the
pedestrians' road, that follows the edge of the lakes. He had
not gone fifty steps, however, before he heard some one call him.
He turned around, and, within two lengths of his cane, saw M. Saint
Pavin and M. Costeclar. Maxence hardly knew M. Saint Pavin, whom
he had only seen two or three times in the Rue St. Gilles, and
execrated M. Costeclar. Still he advanced towards them.

Mlle. Lucienne's carriage was now caught in the file; and he was
sure of joining it whenever he thought proper.

"It is a miracle to see you here, my dear Maxence!" exclaimed M.
Costeclar, loud enough to attract the attention of several persons.

To occupy the attention of others, anyhow and at any cost, was M.
Costeclar's leading object in life. That was evident from the
style of his dress, the shape of his hat, the bright stripes of his
shirt, his ridiculous shirt-collar, his cuffs, his boots, his gloves,
his cane, every thing, in fact.

"If you see us on foot," he added, "it is because we wanted to walk
a little. The doctor's prescription, my dear. My carriage is
yonder, behind those trees. Do you recognize my dapple-grays?"
And he extended his cane in that direction, as if he were addressing
himself, not to Maxence alone, but to all those who were passing by.

"Very well, very well! everybody knows you have a carriage,"
interrupted M. Saint Pavin.

The editor of "The Financial Pilot" was the living contrast of his
companion. More slovenly still than M. Costeclar was careful of
his dress, he exhibited cynically a loose cravat rolled over a shirt
worn two or three days, a coat white with lint and plush, muddy
boots, though it had not rained for a week, and large red hands,
surprisingly filthy.

He was but the more proud; and he wore, cocked up to one side, a
hat that had not known a brush since the day it had left the hatter's.

"That fellow Costeclar," he went on, "he won't believe that there
are in France a number of people who live and die without ever
having owned a horse or a coupe; which is a fact, nevertheless.
Those fellows who were born with fifty or sixty thousand francs'
income in their baby-clothes are all alike."

The unpleasant intention was evident; but M. Costeclar was not the
man to get angry for such a trifle.

"You are in bad humor to-day, old fellow," he said. The editor of
"The Financial Pilot" made a threatening gesture.

"Well, yes," he answered, "I am in bad humor, like a man who for
ten year