FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1260, 23 April 1896, Page 40

FICTION.

THE SPRIGHTLY ROMANCE OF MARSAC.

By Molly Elliott Seawell. ["“The Sprightly Romance of Alarsae” took the prize of £C> OO offered by the N-:»' York Hnruld last February for the best novelette. There were nearly a thousand competitors, out of which over a score ran a close race with the winner. Miss Seawell is one of the brightest of the younger winters of America. She has written novels, plays, short stories and criticisms, all of which have attracted wide attention. Her best and most tolling work has undoubtedly been in the line of the shorter sketches, of which this “Romance” will now be adjudged the masterpiece.] CHAPTER T. Mine. Schmid, round and red, with the spotless lappets of her washerwoman’s cap Happing angrily, was plainly in a rage, and the three loud whacks she gave the garrett door at No. 17, Rue Aiontignal, caused two young gentlemen on the other side of the door to quake visibly. One of them—Fontaine—ran incontinently into a closet and hid, while Marsac, the other, after attempting a ghastly joke about Mine. Schmid's whacks sounding like those given at the Comcdie Francai.se before the curtain goes up, stalked with dignity to a corridor idoor, but Mine. Schmid bouncing in suddenly, Marsac whisked as suddenly out of sight. Mine. Schmid advanced to the middle of the room, planted her basket viciously on the floor, and, placing her arms akimbo, examined the surroundings. The room was excessively shabby. A motheaten sofa and a largo but rioketty tabic, covered with newspapers and the implements of the journalist’s trade, wore the principal articles of furnitiA'C. The light of a gray day shone dully in at the curtainiess windows.

A number of pipes, together with a cracked mirror, ornamented the mantel, while scattered about the room were a violin and case, an easel and painting materials. Mine. Schmid belonged to that numerous class of persons who believe that a man who engages in any form of art is necessarily a loafer. The sight of the painter’s tools, the violin, and especially the abundance of pens, ink and paper, acted on her like a red rag on a bull. First she exclaimed scornfully—- ' Painters !’ Next, more scornfully still—--1 Fiddlers!’ And last, with a concentration of contempt that would have made her torluno at any theatre in Paris — 1 Journalists !’ Then Mine. Schmid began to bawl, in a voice like an auctioneer -

‘ M’sieu Marsac! M'sion Fontaine! Oh, I know you arc somewhere about! This is an old dodge, running away when 1 come with my bill. Von owe me, both of you, for seven weeks’ washing. Seven weeks have I rubbed and scrubbed for you, and I have not seen the colour of my money yet.’ Mine. Schmid stopped for a moment to tako breath, and then, noticing the door leading into the corridor, darted to it and began to tug vigorously at the knob. But Marsac, who was holding it on the other side, was Mine. Schmid’s .superior in muscle, though not in weight, and the door resisted successfully. She then marched over to the closet door, but Fontaine followed Marsac’s tactics, and Mine. Schmid grew still redder in the face and shorter of breath with no better luck than at the corridor door. At that moment a very well dressed little man entered the room, after an almost imperceptible knock, and, unrolling a bill about a yard long, began—- ‘ Gentlemen, I. have a little[bill here ’ —and then, raising his eyes, he said, in a surprised voice, ‘ Why, there aren’t any gentlemen here !’

‘ Not if gentlemen pay their bills, M. Bandais,’ answered Mine. Schmid, sarcastically, who recognised an old acquaintance in AL Landais. ftime. Schmid had had a good, obedient Alxalian husband, whom she had talked to death some years before, and Landais and the late lamented Schmid were from the same town. Landais .-ilenlly held out his bill, and Mine. L'cinnid nourished hers in his lace, with an nir as if Landai i owed the money instead of Marsac and Fontaine.

1 Journalists at e a had lot,' 1 can tell you,’ rapidly began Mme. Schmid, who liked to have the first as well as the last word, ‘ and a lazy lot, too. While yon and i work for our living with our arms and our legs, M. Marsac and that pretty boy, Fontaine, do nothing but sit in an ea-y chair and write all day long. And they call that work !’ I only wi.-li ! could - it in an easy c.lmlr and amuse myself with a pen all day, instead of toiling over a cutting board,’ answered the tailor, rueful!;.-.

‘ Painting and fiddling, when they are not

scribbling-no wonder they can’t pay their wash bills. Fin sure 1 don’t know iiow ('ll ever got my money. Writing them letters is a siiilul was,to ol paper and ink,’ continued Mme. Schmid.

‘And calling to see them is worse. That Marsac always makes me laugh in spite of myself. The last time ( saw him I put on a very determined air (litllc f,ambus assumed a fierce look) and asked him why my bill had not boon paid, lie told me that he and AL Fontaine threw all their billy into a basket;, and every six months they drew one out at random and paid that bill, and il so happened they had never drawn my bill, it wa s a wretched joke, but it, made me laugh : and, I assure you, the lirst tiling I knew I was asking the follow if he ami his chum wanted anything in the tailoring line !’ ‘And he chucks me under the chin ami tells me I'm so young and handsome I'll ho getting married again, and then, like you, I turn fool and laugh—and pout'! goes my lull,’ moaned Mine. Schmid, wagging her head dolefully.

while Landais shook his like a Chinese mandarin. ‘ Thou,’ said Landais, wearily, ‘ wlut are we climbing up all these stairs r - Because, just an sure ns we see that Mas sac, he will bamboozle us both.’ ‘God knows,’ answered Mine. Schmid; ‘but I have no more time to waste oil them, so I'll leave my bill and go.’ ‘So will I,’ said Landais, and they laid their bills on the rickety table and went out, Mme. Schmid clacking angrily all the way down stairs.

The minute they disappeared Fontaiiio slipped out of his closet and locked the door after them.

‘I wish there was a drawbridge outside of this door,’ ho muttered, and then began to rummage about the room. ‘ I wonder where JJar2Bi»'» pnrss is,’ ho continued to himself.

‘ Ah, here it is—and only two francs five centimes in it—and the shoemaker wants three francs for half-soling Marsac’s shoes.’ And then ho began to call for Marsac, meanwhile going through the empty form of searching his own pockets. Marsac came in, wearing a jaunty smile on his face and a pair of slippers on his l'eet. Fontaine asked him for a franc. ‘ A franc !’ cried Marsac. ‘Do you think I leave a complete counterfeiting outfit that I can produce such a sum as a franc at a moment’s notice ?'

‘Then the shoemaker won’t let me have your shoos,” dejectedly answered Fontaine, who loved Marsac so much that lie would cheerfully have given his only pair of shoes to him if Marsac would have taken them. Marsac had picked up the two hills on the table. ‘ I see,’ said he, ‘ our friends have left souvenirs—very useful ones, too’ —and he began cutting the bills in square pieces to mend a paper screen, which, like everything else in the room, had holes in it. ‘ What am I to do about the shoes ?’ asked Fontaine. ‘ 1 haven’t but two francs.’ ‘ What did you do with the eleven francs you had yesterday ?’ ‘ I bought six bottles of wine, a box of cigars and two loaves of bread.’ ' What made you so recklessly extravagant about bread? If you go on squandering our money on luxuries like bread we won’t have any for necessaries like wine and cigars. However,’ Marsac continued gaily, ‘ tel 1 the shoemaker 1 have a had ease of confluent smallpox and lic-’ll be glad to let the shoes go for nothing.’ ‘ I don’t think that would be a judicious subterfuge,’ responded Fontaine gloomily. ‘ However. T may be able to persuade him the job is badly done, and make him take the two francs lor it.’

‘ The fact is,' said Marsac, working very cheerfully on the old screen, ‘ when my parents determined to make me a journalist, they ought to have given me an education suitable to the profession. Instead of sending me to the university they ought to have had me taught the sliocmaking and tailoring trades. How often have J hoard that no knowledge comes amiss in journalism ! Now, if I had the most rudimentary knowledge of cobbling 1 could liavo mended those slices myself'.’

‘At all events,’ said Fontaine, brushing his hat, 1 1 am rather glad to be out of the way now, for this is tho very day and hour that Mme. Floury always appears to ask for tho rent.’

