Fontaine had dropped limp upon a chair, and sat with his head buried in his arms, the picture of misery. But awkward and humiliating as it was, he had not the smallest doubt that Marsac, whom he thought capable of meeting any emergency, would eventually get him out of the scrape. When Madame Fleury had signed the paper, Marsac called Fontaine, who remained motionless, without lifting his head. “That’s his way of showing he is pleased,” explained Marsac in the most serious manner. “I told you he would be delighted, and I know at this moment he is revelling in rapture; only he has rather a singular manner of showing it.” “He has, indeed,” said Madame Fleury; “but I am vain enough to think that it is merely the suddenness of the affair which has somewhat disconcerted him.” Fontaine, almost dragged out of his chair by Marsac, sullenly signed the paper; and after taking possession of it, and recommending him to act in good faith with her, Madame Fleury departed, with the air of a person who has made a successful stroke of business. As soon as she was gone, Fontaine with a loud groan threw himself on the sofa. Even Marsac began to be somewhat frightened at the turn of affairs. He thought it not unlikely that the prospect of marrying a handsome young man far above her in social position might be really in Madame Fleury’s mind. But he would not mention his fears to Fontaine; and as soon as Madame Fleury was safely out of hearing, Marsac contrived to raise a burst of rather hollow and hysterical laughter. “To think she should imagine that she could trap us in any such way as that! Ha! ha!” Fontaine’s reply, from the depths of the sofa, was something between a groan and a howl, and he moaned, “You know, Marsac, I love Claire Duval; and this devilish Madame Fleury has my written promise--” “A bagatelle!” cried Marsac, still keeping up the pretence of laughter. “Do you suppose I would have let you get into such a trap if I could not have got you out?” This gave some comfort to Fontaine, who had sublime faith in Marsac’s powers as well as his friendship. But in spite of all his efforts, Marsac pretty soon had to give up the hilarious view of the situation. Fontaine lay on the sofa, groaning, kicking, and occasionally sighing out the name of Claire 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 complainings on Fontaine’s, a shadow of his old spirit came back to Marsac. “If one of us only had a rich relation we could murder! But I don’t believe any two fellows in the world have so few near relations as we.” Fontaine by this time was sitting up on the sofa, his head in his hands. Presently he said, with gloomy indifference,--