He saw the remainder of Aurora's plantation account thrown to the lawyers to keep the question of the Grandissime titles languishing in the courts.

He saw the fortunes of his clan rallied meanwhile and coming to the rescue, himself and kindred growing independent of questionable titles, and even Fausse Riviere Plantation account restored, but Aurora and Clotilde nowhere to be found.

And then he saw the grave, pale face of Joseph Frowenfeld.
He threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously toward him, and stared at the figures.

He began at the first item and went over the whole paper, line by line, testing every extension, proving every addition, noting if possibly any transposition of figures had been made and overlooked, if something was added that should have been subtracted, or subtracted that should have been added.

It was like a prisoner trying the bars of his cell.
Was there no way to make things happen differently?
Had he not overlooked some expedient?
Was not some financial manoeuvre possible which might compass both desired ends?
He left his chair and walked up and down, as Joseph at that very moment was doing in the room where he had left him, came back, looked at the paper, and again walked up and down.