‘There!’ cried Marsac, for the first time showing impatience, ‘ I have been trying lor two weeks to forget what day the rent is due, and had just succeeded, when you reminded me of it. 1 would rather see Joan of Arc coining at me full tilt on horseback, or Charlotte Oorday with her dagger, than Mme. Floury with her bill.’

‘I have heard it said that it is possible to live comfortably on a large capital of debts, but wa have not found it so,’ said Fontaine, still brushing his hat, which, however, not all the brushing in the world could benefit.

‘ lint the debts must t o on a respectable scale,’ answered Marsac, ‘ something like seventy or eighty thousand francs. I don't believe, though, that everything we owe would amount up to ten thousand francs. 1 felt so humiliated the other day, when one of the young fellows on the staff—a mere reporter, while 1 am an editorial writer—boasted of owing his tailor as much as wo owe altogether. I could not help translating hundreds into thousands, and said I owed my tailor nearly seven thousand francs, when it was not quite seven hundred francs. But I saw that the youngsters respected me more from that moment, and Alauropas, the editor in chief, asked me to breakfast the very next day. 1 was obliged to decline on account of those infernal shoes, hut I said it was because I was sent for by the Minister of Public Instruction.'

Fontaine went out then, and Marsac, while finishing tho screen, reflected to himself; — ‘ What a luxury it would be to tell the truth once more ! Lying is like pate do foie gras a delicacy for occasional use, but not adapted for a steady diet.’ At that mo.nont came a knock at the door—not a whack, like Mme. Schmid’s, nor a tap like Landais’, but a knock, delicate, yet firm, polite but peremptory. Marsac turned pale. Nevertheless he opened the door with his best air—which was a very fine air, indeed—and his landlady, Mme. Floury, entered. Mine. Floury was a handsome woman of about 1 liirty-fivc, wit li lino dark eyes and a carriage full of grace and dignity. And, moreover, she indicated a self-poise and self-possession that a Prime Minister might have envied. She was very simply dressed, as became tho morning, but the simplicity was of that kind

Marsac courteously placed a chair for her. ‘ 1 am glad to find you at home, M. Marsac,’ were Mme. Ftmry’s first words after the polite-1 greetings had been exchanged, ‘I had not. seen you go in or out fora day or two, and thought perhaps you were ill.’ ' A ii ifie a mere trille,’ answered Marsac, wilh much readiness. ‘A liftie dinner at «, MinlMciia! lioirne- those fellows give one Kin-li lots of champagne and I inherit gout - and it gave me a touch —so pray excuse my slippers. But as soon as Fontaine returns I shall put. on my shoes and go for a little walk.’ Then seeing Mine. Floury’s handsome face assume its ‘ business expression,’ hi* liastene 1 to add:-- 1 How wonderfully well you are looking-! You are blooming like a rose.’ ‘Thank you,’ answered Mme. Floury, calmly. ‘ln a house like Ibis tie to are certain lodgers whom I mi compelled to call on occasionally, in the way of business.’ Go von know, Madame.’ continued Marsac, who had not ceased to examine Mine. Fleurv’s features as if she were a portiuit or a statue, ‘there is a picture in the Salon this year that might he taken for you. It is called “ Springtime ”- a young girl standing under an almond tree in bloom. The girl’s ta-e—so fresh, so lovely —is simply yours.’ Mme. Floury's discouraging reply to this was ‘ Business ia business, M. Marsac, and must be attended to.’ Marsac kept on as if lie bad not beard a word. ' 1 can t for the lire of me recall the artist’s name, but 1 remarked aloud, “ Mme. Floury must have sat for this, charming face,” and a very distinguished-looking man who stood next me said, in English, “ Then 1 would give a thousand pounds to know Aline. Floury.” ’ ‘ f wish you had accepted his offer,’ responded Mme*. Floury, in a tone that would have disconcerted a Talleyrand, ‘ for never in my 1 iLo would a thousand pounds, or even a thousand francs, be more accep table.’ Marsac, however, not at all abashed, exclaimed enthusiastically—

‘ Then all you have to do is to offer to pose for a nymph or a goddess. Bouguorcau and all those high-priced fellows will simply bo

tumbling over each other in their eagerness to paint you.’ ‘ Al. Marsac,’ said Mme. Floury, in a tone of velvet softness, which Marsac perfectly understood, and shuddered to hear, ‘ 1 am talking business.’ ‘And I am talking art,’ replied poor Marsac.

‘ [f you will kindly recall the date,’ eon tinned Aline. Floury.

Marsac, taking up an almanac, began turning tho leaves. ‘ This is the 2nd of ALireli,’ lie mused. ‘ Let me see, what happened on the 2nd of ALireh ? Ah! 1 have it! It is your twenty-fifth birthday and you have come to receive our felicitations.’ ‘ Nonsense ! M. Marsac,’ replied Alme. Floury, with the same tone of deadly sweetness, ‘ it is the day your rent is due, and I have come to see if you are prepared to pay it, and also the arrears of two months you still owe.’

Marsac merely shook his head, and for several minutes there was unbroken silence in the room, each meanwhile closely attentive to the other. At last Aline. Floury spoke i ‘lt seems to me that two young men with ; your talents and character—for l have found I you both to have good characters, except for I this rent business —and of good families—- ! should he able to make a better living out of journalism than you do.’ ‘ All, Madame,’ answered Marsac, sorrowfully, ‘modern journalism has but one essential—it requires a man to be an accomplished, ready and felicitous liar—and neither Fontaine nor 1 is that.’ ‘ Then why don’tyou—ahem— try to acquire that one essential ?’ ‘Successful liars, Mme. Floury, like pools, are horn, not made. And then there is a groat deal iu being notorious. Fontaine and 1 have done everything short of feiony to bring ourselves before the public, but we have failed. We have tried to drown ourselves in tho Seine —with life preservers on, of course —but the polico found the life preservers onus, and instead of making us favorably known, hump ! we were glad enough to hush the affair up. Wo have brought tho most terrible charges against each other in print, but nobody appeared at all surprised at them, and the public, by its indifference, scorns to take it for granted that tho worst is true. Our circumstances are, indeed, desperate. Yesterday we had some money, and Fouutaino bought two loaves of bread.’ With these words Marsac managed to cover dexterously a box of cigars on tile table, which Mine. Floury had not noticed, * That is, indeed, poverty,’ said Alme. Floury, with some feeling, and Marsac, seeing she was a little touched, continued, eagerly ‘We have tried everything. I sent a play to a manager, and the only notice ho has taken of it has boon to write me that he didn’t believe it would, draw. Of course, it won’t draw, shut up in the manager’s strong box. I never expected it to draw until it was produced. 1 sent it under tho name of Fontaine, as being more aristocratic than Marsac. Fontaine, you know, has graveyards full of noble ancestors, while I, like Napoleon, am the first of my family. Then 1 sent a picture, called “A Rough Sea,” to the Salon, also under tho name of Fontaine. One of the judges said the thing made tho whole committee ill—it was so realistic, I presume and yet they rejected it.’ Alme. Floury’s eyes softened, and, with a glint of a ‘widow’s smile’ upon her handsome mouth, she said, gently, after a momont—

1 Have you—has either one of you—over thought of—ahem—marriage—as a way out of vour troubles ?’

‘Often,’ answered Marsac, with energy, ‘that is, for Fontaine, lie was to be iho victim—the Iphigcnia, so to speak. As for myself, there are two things I dread —death and marriage. I must die, but I need not marry.’

M me. Floury blushed, smiled and mur mured

‘ AJoro men marry than don’t. Most of them marry without a qualm.’ ‘ True,’ answered Marsac, gravely, ‘ and there arc men who will pick up a poisonous snake and dangle it in the air. But lam not one of them. L have no taste for dangling poisonous snakes. lam afraid of them.’

‘ And how stands M. Fontaine on this subject?’ ‘Ho is bravo to rashness. I believe him fully capable of marrying. In fact, Fontaine seems to have a penchant for Alllo. Clare Duval, daughter of Duval, the rich old brewer.’

