FROMONT AND RISLER

By ALPHONSE DAUDET

With a Preface by LECONTE DE LISLE, of the French Academy

ALPHONSE DAUDET

Nominally Daudet, with the Goncourts and Zola, formed a triorepresenting Naturalism in fiction. He adopted the watchwords of thatschool, and by private friendship, no less than by a common professionof faith, was one of them. But the students of the future, whilerecognizing an obvious affinity between the other two, may be puzzled tofind Daudet's name conjoined with theirs. 

Decidedly, Daudet belonged to the Realistic School. But, above all, hewas an impressionist. All that can be observed--the individual picture, scene, character--Daudet will render with wonderful accuracy, and allhis novels, especially those written after 1870, show an increasingfirmness of touch, limpidity of style, and wise simplicity in the use ofthe sources of pathetic emotion, such as befit the cautious Naturalist. Daudet wrote stories, but he had to be listened to. Feverish as hismethod of writing was--true to his Southern character he took endlesspains to write well, revising every manuscript three times over frombeginning to end. He wrote from the very midst of the human comedy; andit is from this that he seems at times to have caught the bodily warmthand the taste of the tears and the very ring of the laughter of men andwomen. In the earlier novels, perhaps, the transitions from episode toepisode or from scene to scene are often abrupt, suggesting the mannerof the Goncourts. But to Zola he forms an instructive contrast, of thesame school, but not of the same family. Zola is methodical, Daudetspontaneous. Zola works with documents, Daudet from the living fact. Zola is objective, Daudet with equal scope and fearlessness shows morepersonal feeling and hence more delicacy. And in style also Zola isvast, architectural; Daudet slight, rapid, subtle, lively, suggestive. And finally, in their philosophy of life, Zola may inspire a hate ofvice and wrong, but Daudet wins a love for what is good and true. 

Alphonse Daudet was born in Nimes, Provence, May 13, 1840. His fatherhad been a well-to-do silk manufacturer, but, while Alphonse was still achild, lost his property. Poverty compelled the son to seek the wretchedpost of usher (pion) in a school at Alais. In November, 1857, he settledin Paris and joined his almost equally penniless brother Ernest. Theautobiography, 'Le Petit Chose' (1868), gives graphic details about thisperiod. His first years of literary life were those of an industriousBohemian, with poetry for consolation and newspaper work for bread. He had secured a secretaryship with the Duc de Morny, President of theCorps Legislatif, and had won recognition for his short stories in the'Figaro', when failing health compelled him to go to Algiers. Returning, he married toward that period a lady (Julia Allard, born 1847), whoseliterary talent comprehended, supplemented, and aided his own. Afterthe death of the Duc de Morny (1865) he consecrated himself entirely toliterature and published 'Lettres de mon Moulin' (1868), which also madehis name favorably known. He now turned from fiction to the drama, and it was not until after 1870 that he became fully conscious of hisvocation as a novelist, perhaps through the trials of the siege of Parisand the humiliation of his country, which deepened his nature withoutsouring it. Daudet's genial satire, 'Tartarin de Tarascon', appearedin 1872; but with the Parisian romance 'Fromont jeune et Risler aine', crowned by the Academy (1874), he suddenly advanced into the foremostrank of French novelists; it was his first great success, or, as he putsit, "the dawn of his popularity. "

How numberless editions of this book were printed, and rights oftranslations sought from other countries, Daudet has told us withnatural pride. The book must be read to be appreciated. "Risler, aself-made, honest man, raises himself socially into a society againstthe corruptness of which he has no defence and from which he escapesonly by suicide. Sidonie Chebe is a peculiarly French type, a vain andheartless woman; Delobelle, the actor, a delectable figure; the domesticsimplicity of Desiree Delobelle and her mother quite refreshing. "

Success followed now after success. 'Jack (1876); Le Nabab (1877); LesRois en exil (1879); Numa Roumestan (1882); L'Evangeliste (1883); Sapho(1884); Tartarin sur des Alces (1886); L'Immortel (1888); Port Tarascon(1890); Rose et Ninette (1892); La petite Parvisse (1895); and Soutiende Famille (1899)'; such is the long list of the great life-artist. In Le Nabab we find obvious traces of Daudet's visits to Algiers andCorsica-Mora is the Duc de Morny. Sapho is the most concentrated of hisnovels, with never a divergence, never a break, in its development. Andof the theme--legitimate marriage contra common-law--what need be saidexcept that he handled it in a manner most acceptable to the aestheticand least offensive to the moral sense?

L'Immortel is a satire springing from personal reasons; L'Evangelisteand Rose et Ninette--the latter on the divorce problem--may be classedas clever novels; but had Daudet never written more than 'Fromont etRisler', 'Tartarin sur les Alces', and 'Port Tarascon', these would keephim in lasting remembrance. 

We must not omit to mention also many 'contes' and his 'Trente ans deParis (A travers ma vie et mes livres), Souvenirs d'un Homme de lettres(1888), and Notes sur la Vie (1899)'. 

Alphonse Daudet died in Paris, December 16, 1897

 LECONTE DE LISLE de l'Academie Francaise. 

FROMONT AND RISLER

BOOK 1. 

CHAPTER I. A WEDDING-PARTY AT THE CAFE VEFOUR

"Madame Chebe!"

"My boy--"

"I am so happy!"

This was the twentieth time that day that the good Risler had said thathe was happy, and always with the same emotional and contented manner, in the same low, deep voice-the voice that is held in check by emotionand does not speak too loud for fear of suddenly breaking into violenttears. 

Not for the world would Risler have wept at that moment--imaginea newly-made husband giving way to tears in the midst of thewedding-festival! And yet he had a strong inclination to do so. Hishappiness stifled him, held him by the throat, prevented the words fromcoming forth. All that he could do was to murmur from time to time, witha slight trembling of the lips, "I am happy; I am happy!"

Indeed, he had reason to be happy. 

Since early morning the poor man had fancied that he was being whirledalong in one of those magnificent dreams from which one fears lest hemay awake suddenly with blinded eyes; but it seemed to him as if thisdream would never end. It had begun at five o'clock in the morning, andat ten o'clock at night, exactly ten o'clock by Vefour's clock, he wasstill dreaming. 

How many things had happened during that day, and how vividly heremembered the most trivial details. 

He saw himself, at daybreak, striding up and down his bachelor quarters, delight mingled with impatience, clean-shaven, his coat on, andtwo pairs of white gloves in his pocket. Then there were thewedding-coaches, and in the foremost one--the one with white horses, white reins, and a yellow damask lining--the bride, in her finery, floated by like a cloud. Then the procession into the church, two bytwo, the white veil in advance, ethereal, and dazzling to behold. Theorgan, the verger, the cure's sermon, the tapers casting their lightupon jewels and spring gowns, and the throng of people in the sacristy, the tiny white cloud swallowed up, surrounded, embraced, while thebridegroom distributed hand-shakes among all the leading tradesmen ofParis, who had assembled to do him honor. And the grand crash from theorgan at the close, made more solemn by the fact that the church doorwas thrown wide open, so that the whole street took part in the familyceremony--the music passing through the vestibule at the same time withthe procession--the exclamations of the crowd, and a burnisher in anample lute-string apron remarking in a loud voice, "The groom isn'thandsome, but the bride's as pretty as a picture. " That is the kind ofthing that makes you proud when you happen to be the bridegroom. 

And then the breakfast at the factory, in a workroom adorned withhangings and flowers; the drive in the Bois--a concession to the wishesof his mother-in-law, Madame Chebe, who, being the petty Parisianbourgeoise that she was, would not have deemed her daughter legallymarried without a drive around the lake and a visit to the Cascade. Then the return for dinner, as the lamps were being lighted alongthe boulevard, where people turned to look after the wedding-party, atypical well-to-do bourgeois wedding-party, as it drove up to the grandentrance at Vefour's with all the style the livery horses could command. 

Risler had reached that point in his dream. 

And now the worthy man, dazed with fatigue and well-being, glancedvaguely about that huge table of twenty-four covers, curved in the shapeof a horseshoe at the ends, and surrounded by smiling, familiar faces, wherein he seemed to see his happiness reflected in every eye. Thedinner was drawing near its close. The wave of private conversationflowed around the table. Faces were turned toward one another, blacksleeves stole behind waists adorned with bunches of asclepias, achildish face laughed over a fruit ice, and the dessert at the level ofthe guests' lips encompassed the cloth with animation, bright colors, and light. 

Ah, yes! Risler was very happy. 

Except his brother Frantz, everybody he loved was there. First of all, sitting opposite him, was Sidonie--yesterday little Sidonie, to-day hiswife. For the ceremony of dinner she had laid aside her veil; she hademerged from her cloud. Now, above the smooth, white silk gown, appeareda pretty face of a less lustrous and softer white, and the crown ofhair-beneath that other crown so carefully bestowed--would have told youof a tendency to rebel against life, of little feathers flutteringfor an opportunity to fly away. But husbands do not see such things asthose. 

Next to Sidonie and Frantz, the person whom Risler loved best in theworld was Madame Georges Fromont, whom he called "Madame Chorche, " thewife of his partner and the daughter of the late Fromont, his formeremployer and his god. He had placed her beside him, and in his manner ofspeaking to her one could read affection and deference. She was a veryyoung woman, of about the same age as Sidonie, but of a more regular, quiet and placid type of beauty. She talked little, being out ofher element in that conglomerate assemblage; but she tried to appearaffable. 

On Risler's other side sat Madame Chebe, the bride's mother, radiantand gorgeous in her green satin gown, which gleamed like a shield. Eversince the morning the good woman's every thought had been as brilliantas that robe of emblematic hue. At every moment she said to herself: "Mydaughter is marrying Fromont Jeune and Risler Aine, of Rue des VieillesHaudriettes!" For, in her mind, it was not Risler alone whom herdaughter took for her husband, but the whole sign of the establishment, illustrious in the commercial annals of Paris; and whenever she mentallyannounced that glorious event, Madame Chebe sat more erect than ever, stretching the silk of the bodice until it almost cracked. 

What a contrast to the attitude of Monsieur Chebe, who was seated ata short distance. In different households, as a general rule, the samecauses produce altogether different results. That little man, with thehigh forehead of a visionary, as inflated and hollow as a ball, was asfierce in appearance as his wife was radiant. That was nothing unusual, by the way, for Monsieur Chebe was in a frenzy the whole year long. On this particular evening, however, he did not wear his customarywoe-begone, lack-lustre expression, nor the full-skirted coat, with thepockets sticking out behind, filled to repletion with samples of oil, wine, truffles, or vinegar, according as he happened to be dealing inone or the other of those articles. His black coat, new and magnificent, made a fitting pendant to the green gown; but unfortunately his thoughtswere of the color of his coat. Why had they not seated him beside thebride, as was his right? Why had they given his seat to young Fromont?And there was old Gardinois, the Fromonts' grandfather, what businesshad he by Sidonie's side? Ah! that was how it was to be! Everything forthe Fromonts and nothing for the Chebes! And yet people are amazed thatthere are such things as revolutions!

Luckily the little man had by his side, to vent his anger upon, hisfriend Delobelle, an old, retired actor, who listened to him with hisserene and majestic holiday countenance. 

Strangely enough, the bride herself had something of that sameexpression. On that pretty and youthful face, which happiness enlivenedwithout making glad, appeared indications of some secret preoccupation;and, at times, the corners of her lips quivered with a smile, as if shewere talking to herself. 

With that same little smile she replied to the somewhat pronouncedpleasantries of Grandfather Gardinois, who sat by her side. 

"This Sidonie, on my word!" said the good man, with a laugh. "WhenI think that not two months ago she was talking about going into aconvent. We all know what sort of convents such minxes as she go to! Asthe saying is in our province: The Convent of Saint Joseph, four shoesunder the bed!"

And everybody at the table laughed heartily at the rustic jests ofthe old Berrichon peasant, whose colossal fortune filled the place ofmanliness, of education, of kindness of heart, but not of wit; forhe had plenty of that, the rascal--more than all his bourgeoisfellow-guests together. Among the very rare persons who inspired asympathetic feeling in his breast, little Chebe, whom he had known asan urchin, appealed particularly to him; and she, for her part, having become rich too recently not to venerate wealth, talked to herright-hand neighbor with a very perceptible air of respect and coquetry. 

With her left-hand-neighbor, on the contrary, Georges Fromont, herhusband's partner, she exhibited the utmost reserve. Their conversationwas restricted to the ordinary courtesies of the table; indeed there wasa sort of affectation of indifference between them. 

Suddenly there was that little commotion among the guests whichindicates that they are about to rise: the rustling of silk, the movingof chairs, the last words of conversations, the completion of a laugh, and in that half-silence Madame Chebe, who had become communicative, observed in a very loud tone to a provincial cousin, who was gazing inan ecstasy of admiration at the newly made bride's reserved and tranquildemeanor, as she stood with her arm in Monsieur Gardinois's:

"You see that child, cousin--well, no one has ever been able to find outwhat her thoughts were. "

Thereupon the whole party rose and repaired to the grand salon. 

While the guests invited for the ball were arriving and minglingwith the dinner-guests, while the orchestra was tuning up, whilethe cavaliers, eyeglass in position, strutted before the impatient, white-gowned damsels, the bridegroom, awed by so great a throng, hadtaken refuge with his friend Planus--Sigismond Planus, cashier of thehouse of Fromont for thirty years--in that little gallery decoratedwith flowers and hung with a paper representing shrubbery and clamberingvines, which forms a sort of background of artificial verdure toVefour's gilded salons. 

"Sigismond, old friend--I am very happy. "

And Sigismond too was happy; but Risler did not give him time to say so. Now that he was no longer in dread of weeping before his guests, all thejoy in his heart overflowed. 

"Just think of it, my friend!--It's so extraordinary that a young girllike Sidonie would consent to marry me. For you know I'm not handsome. I didn't need to have that impudent creature tell me so this morning toknow it. And then I'm forty-two--and she such a dear little thing! Therewere so many others she might have chosen, among the youngest and therichest, to say nothing of my poor Frantz, who loved her so. But, no, she preferred her old Risler. And it came about so strangely. For a longtime I noticed that she was sad, greatly changed. I felt sure there wassome disappointment in love at the bottom of it. Her mother and I lookedabout, and we cudgelled our brains to find out what it could be. Onemorning Madame Chebe came into my room weeping, and said, 'You are theman she loves, my dear friend!'--And I was the man--I was the man! Blessmy soul! Whoever would have suspected such a thing? And to think thatin the same year I had those two great pieces of good fortune--apartnership in the house of Fromont and married to Sidonie--Oh!"

At that moment, to the strains of a giddy, languishing waltz, a couplewhirled into the small salon. They were Risler's bride and his partner, Georges Fromont. Equally young and attractive, they were talking inundertones, confining their words within the narrow circle of the waltz. 

"You lie!" said Sidonie, slightly pale, but with the same little smile. 

And the other, paler than she, replied:

"I do not lie. It was my uncle who insisted upon this marriage. He wasdying--you had gone away. I dared not say no. "

Risler, at a distance, gazed at them in admiration. 

