“Transcendent liars, Madame Fleury, like poets, are born, not made. And then there is a great deal in being notorious. Fontaine and I have done everything short of felony, to bring ourselves before the public; but we have failed. We have tried to drown ourselves in the Seine,--with life-preservers on, of course; but the police found the life-preservers on us, and instead of making us favourably known, humph!--we were glad enough to hush up the affair. We have brought the most horrible charges against each other in print, but nobody appeared at all surprised at them; and the public, by its indifference, seemed to take it for granted that the worst was true. The only newspaper which took the trouble to investigate it sent a reporter here; and as ill-luck would have it, the fellow caught us waltzing in each other’s arms for joy because we had just got a dinner invitation,--and we had not had anything that could be called a dinner for three weeks. Our circumstances are indeed desperate. Yesterday we had some money, and Fontaine bought two loaves of bread. I reproached him for his extravagance in buying so much bread.” With these words Marsac managed to cover dexterously a box of cigars on the table, which Madame Fleury had not noticed. “That is, indeed, poverty,” said Madame Fleury, with some feeling; and Marsac, seeing she was a little touched, continued eagerly,-- “We have tried everything. I sent a play to a manager, and the only notice he has taken of it has been to write me that he didn’t believe it would draw. Of course it won’t draw, shut up in the manager’s strong box. I never expected it to draw until it was produced. I sent it under the name of Fontaine, as being more aristocratic than Marsac. Fontaine, you know, has graveyards full of noble ancestors, while I, like Napoleon, am the first of my family. Then I sent a picture, called ‘A Rough Sea,’ to the Salon, also under the name of Fontaine. One of the judges said the thing made the whole committee ill,--it was so realistic, I presume,--and yet they rejected it.” Madame Fleury’s eyes softened, and with a glint of a “widow’s smile” upon her handsome mouth, she said gently, after a moment, “Have you--has either one of you--ever thought of--ahem!--marriage, as a way out of your troubles?” “Often,” answered Marsac, promptly,--“that is, for Fontaine. He was to be the victim,--the Iphigenia, so to speak. As for myself, there are two things I dread,--death and marriage. I must die, but I need not marry. I have sworn I will never be taken alive.” Madame Fleury blushed, smiled, and murmured, “More men marry than don’t. Most of them marry without a qualm.” “True,” answered Marsac, gravely; “and there are men who will pick up a poisonous snake and dangle it in the air. But I am not one of them. I have no taste for dangling poisonous snakes. I am afraid of them.” [Illustration] “And how stands Monsieur Fontaine on this subject?”