‘ There is a niece—Mile. Dolpliino Duval—who has just gone to live with them,’ said Alme. Floury, who liked to show her knowledge of the acquaintances of the two young men.

‘ [ had not heard that. The truth is, since we pawned our evening clothes we have not seen anything of the Duvals. However, as Fontaine could not marry Clare until he paid his debts, and ho could not pay his debts until lie married Clare, the matter seems to have settled itself.’

Alme. Floury assumed a striking attitude in her chair and then began to speak, with an insinuating softness in every word and glance and motion.

1 You have told me much about you and your friends. Now, f will tell you something about myself, and it may result in-—in-an arrangement—mutually advantageous ’ her voice sank to a more whisper. ‘As you know, 1 am a widow.’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Marsac, ‘ I knew it the very fir t moment i saw you —you had such a cheerful air.' 'I have every reason lo look cheerful. Tho late Al. Floury was nothing hut a trouble to me, from the hour 1 married him until the day the news was brought me Unit his body had been found in the river. A husband, Al. Marsac, is very like a lobster salad. When it is good it is very good, and when if is had it is intolerable—Al. Floury was very bad. At la*t. he sunk so low that he became janitor in a medical school. Ho was accused one (lay of stealing some valuable hooks and instruments, and soon after his body was found in the Seine. It is supposed he committed suicide, knowing himself to he guilty. 1 did not see the body, and tried to avoid all association with the affair, but, do what I could, it became known that he had once been my hu-hand. I find tho name of a nun

so unpleasantly notorious very inconvenient to bear, and i should like to change it.’

Marsac, after listening intently to this, buried his cars in his hands and appeared to be thinking profoundly.

‘ I should think, Madame,’ he said, after this pause of rejection, ‘that could be accomplished. Tho authorities on application will permit you to change your name.’ Something like contempt appeared in Afino. Floury’s dark eyes, and she responded, coldly—- ‘ I should also like tho protection which tho name of some respectable man would give me.’

A pause, longer and more awkward, ensued. It seemed to Alarsae ax if he actually felt this temperature in the room falling ten degrees every second. For ouco, language failed him, and he heard himself saying in a quavering voice, and almost without his own volition—

‘ Would that I wore a respectable man !’ Mme. Floury turned her dark eyes on him and drew nearer. Her breathing quickened, and a faint pink rose in her smooth cheek, and she said, in a laughing voice, which also trembled a little

‘ You are quite respectable enough for me.’ Proposals of marriage are always embar-rassing--and none tho less so when, as the Breton peasants say, the haystack chases the cow. Marsac felt himself suddonly grow hot, and as suddenly grow cold. He sat quite near Mmo. Floury, her half-laughing and brightly burning eyes fixed on him. Every detail of her elegant and correct morning costume, her well shod feet, her handsome figure, was abnormally present to him. But he found it impossible to raise his eyes to her face. The only clear idea in his mind was a frantic fury toward the woman of tho present day, who, ho foresaw, would make these had quarters of an hour such as he was undergoing common enough to men in tho future. As for Mme. Floury, Marsac’s embarrassment was not lost on her, and, although a now woman, she was still a woman, and womanly pride impelled her to control the slight tremor of her nerves, and say, in a voice studiedly cold—

‘ It is a mere matter of business and of con vonicnco with me.’

This gave Marsac, as he thought, a loophole of 0.-capc, and he said, hurriedly—

‘ I, Madame, in my innocence, have regarded marriage as a matter of sentiment.’

Imagine his chagrin, though, when ALne. Floury, smiling and blushing like a girl, replied— ‘ Well, M. ALirsac, if you will have it so.’ Marsac saw in a moment the pit lie had dug for himself, but he preferred to play the part of a poltroon to stopping into it. He turned and fidgeted in his chair ; ho looked out of the window, down at the street, hoping to see Fontaine returning, and then a brilliant idea came to him. He glanced at Mmo. Floury and saw, as well as felt, the rage rising in her heart against him. He tried to speak calmly and naturally, hut his words were jerked out of him with stammering and stuttering—

‘ Y'ou aro very, very g-g-good, Madame, and I feel more pleased -no, no, I mean honoured -than I can exp Ini n —express, that is. But you know how Fontaine ami I have lived together since our boyhood. We have nobody hut each other—we have shared everything as brothers. Now -d-d-do you think it quite fair that I should, like a pig, accept this dazzling offer without giving Fontaine a chance ?’

