not have refused me permission to oblige my friends in the bank.  What I did is done everywhere; I have simply followed my predecessor’s example.”

The banker made a sign of assent.

“As regards that spent by myself,” continued the cashier, “I had a sort of right to it, all of my savings being deposited in this bank; about fifteen thousand francs.”

“That is true,” said M. Fauvel; “M.  Bertomy has at least that amount on deposit.”

This last question settled, the commissary’s errand was over, and his report might now be made.  He announced his intention of leaving, and ordered to cashier to prepare to follow him.

Usually, this moment when stern reality stares us in the face, when our individuality is lost and we feel that we are being deprived of our liberty, this moment is terrible.

At this fatal command, “Follow me,” which brings before our eyes the yawning prison gates, the most hardened sinner feels his courage fail, and abjectly begs for mercy.

But Prosper lost none of that studied phlegm which the commissary of police secretly pronounced consummate impudence.

Slowly, with as much careless ease as if going to breakfast with a friend, he smoothed his hair, drew on his overcoat and gloves, and said, politely: 

“I am ready to accompany you, monsieur.”

The commissary folded up his pocket-book, and bowed to M. Fauvel, saying to Prosper: