with a pair of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a country

nightcap, and twenty francs in his pocket. The fall of the house was but

a secondary marvel; the whole world might have fallen and scarce left his

family more petrified.

CHAPTER VIII. THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY.

On the morning of the next day, the Doctor, a mere spectre of himself,

was brought back in the custody of Casimir. They found Anastasie and the

boy sitting together by the fire; and Desprez, who had exchanged his

toilette for a ready-made rig-out of poor materials, waved his hand as he

entered, and sank speechless on the nearest chair. Madame turned direct

to Casimir.

'What is wrong?' she cried.

'Well,' replied Casimir, 'what have I told you all along? It has come.

It is a clean shave, this time; so you may as well bear up and make the

best of it. House down, too, eh? Bad luck, upon my soul.'

'Are we--are we--ruined?' she gasped.

The Doctor stretched out his arms to her. 'Ruined,' he replied, 'you are

ruined by your sinister husband.'

Casimir observed the consequent embrace through his eyeglass; then he

turned to Jean-Marie. 'You hear?' he said. 'They are ruined; no more

pickings, no more house, no more fat cutlets. It strikes me, my friend,

that you had best be packing; the present speculation is about worked

out.' And he nodded to him meaningly.

'Never!' cried Desprez, springing up. 'Jean-Marie, if you prefer to

leave me, now that I am poor, you can go; you shall receive your hundred

francs, if so much remains to me. But if you will consent to stay'--the

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