It was blunderingly enough spoken, but it served. Marsac saw in a moment that Mine. Fleiiry would much rather, after that, have killed him than married him, and when she spoke, her cold dignity made Alarsae feel like a mouse under an exhausted air receiver. ‘I don’t know but that you are right, after all and Al. Fontaine is really the most superior man, and, consequently, hotter suited to mo ’

The door at that moment flew wide open and Fontaine rushed in, his coat a mass of mud and rags and his trousers slit Irom knee to the hip ; and lie did not have Marsac’s shoes. Without observing Mme. Floury, who sat a little to one side, he burst out — ‘ It’s no good, Alarsae. the shoemaker said three francs or no slices,’then, seeing Mme. Floury, he stopped, overwhelmed with embarrassment. Not so the lady, who quietly remarked to Alarsae - ‘ This accounts for the story of the Cabinet dinner and the gout and so on,’and she added, with an air of the finest sarcasm, ‘ I see no earthly reason why you, M. Alarsae, should not succeed brilliantly ill journalism.’ Marsac was quite disposed to let Fontaine take his part of the situation then, and said not a word, but Fontaine exclaimed—- ‘ I know what you have come for, Mme. Floury. It is the rent, and wc haven’t a sou except theso ’ —holding out two francs —• ‘ and I had an accident on the way and ruined my only coat and trousers, and Marsac has no shoes, and I don’t know what wo shall do.’ Fontaino stopped, half crying.

! ‘ I can suggest something,’ said Mmo. ( Floury, showing an amazing calmness. ‘ Not to go over the same ground twice, 1 have determined to change my name and condition, and ’ —hero she paused for effect, and Marsac came unexpectedly to her assist nice. ‘ bontaiuo,’ said lie solemnly, ‘ I have been a true friend to you. As soon as Aline. Floury mentioned this, I offered her your hand.’

Fontaine looked at Alarsae, supposing either lie or his friend had gone crazy, but Marsao’s cool demeanour proved that ho, at least, was sane. Fontaine, with his mouth open, gazed lirst at Alarsae and then at Mine. Floury, and was dumb with astonishment. ‘He is speechless with happiness,’ cried Alarsae. 1 1 knew ho would lie delighted. You see, marrying runs in Fontaine’s family. His father and mother were married, and his grandparents on both sides were married, isn’t that so, Fontaine?’ Fontaine, still dazed, mumbled, ‘I don’t know.’

’ Fie!’ cried Marsac. ‘ Pray, Mmo. Floury, don’t believe that. 1 know what lam talking about, and I assir , you that all these people I in Fontaino’s family, 1 say, were married.’ I Mmo. Floury then rose majestically, i ‘ Gentlemen, this matter must he scttlod at once. You have your choice—a marriage or an eviction within twenty-four hours, and all the arrears of rent paid.’ Fontaino, who was gradually returning to his senses, answered;— ‘But, Al’adamc, it is impossible, Alarsae has no shoes, I have no clothes.’ _ ‘ If you do not choose to accept my proposition, M. Fontaine,’ coolly remarked Mme. Floury, ‘ you will lie put into the street within twenty-four hours, and when you roach tho street you will bo arrested for non-payment of rent.’ ‘ And if I go into tho street without any coat or trousers I shall certainly bo arrested,’ answered Fontaine, desperately. Alme. Floury shook bur head as if tho whole affair were nothing to hor. Marsac, advancing to Fontaino, whispered in his ear — ‘ Promiso her. Promising isn’t marrying, you know.’ ‘ You promise her.’ ‘ No, you do it.’ ‘ I can’t. She won’t have me. You do it. j I have known several men who have escaped : with their lives from widows.’ Fontaine, thus urged by Alarsae, whom ho had never resisted in his life, looked helplessly from his friend to his landlady, and from his landlady hack to his friend. Aftor all, promising was not marrying, and it was worth a good deal to get her out of the room. Mine. Floury brought matters to a crisis by asking, smiling—- ‘ Which shall it bo, gentlemen, an engagement or ail eviction ?’ Fontaine could not bring himself to say tho word, but ho submitted silently when Marsac, taking his hand, led him to Alme. Floury and placing their hands together, said, with something dangerous] v near a wink ‘ Talc e the lovely hand held out to you,, quail the eu]i ol happiness hold to your lips. Ahne. Floury, you will exchange for your present name one of the most distinguished, names among the great families of Franco ’ which was true enough, as far as Fontaino’s