"How pretty she is! How well they dance!"

But, when they spied him, the dancers separated, and Sidonie walkedquickly to him. 

"What! You here? What are you doing? They are looking everywhere foryou. Why aren't you in there?"

As she spoke she retied his cravat with a pretty, impatient gesture. That enchanted Risler, who smiled at Sigismond from the corner of hiseye, too overjoyed at feeling the touch of that little gloved hand onhis neck, to notice that she was trembling to the ends of her slenderfingers. 

"Give me your arm, " she said to him, and they returned together to thesalons. The white bridal gown with its long train made the badly cut, awkwardly worn black coat appear even more uncouth; but a coat cannot be retied like a cravat; she must needs take it as it was. As theypassed along, returning the salutations of all the guests who were soeager to smile upon them, Sidonie had a momentary thrill of pride, ofsatisfied vanity. Unhappily it did not last. In a corner of the roomsat a young and attractive woman whom nobody invited to dance, but wholooked on at the dances with a placid eye, illumined by all the joy ofa first maternity. As soon as he saw her, Risler walked straight to thecorner where she sat and compelled Sidonie to sit beside her. Needlessto say that it was Madame "Chorche. " To whom else would he have spokenwith such affectionate respect? In what other hand than hers could hehave placed his little Sidonie's, saying: "You will love her dearly, won't you? You are so good. She needs your advice, your knowledge of theworld. "

"Why, my dear Risler, " Madame Georges replied, "Sidonie and I are oldfriends. We have reason to be fond of each other still. "

And her calm, straightforward glance strove unsuccessfully to meet thatof her old friend. 

With his ignorance of women, and his habit of treating Sidonie as achild, Risler continued in the same tone:

"Take her for your model, little one. There are not two people in theworld like Madame Chorche. She has her poor father's heart. A trueFromont!"

Sidonie, with her eyes cast down, bowed without replying, while animperceptible shudder ran from the tip of her satin shoe to the topmostbit of orange-blossom in her crown. But honest Risler saw nothing. Theexcitement, the dancing, the music, the flowers, the lights made himdrunk, made him mad. He believed that every one breathed the sameatmosphere of bliss beyond compare which enveloped him. He had noperception of the rivalries, the petty hatreds that met and passed oneanother above all those bejewelled foreheads. 

He did not notice Delobelle, standing with his elbow on the mantel, onehand in the armhole of his waistcoat and his hat upon his hip, wearyof his eternal attitudinizing, while the hours slipped by and no onethought of utilizing his talents. He did not notice M. Chebe, who wasprowling darkly between the two doors, more incensed than ever againstthe Fromonts. Oh! those Fromonts!--How large a place they filled at thatwedding! They were all there with their wives, their children, theirfriends, their friends' friends. One would have said that one ofthemselves was being married. Who had a word to say of the Rislers orthe Chebes? Why, he--he, the father, had not even been presented!--Andthe little man's rage was redoubled by the attitude of Madame Chebe, smiling maternally upon one and all in her scarab-hued dress. 

Furthermore, there were at this, as at almost all wedding-parties, twodistinct currents which came together but without mingling. One of thetwo soon gave place to the other. The Fromonts, who irritated MonsieurChebe so much and who formed the aristocracy of the ball, the presidentof the Chamber of Commerce, the syndic of the solicitors, a famouschocolate-manufacturer and member of the Corps Legislatif, and theold millionaire Gardinois, all retired shortly after midnight. GeorgesFromont and his wife entered their carriage behind them. Only the Rislerand Chebe party remained, and the festivity at once changed its aspect, becoming more uproarious. 

The illustrious Delobelle, disgusted to see that no one called upon himfor anything, decided to call upon himself for something, and began in avoice as resonant as a gong the monologue from Ruy Blas: "Good appetite, Messieurs!" while the guests thronged to the buffet, spread withchocolate and glasses of punch. Inexpensive little costumes weredisplayed upon the benches, overjoyed to produce their due effectat last; and here and there divers young shop-clerks, consumed withconceit, amused themselves by venturing upon a quadrille. 

The bride had long wished to take her leave. At last she disappearedwith Risler and Madame Chebe. As for Monsieur Chebe, who had recoveredall his importance, it was impossible to induce him to go. Some onemust be there to do the honors, deuce take it! And I assure you thatthe little man assumed the responsibility! He was flushed, lively, frolicsome, noisy, almost seditious. On the floor below he couldbe heard talking politics with Vefour's headwaiter, and making mostaudacious statements. 

Through the deserted streets the wedding-carriage, the tired coachmanholding the white reins somewhat loosely, rolled heavily toward theMarais. 

Madame Chebe talked continuously, enumerating all the splendors of thatmemorable day, rhapsodizing especially over the dinner, the commonplacemenu of which had been to her the highest display of magnificence. Sidonie mused in the darkness of the carriage, and Risler, sittingopposite her, even though he no longer said, "I am very happy, "continued to think it with all his heart. Once he tried to takepossession of a little white hand that rested against the closed window, but it was hastily withdrawn, and he sat there without moving, lost inmute admiration. 

They drove through the Halles and the Rue de Rambuteau, throngedwith kitchen-gardeners' wagons; and, near the end of the Rue desFrancs-Bourgeois, they turned the corner of the Archives into the Rue deBraque. There they stopped first, and Madame Chebe alighted at her door, which was too narrow for the magnificent green silk frock, so that itvanished in the hall with rustlings of revolt and with all its foldsmuttering. A few minutes later, a tall, massive portal on the Rue desVieilles-Haudriettes, bearing on the escutcheon that betrayed the formerfamily mansion, beneath half-effaced armorial bearings, a sign in blueletters, Wall Papers, was thrown wide open to allow the wedding-carriageto pass through. 

Thereupon the bride, hitherto motionless and like one asleep, seemed towake suddenly, and if all the lights in the vast buildings, workshops orstorehouses, which surrounded the courtyard, had not been extinguished, Risler might have seen that pretty, enigmatical face suddenly lighted bya smile of triumph. The wheels revolved less noisily on the fine gravelof a garden, and soon stopped before the stoop of a small house of twofloors. It was there that the young Fromonts lived, and Risler and hiswife were to take up their abode on the floor above. The house had anaristocratic air. Flourishing commerce avenged itself therein for thedismal street and the out-of-the-way quarter. There was a carpet on thestairway leading to their apartment, and on all sides shone the gleamingwhiteness of marble, the reflection of mirrors and of polished copper. 

While Risler was parading his delight through all the rooms of the newapartment, Sidonie remained alone in her bedroom. By the light of thelittle blue lamp hanging from the ceiling, she glanced first of all atthe mirror, which gave back her reflection from head to foot, at all herluxurious surroundings, so unfamiliar to her; then, instead of goingto bed, she opened the window and stood leaning against the sill, motionless as a statue. 

The night was clear and warm. She could see distinctly the wholefactory, its innumerable unshaded windows, its glistening panes, itstall chimney losing itself in the depths of the sky, and nearer at handthe lovely little garden against the ancient wall of the former mansion. All about were gloomy, miserable roofs and squalid streets. Suddenlyshe started. Yonder, in the darkest, the ugliest of all those atticscrowding so closely together, leaning against one another, as ifoverweighted with misery, a fifth-floor window stood wide open, showingonly darkness within. She recognized it at once. It was the window ofthe landing on which her parents lived. 

The window on the landing!

How many things the mere name recalled! How many hours, how manydays she had passed there, leaning on that damp sill, without rail orbalcony, looking toward the factory. At that moment she fancied that shecould see up yonder little Chebe's ragged person, and in the frame madeby that poor window, her whole child life, her deplorable youth as aParisian street arab, passed before her eyes. 

CHAPTER II. LITTLE CHEBE'S STORY

In Paris the common landing is like an additional room, an enlargementof their abodes, to poor families confined in their too smallapartments. They go there to get a breath of air in summer, and therethe women talk and the children play. 

When little Chebe made too much noise in the house, her mother would sayto her: "There there! you bother me, go and play on the landing. " Andthe child would go quickly enough. 

This landing, on the upper floor of an old house in which space had notbeen spared, formed a sort of large lobby, with a high ceiling, guardedon the staircase side by a wrought-iron rail, lighted by a large windowwhich looked out upon roofs, courtyards, and other windows, and, fartheraway, upon the garden of the Fromont factory, which was like a greenoasis among the huge old walls. 

There was nothing very cheerful about it, but the child liked it muchbetter than her own home. Their rooms were dismal, especially when itrained and Ferdinand did not go out. 

With his brain always smoking with new ideas, which unfortunatelynever came to anything, Ferdinand Chebe was one of those slothful, project-devising bourgeois of when there are so many in Paris. Hiswife, whom he had dazzled at first, had soon detected his utterinsignificance, and had ended by enduring patiently and with unchangeddemeanor his continual dreams of wealth and the disasters thatimmediately followed them. 

Of the dot of eighty thousand francs which she had brought him, andwhich he had squandered in his absurd schemes, only a small annuityremained, which still gave them a position of some importance in theeyes of their neighbors, as did Madame Chebe's cashmere, which had beenrescued from every wreck, her wedding laces and two diamond studs, verytiny and very modest, which Sidonie sometimes begged her mother to showher, as they lay in the drawer of the bureau, in an old-fashioned whitevelvet case, on which the jeweller's name, in gilt letters, thirty yearsold, was gradually fading. That was the only bit of luxury in that poorannuitant's abode. 

For a very long time M. Chebe had sought a place which would enable himto eke out their slender income. But he sought it only in what he calledstanding business, his health forbidding any occupation that requiredhim to be seated. 

It seemed that, soon after his marriage, when he was in a flourishingbusiness and had a horse and tilbury of his own, the little man hadhad one day a serious fall. That fall, to which he referred upon everyoccasion, served as an excuse for his indolence. 

One could not be with M. Chebe five minutes before he would say in aconfidential tone:

"You know of the accident that happened to the Duc d'Orleans?"

And then he would add, tapping his little bald pate "The same thinghappened to me in my youth. "

Since that famous fall any sort of office work made him dizzy, and hehad found himself inexorably confined to standing business. Thus, he hadbeen in turn a broker in wines, in books, in truffles, in clocks, andin many other things beside. Unluckily, he tired of everything, neverconsidered his position sufficiently exalted for a former business manwith a tilbury, and, by gradual degrees, by dint of deeming every sortof occupation beneath him, he had grown old and incapable, a genuineidler with low tastes, a good-for-nothing. 

Artists are often rebuked for their oddities, for the liberties theytake with nature, for that horror of the conventional which impels themto follow by-paths; but who can ever describe all the absurd fancies, all the idiotic eccentricities with which a bourgeois without occupationcan succeed in filling the emptiness of his life? M. Chebe imposed uponhimself certain rules concerning his goings and comings, and his walksabroad. While the Boulevard Sebastopol was being built, he went twice aday "to see how it was getting on. "

No one knew better than he the fashionable shops and the bargains; andvery often Madame Chebe, annoyed to see her husband's idiotic face atthe window while she was energetically mending the family linen, wouldrid herself of him by giving him an errand to do. "You know that place, on the corner of such a street, where they sell such nice cakes. Theywould be nice for our dessert. "

And the husband would go out, saunter along the boulevard by the shops, wait for the omnibus, and pass half the day in procuring two cakes, worth three sous, which he would bring home in triumph, wiping hisforehead. 

M. Chebe adored the summer, the Sundays, the great footraces in the dustat Clamart or Romainville, the excitement of holidays and the crowd. Hewas one of those who went about for a whole week before the fifteenthof August, gazing at the black lamps and their frames, and thescaffoldings. Nor did his wife complain. At all events, she no longerhad that chronic grumbler prowling around her chair for whole days, with schemes for gigantic enterprises, combinations that missed fire inadvance, lamentations concerning the past, and a fixed determination notto work at anything to earn money. 

She no longer earned anything herself, poor woman; but she knew so wellhow to save, her wonderful economy made up so completely for everythingelse, that absolute want, although a near neighbor of such impecuniosityas theirs, never succeeded in making its way into those three rooms, which were always neat and clean, or in destroying the carefully mendedgarments or the old furniture so well concealed beneath its coverings. 

Opposite the Chebes' door, whose copper knob gleamed in bourgeoisfashion upon the landing, were two other and smaller ones. 

On the first, a visiting-card, held in place by four nails, according tothe custom in vogue among industrial artists, bore the name of

 RISLER DESIGNER OF PATTERNS. 

On the other was a small square of leather, with these words in giltletters:

 MESDAMES DELOBELLE BIRDS AND INSECTS FOR ORNAMENT. 

The Delobelles' door was often open, disclosing a large room with abrick floor, where two women, mother and daughter, the latter almosta child, each as weary and as pale as the other, worked at one of thethousand fanciful little trades which go to make up what is called the'Articles de Paris'. 

It was then the fashion to ornament hats and ballgowns with the lovelylittle insects from South America that have the brilliant coloring ofjewels and reflect the light like diamonds. The Delobelles had adoptedthat specialty. 

A wholesale house, to which consignments were made directly from theAntilles, sent to them, unopened, long, light boxes from which, whenthe lid was removed, arose a faint odor, a dust of arsenic through whichgleamed the piles of insects, impaled before being shipped, the birdspacked closely together, their wings held in place by a strip of thinpaper. They must all be mounted--the insects quivering upon brass wire, the humming-birds with their feathers ruffled; they must be cleansed andpolished, the beak in a bright red, claw repaired with a silk thread, dead eyes replaced with sparkling pearls, and the insect or the birdrestored to an appearance of life and grace. The mother prepared thework under her daughter's direction; for Desiree, though she was still amere girl, was endowed with exquisite taste, with a fairy-like power ofinvention, and no one could, insert two pearl eyes in those tiny headsor spread their lifeless wings so deftly as she. Happy or unhappy, Desiree always worked with the same energy. From dawn until well intothe night the table was covered with work. At the last ray of daylight, when the factory bells were ringing in all the neighboring yards, MadameDelobelle lighted the lamp, and after a more than frugal repast theyreturned to their work. Those two indefatigable women had one object, one fixed idea, which prevented them from feeling the burden of enforcedvigils. That idea was the dramatic renown of the illustrious Delobelle. After he had left the provincial theatres to pursue his professionin Paris, Delobelle waited for an intelligent manager, the ideal andprovidential manager who discovers geniuses, to seek him out and offerhim a role suited to his talents. He might, perhaps, especially at thebeginning, have obtained a passably good engagement at a theatre of thethird order, but Delobelle did not choose to lower himself. 

He preferred to wait, to struggle, as he said! And this is how heawaited the struggle. 

In the morning in his bedroom, often in his bed, he rehearsed roles inhis former repertory; and the Delobelle ladies trembled with emotionwhen they heard behind the partition tirades from 'Antony' or the'Medecin des Enfants', declaimed in a sonorous voice that blended withthe thousand-and-one noises of the great Parisian bee-hive. Then, afterbreakfast, the actor would sally forth for the day; would go to "do hisboulevard, " that is to say, to saunter to and fro between the Chateaud'Eau and the Madeline, with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, hishat a little on one side-always gloved, and brushed, and glossy. 

That question of dress was of great importance in his eyes. It was oneof the greatest elements of success, a bait for the manager--the famous, intelligent manager--who never would dream of engaging a threadbare, shabbily dressed man. 

So the Delobelle ladies took good care that he lacked nothing; and youcan imagine how many birds and insects it required to fit out a blade ofthat temper! The actor thought it the most natural thing in the world. 

In his view, the labors, the privations of his wife and daughter werenot, strictly speaking, for his benefit, but for the benefit of thatmysterious and unknown genius, whose trustee he considered himself tobe. 

There was a certain analogy between the position of the Chebe family andthat of the Delobelles. But the latter household was less depressing. The Chebes felt that their petty annuitant existence was fastenedupon them forever, with no prospect of amelioration, always thesame; whereas, in the actor's family, hope and illusion often openedmagnificent vistas. 

The Chebes were like people living in a blind alley; the Delobelles ona foul little street, where there was no light or air, but where a greatboulevard might some day be laid out. And then, too, Madame Chebe nolonger believed in her husband, whereas, by virtue of that single magicword, "Art!" her neighbor never had doubted hers. 

And yet for years and years Monsieur Delobelle had been unavailinglydrinking vermouth with dramatic agents, absinthe with leaders ofclaques, bitters with vaudevillists, dramatists, and the famouswhat's-his-name, author of several great dramas. Engagements did notalways follow. So that, without once appearing on the boards, the poorman had progressed from jeune premier to grand premier roles, then tothe financiers, then to the noble fathers, then to the buffoons--

He stopped there!

On two or three occasions his friends had obtained for him a chance toearn his living as manager of a club or a cafe as an inspector in greatwarehouses, at the 'Phares de la Bastille' or the 'Colosse de Rhodes. 'All that was necessary was to have good manners. Delobelle was notlacking in that respect, God knows! And yet every suggestion that wasmade to him the great man met with a heroic refusal. 

"I have no right to abandon the stage!" he would then assert. 

In the mouth of that poor devil, who had not set foot on the boardsfor years, it was irresistibly comical. But one lost the inclinationto laugh when one saw his wife and his daughter swallowing particles ofarsenic day and night, and heard them repeat emphatically as they broketheir needles against the brass wire with which the little birds weremounted:

"No! no! Monsieur Delobelle has no right to abandon the stage. "

Happy man, whose bulging eyes, always smiling condescendingly, andwhose habit of reigning on the stage had procured for him for life thatexceptional position of a spoiled and admired child-king! When he leftthe house, the shopkeepers on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, with thepredilection of the Parisian for everything and everybody connected withthe theatre, saluted him respectfully. He was always so well dressed!And then he was so kind, so obliging! When you think that every Saturdaynight, he, Ruy Blas, Antony, Raphael in the 'Filles de Maybre, ' Andresin the 'Pirates de la Savane, ' sallied forth, with a bandbox underhis arm, to carry the week's work of his wife and daughter to a flowerestablishment on the Rue St. -Denis!

Why, even when performing such a commission as that, this devil of afellow had such nobility of bearing, such native dignity, that the youngwoman whose duty it was to make up the Delobelle account was sorelyembarrassed to hand to such an irreproachable gentleman the paltrystipend so laboriously earned. 

On those evenings, by the way, the actor did not return home to dinner. The women were forewarned. 

He always met some old comrade on the boulevard, some unlucky devil likehimself--there are so many of them in that sacred profession!--whom heentertained at a restaurant or cafe. Then, with scrupulous fidelity--andvery grateful they were to him--he would carry the rest of the moneyhome, sometimes with a bouquet for his wife or a little present forDesiree, a nothing, a mere trifle. What would you have? Those are thecustoms of the stage. It is such a simple matter in a melodrama to tossa handful of louis through the window!

"Ho! varlet, take this purse and hie thee hence to tell thy mistress Iawait her coming. "

And so, notwithstanding their marvellous courage, and although theirtrade was quite lucrative, the Delobelles often found themselves instraitened circumstances, especially in the dull season of the 'Articlesde Paris. '

Luckily the excellent Risler was at hand, always ready to accommodatehis friends. 

Guillaume Risler, the third tenant on the landing, lived with hisbrother Frantz, who was fifteen years his junior. The two young Swiss, tall and fair, strong and ruddy, brought into the dismal, hard-workinghouse glimpses of the country and of health. The elder was a draughtsmanat the Fromont factory and was paying for the education of his brother, who attended Chaptal's lectures, pending his admission to the EcoleCentrale. 

On his arrival at Paris, being sadly perplexed as to the installation ofhis little household, Guillaume had derived from his neighbors, MesdamesChebe and Delobelle, advice and information which were an indispensableaid to that ingenuous, timid, somewhat heavy youth, embarrassed by hisforeign accent and manner. After a brief period of neighborhood andmutual services, the Risler brothers formed a part of both families. 

On holidays places were always made for them at one table or the other, and it was a great satisfaction to the two exiles to find in those poorhouseholds, modest and straitened as they were, a taste of affection andfamily life. 

The wages of the designer, who was very clever at his trade, enabledhim to be of service to the Delobelles on rent-day, and to make hisappearance at the Chebes' in the guise of the rich uncle, always ladenwith surprises and presents, so that the little girl, as soon as she sawhim, would explore his pockets and climb on his knees. 

On Sunday he would take them all to the theatre; and almost everyevening he would go with Messieurs Chebe and Delobelle to a brewery onthe Rue Blondel, where he regaled them with beer and pretzels. Beer andpretzels were his only vice. 

For his own part, he knew no greater bliss than to sit before a foamingtankard, between his two friends, listening to their talk, and takingpart only by a loud laugh or a shake of the head in their conversation, which was usually a long succession of grievances against society. 

A childlike shyness, and the Germanisms of speech which he never hadlaid aside in his life of absorbing toil, embarrassed him much in givingexpression to his ideas. Moreover, his friends overawed him. They hadin respect to him the tremendous superiority of the man who does nothingover the man who works; and M. Chebe, less generous than Delobelle, didnot hesitate to make him feel it. He was very lofty with him, was M. Chebe! In his opinion, a man who worked, as Risler did, ten hours a day, was incapable, when he left his work, of expressing an intelligent idea. Sometimes the designer, coming home worried from the factory, wouldprepare to spend the night over some pressing work. You should have seenM. Chebe's scandalized expression then!

"Nobody could make me follow such a business!" he would say, expandinghis chest, and he would add, looking at Risler with the air of aphysician making a professional call, "Just wait till you've had onesevere attack. "

Delobelle was not so fierce, but he adopted a still loftier tone. Thecedar does not see a rose at its foot. Delobelle did not see Risler athis feet. 

When, by chance, the great man deigned to notice his presence, he had acertain air of stooping down to him to listen, and to smile at his wordsas at a child's; or else he would amuse himself by dazzling him withstories of actresses, would give him lessons in deportment and theaddresses of outfitters, unable to understand why a man who earned somuch money should always be dressed like an usher at a primaryschool. Honest Risler, convinced of his inferiority, would try to earnforgiveness by a multitude of little attentions, obliged to furnish allthe delicacy, of course, as he was the constant benefactor. 

Among these three households living on the same floor, little Chebe, with her goings and comings, formed the bond of union. 

At all times of day she would slip into the workroom of the Delobelles, amuse herself by watching their work and looking at all the insects, and, being already more coquettish than playful, if an insect had losta wing in its travels, or a humming-bird its necklace of down, she wouldtry to make herself a headdress of the remains, to fix that brilliantshaft of color among the ripples of her silky hair. It made Desireeand her mother smile to see her stand on tiptoe in front of the oldtarnished mirror, with affected little shrugs and grimaces. Then, whenshe had had enough of admiring herself, the child would open the doorwith all the strength of her little fingers, and would go demurely, holding her head perfectly straight for fear of disarranging herheaddress, and knock at the Rislers' door. 

No one was there in the daytime but Frantz the student, leaning over hisbooks, doing his duty faithfully. But when Sidonie enters, farewell tostudy! Everything must be put aside to receive that lovely creature withthe humming-bird in her hair, pretending to be a princess who had cometo Chaptal's school to ask his hand in marriage from the director. 

It was really a strange sight to see that tall, overgrown boy playingwith that little girl of eight, humoring her caprices, adoring her as heyielded to her, so that later, when he fell genuinely in love with her, no one could have said at what time the change began. 

Petted as she was in those two homes, little Chebe was very fond ofrunning to the window on the landing. There it was that she found hergreatest source of entertainment, a horizon always open, a sort ofvision of the future toward which she leaned with eager curiosity andwithout fear, for children are not subject to vertigo. 

Between the slated roofs sloping toward one another, the high wallof the factory, the tops of the plane-trees in the garden, themany-windowed workshops appeared to her like a promised land, thecountry of her dreams. 

That Fromont establishment was to her mind the highest ideal of wealth. 

The place it occupied in that part of the Marais, which was at certainhours enveloped by its smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, hisfabulous tales concerning his employer's wealth and goodness andcleverness, had aroused that childish curiosity; and such portions asshe could see of the dwelling-houses, the carved wooden blinds, thecircular front steps, with the garden-seats before them, a great whitebird-house with gilt stripes glistening in the sun, the blue-lined coupestanding in the courtyard, were to her objects of continual admiration. 

She knew all the habits of the family: At what hour the bell was rung, when the workmen went away, the Saturday payday which kept the cashier'slittle lamp lighted late in the evening, and the long Sunday afternoon, the closed workshops, the smokeless chimney, the profound silence whichenabled her to hear Mademoiselle Claire at play in the garden, runningabout with her cousin Georges. From Risler she obtained details. 

"Show me the salon windows, " she would say to him, "and Claire's room. "

Risler, delighted by this extraordinary interest in his beloved factory, would explain to the child from their lofty position the arrangementof the buildings, point out the print-shop, the gilding-shop, thedesigning-room where he worked, the engine-room, above which toweredthat enormous chimney blackening all the neighboring walls with itscorrosive smoke, and which never suspected that a young life, concealedbeneath a neighboring roof, mingled its inmost thoughts with its loud, indefatigable panting. 

At last one day Sidonie entered that paradise of which she hadheretofore caught only a glimpse. 

Madame Fromont, to whom Risler often spoke of her little neighbor'sbeauty and intelligence, asked him to bring her to the children's ballshe intended to give at Christmas. At first Monsieur Chebe replied by acurt refusal. Even in those days, the Fromonts, whose name was always onRider's lips, irritated and humiliated him by their wealth. Moreover, itwas to be a fancy ball, and M. Chebe--who did not sell wallpapers, nothe!--could not afford to dress his daughter as a circus-dancer. ButRisler insisted, declared that he would get everything himself, and atonce set about designing a costume. 

It was a memorable evening. 

In Madame Chebe's bedroom, littered with pieces of cloth and pins andsmall toilet articles, Desiree Delobelle superintended Sidonie's toilet. The child, appearing taller because of her short skirt of red flannelwith black stripes, stood before the mirror, erect and motionless, inthe glittering splendor of her costume. She was charming. The waist, with bands of velvet laced over the white stomacher, the lovely, longtresses of chestnut hair escaping from a hat of plaited straw, allthe trivial details of her Savoyard's costume were heightened by theintelligent features of the child, who was quite at her ease in thebrilliant colors of that theatrical garb. 

The whole assembled neighborhood uttered cries of admiration. While someone went in search of Delobelle, the lame girl arranged the folds ofthe skirt, the bows on the shoes, and cast a final glance over her work, without laying aside her needle; she, too, was excited, poor child! bythe intoxication of that festivity to which she was not invited. The great man arrived. He made Sidonie rehearse two or three statelycurtseys which he had taught her, the proper way to walk, to stand, tosmile with her mouth slightly open, and the exact position of the littlefinger. It was truly amusing to see the precision with which the childwent through the drill. 

"She has dramatic blood in her veins!" exclaimed the old actorenthusiastically, unable to understand why that stupid Frantz wasstrongly inclined to weep. 

A year after that happy evening Sidonie could have told you what flowersthere were in the reception rooms, the color of the furniture, andthe music they were playing as she entered the ballroom, so deep animpression did her enjoyment make upon her. She forgot nothing, neitherthe costumes that made an eddying whirl about her, nor the childishlaughter, nor all the tiny steps that glided over the polished floors. For a moment, as she sat on the edge of a great red-silk couch, takingfrom the plate presented to her the first sherbet of her life, shesuddenly thought of the dark stairway, of her parents' stuffy littlerooms, and it produced upon her mind the effect of a distant countrywhich she had left forever. 

However, she was considered a fascinating little creature, and was muchadmired and petted. Claire Fromont, a miniature Cauchoise dressed inlace, presented her to her cousin Georges, a magnificent hussar whoturned at every step to observe the effect of his sabre. 

"You understand, Georges, she is my friend. She is coming to play withus Sundays. Mamma says she may. "

And, with the artless impulsiveness of a happy child, she kissed littleChebe with all her heart. 

But the time came to go. For a long time, in the filthy street where thesnow was melting, in the dark hall, in the silent room where her motherawaited her, the brilliant light of the salons continued to shine beforeher dazzled eyes. 

"Was it very fine? Did you have a charming time?" queried Madame Chebein a low tone, unfastening the buckles of the gorgeous costume, one byone. 

And Sidonie, overcome with fatigue, made no reply, but fell asleepstanding, beginning a lovely dream which was to last throughout heryouth and cost her many tears. 

Claire Fromont kept her word. Sidonie often went to play in thebeautiful gravelled garden, and was able to see at close range thecarved blinds and the dovecot with its threads of gold. She came to knowall the corners and hiding-places in the great factory, and took part inmany glorious games of hide-and-seek behind the printing-tables in thesolitude of Sunday afternoon. On holidays a plate was laid for her atthe children's table. 

Everybody loved her, although she never exhibited much affection for anyone. So long as she was in the midst of that luxury, she was consciousof softer impulses, she was happy and felt that she was embellished byher surroundings; but when she returned to her parents, when she saw thefactory through the dirty panes of the window on the landing, she had aninexplicable feeling of regret and anger. 

And yet Claire Fromont treated her as a friend. 

Sometimes they took her to the Bois, to the Tuileries, in the famousblue-lined carriage, or into the country, to pass a whole week atGrandfather Gardinois's chateau, at Savigny-sur-Orge. Thanks to themunificence of Risler, who was very proud of his little one's success, she was always presentable and well dressed. Madame Chebe made it apoint of honor, and the pretty, lame girl was always at hand to placeher treasures of unused coquetry at her little friend's service. 

But M. Chebe, who was always hostile to the Fromonts, looked frowninglyupon this growing intimacy. The true reason was that he himself neverwas invited; but he gave other reasons, and would say to his wife:

"Don't you see that your daughter's heart is sad when she returns fromthat house, and that she passes whole hours dreaming at the window?"

But poor Madame Chebe, who had been so unhappy ever since her marriage, had become reckless. She declared that one should make the most of thepresent for fear of the future, should seize happiness as it passes, asone often has no other support and consolation in life than the memoryof a happy childhood. 

For once it happened that M. Chebe was right. 

CHAPTER III. THE FALSE PEARLS

After two or three years of intimacy with Claire, of sharing heramusements, years during which Sidonie acquired the familiarity withluxury and the graceful manners of the children of the wealthy, thefriendship was suddenly broken. 

Cousin Georges, whose guardian M. Fromont was, had entered college sometime before. Claire in her turn took her departure for the convent withthe outfit of a little queen; and at that very time the Chebes werediscussing the question of apprenticing Sidonie to some trade. Theypromised to love each other as before and to meet twice a month, on theSundays that Claire was permitted to go home. 

Indeed, little Chebe did still go down sometimes to play with herfriends; but as she grew older she realized more fully the distance thatseparated them, and her clothes began to seem to her very simple forMadame Fromont's salon. 

When the three were alone, the childish friendship which made themequals prevented any feeling of embarrassment; but visitors came, girl friends from the convent, among others a tall girl, always richlydressed, whom her mother's maid used to bring to play with the littleFromonts on Sunday. 

As soon as she saw her coming up the steps, resplendent and disdainful, Sidonie longed to go away at once. The other embarrassed her withawkward questions. Where did she live? What did her parents do? Had shea carriage?

As she listened to their talk of the convent and their friends, Sidoniefelt that they lived in a different world, a thousand miles from herown; and a deathly sadness seized her, especially when, on her returnhome, her mother spoke of sending her as an apprentice to MademoiselleLe Mire, a friend of the Delobelles, who conducted a large false-pearlestablishment on the Rue du Roi-Dore. 

Risler insisted upon the plan of having the little one serve anapprenticeship. "Let her learn a trade, " said the honest fellow. "LaterI will undertake to set her up in business. "

Indeed, this same Mademoiselle Le Mire spoke of retiring in a few years. It was an excellent opportunity. 

One morning, a dull day in November, her father took her to the Rue duRio-Dore, to the fourth floor of an old house, even older and blackerthan her own home. 

On the ground floor, at the entrance to the hall, hung a number of signswith gilt letters: Depot for Travelling-Bags, Plated Chains, Children'sToys, Mathematical Instruments in Glass, Bouquets for Brides andMaids of Honor, Wild Flowers a Specialty; and above was a little dustyshow-case, wherein pearls, yellow with age, glass grapes and cherriessurrounded the pretentious name of Angelina Le Mire. 

What a horrible house!

It had not even a broad landing like that of the Chebes, grimy with oldage, but brightened by its window and the beautiful prospect presentedby the factory. A narrow staircase, a narrow door, a succession of roomswith brick floors, all small and cold, and in the last an old maidwith a false front and black thread mitts, reading a soiled copy of the'Journal pour Tous, ' and apparently very much annoyed to be disturbed inher reading. 

Mademoiselle Le Mire (written in two words) received the father anddaughter without rising, discoursed at great length of the rank shehad lost, of her father, an old nobleman of Le Rouergue--it is mostextraordinary how many old noblemen Le Rouergue has produced!--and ofan unfaithful steward who had carried off their whole fortune. She instantly aroused the sympathies of M. Chebe, for whom decayedgentlefolk had an irresistible charm, and he went away overjoyed, promising his daughter to call for her at seven o'clock at night inaccordance with the terms agreed upon. 

The apprentice was at once ushered into the still empty workroom. Mademoiselle Le Mire seated her in front of a great drawer filled withpearls, needles, and bodkins, with instalments of four-sou novels thrownin at random among them. 

It was Sidonie's business to sort the pearls and string them innecklaces of equal length, which were tied together to be sold to thesmall dealers. Then the young women would soon be there and they wouldshow her exactly what she would have to do, for Mademoiselle Le Mire(always written in two words!) did not interfere at all, but overlookedher business from a considerable distance, from that dark room where shepassed her life reading newspaper novels. 

At nine o'clock the work-women arrived, five tall, pale-faced, fadedgirls, wretchedly dressed, but with their hair becomingly arranged, after the fashion of poor working-girls who go about bare-headed throughthe streets of Paris. 

Two or three were yawning and rubbing their eyes, saying that they weredead with sleep. 

At last they went to work beside a long table where each had her owndrawer and her own tools. An order had been received for mourningjewels, and haste was essential. Sidonie, whom the forewoman instructedin her task in a tone of infinite superiority, began dismally to sort amultitude of black pearls, bits of glass, and wisps of crape. 

The others, paying no attention to the little girl, chatted together asthey worked. They talked of a wedding that was to take place that veryday at St. Gervais. 

"Suppose we go, " said a stout, red-haired girl, whose name was Malvina. "It's to be at noon. We shall have time to go and get back again if wehurry. "

And, at the lunch hour, the whole party rushed downstairs four steps ata time. 

Sidonie had brought her luncheon in a little basket, like a school-girl;with a heavy heart she sat at a corner of the table and ate alone forthe first time in her life. Great God! what a sad and wretched thinglife seemed to be; what a terrible revenge she would take hereafter forher sufferings there!

At one o'clock the girls trooped noisily back, highly excited. 

"Did you see the white satin gown? And the veil of point d'Angleterre?There's a lucky girl!"

Thereupon they repeated in the workroom the remarks they had made inundertones in the church, leaning against the rail, throughout theceremony. That question of a wealthy marriage, of beautiful clothes, lasted all day long; nor did it interfere with their work-far from it. 

These small Parisian industries, which have to do with the most trivialdetails of the toilet, keep the work-girls informed as to the fashionsand fill their minds with thoughts of luxury and elegance. To the poorgirls who worked on Mademoiselle Le Mire's fourth floor, the blackenedwalls, the narrow street did not exist. They were always thinking ofsomething else and passed their lives asking one another:

"Malvina, if you were rich what would you do? For my part, I'd live onthe Champs-Elysees. " And the great trees in the square, the carriagesthat wheeled about there, coquettishly slackening their pace, appearedmomentarily before their minds, a delicious, refreshing vision. 

Little Chebe, in her corner, listened without speaking, industriouslystringing her black grapes with the precocious dexterity and taste shehad acquired in Desiree's neighborhood. So that in the evening, when M. Chebe came to fetch his daughter, they praised her in the highest terms. 

Thereafter all her days were alike. The next day, instead of blackpearls, she strung white pearls and bits of false coral; for atMademoiselle Le Mire's they worked only in what was false, in tinsel, and that was where little Chebe was to serve her apprenticeship to life. 

For some time the new apprentice-being younger and better bred than theothers--found that they held aloof from her. Later, as she grew older, she was admitted to their friendship and their confidence, but withoutever sharing their pleasures. She was too proud to go to see weddingsat midday; and when she heard them talking of a ball at Vauxhall or the'Delices du Marais, ' or of a nice little supper at Bonvalet's or at the'Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle, ' she was always very disdainful. 

We looked higher than that, did we not, little Chebe?

Moreover, her father called for her every evening. Sometimes, however, about the New Year, she was obliged to work late with the others, inorder to complete pressing orders. In the gaslight those pale-facedParisians, sorting pearls as white as themselves, of a dead, unwholesomewhiteness, were a painful spectacle. There was the same fictitiousglitter, the same fragility of spurious jewels. They talked of nothingbut masked balls and theatres. 

"Have you seen Adele Page, in 'Les Trois Mousquetaires?' And Melingue?And Marie Laurent? Oh! Marie Laurent!"

The actors' doublets, the embroidered costumes of the queens ofmelodrama, appeared before them in the white light of the necklacesforming beneath their fingers. 

In summer the work was less pressing. It was the dull season. In theintense heat, when through the drawn blinds fruit-sellers could be heardin the street, crying their mirabelles and Queen Claudes, the workgirlsslept heavily, their heads on the table. Or perhaps Malvina would go andask Mademoiselle Le Mire for a copy of the 'Journal pour Tous, ' and readaloud to the others. 

But little Chebe did not care for the novels. She carried one in herhead much more interesting than all that trash. 

The fact is, nothing could make her forget the factory. When she setforth in the morning on her father's arm, she always cast a glance inthat direction. At that hour the works were just stirring, the chimneyemitted its first puff of black smoke. Sidonie, as she passed, couldhear the shouts of the workmen, the dull, heavy blows of the bars ofthe printing-press, the mighty, rhythmical hum of the machinery; and allthose sounds of toil, blended in her memory with recollections of fetesand blue-lined carriages, haunted her persistently. 

They spoke louder than the rattle of the omnibuses, the street cries, the cascades in the gutters; and even in the workroom, when she wassorting the false pearls even at night, in her own home, when she went, after dinner, to breathe the fresh air at the window on the landing andto gaze at the dark, deserted factory, that murmur still buzzed in herears, forming, as it were, a continual accompaniment to her thoughts. 

"The little one is tired, Madame Chebe. She needs diversion. Next SundayI will take you all into the country. "

These Sunday excursions, which honest Risler organized to amuse Sidonie, served only to sadden her still more. 

On those days she must rise at four o'clock in the morning; for the poormust pay for all their enjoyments, and there was always a ribbon tobe ironed at the last moment, or a bit of trimming to be sewn on inan attempt to rejuvenate the everlasting little lilac frock with whitestripes which Madame Chebe conscientiously lengthened every year. 

They would all set off together, the Chebes, the Rislers, and theillustrious Delobelle. Only Desiree and her mother never were of theparty. The poor, crippled child, ashamed of her deformity, never wouldstir from her chair, and Mamma Delobelle stayed behind to keep hercompany. Moreover, neither possessed a suitable gown in which toshow herself out-of-doors in their great man's company; it would havedestroyed the whole effect of his appearance. 

When they left the house, Sidonie would brighten up a little. Paris inthe pink haze of a July morning, the railway stations filled with lightdresses, the country flying past the car windows, and the healthfulexercise, the bath in the pure air saturated with the water of theSeine, vivified by a bit of forest, perfumed by flowering meadows, byripening grain, all combined to make her giddy for a moment. But thatsensation was soon succeeded by disgust at such a commonplace way ofpassing her Sunday. 

It was always the same thing. 

They stopped at a refreshment booth, in close proximity to a very noisyand numerously attended rustic festival, for there must be an audiencefor Delobelle, who would saunter along, absorbed by his chimera, dressedin gray, with gray gaiters, a little hat over his ear, a light top coaton his arm, imagining that the stage represented a country scene inthe suburbs of Paris, and that he was playing the part of a Parisiansojourning in the country. 

As for M. Chebe, who prided himself on being as fond of nature asthe late Jean Jacques Rousseau, he did not appreciate it without theaccompaniments of shooting-matches, wooden horses, sack races, and aprofusion of dust and penny-whistles, which constituted also MadameChebe's ideal of a country life. 

But Sidonie had a different ideal; and those Parisian Sundays passed instrolling through noisy village streets depressed her beyond measure. Her only pleasure in those throngs was the consciousness of being staredat. The veriest boor's admiration, frankly expressed aloud at her side, made her smile all day; for she was of those who disdain no compliment. 

Sometimes, leaving the Chebes and Delobelle in the midst of the fete, Risler would go into the fields with his brother and the "little one"in search of flowers for patterns for his wall-papers. Frantz, with hislong arms, would pull down the highest branches of a hawthorn, or wouldclimb a park wall to pick a leaf of graceful shape he had spied on theother side. But they reaped their richest harvests on the banks of thestream. 

There they found those flexible plants, with long swaying stalks, whichmade such a lovely effect on hangings, tall, straight reeds, and thevolubilis, whose flower, opening suddenly as if in obedience to acaprice, resembles a living face, some one looking at you amid thelovely, quivering foliage. Risler arranged his bouquets artistically, drawing his inspiration from the very nature of the plants, trying tounderstand thoroughly their manner of life, which can not be divinedafter the withering of one day. 

Then, when the bouquet was completed, tied with a broad blade of grassas with a ribbon, and slung over Frantz's back, away they went. Risler, always engrossed in his art, looked about for subjects, for possiblecombinations, as they walked along. 

"Look there, little one--see that bunch of lily of the valley, with itswhite bells, among those eglantines. What do you think? Wouldn't that bepretty against a sea-green or pearl-gray background?"

But Sidonie cared no more for lilies of the valley than for eglantine. Wild flowers always seemed to her like the flowers of the poor, something like her lilac dress. 

She remembered that she had seen flowers of a different sort at thehouse of M. Gardinois, at the Chateau de Savigny, in the hothouses, onthe balconies, and all about the gravelled courtyard bordered withtall urns. Those were the flowers she loved; that was her idea of thecountry!

The little stations in the outskirts of Paris are so terribly crowdedand stuffy on those Sunday evenings in summer! Such artificialenjoyment, such idiotic laughter, such doleful ballads, sung in whispersby voices that no longer have the strength to roar! That was the timewhen M. Chebe was in his element. 

He would elbow his way to the gate, scold about the delay of the train, declaim against the station-agent, the company, the government; say toDelobelle in a loud voice, so as to be overheard by his neighbors:

"I say--suppose such a thing as this should happen in America!" Whichremark, thanks to the expressive by-play of the illustrious actor, andto the superior air with which he replied, "I believe you!" gave thosewho stood near to understand that these gentlemen knew exactly whatwould happen in America in such a case. Now, they were equally andentirely ignorant on that subject; but upon the crowd their words madean impression. 

Sitting beside Frantz, with half of his bundle of flowers on her knees, Sidonie would seem to be blotted out, as it were, amid the uproar, during the long wait for the evening trains. From the station, lightedby a single lamp, she could see the black clumps of trees outside, lighted here and there by the last illuminations of the fete, a darkvillage street, people continually coming in, and a lantern hanging on adeserted pier. 

From time to time, on the other side of the glass doors, a train wouldrush by without stopping, with a shower of hot cinders and the roar ofescaping steam. Thereupon a tempest of shouts and stamping would arisein the station, and, soaring above all the rest, the shrill treble of M. Chebe, shrieking in his sea-gull's voice: "Break down the doors! breakdown the doors!"--a thing that the little man would have taken good carenot to do himself, as he had an abject fear of gendarmes. In a momentthe storm would abate. The tired women, their hair disarranged by thewind, would fall asleep on the benches. There were torn and raggeddresses, low-necked white gowns, covered with dust. 

The air they breathed consisted mainly of dust. It lay upon theirclothes, rose at every step, obscured the light of the lamp, vexed one'seyes, and raised a sort of cloud before the tired faces. The cars whichthey entered at last, after hours of waiting, were saturated with italso. Sidonie would open the window, and look out at the dark fields, anendless line of shadow. Then, like innumerable stars, the first lanternsof the outer boulevards appeared near the fortifications. 

So ended the ghastly day of rest of all those poor creatures. The sightof Paris brought back to each one's mind the thought of the morrow'stoil. Dismal as her Sunday had been, Sidonie began to regret that ithad passed. She thought of the rich, to whom all the days of their liveswere days of rest; and vaguely, as in a dream, the long park avenues ofwhich she had caught glimpses during the day appeared to her throngedwith those happy ones of earth, strolling on the fine gravel, whileoutside the gate, in the dust of the highroad, the poor man's Sundayhurried swiftly by, having hardly time to pause a moment to look andenvy. 

Such was little Chebe's life from thirteen to seventeen. 

The years passed, but did not bring with them the slightest change. Madame Chebe's cashmere was a little more threadbare, the little lilacfrock had undergone a few additional repairs, and that was all. But, asSidonie grew older, Frantz, now become a young man, acquired a habit ofgazing at her silently with a melting expression, of paying her lovingattentions that were visible to everybody, and were unnoticed by nonesave the girl herself. 

Indeed, nothing aroused the interest of little Chebe. In the work-roomshe performed her task regularly, silently, without the slightestthought of the future or of saving. All that she did seemed to be doneas if she were waiting for something. 

Frantz, on the other hand, had been working for some time withextraordinary energy, the ardor of those who see something at the end oftheir efforts; so that, at the age of twenty-four, he graduated secondin his class from the Ecole Centrale, as an engineer. 

On that evening Risler had taken the Chebe family to the Gymnase, andthroughout the evening he and Madame Chebe had been making signs andwinking at each other behind the children's backs. And when they leftthe theatre Madame Chebe solemnly placed Sidonie's arm in Frantz's, asif she would say to the lovelorn youth, "Now settle matters--here isyour chance. "

Thereupon the poor lover tried to settle matters. 

It is a long walk from the Gymnase to the Marais. After a very fewsteps the brilliancy of the boulevard is left behind, the streets becomedarker and darker, the passers more and more rare. Frantz began bytalking of the play. He was very fond of comedies of that sort, in whichthere was plenty of sentiment. 

"And you, Sidonie?"

"Oh! as for me, Frantz, you know that so long as there are finecostumes--"

In truth she thought of nothing else at the theatre. She was not oneof those sentimental creatures; a la Madame Bovary, who return from theplay with love-phrases ready-made, a conventional ideal. No! the theatresimply made her long madly for luxury and fine raiment; she brought awayfrom it nothing but new methods of arranging the hair, and patterns ofgowns. The new, exaggerated toilettes of the actresses, their gait, even the spurious elegance of their speech, which seemed to her of thehighest distinction, and with it all the tawdry magnificence of thegilding and the lights, the gaudy placard at the door, the long line ofcarriages, and all the somewhat unwholesome excitement that springs upabout a popular play; that was what she loved, that was what absorbedher thoughts. 

"How well they acted their love-scene!" continued the lover. 

And, as he uttered that suggestive phrase, he bent fondly toward alittle face surrounded by a white woollen hood, from which the hairescaped in rebellious curls. 

Sidonie sighed:

"Oh! yes, the love-scene. The actress wore beautiful diamonds. "

There was a moment's silence. Poor Frantz had much difficulty inexplaining himself. The words he sought would not come, and then, too, he was afraid. He fixed the time mentally when he would speak:

"When we have passed the Porte Saint-Denis--when we have left theboulevard. "

But when the time arrived, Sidonie began to talk of such indifferentmatters that his declaration froze on his lips, or else it was stoppedby a passing carriage, which enabled their elders to overtake them. 

At last, in the Marais, he suddenly took courage:

"Listen to me, Sidonie--I love you!"

That night the Delobelles had sat up very late. 

It was the habit of those brave-hearted women to make their working-dayas long as possible, to prolong it so far into the night that their lampwas among the last to be extinguished on the quiet Rue de Braque. Theyalways sat up until the great man returned home, and kept a daintylittle supper warm for him in the ashes on the hearth. 

In the days when he was an actor there was some reason for that custom;actors, being obliged to dine early and very sparingly, have a terriblegnawing at their vitals when they leave the theatre, and usually eatwhen they go home. Delobelle had not acted for a long time; but having, as he said, no right to abandon the stage, he kept his mania alive byclinging to a number of the strolling player's habits, and the supper onreturning home was one of them, as was his habit of delaying his returnuntil the last footlight in the boulevard theatres was extinguished. Toretire without supping, at the hour when all other artists supped, wouldhave been to abdicate, to abandon the struggle, and he would not abandonit, sacre bleu!

On the evening in question the actor had not yet come in and the womenwere waiting for him, talking as they worked, and with great animation, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. During the whole evening theyhad done nothing but talk of Frantz, of his success, of the future thatlay before him. 

"Now, " said Mamma Delobelle, "the only thing he needs is to find a goodlittle wife. "

That was Desiree's opinion, too. That was all that was lacking now toFrantz's happiness, a good little wife, active and brave and accustomedto work, who would forget everything for him. And if Desiree spoke withgreat confidence, it was because she was intimately acquainted with thewoman who was so well adapted to Frantz Risler's needs. She was only ayear younger than he, just enough to make her younger than her husbandand a mother to him at the same time. 

Pretty?

No, not exactly, but attractive rather than ugly, notwithstanding herinfirmity, for she was lame, poor child! And then she was clever andbright, and so loving! No one but Desiree knew how fondly that littlewoman loved Frantz, and how she had thought of him night and day foryears. He had not noticed it himself, but seemed to have eyes for nobodybut Sidonie, a gamine. But no matter! Silent love is so eloquent, sucha mighty power lies hid in restrained feelings. Who knows? Perhaps someday or other:

And the little cripple, leaning over her work, started upon one of thoselong journeys to the land of chimeras of which she had made so manyin her invalid's easychair, with her feet resting on the stool; oneof those wonderful journeys from which she always returned happy andsmiling, leaning on Frantz's arm with all the confidence of a belovedwife. As her fingers followed her thought, the little bird she had inher hand at the moment, smoothing his ruffled wings, looked as if hetoo were of the party and were about to fly far, far away, as joyous andlight of heart as she. 

Suddenly the door flew open. 

"I do not disturb you?" said a triumphant voice. 

The mother, who was slightly drowsy, suddenly raised her head. 

"Ah! it's Monsieur Frantz. Pray come in, Monsieur Frantz. We're waitingfor father, as you see. These brigands of artists always stay out solate! Take a seat--you shall have supper with him. "

"Oh! no, thank you, " replied Frantz, whose lips were still pale fromthe emotion he had undergone, "I can't stop. I saw a light and I juststepped in to tell you--to tell you some great news that will make youvery happy, because I know that you love me--"

"Great heavens, what is it?"

"Monsieur Frantz Risler and Mademoiselle Sidonie are engaged to bemarried. "

"There! didn't I say that all he needed was a good little wife, "exclaimed Mamma Delobelle, rising and throwing her arms about his neck. 

Desiree had not the strength to utter a word. She bent still lowerover her work, and as Frantz's eyes were fixed exclusively upon hishappiness, as Mamma Delobelle did nothing but look at the clock to seewhether her great man would return soon, no one noticed the lame girl'semotion, nor her pallor, nor the convulsive trembling of the little birdthat lay in her hands with its head thrown back, like a bird with itsdeath-wound. 

CHAPTER IV. THE GLOW-WORMS OF SAVIGNY

"SAVIGNY-SUR-ORGE. 

"DEAR SMONIE:--We were sitting at table yesterday in the greatdining-room which you remember, with the door wide open leading to theterrace, where the flowers are all in bloom. I was a little bored. Deargrandpapa had been cross all the morning, and poor mamma dared not saya word, being afraid of those frowning eyebrows which have alwayslaid down the law for her. I was thinking what a pity it was to be soentirely alone, in the middle of the summer, in such a lovely spot, andthat I should be very glad, now that I have left the convent, and amdestined to pass whole seasons in the country, to have as in the oldday, some one to run about the woods and paths with me. 

"To be sure, Georges comes occasionally, but he always arrives verylate, just in time for dinner, and is off again with my father in themorning before I am awake. And then he is a serious-minded man now, is Monsieur Georges. He works at the factory, and business cares oftenbring frowns to his brow. 

"I had reached that point in my reflections when suddenly dear grandpapaturned abruptly to me:

"'What has become of your little friend Sidonie? I should be glad tohave her here for a time. '

"You can imagine my delight. What happiness to meet again, to renew thepleasant friendship that was broken off by the fault of the events oflife rather than by our own! How many things we shall have to telleach other! You, who alone had the knack of driving the frowns from myterrible grandpapa's brow, will bring us gayety, and I assure you weneed it. 

"This lovely Savigny is so lonely! For instance, sometimes in themorning I choose to be a little coquettish. I dress myself, I makemyself beautiful with my hair in curls and put on a pretty gown; I walkthrough all the paths, and suddenly I realize that I have taken all thistrouble for the swans and ducks, my dog Kiss, and the cows, who do noteven turn to look at me when I pass. Thereupon, in my wrath, I hurryhome, put on a thick gown and busy myself on the farm, in the servants'quarters, everywhere. And really, I am beginning to believe that ennuihas perfected me, and that I shall make an excellent housekeeper. 

"Luckily the hunting season will soon be here, and I rely upon thatfor a little amusement. In the first place, Georges and father, bothenthusiastic sportsmen, will come oftener. And then you will be here, you know. For you will reply at once that you will come, won't you?Monsieur Risler said not long ago that you were not well. The air ofSavigny will do you worlds of good. 

"Everybody here expects you. And I am dying with impatience. 

 "CLAIRE. "

Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a large straw hat for thefirst days of August were warm and glorious--and went herself to dropit in the little box from which the postman collected the mail from thechateau every morning. 

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the road. She paused amoment to look at the trees by the roadside, at the neighboring meadowssleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder the reapers were gatheringthe last sheaves. Farther on they were ploughing. But all the melancholyof the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl was concerned, sodelighted was she at the thought of seeing her friend once more. 

No breeze came from the hills in the distance, no voice from the trees, to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending that fatalletter. And immediately upon her return she gave her attention to thepreparation of a pretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her own. 

The letter did its errand faithfully. From the little green, vine-embowered gate of the chateau it found its way to Paris, andarrived that same evening, with its Savigny postmark and impregnatedwith the odor of the country, at the fifth-floor apartment on the Rue deBraque. 

What an event that was! They read it again and again; and for a wholeweek, until Sidonie's departure, it lay on the mantel-shelf besideMadame Chebe's treasures, the clock under a glass globe and the Empirecups. To Sidonie it was like a wonderful romance filled with tales ofenchantment and promises, which she read without opening it, merelyby gazing at the white envelope whereon Claire Fromont's monogram wasengraved in relief. 

Little she thought of marriage now. The important question was, Whatclothes should she wear at the chateau? She must give her whole mind tothat, to cutting and planning, trying on dresses, devising new ways ofarranging her hair. Poor Frantz! How heavy his heart was made by thesepreparations! That visit to Savigny, which he had tried vainly tooppose, would cause a still further postponement of their wedding, whichSidonie-why, he did not know--persisted in putting off from day to day. He could not go to see her; and when she was once there, in the midst offestivities and pleasures, who could say how long she would remain?

The lover in his despair always went to the Delobelles to confide hissorrows, but he never noticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as heentered, to make room for him by her side at the work-table, and how sheat once sat down again, with cheeks as red as fire and shining eyes. 

For some days past they had ceased to work at birds and insects forornament. The mother and daughter were hemming pink flounces destinedfor Sidonie's frock, and the little cripple never had plied her needlewith such good heart. 

In truth little Desiree was not Delobelle's daughter to no purpose. 

She inherited her father's faculty of retaining his illusions, of hopingon to the end and even beyond. 

While Frantz was dilating upon his woe, Desire was thinking that, whenSidonie was gone, he would come every day, if it were only to talk aboutthe absent one; that she would have him there by her side, that theywould sit up together waiting for "father, " and that, perhaps, someevening, as he sat looking at her, he would discover the differencebetween the woman who loves you and the one who simply allows herself tobe loved. 

Thereupon the thought that every stitch taken in the frock tendedto hasten the departure which she anticipated with such impatienceimparted extraordinary activity to her needle, and the unhappy loverruefully watched the flounces and ruffles piling up about her, likelittle pink, white-capped waves. 

When the pink frock was finished, Mademoiselle Chebe started forSavigny. 

The chateau of M. Gardinois was built in the valley of the Orge, on thebank of that capriciously lovely stream, with its windmills, its littleislands, its dams, and its broad lawns that end at its shores. 

The chateau, an old Louis-Quinze structure, low in reality, althoughmade to appear high by a pointed roof, had a most depressing aspect, suggestive of aristocratic antiquity; broad steps, balconies with rustybalustrades, old urns marred by time, wherein the flowers stood outvividly against the reddish stone. As far as the eye could see, thewalls stretched away, decayed and crumbling, descending gradually towardthe stream. The chateau overlooked them, with its high, slated roofs, the farmhouse, with its red tiles, and the superb park, with itslindens, ash-trees, poplars and chestnuts growing confusedly togetherin a dense black mass, cut here and there by the arched openings of thepaths. 

But the charm of the old place was the water, which enlivened itssilence and gave character to its beautiful views. There were atSavigny, to say nothing of the river, many springs, fountains, andponds, in which the sun sank to rest in all his glory; and they formed asuitable setting for that venerable mansion, green and mossy as it was, and slightly worn away, like a stone on the edge of a brook. 

Unluckily, at Savigny, as in most of those gorgeous Parisian summerpalaces, which the parvenus in commerce and speculation have made theirprey, the chatelains were not in harmony with the chateau. 

Since he had purchased his chateau, old Gardinois had done nothing butinjure the beauty of the beautiful property chance had placed inhis hands; cut down trees "for the view, " filled his park with roughobstructions to keep out trespassers, and reserved all his solicitudefor a magnificent kitchen-garden, which, as it produced fruit andvegetables in abundance, seemed to him more like his own part of thecountry--the land of the peasant. 

As for the great salons, where the panels with paintings of famoussubjects were fading in the autumn fogs, as for the ponds overrun withwater-lilies, the grottoes, the stone bridges, he cared for them onlybecause of the admiration of visitors, and because of such elements wascomposed that thing which so flattered his vanity as an ex-dealer incattle--a chateau!

Being already old, unable to hunt or fish, he passed his timesuperintending the most trivial details of that large property. Thegrain for the hens, the price of the last load of the second crop ofhay, the number of bales of straw stored in a magnificent circulargranary, furnished him with matter for scolding for a whole day; andcertain it is that, when one gazed from a distance at that lovely estateof Savigny, the chateau on the hillside, the river, like a mirror, flowing at its feet, the high terraces shaded by ivy, the supportingwall of the park following the majestic slope of the ground, one neverwould have suspected the proprietor's niggardliness and meanness ofspirit. 

In the idleness consequent upon his wealth, M. Gardinois, being greatlybored in Paris, lived at Savigny throughout the year, and the Fromontslived with him during the summer. 

Madame Fromont was a mild, dull woman, whom her father's brutaldespotism had early molded to passive obedience for life. She maintainedthe same attitude with her husband, whose constant kindness andindulgence never had succeeded in triumphing over that humiliated, taciturn nature, indifferent to everything, and, in some sense, irresponsible. Having passed her life with no knowledge of business, shehad become rich without knowing it and without the slightest desireto take advantage of it. Her fine apartments in Paris, her father'smagnificent chateau, made her uncomfortable. She occupied as smalla place as possible in both, filling her life with a single passion, order--a fantastic, abnormal sort of order, which consisted in brushing, wiping, dusting, and polishing the mirrors, the gilding and thedoor-knobs, with her own hands, from morning till night. 

When she had nothing else to clean, the strange woman would attack herrings, her watch-chain, her brooches, scrubbing the cameos and pearls, and, by dint of polishing the combination of her own name and herhusband's, she had effaced all the letters of both. Her fixed ideafollowed her to Savigny. She picked up dead branches in the paths, scratched the moss from the benches with the end of her umbrella, andwould have liked to dust the leaves and sweep down the old trees; andoften, when in the train, she looked with envy at the little villasstanding in a line along the track, white and clean, with their gleamingutensils, the pewter ball, and the little oblong gardens, which resembledrawers in a bureau. Those were her ideal of a country-house. 

M. Fromont, who came only occasionally and was always absorbed by hisbusiness affairs, enjoyed Savigny little more than she. Claire alonefelt really at home in that lovely park. She was familiar with itssmallest shrub. Being obliged to provide her own amusements, like allonly children, she had become attached to certain walks, watched theflowers bloom, had her favorite path, her favorite tree, her favoritebench for reading. The dinner-bell always surprised her far away in thepark. She would come to the table, out of breath but happy, flushed withthe fresh air. The shadow of the hornbeams, stealing over that youthfulbrow, had imprinted a sort of gentle melancholy there, and the deep, dark green of the ponds, crossed by vague rays, was reflected in hereyes. 

Those lovely surroundings had in very truth shielded her from thevulgarity and the abjectness of the persons about her. M. Gardinoismight deplore in her presence, for hours at a time, the perversity oftradesmen and servants, or make an estimate of what was being stolenfrom him each month, each week, every day, every minute; Madame Fromontmight enumerate her grievances against the mice, the maggots, dust anddampness, all desperately bent upon destroying her property, and engagedin a conspiracy against her wardrobes; not a word of their foolish talkremained in Claire's mind. A run around the lawn, an hour's reading onthe river-bank, restored the tranquillity of that noble and intenselyactive mind. 

Her grandfather looked upon her as a strange being, altogether out ofplace in his family. As a child she annoyed him with her great, honesteyes, her straightforwardness on all occasions, and also because hedid not find in her a second edition of his own passive and submissivedaughter. 

"That child will be a proud chit and an original, like her father, " hewould say in his ugly moods. 

How much better he liked that little Chebe girl who used to come now andthen and play in the avenues at Savigny! In her, at least, he detectedthe strain of the common people like himself, with a sprinkling ofambition and envy, suggested even in those early days by a certainlittle smile at the corner of the mouth. Moreover, the child exhibitedan ingenuous amazement and admiration in presence of his wealth, whichflattered his parvenu pride; and sometimes, when he teased her, shewould break out with the droll phrases of a Paris gamine, slang redolentof the faubourgs, seasoned by her pretty, piquant face, inclined topallor, which not even superficiality could deprive of its distinction. So he never had forgotten her. 

On this occasion above all, when Sidonie arrived at Savigny after herlong absence, with her fluffy hair, her graceful figure, her bright, mobile face, the whole effect emphasized by mannerisms suggestive of theshop-girl, she produced a decided sensation. Old Gardinois, wonderinggreatly to see a tall young woman in place of the child he was expectingto see, considered her prettier and, above all, better dressed thanClaire. 

It was a fact that, when Mademoiselle Chebe had left the train and wasseated in the great wagonette from the chateau, her appearance was notbad; but she lacked those details that constituted her friend's chiefbeauty and charm--a distinguished carriage, a contempt for poses, and, more than all else, mental tranquillity. Her prettiness was not unlikeher gowns, of inexpensive materials, but cut according to the style ofthe day-rags, if you will, but rags of which fashion, that ridiculousbut charming fairy, had regulated the color, the trimming, and theshape. Paris has pretty faces made expressly for costumes of that sort, very easy to dress becomingly, for the very reason that they belong tono type, and Mademoiselle Sidonie's face was one of these. 

What bliss was hers when the carriage entered the long avenue, borderedwith velvety grass and primeval elms, and at the end Savigny awaitingher with its great gate wide open!

And how thoroughly at ease she felt amid all those refinements ofwealth! How perfectly that sort of life suited her! It seemed to herthat she never had known any other. 

Suddenly, in the midst of her intoxication, arrived a letter fromFrantz, which brought her back to the realities of her life, toher wretched fate as the future wife of a government clerk, whichtransported her, whether she would or no, to the mean little apartmentthey would occupy some day at the top of some dismal house, whose heavyatmosphere, dense with privation, she seemed already to breathe. 

Should she break her betrothal promise?

She certainly could do it, as she had given no other pledge than herword. But when he had left her, who could say that she would not wishhim back?

In that little brain, turned by ambition, the strangest ideas chased oneanother. Sometimes, while Grandfather Gardinois, who had laid aside inher honor his old-fashioned hunting-jackets and swanskin waistcoats, wasjesting with her, amusing himself by contradicting her in order todraw out a sharp reply, she would gaze steadily, coldly into his eyes, without replying. Ah! if only he were ten years younger! But the thoughtof becoming Madame Gardinois did not long occupy her. A new personage, anew hope came into her life. 

After Sidonie's arrival, Georges Fromont, who was seldom seen at Savignyexcept on Sundays, adopted the habit of coming to dinner almost everyday. 

He was a tall, slender, pale youth, of refined appearance. Having nofather or mother, he had been brought up by his uncle, M. Fromont, and was looked upon by him to succeed him in business, and probablyto become Claire's husband. That ready-made future did not arouse anyenthusiasm in Georges. In the first place business bored him. As forhis cousin, the intimate good-fellowship of an education in common andmutual confidence existed between them, but nothing more, at least onhis side. 

With Sidonie, on the contrary, he was exceedingly embarrassed andshy, and at the same time desirous of producing an effect--a totallydifferent man, in short. She had just the spurious charm, a little free, which was calculated to attract a superficial nature, and it was notlong before she discovered the impression that she produced upon him. 

When the two girls were walking together in the park, it was alwaysSidonie who remembered that it was time for the train from Paris toarrive. They would go together to the gate to meet the travellers, andGeorges's first glance was always for Mademoiselle Chebe, who remained alittle behind her friend, but with the poses and airs that go halfway tomeet the eyes. That manoeuvring between them lasted some time. They didnot mention love, but all the words, all the smiles they exchanged werefull of silent avowals. 

One cloudy and threatening summer evening, when the two friends had leftthe table as soon as dinner was at an end and were walking in the long, shady avenue, Georges joined them. They were talking upon indifferentsubjects, crunching the gravel beneath their idling footsteps, whenMadame Fromont's voice, from the chateau, called Claire away. Georgesand Sidonie were left alone. They continued to walk along the avenue, guided by the uncertain whiteness of the path, without speaking ofdrawing nearer to each other. 

A warm wind rustled among the leaves. The ruffled surface of the pondlapped softly against the arches of the little bridge; and the blossomsof the acacias and lindens, detached by the breeze, whirled about incircles, perfuming the electricity-laden air. They felt themselvessurrounded by an atmosphere of storm, vibrant and penetrating. Dazzlingflashes of heat passed before their troubled eyes, like those thatplayed along the horizon. 

"Oh! what lovely glow-worms!" exclaimed Sidonie, embarrassed by theoppressive silence broken by so many mysterious sounds. 

On the edge of the greensward a blade of grass here and there wasilluminated by a tiny, green, flickering light. She stooped to lift oneon her glove. Georges knelt close beside her; and as they leaned down, their hair and cheeks touching, they gazed at each other for a moment bythe light of the glow-worms. How weird and fascinating she seemed to himin that green light, which shone upon her face and died away in thefine network of her waving hair! He put his arm around her waist, andsuddenly, feeling that she abandoned herself to him, he clasped her in along, passionate embrace. 

"What are you looking for?" asked Claire, suddenly coming up in theshadow behind them. 

Taken by surprise, and with a choking sensation in his throat, Georgestrembled so that he could not reply. Sidonie, on the other hand, rosewith the utmost coolness, and said as she shook out her skirt:

"The glow-worms. See how many of them there are tonight. And how theysparkle. "

Her eyes also sparkled with extraordinary brilliancy. 

"The storm makes them, I suppose, " murmured Georges, still trembling. 

The storm was indeed near. At brief intervals great clouds of leaves anddust whirled from one end of the avenue to the other. They walked a fewsteps farther, then all three returned to the house. The young womentook their work, Georges tried to read a newspaper, while Madame Fromontpolished her rings and M. Gardinois and his son-in-law played billiardsin the adjoining room. 

How long that evening seemed to Sidonie! She had but one wish, to bealone-alone with her thoughts. 

But, in the silence of her little bedroom, when she had put outher light, which interferes with dreams by casting too bright anillumination upon reality, what schemes, what transports of delight!Georges loved her, Georges Fromont, the heir of the factory! They wouldmarry; she would be rich. For in that mercenary little heart the firstkiss of love had awakened no ideas save those of ambition and a life ofluxury. 

To assure herself that her lover was sincere, she tried to recall thescene under the trees to its most trifling details, the expression ofhis eyes, the warmth of his embrace, the vows uttered brokenly, lipsto lips, it that weird light shed by the glow-worms, which one solemnmoment had fixed forever in her heart. 

Oh! the glow-worms of Savigny!

All night long they twinkled like stars before her closed eyes. The parkwas full of them, to the farthest limits of its darkest paths. Therewere clusters of them all along the lawns, on the trees, in theshrubbery. The fine gravel of the avenues, the waves of the river, seemed to emit green sparks, and all those microscopic flashes formed asort of holiday illumination in which Savigny seemed to be enveloped inher honor, to celebrate the betrothal of Georges and Sidonie. 

When she rose the next day, her plan was formed. Georges loved her; thatwas certain. Did he contemplate marrying her? She had a suspicion thathe did not, the clever minx! But that did not frighten her. She feltstrong enough to triumph over that childish nature, at once weak andpassionate. She had only to resist him, and that is exactly what shedid. 

For some days she was cold and indifferent, wilfully blind and devoid ofmemory. He tried to speak to her, to renew the blissful moment, but sheavoided him, always placing some one between them. 

Then he wrote to her. 

He carried his notes himself to a hollow in a rock near a clear springcalled "The Phantom, " which was in the outskirts of the park, shelteredby a thatched roof. Sidonie thought that a charming episode. In theevening she must invent some story, a pretext of some sort for goingto "The Phantom" alone. The shadow of the trees across the path, themystery of the night, the rapid walk, the excitement, made her heartbeat deliciously. She would find the letter saturated with dew, with theintense cold of the spring, and so white in the moonlight that she wouldhide it quickly for fear of being surprised. 

And then, when she was alone, what joy to open it, to decipher thosemagic characters, those words of love which swam before her eyes, surrounded by dazzling blue and yellow circles, as if she were readingher letter in the bright sunlight. 

"I love you! Love me!" wrote Georges in every conceivable phrase. 

At first she did not reply; but when she felt that he was fairly caught, entirely in her power, she declared herself concisely:

"I never will love any one but my husband. "

Ah! she was a true woman already, was little Chebe. 

CHAPTER V. HOW LITTLE CHEBE'S STORY ENDED

Meanwhile September arrived. The hunting season brought together a large, noisy, vulgar party at the chateau. There were long dinners at which thewealthy bourgeois lingered slothfully and wearily, prone to fall asleeplike peasants. They went in carriages to meet the returning hunters inthe cool air of the autumn evening. The mist arose from the fields, fromwhich the crops had been gathered; and while the frightened game flewalong the stubble with plaintive cries, the darkness seemed to emergefrom the forests whose dark masses increased in size, spreading out overthe fields. 

The carriage lamps were lighted, the hoods raised, and they drovequickly homeward with the fresh air blowing in their faces. Thedining-hall, brilliantly illuminated, was filled with gayety andlaughter. 

Claire Fromont, embarrassed by the vulgarity of those about her, hardly spoke at all. Sidonie was at her brightest. The drive had givenanimation to her pale complexion and Parisian eyes. She knew how tolaugh, understood a little too much, perhaps, and seemed to the maleguests the only woman in the party. Her success completed Georges'sintoxication; but as his advances became more pronounced, she showedmore and more reserve. Thereupon he determined that she should be hiswife. He swore it to himself, with the exaggerated emphasis of weakcharacters, who seem always to combat beforehand the difficulties towhich they know that they must yield some day. 

It was the happiest moment of little Chebe's life. Even aside fromany ambitious project, her coquettish, false nature found a strangefascination in this intrigue, carried on mysteriously amid banquets andmerry-makings. 

No one about them suspected anything. Claire was at that healthy anddelightful period of youth when the mind, only partly open, clings tothe things it knows with blind confidence, in complete ignorance oftreachery and falsehood. M. Fromont thought of nothing but his business. His wife polished her jewels with frenzied energy. Only old Gardinoisand his little, gimlet-like eyes were to be feared; but Sidonieentertained him, and even if he had discovered anything, he was not theman to interfere with her future. 

Her hour of triumph was near, when a sudden, unforeseen disaster blastedher hopes. 

One Sunday morning M. Fromont was brought back fatally wounded from ahunting expedition. A bullet intended for a deer had pierced his temple. The chateau was turned upside-down. 

All the hunters, among them the unknown bungler that had fired the fatalshot, started in haste for Paris. Claire, frantic with grief, enteredthe room where her father lay on his deathbed, there to remain; andRisler, being advised of the catastrophe, came to take Sidonie home. 

On the night before her departure she had a final meeting with Georgesat The Phantom, --a farewell meeting, painful and stealthy, and madesolemn by the proximity of death. They vowed, however, to love eachother always; they agreed upon a method of writing to each other. Thenthey parted. 

It was a sad journey home. 

Sidonie returned abruptly to her every-day life, escorted by thedespairing grief of Risler, to whom his dear master's death was anirreparable loss. On her arrival, she was compelled to describe hervisit to the smallest detail; discuss the inmates of the chateau, theguests, the entertainments, the dinners, and the final catastrophe. What torture for her, when, absorbed as she was by a single, unchangingthought, she had so much need of silence and solitude! But there wassomething even more terrible than that. 

On the first day after her return Frantz resumed his former place; andthe glances with which he followed her, the words he addressed to heralone, seemed to her exasperating beyond endurance. 

Despite all his shyness and distrust of himself, the poor fellowbelieved that he had some rights as an accepted and impatient lover, and little Chebe was obliged to emerge from her dreams to reply to thatcreditor, and to postpone once more the maturity of his claim. 

