However, to have got two hundred francs from Fontaine would have been like getting oysters out of a strawberry bed. As the days went on, he got a great many things, like the mourning clothes and black-edged paper; and he was pursued by tradesmen desiring him to open accounts with them. But not a franc had he. His absence from the newspaper office cut off his small salary there; and while dining at his favourite restaurant every day, smoking the best cigars and enjoying other luxuries, he often had not one sou to rattle against another. Marsac kept up his courage, though, by telling him that something would soon turn up which would enable them to pay their debts, escape from Madame Fleury’s house, and live like lords. And when that happy event was accomplished, Marsac promised that Fontaine should be rid of Madame Fleury, and in a position to ask the hand of Claire Duval, whom Fontaine grew every day more passionately in love with, although it had been months since he had seen her. Whenever Fontaine’s courage failed, Marsac always held out to him the hope of marrying Claire. “Just let me catch old Duval,--I don’t like to go in search of him,”--cried Marsac, “and I will give him such an account of you that he will be throwing his daughter at your head. And as she is a sweet girl, and I believe is really in love with you, there will be a marriage, sure. The only thing on my conscience is, that I am putting a noose around your neck.” [Illustration] “A noose! A garland, you mean! Ah, could I live to have Claire for my wife! But that infernal widow downstairs--” “Don’t speak of your _fiancée_ in that disrespectful manner,” cried Marsac, at the same time dodging Fontaine’s new hat, which flew in his direction. One night about six weeks after Uncle Maurice’s advent, Fontaine was in their garret, waiting for Marsac to return. The room was as shabby as ever, but Fontaine was dressed in the height of the style, although still in the deepest mourning. His bright face, as he walked about whistling jovially, with his hands in his trousers pockets (which were empty, as usual), was in striking contrast to his livery of woe. Fontaine occasionally had spasms of fear concerning their ruse; but at twenty-five, with a good appetite, and enough to satisfy it, with love and hope and a friend like Marsac, one is apt to whistle jovially. In one corner of the room was a table with a delicious supper set out,--sent from the restaurant, which the two young men patronised liberally. On the rickety writing-table lay a letter, bearing the stamp of one of the leading theatres in Paris. In the intervals of walking about, and wondering why Marsac was so late, Fontaine would read and re-read this letter, with the most evident delight.