At last, just as Fontaine was beginning to be impatient, in walked Marsac, carrying his violin-case in his hand. He opened it without a word, and took out four bottles of champagne. Then in solemn silence he removed his tall hat, which proved to be full of flowers, and these he arranged in the middle of the supper-table. [Illustration] “What are you up to now?” asked Fontaine, in surprise. “Ladies to supper,” gravely replied Marsac. Fontaine was astounded. Marsac habitually ran away from respectable women, declaring he was afraid of them; and for those of another kind he had nothing but the pity of a refined and honourable soul, which leaves to harder hearts and more evil natures the condemnation of those who sin because they are sinned against. Fontaine uttered only one word,-- “Ladies!” [Illustration] “Yes,” said Marsac; “that is, they are ladies to me and to you,--for they are women, half-starved and hard-working. What does it matter that they are ballet-girls in a third-rate theatre? Listen. As I was coming home just now, I saw these two poor creatures standing in front of a pastry shop close by, eying the cakes in the window, and without a sou to buy anything with. I overheard them, as they sorrowfully recalled that their last franc had gone in white satin shoes for the ballet next week. I have been hungry myself, and so have you, and I felt for them in my pockets as well as in my heart; but I had no more money than they. I had credit, though, thanks to your admirable Uncle Maurice, and a good supper at home, and I said to them that for once they should be warmed and filled. They are of a grade in society that is not bound by conventionalities, and were quite willing to go anywhere for a good meal. So I told them to slip by the concierge,--they will be here in a few minutes,--and I went and got the wine and the flowers to make it a little more of a feast for the poor souls; and you and I, Fontaine, will be the better, not the worse, for this night’s work.” “Marsac, you are the best fellow that ever lived,” cried Fontaine, hugging him. Fontaine was always hugging Marsac, and Marsac always responded by a pat on the head, such as a father gives a small boy. “And read this letter,” he continued, thrusting the letter in Marsac’s hand. It ran as follows:-- M. AUGUSTE FONTAINE.