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:

"Come!"

They left the room, and with a distressed face, and eyes filled with
tears that he could not restrain, the banker stood watching their
retreating forms.