“A hundred and thirty thousand francs!” cried Maurepas. “I am a great fool; but--” Marsac handed Fontaine’s crape-covered hat to him. “A hundred and forty thousand for the villa, and may the devil take it!” said Maurepas, in desperation. “No!” joyfully shouted Fontaine, who saw acquiescence in Marsac’s eye. “I’ll take it!” “Make one condition, my dear fellow,” said Marsac, earnestly, to Fontaine. “If you will be such a fool as to sell the villa, make Monsieur Maurepas promise you not to mention the price to Monsieur Duval. The old gentleman thought he was selling it to you for a mere song, and he will never forgive you if he finds out you re-sold it immediately at so small an advance.” “Yes, yes,” said Fontaine; and Maurepas, who was making out a little memorandum of the transaction, added readily,-- “Yes, yes. I will not mention it.” “Stop,” cried Marsac. “It would be as well to tell Monsieur Duval that Fontaine got a large advance on it. That will reconcile old Duval to his selling it.” “I’ll tell the old fellow anything you like. Only sign this little memorandum, Fontaine, and you can pass the papers over directly to me as soon as you get them. And if you will take a cheque to bind the bargain--” Fontaine could scarcely refrain from embracing the editor on the spot, but obeying a telegraphic signal from Marsac, he merely said, “If it is any inconvenience to you--” “It is not the slightest; and it will please my wife to know it is settled,” answered Maurepas, taking out a cheque-book and rapidly writing a cheque for twenty thousand francs. [Illustration] In ten minutes the informal but binding agreement was made and signed, and Maurepas took his departure. Fontaine and Marsac, left alone, sat looking intently at each other, simply stunned by their good fortune. Marsac, finding words unable to express his rapture, turned a double handspring over the sofa, when Fontaine, rushing up to him, hugged and kissed him violently. After this, they stood grasping each other for five minutes in silent rapture, when Marsac’s countenance, losing its blissful expression, became suddenly grave. “Fontaine, this is glorious; but tell me one thing. What is that singular sensation which I felt the instant my eyes rested on Delphine? I feel it now. It is most peculiar and penetrating, and, although agitating, not unpleasant.” “Love, you idiot!” “You alarm me,” said Marsac, anxiously. “Tell me it is something less dangerous, -- locomotor ataxia or paresis: I have been told the symptoms are somewhat alike.” “I tell you that you are in love with Delphine, just as I am in love with my sweet Claire; and you need not fight and struggle against it. Love is lord of all. No man has lived until he has loved.” “But is there no way out of love? A course of Plato and a low diet--” “Not a particle of good!” Marsac relapsed into gloom, until Fontaine, whacking him on the back, cried exultingly,--