A day came, however, when indecision ceased to be possible. She hadpromised to marry Frantz when he had obtained a good situation; andnow an engineer's berth in the South, at the smelting-furnaces of GrandCombe, was offered to him. That was sufficient for the support of amodest establishment. 

There was no way of avoiding the question. She must either keep herpromise or invent an excuse for breaking it. But what excuse could sheinvent?

In that pressing emergency, she thought of Desiree. Although the lamelittle girl had never confided in her, she knew of her great love forFrantz. Long ago she had detected it, with her coquette's eyes, brightand changing mirrors, which reflected all the thoughts of others withoutbetraying any of her own. It may be that the thought that another womanloved her betrothed had made Frantz's love more endurable to her atfirst; and, just as we place statues on tombstones to make them appearless sad, Desiree's pretty, little, pale face at the threshold of thatuninviting future had made it seem less forbidding to her. 

Now it provided--her with a simple and honorable pretext for freeingherself from her promise. 

"No! I tell you, mamma, " she said to Madame Chebe one day, "I never willconsent to make a friend like her unhappy. I should suffer too much fromremorse, --poor Desiree! Haven't you noticed how badly she looks since Icame home; what a beseeching way she has of looking at me? No, I won'tcause her that sorrow; I won't take away her Frantz. "

Even while she admired her daughter's generous spirit, Madame Chebelooked upon that as a rather exaggerated sacrifice, and remonstratedwith her. 

"Take care, my child; we aren't rich. A husband like Frantz doesn't turnup every day. "

"Very well! then I won't marry at all, " declared Sidonie flatly, and, deeming her pretext an excellent one, she clung persistently to it. Nothing could shake her determination, neither the tears shed by Frantz, who was exasperated by her refusal to fulfil her promise, enveloped asit was in vague reasons which she would not even explain to him, nor theentreaties of Risler, in whose ear Madame Chebe had mysteriously mumbledher daughter's reasons, and who in spite of everything could not butadmire such a sacrifice. 

"Don't revile her, I tell you! She's an angel!" he said to his brother, striving to soothe him. 

"Ah! yes, she is an angel, " assented Madame Chebe with a sigh, so thatthe poor betrayed lover had not even the right to complain. Driven todespair, he determined to leave Paris, and as Grand Combe seemed toonear in his frenzied longing for flight, he asked and obtained anappointment as overseer on the Suez Canal at Ismailia. He went awaywithout knowing, or caring to know aught of, Desiree's love; and yet, when he went to bid her farewell, the dear little cripple looked up intohis face with her shy, pretty eyes, in which were plainly written thewords:

"I love you, if she does not. "

But Frantz Risler did not know how to read what was written in thoseeyes. 

Fortunately, hearts that are accustomed to suffer have an infinite storeof patience. When her friend had gone, the lame girl, with her charmingmorsel of illusion, inherited from her father and refined by herfeminine nature, returned bravely to her work, saying to herself:

"I will wait for him. "

And thereafter she spread the wings of her birds to their fullestextent, as if they were all going, one after another, to Ismailia inEgypt. And that was a long distance!

Before sailing from Marseilles, young Risler wrote Sidonie a farewellletter, at once laughable and touching, wherein, mingling the mosttechnical details with the most heartrending adieux, the unhappyengineer declared that he was about to set sail, with a broken heart, on the transport Sahib, "a sailing-ship and steamship combined, with engines of fifteen-hundred-horse power, " as if he hoped that soconsiderable a capacity would make an impression on his ungratefulbetrothed, and cause her ceaseless remorse. But Sidonie had verydifferent matters on her mind. 

She was beginning to be disturbed by Georges's silence. Since she leftSavigny she had heard from him only once. All her letters were leftunanswered. To be sure, she knew through Risler that Georges was verybusy, and that his uncle's death had thrown the management of thefactory upon him, imposing upon him a responsibility that was beyond hisstrength. But to abandon her without a word!

From the window on the landing, where she had resumed her silentobservations--for she had so arranged matters as not to return toMademoiselle Le Mire--little Chebe tried to distinguish her lover, watched him as he went to and fro across the yards and among thebuildings; and in the afternoon, when it was time for the train tostart for Savigny, she saw him enter his carriage to go to his aunt andcousin, who were passing the early months of their period of mourning atthe grandfather's chateau in the country. 

All this excited and alarmed her; and the proximity of the factoryrendered Georges's avoidance of her even more apparent. To think thatby raising her voice a little she could make him turn toward the placewhere she stood! To think that they were separated only by a wall! Andyet, at that moment they were very far apart. 

Do you remember, little Chebe, that unhappy winter evening when theexcellent Risler rushed into your parents' room with an extraordinaryexpression of countenance, exclaiming, "Great news!"?

Great news, indeed! Georges Fromont had just informed him that, inaccordance with his uncle's last wishes, he was to marry his cousinClaire, and that, as he was certainly unequal to the task of carrying onthe business alone, he had resolved to take him, Risler, for a partner, under the firm name of FROMONT JEUNE AND RISLER AINE. 

How did you succeed, little Chebe, in maintaining your self-possessionwhen you learned that the factory had eluded your grasp and that anotherwoman had taken your place? What a terrible evening!--Madame Chebe satby the table mending; M. Chebe before the fire drying his clothes, whichwere wet through by his having walked a long distance in the rain. Oh!that miserable room, overflowing with gloom and ennui! The lamp gave adim light. The supper, hastily prepared, had left in the room the odorof the poor man's kitchen. And Risler, intoxicated with joy, talkingwith increasing animation, laid great plans!

All these things tore your heart, and made the treachery stillmore horrible by the contrast between the riches that eluded youroutstretched hand and the ignoble mediocrity in which you were doomed topass your life. 

Sidonie was seriously ill for a long while. As she lay in bed, wheneverthe window-panes rattled behind the curtains, the unhappy creaturefancied that Georges's wedding-coaches were driving through thestreet; and she had paroxysms of nervous excitement, without words andinexplicable, as if a fever of wrath were consuming her. 

At last, time and youthful strength, her mother's care, and, more thanall, the attentions of Desiree, who now knew of the sacrifice her friendhad made for her, triumphed over the disease. But for a long whileSidonie was very weak, oppressed by a deadly melancholy, by a constantlonging to weep, which played havoc with her nervous system. 

Sometimes she talked of travelling, of leaving Paris. At other timesshe insisted that she must enter a convent. Her friends were sorelyperplexed, and strove to discover the cause of that singular state ofmind, which was even more alarming than her illness; when she suddenlyconfessed to her mother the secret of her melancholy. 

She loved the elder Risler! She never had dared to whisper it; but itwas he whom she had always loved and not Frantz. 

This news was a surprise to everybody, to Risler most of all; but littleChebe was so pretty, her eyes were so soft when she glanced at him, thatthe honest fellow instantly became as fond of her as a fool! Indeed, it may be that love had lain in his heart for a long time without hisrealizing it. 

And that is how it happened that, on the evening of her wedding-day, young Madame Risler, in her white wedding-dress, gazed with a smile oftriumph at the window on the landing which had been the narrow settingof ten years of her life. That haughty smile, in which there was a touchof profound pity and of scorn as well, such scorn as a parvenu feels forhis poor beginnings, was evidently addressed to the poor sickly childwhom she fancied she saw up at that window, in the depths of the pastand the darkness. It seemed to say to Claire, pointing at the factory:

"What do you say to this little Chebe? She is here at last, you see!"

CHAPTER VI. NOON--THE MARAIS IS BREAKFASTING. 

Sitting near the door, on a stone which once served as a horse-block forequestrians, Risler watches with a smile the exit from the factory. He never loses his enjoyment of the outspoken esteem of all thesegood people whom he knew when he was insignificant and humble likethemselves. The "Good-day, Monsieur Risler, " uttered by so manydifferent voices, all in the same affectionate tone, warms his heart. The children accost him without fear, the long-bearded designers, half-workmen, half-artists, shake hands with him as they pass, andaddress him familiarly as "thou. " Perhaps there is a little too muchfamiliarity in all this, for the worthy man has not yet begun to realizethe prestige and authority of his new station; and there was some onewho considered this free-and-easy manner very humiliating. But that someone can not see him at this moment, and the master takes advantage ofthe fact to bestow a hearty greeting upon the old bookkeeper, Sigismond, who comes out last of all, erect and red-faced, imprisoned in a highcollar and bareheaded--whatever the weather--for fear of apoplexy. 

He and Risler are fellow-countrymen. They have for each other a profoundesteem, dating from their first employment at the factory, from thattime, long, long ago, when they breakfasted together at the littlecreamery on the corner, to which Sigismond Planus goes alone now andselects his refreshment for the day from the slate hanging on the wall. 

But stand aside! The carriage of Fromont Jeune drives through thegateway. He has been out on business all the morning; and the partners, as they walk toward the pretty little house in which they both live atthe end of the garden, discuss matters of business in a friendly way. 

"I have been at Prochasson's, " says Fromont. "They showed me some newpatterns, pretty ones too, I assure you. We must be on our guard. Theyare dangerous rivals. "

But Risler is not at all anxious. He is strong in his talent, hisexperience; and then--but this is strictly confidential--he is on thetrack of a wonderful invention, an improved printing-press, somethingthat--but we shall see. Still talking, they enter the garden, which isas carefully kept as a public park, with round-topped acacias almost asold as the buildings, and magnificent ivies that hide the high, blackwalls. 

Beside Fromont jeune, Risler Aine has the appearance of a clerk makinghis report to his employer. At every step he stops to speak, for hisgait is heavy, his mind works slowly, and words have much difficulty infinding their way to his lips. Oh, if he could see the little flushedface up yonder, behind the window on the second floor, watchingeverything so attentively!

Madame Risler is waiting for her husband to come to breakfast, and waxesimpatient over the good man's moderation. She motions to him with herhand:

"Come, come!" but Risler does not notice it. His attention is engrossedby the little Fromont, daughter of Claire and Georges, who is taking asun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her lace in her nurse's arms. Howpretty she is! "She is your very picture, Madame Chorche. "

"Do you think so, my dear Risler? Why, everybody says she looks like herfather. "

"Yes, a little. But--"

And there they all stand, the father and mother, Risler and the nurse, gravely seeking resemblances in that miniature model of a human being, who stares at them out of her little eyes, blinking with the noiseand glare. Sidonie, at her open window, leans out to see what they aredoing, and why her husband does not come up. 

At that moment Risler has taken the tiny creature in his arms, the wholefascinating bundle of white draperies and light ribbons, and is tryingto make it laugh and crow with baby-talk and gestures worthy of agrandfather. How old he looks, poor man! His tall body, which hecontorts for the child's amusement, his hoarse voice, which becomes alow growl when he tries to soften it, are absurd and ridiculous. 

Above, the wife taps the floor with her foot and mutters between herteeth:

"The idiot!"

At last, weary of waiting, she sends a servant to tell Monsieur thatbreakfast is served; but the game is so far advanced that Monsieur doesnot see how he can go away, how he can interrupt these explosions oflaughter and little bird-like cries. He succeeds at last, however, in giving the child back to its nurse, and enters the hall, laughingheartily. He is laughing still when he enters the dining-room; but aglance from his wife stops him short. 

Sidonie is seated at table before the chafing-dish, already filled. Hermartyr-like attitude suggests a determination to be cross. 

"Oh! there you are. It's very lucky!"

Risler took his seat, a little ashamed. 

"What would you have, my love? That child is so--"

"I have asked you before now not to speak to me in that way. It isn'tgood form. "

"What, not when we're alone?"

"Bah! you will never learn to adapt yourself to our new fortune. Andwhat is the result? No one in this place treats me with any respect. Pere Achille hardly touches his hat to me when I pass his lodge. To besure, I'm not a Fromont, and I haven't a carriage. "

"Come, come, little one, you know perfectly well that you can use MadameChorche's coupe. She always says it is at our disposal. "

"How many times must I tell you that I don't choose to be under anyobligation to that woman?"

"O Sidonie"

"Oh! yes, I know, it's all understood. Madame Fromont is the good Lordhimself. Every one is forbidden to touch her. And I must make up mymind to be a nobody in my own house, to allow myself to be humiliated, trampled under foot. "

"Come, come, little one--"

Poor Risler tries to interpose, to say a word in favor of his dearMadame "Chorche. " But he has no tact. This is the worst possible methodof effecting a reconciliation; and Sidonie at once bursts forth:

"I tell you that that woman, with all her calm airs, is proud andspiteful. In the first place, she detests me, I know that. So long as Iwas poor little Sidonie and she could toss me her broken dolls and oldclothes, it was all right, but now that I am my own mistress as wellas she, it vexes her and humiliates her. Madame gives me advice witha lofty air, and criticises what I do. I did wrong to have a maid. Ofcourse! Wasn't I in the habit of waiting on myself? She never loses achance to wound me. When I call on her on Wednesdays, you should hearthe tone in which she asks me, before everybody, how 'dear Madame Chebe'is. Oh! yes. I'm a Chebe and she's a Fromont. One's as good as theother, in my opinion. My grandfather was a druggist. What was hers? Apeasant who got rich by money-lending. I'll tell her so one of thesedays, if she shows me too much of her pride; and I'll tell her, too, that their little imp, although they don't suspect it, looks just likethat old Pere Gardinois, and heaven knows he isn't handsome. "

"Oh!" exclaims Risler, unable to find words to reply. 

"Oh! yes, of course! I advise you to admire their child. She's alwaysill. She cries all night like a little cat. It keeps me awake. Andafterward, through the day, I have mamma's piano and her scales--tra, lala la! If the music were only worth listening to!"

Risler has taken the wise course. He does not say a word until he seesthat she is beginning to calm down a little, when he completes thesoothing process with compliments. 

"How pretty we are to-day! Are we going out soon to make some calls, eh?"

He resorts to this mode of address to avoid the more familiar form, which is so offensive to her. 

"No, I am not going to make calls, " Sidonie replies with a certainpride. "On the contrary, I expect to receive them. This is my day. "

In response to her husband's astounded, bewildered expression shecontinues:

"Why, yes, this is my day. Madame Fromont has one; I can have one also, I fancy. "

"Of course, of course, " said honest Risler, looking about with somelittle uneasiness. "So that's why I saw so many flowers everywhere, onthe landing and in the drawing-room. "

"Yes, my maid went down to the garden this morning. Did I do wrong? Oh!you don't say so, but I'm sure you think I did wrong. 'Dame'! I thoughtthe flowers in the garden belonged to us as much as to the Fromonts. "

"Certainly they do--but you--it would have been better perhaps--"

"To ask leave? That's it-to humble myself again for a few paltrychrysanthemums and two or three bits of green. Besides, I didn'tmake any secret of taking the flowers; and when she comes up a littlelater--"

"Is she coming? Ah! that's very kind of her. "

Sidonie turned upon him indignantly. 

"What's that? Kind of her? Upon my word, if she doesn't come, it wouldbe the last straw. When I go every Wednesday to be bored to death in hersalon with a crowd of affected, simpering women!"

