“Not if gentlemen pay their bills, Monsieur Landais,” answered Madame Schmid, sarcastically, who recognised an old acquaintance in Monsieur Landais. Madame Schmid had had a good, obedient Alsatian husband, whom she had talked to death some years before, and Landais and the late lamented Schmid were from the same town. Landais silently held out his bill, and Madame Schmid flourished hers in his face, with an air as if Landais owed the money instead of Marsac and Fontaine. “Journalists are a bad lot, I can tell you,” rapidly began Madame Schmid, who liked to have the first as well as the last word, “and a lazy lot too. While you and I work for our living with our arms and our legs, Monsieur Marsac and that pretty boy Fontaine do nothing but sit in an easy-chair and write all day long. And they call that work!” “I only wish I could sit in an easy-chair and amuse myself with a pen all day, instead of toiling over a cutting-board,” answered the tailor, ruefully. “Painting and fiddling when they are not scribbling,--no wonder they can’t pay their wash-bills. I dare say they think washing is an elegant amusement. I’m sure I don’t know how I’ll ever get my money. Writing them letters is a sinful waste of paper and ink.” “And calling to see them is a sinful waste of time. That Marsac always makes me laugh in spite of myself. The last time I saw him I put on a very determined air,” here little Landais assumed a fierce look, “and asked him why my bill had not been paid. He told me that he and Monsieur Fontaine threw all their bills into a basket, and every six months they drew one out at random and paid that bill,--and it so happened they had never drawn my bill! It was a wretched joke, but it made me laugh; and I assure you, the first thing I knew I was asking the fellow if he and his chum wanted anything in the tailoring line!” “And he chucks me under the chin, and tells me I’m so young and handsome I’ll be getting married again; and then, like you, I turn fool and laugh, and _pouf!_ goes my bill,” moaned Madame Schmid, wagging her head dolefully, while Landais shook his like a Chinese mandarin. “Then,” said Landais, wearily, “what are we climbing up all these stairs for?” “God knows,” answered Madame Schmid. “But I have no more time to waste on them, so I’ll leave my bill and go.” “So will I,” said Landais; and they laid their bills on the rickety table and went out, Madame Schmid clacking angrily all the way downstairs. The minute they disappeared, Fontaine slipped out of his closet, and locked the door after them. He was a handsome, fair-haired fellow of five-and-twenty, with the most winning air in the world; but it was plain at the first glance that, with all his grace and intelligence, he was a man to be led by his affections.