cious stage of affection, when, though nothing has been said, it is felt by both, that there is but one interest between them. She was almost incredulous at my narration of the incident, as I was myself, of having witnessed the scene. I showed her the blotting-paper, and it convinced her.
“It’s no use telling my father to-night, he has such confidence in M. Vernay that he will not believe it; you must tell him in the morning.”
I told him in the morning what I had heard and seen.
“My dear nephew, you must have been very drunk, or else—no, that is not possible; your father’s child could not get drunk. I do, myself, sometimes; but he could not deliberately lie. No, my dear Charles, M. Vernay is an old and tried servant of mine, and I will not believe you. I will not insult him by it. You were drunk, sir, very drunk. Don’t let me hear of it again.”
I went to my desk an hour afterwards. M. Vernay came in with my uncle.
“Charles, did you balance your cash last night?”
“Yes, sir. I always do.”
“It was right?”
“Quite right.”
“There’s a mistake somewhere,” said M. Vernay. “There is missing a sum of 1000 francs.”
“It can’t be in my accounts, uncle; for here is the book, and here is the balance to correspond.”
“True.”
“Let me cast it,” said Vernay.”
He did,—520, 346.
“Try that, M. Wardes. I do not make it correct; I make it more.”
I cast it again, and it was more by just 1000 francs. I cast it again—521, it was. My uncle cast it—521, it was.
“How is this, Charles? you said you made the balance right. Did you look at your cash last night?”
“I did. I can assert that the balance last night in the book and the cash-box was the same. I can prove it. I posted it, according to M. Vernay’s system, in the daily balance-book.”
“It is 520 here, M. Wardes.”
He handed the book to my uncle. The door opened.
“Well, Francois, what is it?”
“Only that I shall give this to Monsieur Wardes. I have found it in his chamber.”
He held out a paper to me; it was a note for 1000 francs.
“Charles, my boy, you should let me know when you want money. M. Vernay, see those books are corrected.” And my uncle walked away.
How the day went I do not know. I noticed, however, that M. Vernay once or twice went down to the strong room and brought up some books, and that no woman came for money.
About five o’clock M. Vernay came to me, after the other clerk and my uncle had gone, and said:
“M. Wardes, we have been looking at the accounts of Madame la Marquise ; will you help me to carry down these books? the porter has gone; I am rather late.”
I took the books, and followed him down into the basement. He unlocked the outer gate of the outer safe, where the general books were kept, and passed through to the inner safe in which were kept the deeds and valuable securities on which my uncle lent money; this was separated from the outer safe by an iron gate in the day time, and at night by a solid fire-proof door.
He put his books on the shelf, and requested me to put mine on the same shelf in the proper order. The numbers on the backs were almost illegible, and I was some time, even in the strong gas-light, trying to read them.
“Can I help you, M. Wardes?”
“No, thank you, I’ve just done.”
I put up the last book, and turned to go. The heavy door swung rapidly on its hinges—I heard the spring catch, and the key turn, and I was in black darkness.
“M. Vernay! M. Vernay! The door is shut.”
“I know it,” said his voice, muffled by its thickness; “you have access to all my books now.”
I heard the heavy clash of the door of the outer safe, and then silence, as deep as death, was round me. I did not swoon or faint. I felt I was the victim of a most horrible trick; it was nothing more—I should be released in the morning, and I would make him repent it. I heard, presently, a hissing sound—it continued; presently I smelt gas. I should never see the morning. I should be stifled with the gas—the plan was clear before me now. An accident—no one knew I helped him with the books—he did not know I was in the safe, and he shut the door. It was purely one of those accidents that will happen.
Still the gas hissed, like a serpent before its fatal spring. I must stop that. I felt round the walls for the burner, and soon found it. There was no tap! I remembered now, the tap was in the outer safe, and the gas was lighted in the inner one by a long stick between the bars of the gate. My fingers stopped it in a moment, but I could not keep my finger there always. I tried, and the arm became so tired of the contracted position above my head, that I could not keep my finger over it to save my life. I thought of some other plan. To light it—alas! I did not smoke, I had no means to do it; and if I had it would only have consumed the air, every inch of which was precious as life itself. At last I thought of something that would do; I tore some corners off the leaves of a book, chewed them into a pulp, and put it over the holes in the tube, pressing it in hard—the hissing ceased. I climbed the shelves, and smelt round the burner—I had one foe the less. I then began to think seriously as to the chances of the air lasting me till released in the morning. In the morning? this was—oh God! Saturday! Saturday! Sunday, Monday—two nights and a whole day! There was no hope! I might have lived till the morning, but on Sunday there was no business done, and my absence would be easily accounted for by that horrible mistake in my books.
Two nights and a day—how many hours? To Sunday night at five, twenty-four. To Monday morning at ten, seventeen. Forty-one long hours!
