Madame Fleury’s chagrin next morning was excessive, particularly when she read the note, in which Marsac thanked her ironically for her hospitality to them. She had not the smallest clew to their whereabouts, but she went to work quietly to find them out. Meanwhile, Marsac and Fontaine, having her out of sight, were not disposed to trouble themselves further about her; but old Duval naturally wished his daughter to avoid any scandal which might arise over the affair, and was very solicitous that Madame Fleury be settled with. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” was Marsac’s motto; and he was not inclined to hunt up Madame Fleury in order to get a formal release from her. Meanwhile, the catastrophe indicated at the very first meeting between Marsac and Delphine had fallen out in the most violent manner. They fell mutually in love, with a precipitance to which even Claire and Fontaine’s ardour was not a patch. But although there was disaffection in the citadel of both their hearts, pride and policy made a brave show of defence when really each only waited the demand from the other to surrender. Marsac dared not propose to Delphine that to secure himself the charm of her society he enslave her in marriage. To ward off the suspicions which might arise in her mind from the sly jokes and hints of the two confessed lovers, he gibed at marriage more keenly than ever. Delphine, who was not a whit behind Marsac in falling in love, scorned to be outdone, and railed at love and marriage, quoted Plato and Nordau, and made herself miserable in a manner truly feminine. Old Duval was bent on the match between his daughter and Fontaine,--the more so, as Marsac informed him confidentially that Fontaine had two more uncles in America, and an aged and infirm aunt, all of whom intended to make him their heir, and each of whom was over eighty years of age.