at their various desks, about half-past nine o'clock, when a middle-aged
man of dark complexion and military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared
in the office adjoining the "safe," and announced to the five or six
employees present his desire to see the cashier.

He was told that the cashier had not yet come, and his attention was
called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the "cash-room" was
opened at ten o'clock.

This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the newcomer.

"I expected," he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, "to find someone
here ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to M. Fauvel
yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, an iron-manufacturer at Oloron,
and have come to draw three hundred thousand francs deposited in this
bank by my late brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that no
direction was given about it."

Neither the title of the noble manufacturer, nor his explanations,
appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks.

"The cashier has not yet arrived," they repeated, "and we can do nothing
for you."

"Then conduct me to M. Fauvel."

There was a moment's hesitation; then a clerk named Cavaillon, who was
writing near a window, said:

"The chief is always out at this hour."