name wont. Alme. Floury, whose principle it was to get through quickly with an awkward business, asked Alarsae to sit down and write out a little agreement, to bo signed by Fontaine and herself. This staggered Marsac, hut seeing they were in for ii. he thought it best to make no objections, and it was written, signed, and in Alme. Floury’s possession within five minutes, Fontaine all the while looking liko a condemned criminal, but not doubting that Alarsae would find a way out of this terrible predicament for him. Nevertheless, knowing Afme. Fleury’s determined character, lie was terrified at the use she might make of this document she had obtained. After getting it, Alme. Fleury, in a few words recommending that Fontaine act in good faith with her, departed with the manner of a person who has made a successful stroke of business. As soon as sho was gone Fontaine, with a loud groan, throw himsolf on tho sofa. Even Alarsae began to he somewhat frightened at tho turn of affairs. He thought it not unlikely that tho prospect of marrying a handsome young man far above her in social position might bo really in Alme. Fleury’s mind. But he would

not mention Lis fear 3 to Fontaine, and as soon as Mme. Fleury was safely out of bearing Marsac contrived to raise a burst of rather hollow and hysterical laughter. _ ‘To think she should imagine that sho could trap us in any such way as that—ha ! ha!’ Fontaino’s reply, from the depths of the sofa, was something between a groan and a howl, and he moaned — ‘ You know, Marsac, I loro Clare Duval, and this devilish Mme. Floury has my written promise ’ , 1 A bagatelle,’ cried Marsac, still keeping up the pretence of laughter. ‘ Do you suppose I would have let you got into such a trap if I could not have got you out ?’ This hold comfort for Fontaine, who had sublime faith in Marsac’s powers, as well as Ids friendship. But in spite of all his efforts Marsac pretty soon had to give up the hilarious view of tlio situation. Fontaine lay on the sofa groaning, kicking and occasionally sighing out the name of Clare Duval. Marsac looked out of the window at a prospect made up chiefly of chimney pots and a fine, small rain that began to fall, and for the first time realised their truly desperate situation. After half an hour of silence on his part, and complaining on Fontaine’s, a shadow of his old spirit camo back to Marsac. ‘ If one of us only had a rich relation wo could murder! But I don’t believe any two fellows in the world have so few near relations as wo.’

Fontaine by this time was sitting up on the sofa, his head in his hands. Presently he said, with gloomy indifference—‘l had an uncle —an American Uncle Maurice, who has not been iu France for twenty-fivo years, and the last wc heard of him he was living on fifteen cents a day in Now York. Then wo heard in a roundabout way that ho was dead, but lie lmd nothing to leave anybody.’

1 Very likely,’ said Marsac. ‘An American and his money are soon parted.’ The next moment Fontaine believed that tho last and greatest misfortune had befallen bis friend—for Marsac, leaping up, began to charge about the room, shouting at the top of his lungs—- ‘ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Your undo Maurice lia3 died and has left you a fortune ! Huzza ! What a glorious idea ! Huzza for Uncle Maurice !’

