The two young men gazed intently at each other. Then, without a word, Fontaine, with Marsac’s help, put on an evening suit, and then a top-coat, with crape-covered hat and black gloves. He certainly looked very handsome in his new outfit. It was almost the first time in his life that he had ever been really well dressed, and the elegantly simple costume brought out his aristocratic beauty. Marsac looked at him with the delight of a mother over a beautiful daughter dressed for her first ball. Fontaine walked up and down, surveying himself with satisfaction in the cracked mirror. He examined his old coat and trousers,--they looked worse than ever by comparison. His silence said eloquently, “I cannot take these gentlemanly habiliments off.” He put the hat on his head. With Marsac, he moved toward the door; they paused. “This is the Rubicon,” said Marsac. “The Rubicon is passed,” replied Fontaine, stepping out. They went to the restaurant where they had credit to dinner, and were seen by twenty persons of their acquaintance. As they approached the desk, on entering, the cashier, a handsome girl, was glancing at an afternoon paper containing the paragraph about Uncle Maurice. She recognised Fontaine, whom she had seen before. “Do you wish a private room, gentlemen?” she asked. “Certainly,” answered Marsac, solemnly, who had not thought of it before. “Auguste, you would rather not dine in public to-day?” Fontaine shook his head, and the two friends in silence, Fontaine with his eyes bent on the mourning hat he carried, went into a private dining-room. An obsequious waiter brought a card. Marsac ordered an excellent dinner with champagne. [Illustration] When it came the sight of it was almost too much for the poor half-starved young fellows. It was the first time they had really dined in weeks. They made an excuse to send the waiter out of the room, when they hugged each other and began to dance wildly, and barely had time before he returned to scuttle back to their chairs and pull long faces while they devoured fish, flesh, and fowl, entrées, _hors-d’oeuvres_, and everything else eatable on the table. Marsac, in the waiter’s absence, begged Fontaine to spare the candelabra, while Fontaine caught Marsac in the act of chewing the paper off the _marrons glacés_. “This,” said Marsac, while the waiter was out of the room (for they kept him on the trot), “may be called our first dress rehearsal. We are to appear before the public to-morrow,--you as the heir of your Uncle Maurice, I as the friend of the nephew of his uncle.” “Do you think we have deceived the waiter?” anxiously asked Fontaine. “Perfectly. He never saw us order such a dinner before; but I hope he will see us order a good many more like it. Look solemn--he is coming.” And the waiter coming in found Marsac urging Fontaine to eat, who seemed to be in the depths of despondency. When the time came for feeing the man, Fontaine said sadly,--