Belgiojoso
begged them to change their reception day, in order not to rob her of
her customary guests.

Awake at dawn, Marcel took a canvas and rapidly set to work to build up
a deserted manor house, an article which he was in the habit of
supplying to a broker of the Place de Carrousel. On his side, Rodolphe
went to pay a visit to his Uncle Monetti, who shone in the story of the
Retreat from Moscow, and to whom Rodolphe accorded five or six times in
course of the year, when matters were really serious, the satisfaction
of narrating his campaigns, in return for a small loan which the veteran
stove maker did not refuse too obstinately when due enthusiasm was
displayed in listening to his narrations.

About two o'clock, Marcel with hanging head and a canvas under his arm,
met on the Place de Carrousel Rodolphe, who was returning from his
uncle's, and whose bearing also presaged ill news.

"Well," asked Marcel, "did you succeed?"

"No, my uncle has gone to Versailles. And you?"

"That beast of a Medicis does not want any more ruined manor houses. He
wants me to do him a Bombardment of Tangiers."

"Our reputations are ruined forever if we do not give this party,"
murmured Rodolphe. "What will my friend, the influential critic, think
if I make him put on a white tie and yellow kids for nothing."

And both went back to the studio, a prey to great uneasiness.

At that moment the clock of a neighbor struck four.

"We have only three hours before us," said Rodolphe despondingly.

"But," said Marcel, going up to his friend, "are you quite sure, certain
sure, that we have no money left anywhere hereabout? Eh?"

"Neither here, nor elsewhere. Where do you suppose it could come from?"

"If we looked under the furniture, in the stuffing of the arm chairs?
They say that the emigrant noblemen used to hide their treasures in the
days of Robespierre. Who can tell? Perhaps our arm chair belonged to an
emigrant nobleman, and besides, it is so hard that the idea has often
occurred to me that it must be stuffed with metal. Will you dissect it?"

"This is mere comedy," replied Rodolphe, in a tone in which severity was
mingled with indulgence.

Suddenly Marcel, who had gone on rummaging in every corner of the
studio, uttered a loud cry of triumph.

"We are saved!" he exclaimed. "I was sure that there was money here.
Behold!" and he showed Rodolphe a coin as large as a crown piece, and
half eaten away by rust and verdigris.

I