Fontaine, stunned at first, wont up to Marsac, who wa3 capering wildly about, and in a voico tremulous with apprehension, and himself deadly pale, said—‘My dear, kind Marsac, ho quiet, pray. You have taken our misfortunes too much to heart, and they havo unbalanced you. Lie down awhile, and I have some money ’—the poor lad had not a sou hut illo two francs ‘quite enough for several days.’ It was pitious to see his weak preteneo. He rattled tho two francs in his pocket and tried to smile. Marsac, seeing the dreadful thought in Fontaine’s mind, stopped his whooping and, soizing Fontaine in his arms, cried ‘ You honest little simpleton, of course Uncle Maurice hasn’t just died and loft yon a fortuno—but let tho world think so, and see if our fortunes aro not made! How would a paragraph like this sound in the papers:—“We are happy to announce that M. Augusto Fontaine, tho brilliant young journalist, lias inherited a fortune of ” lot mo hoc— it’s as easy to give you two million francs as one million —“ from his lately deceased uncle, M. Maurice_ Fontaine, of Now York, tho celebrated ” —wine importer, 1 should say —that’s a good, exhilarating business. I can work tho paragraph up more—tell about your Uncle Maurice going against the traditions of his family in entering trade, and all that sort of thing—oil, trust me “to fix it up !” ’ Fontaine was so delighted at finding Marsac was not crazy after all that ho could do nothing but hug him and say — ‘ Marsac, I was so frightened when you began to talk so, and you may kill all my uncles and aunts, if you can find any to kill. But will—will this dazzling story ho believed about Uncle What’s-his-namo r’ 1 My dear fellow,’ replied Marsac, in high good humour, ‘ don’t you know there is a large majority of the human race which goes about actually begging to bo humbugged? Did you over know a wildly improbable story started yet that wasn’t readily believed ? And tho more it is contradicted the more it is believed. At any rate, it can’t do us any barmnothing can harm us in our present straits.’ ‘ Well, if people should believe in Uncle Maurice’ —began Fontaine, anxiously. But Marsac cut him short. ‘ Bolievo in Uncle Maurice ! Why, 1 believo in him, and I created firm myself—that is, our Uncle Maurice. Dear kind old chap ! I fool as if I had just slnkmi Lands with him.’

‘ But,’ persisted Fontaine, ‘ if Mme. Fleury should bolievo in him, and the torl.n:io wouldn’t it be that much more difficult for me to escape from her ?’ ‘ We would bo in that much belter condition to fight her. No, my boy, don t refuse a fortune of two million francs even on paper. Why,’ continued Marsac, producing from a corner his palette, brushes and an unfinished portrait of a Spanish lnill-fightcr, ‘ look ! I will make you a portm.it of Undo Maurico ’—and with a tew bold strokes tire bull-fighter assumed tho appearance ot a hale old gentleman of sixty in a black coat and a white tie. ‘ But there is no time to lose,’ cried he, throwing down his pa'ette and brushes. ‘lt ought to lm in the afternoon papers. There is tire dock in the _ church tower striking eleven—i shall have timo yet before they go to press. Give mo your shoos ’ —Fontaine kicked them off, and Marsac put them on—‘ and your hat is better than mine.’ Fontaine ran and fetched tho hat. ‘ Let me sec, tho paragraph ought to be written out.’ Marsac seated himself at the table and Fontaine hung over him while he rapidly wrote half a page, and then rising and going out, cried : ‘ Keep up your heart, old boy; you are not married yet —you aro a long way oil from being M. Floury.’ Loft alone, Fontaine remained silent and overwhelmed at tho various and startling incidents that had befallen him that morning. ‘ How little one knows,’ ho thought, ‘ what an hour may bring forth ! It is now eleven o’clock. Since ten o’clock I have become engaged to be married, I have found a longlost uncle, who has died and left me two million francs.’ , A slight sound caused him to raise his head, and ho saw a lettor pushed under the door. Ho ran forward and opened it, and then literally fell over on his chair with amazement and chagrin. Tho letter ran :

‘My Dear Nephew Auguste—- ‘ Tho report which reached my family that I was dead was erronoous. I am very much alive, and think of soon revisiting my native land. I have had a hard struggle, and I may not moot with a very flattering reception from my family, of whom you arc my only really near relative. Hut I feel quite

able to tako care of myself. I may appear at any moment, and until we meet, I am, ‘ Your affectionate uncle, ‘ Maurice Fontaine.’

Fontaine rallied enough to run to the window to call Marsac back. But it was too late. Marsac, with the slip of white paper in his hand, was just turning tho corner. (To bo continued.)