She did not say that those same Wednesdays of Madame Fromont's were veryuseful to her, that they were like a weekly journal of fashion, one ofthose composite little publications in which you are told how to enterand to leave a room, how to bow, how to place flowers in a jardiniereand cigars in a case, to say nothing of the engravings, the processionof graceful, faultlessly attired men and women, and the names of thebest modistes. Nor did Sidonie add that she had entreated all thosefriends of Claire's, of whom she spoke so scornfully, to come to see heron her own day, and that the day was selected by them. 

Will they come? Will Madame Fromont Jeune insult Madame Risler Aineby absenting herself on her first Friday? The thought makes her almostfeverish with anxiety. 

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she says again and again. "Good heavens! howlong you are at your, breakfast!"

It is a fact that it is one of honest Risler's ways to eat slowly, andto light his pipe at the table while he sips his coffee. To-day he mustrenounce these cherished habits, must leave the pipe in its case becauseof the smoke, and, as soon as he has swallowed the last mouthful, runhastily and dress, for his wife insists that he must come up during theafternoon and pay his respects to the ladies. 

What a sensation in the factory when they see Risler Aine come in, on aweek-day, in a black frock-coat and white cravat!

"Are you going to a wedding, pray?" cries Sigismond, the cashier, behindhis grating. 

And Risler, not without a feeling of pride, replies:

"This is my wife's reception day!"

Soon everybody in the place knows that it is Sidonie's day; and PereAchille, who takes care of the garden, is not very well pleased to findthat the branches of the winter laurels by the gate are broken. 

Before taking his seat at the table upon which he draws, in the brightlight from the tall windows, Risler has taken off his fine frock-coat, which embarrasses him, and has turned up his clean shirt-sleeves; butthe idea that his wife is expecting company preoccupies and disturbshim; and from time to time he puts on his coat and goes up to her. 

"Has no one come?" he asks timidly. 

"No, Monsieur, no one. "

In the beautiful red drawing-room--for they have a drawing-room in reddamask, with a console between the windows and a pretty table in thecentre of the light-flowered carpet--Sidonie has established herself inthe attitude of a woman holding a reception, a circle of chairs ofmany shapes around her. Here and there are books, reviews, a littlework-basket in the shape of a gamebag, with silk tassels, a bunch ofviolets in a glass vase, and green plants in the jardinieres. Everythingis arranged exactly as in the Fromonts' apartments on the floor below;but the taste, that invisible line which separates the distinguishedfrom the vulgar, is not yet refined. You would say it was a passablecopy of a pretty genre picture. The hostess's attire, even, is too new;she looks more as if she were making a call than as if she were at home. In Risler's eyes everything is superb, beyond reproach; he is preparingto say so as he enters the salon, but, in face of his wife's wrathfulglance, he checks himself in terror. 

"You see, it's four o'clock, " she says, pointing to the clock with anangry gesture. "No one will come. But I take it especially ill of Clairenot to come up. She is at home--I am sure of it--I can hear her. "

Indeed, ever since noon, Sidonie has listened intently to the slightestsounds on the floor below, the child's crying, the closing of doors. Risler attempts to go down again in order to avoid a renewal of theconversation at breakfast; but his wife will not allow him to do so. Thevery least he can do is to stay with her when everybody else abandonsher, and so he remains there, at a loss what to say, rooted to thespot, like those people who dare not move during a storm for fear ofattracting the lightning. Sidonie moves excitedly about, going in andout of the salon, changing the position of a chair, putting it backagain, looking at herself as she passes the mirror, and ringing for hermaid to send her to ask Pere Achille if no one has inquired for her. That Pere Achille is such a spiteful creature! Perhaps when people havecome, he has said that she was out. 

But no, the concierge has not seen any one. 

Silence and consternation. Sidonie is standing at the window on theleft, Risler at the one on the right. From there they can see the littlegarden, where the darkness is gathering, and the black smoke which thechimney emits beneath the lowering clouds. Sigismond's window is thefirst to show a light on the ground floor; the cashier trims his lamphimself with painstaking care, and his tall shadow passes in frontof the flame and bends double behind the grating. Sidonie's wrath isdiverted a moment by these familiar details. 

Suddenly a small coupe drives into the garden and stops in front ofthe door. At last some one is coming. In that pretty whirl of silk andflowers and jet and flounces and furs, as it runs quickly up the step, Sidonie has recognized one of the most fashionable frequenters of theFromont salon, the wife of a wealthy dealer in bronzes. What an honorto receive a call from such an one! Quick, quick! the family takesits position, Monsieur in front of the hearth, Madame in an easychair, carelessly turning the leaves of a magazine. Wasted pose! The faircaller did not come to see Sidonie; she has stopped at the floor below. 

Ah! if Madame Georges could hear what her neighbor says of her and herfriends!

At that moment the door opens and "Mademoiselle Planus" is announced. She is the cashier's sister, a poor old maid, humble and modest, whohas made it her duty to make this call upon the wife of her brother'semployer, and who is amazed at the warm welcome she receives. She issurrounded and made much of. "How kind of you to come! Draw up to thefire. " They overwhelm her with attentions and show great interest inher slightest word. Honest Risler's smiles are as warm as his thanks. Sidonie herself displays all her fascinations, overjoyed to exhibitherself in her glory to one who was her equal in the old days, and toreflect that the other, in the room below, must hear that she has hadcallers. So she makes as much noise as possible, moving chairs, pushingthe table around; and when the lady takes her leave, dazzled, enchanted, bewildered, she escorts her to the landing with a great rustling offlounces, and calls to her in a very loud voice, leaning over the rail, that she is at home every Friday. "You understand, every Friday. "

Now it is dark. The two great lamps in the salon are lighted. In theadjoining room they hear the servant laying the table. It is all over. Madame Fromont Jeune will not come. 

Sidonie is pale with rage. 

"Just fancy, that minx can't come up eighteen steps! No doubt Madamethinks we're not grand enough for her. Ah! but I'll have my revenge. "

As she pours forth her wrath in unjust words, her voice becomes coarse, takes on the intonations of the faubourg, an accent of the common peoplewhich betrays the ex-apprentice of Mademoiselle Le Mire. 

Risler is unlucky enough to make a remark. 

"Who knows? Perhaps the child is ill. "

She turns upon him in a fury, as if she would like to bite him. 

"Will you hold your tongue about that brat? After all, it's your faultthat this has happened to me. You don't know how to make people treat mewith respect. "

And as she closed the door of her bedroom violently, making the globeson the lamps tremble, as well as all the knick-knacks on the etageres, Risler, left alone, stands motionless in the centre of the salon, looking with an air of consternation at his white cuffs, his broadpatent-leather shoes, and mutters mechanically:

"My wife's reception day!"

BOOK 2. 

CHAPTER VII. THE TRUE PEARL AND THE FALSE

"What can be the matter? What have I done to her?" Claire Fromont veryoften wondered when she thought of Sidonie. 

She was entirely ignorant of what had formerly taken place between herfriend and Georges at Savigny. Her own life was so upright, her mindso pure, that it was impossible for her to divine the jealous, mean-spirited ambition that had grown up by her side within the pastfifteen years. And yet the enigmatical expression in that pretty faceas it smiled upon her gave her a vague feeling of uneasiness whichshe could not understand. An affectation of politeness, strange enoughbetween friends, was suddenly succeeded by an ill-dissembled anger, acold, stinging tone, in presence of which Claire was as perplexed asby a difficult problem. Sometimes, too, a singular presentiment, theill-defined intuition of a great misfortune, was mingled with heruneasiness; for all women have in some degree a kind of second sight, and, even in the most innocent, ignorance of evil is suddenly illuminedby visions of extraordinary lucidity. 

From time to time, as the result of a conversation somewhat longerthan usual, or of one of those unexpected meetings when faces taken bysurprise allow their real thoughts to be seen, Madame Fromont reflectedseriously concerning this strange little Sidonie; but the active, urgentduties of life, with its accompaniment of affections and preoccupations, left her no time for dwelling upon such trifles. 

To all women comes a time when they encounter such sudden windings inthe road that their whole horizon changes and all their points of viewbecome transformed. 

Had Claire been a young girl, the falling away of that friendship bit bybit, as if torn from her by an unkindly hand, would have been a sourceof great regret to her. But she had lost her father, the object of hergreatest, her only youthful affection; then she had married. Thechild had come, with its thrice welcome demands upon her every moment. Moreover, she had with her her mother, almost in her dotage, stillstupefied by her husband's tragic death. In a life so fully occupied, Sidonie's caprices received but little attention; and it had hardlyoccurred to Claire Fromont to be surprised at her marriage to Risler. He was clearly too old for her; but, after all, what difference did itmake, if they loved each other?

As for being vexed because little Chebe had attained that loftyposition, had become almost her equal, her superior nature was incapableof such pettiness. On the contrary, she would have been glad with allher heart to know that that young wife, whose home was so near herown, who lived the same life, so to speak, and had been her playmatein childhood, was happy and highly esteemed. Being most kindly disposedtoward her, she tried to teach her, to instruct her in the ways ofsociety, as one might instruct an attractive provincial, who fell butlittle short of being altogether charming. 

Advice is not readily accepted by one pretty young woman from another. When Madame Fromont gave a grand dinner-party, she took Madame Risler toher bedroom, and said to her, smiling frankly in order not to vex her:"You have put on too many jewels, my dear. And then, you know, with ahigh dress one doesn't wear flowers in the hair. " Sidonie blushed, andthanked her friend, but wrote down an additional grievance against herin the bottom of her heart. 

In Claire's circle her welcome was decidedly cold. The FaubourgSaint-Germain has its pretensions; but do not imagine that theMarais has none! Those wives and daughters of mechanics, of wealthymanufacturers, knew little Chebe's story; indeed, they would haveguessed it simply by her manner of making her appearance and by herdemeanor among them. 

Sidonie's efforts were unavailing. She retained the manners of ashop-girl. Her slightly artificial amiability, sometimes too humble, wasas unpleasant as the spurious elegance of the shop; and her disdainfulattitudes recalled the superb airs of the head saleswomen in the greatdry-goods establishments, arrayed in black silk gowns, which they takeoff in the dressing-room when they go away at night--who stare with animposing air, from the vantage-point of their mountains of curls, at thepoor creatures who venture to discuss prices. 

She felt that she was being examined and criticised, and her modesty wascompelled to place itself upon a war footing. Of the names mentionedin her presence, the amusements, the entertainments, the books of whichthey talked to her, she knew nothing. Claire did her best to help her, to keep her on the surface, with a friendly hand always outstretched;but many of these ladies thought Sidonie pretty; that was enough to makethem bear her a grudge for seeking admission to their circle. Others, proud of their husbands' standing and of their wealth, could not inventenough unspoken affronts and patronizing phrases to humiliate the littleparvenue. 

Sidonie included them all in a single phrase: "Claire's friends--that isto say, my enemies!" But she was seriously incensed against but one. 

The two partners had no suspicion of what was taking place between theirwives. Risler, continually engrossed in his press, sometimes remainedat his draughting-table until midnight. Fromont passed his days abroad, lunched at his club, was almost never at the factory. He had his reasonsfor that. 

Sidonie's proximity disturbed him. His capricious passion for her, thatpassion that he had sacrificed to his uncle's last wishes, recurred toooften to his memory with all the regret one feels for the irreparable;and, conscious that he was weak, he fled. His was a pliable nature, without sustaining purpose, intelligent enough to appreciate hisfailings, too weak to guide itself. On the evening of Risler'swedding--he had been married but a few months himself--he hadexperienced anew, in that woman's presence, all the emotion of thestormy evening at Savigny. Thereafter, without self-examination, heavoided seeing her again or speaking with her. Unfortunately, as theylived in the same house, as their wives saw each other ten times aday, chance sometimes brought them together; and this strange thinghappened--that the husband, wishing to remain virtuous, deserted hishome altogether and sought distraction elsewhere. 

Claire was not astonished that it was so. She had become accustomed, during her father's lifetime, to the constant comings and goings of abusiness life; and during her husband's absences, zealously performingher duties as wife and mother, she invented long tasks, occupations ofall sorts, walks for the child, prolonged, peaceful tarryings in thesunlight, from which she would return home, overjoyed with the littleone's progress, deeply impressed with the gleeful enjoyment of allinfants in the fresh air, but with a touch of their radiance in thedepths of her serious eyes. 

Sidonie also went out a great deal. It often happened, toward night, that Georges's carriage, driving through the gateway, would compelMadame Risler to step hastily aside as she was returning in a gorgeouscostume from a triumphal promenade. The boulevard, the shop-windows, thepurchases, made after long deliberation as if to enjoy to the full thepleasure of purchasing, detained her very late. They would exchange abow, a cold glance at the foot of the staircase; and Georges would hurryinto his apartments, as into a place of refuge, concealing beneath aflood of caresses, bestowed upon the child his wife held out to him, thesudden emotion that had seized him. 

Sidonie, for her part, seemed to have forgotten everything, and to haveretained no other feeling but contempt for that weak, cowardly creature. Moreover, she had many other things to think about. 

Her husband had just had a piano placed in her red salon, between thewindows. 

After long hesitation she had decided to learn to sing, thinking thatit was rather late to begin to play the piano; and twice a week MadameDobson, a pretty, sentimental blonde, came to give her lessons fromtwelve o'clock to one. In the silence of the neighborhood the a-a-a ando-oo, persistently prolonged, repeated again and again, with windowsopen, gave the factory the atmosphere of a boarding-school. 

And it was in reality a schoolgirl who was practising these exercises, an inexperienced, wavering little soul, full of unconfessed longings, with everything to learn and to find out in order to become a realwoman. But her ambition confined itself to a superficial aspect ofthings. 

"Claire Fromont plays the piano; I will sing. She is considered arefined and distinguished woman, and I intend that people shall say thesame of me. "

Without a thought of improving her education, Sidonie passed her liferunning about among milliners and dressmakers. "What are people goingto wear this winter?" was her cry. She was attracted by the gorgeousdisplays in the shop-windows, by everything that caught the eye of thepassers-by. 

The one thing that Sidonie envied Claire more than all else was thechild, the luxurious plaything, beribboned from the curtains of itscradle to its nurse's cap. She did not think of the sweet, maternalduties, demanding patience and self-abnegation, of the long rockingswhen sleep would not come, of the laughing awakenings sparkling withfresh water. No! she saw in the child naught but the daily walk. It issuch a pretty sight, the little bundle of finery, with floating ribbonsand long feathers, that follows young mothers through the crowdedstreets. 

When she wanted company she had only her parents or her husband. Shepreferred to go out alone. The excellent Risler had such an absurd wayof showing his love for her, playing with her as if she were a doll, pinching her chin and her cheek, capering about her, crying, "Hou! hou!"or staring at her with his great, soft eyes like an affectionate andgrateful dog. That senseless love, which made of her a toy, amantel ornament, made her ashamed. As for her parents, they were anembarrassment to her in presence of the people she wished to know, andimmediately after her marriage she almost got rid of them by hiring alittle house for them at Montrouge. That step had cut short the frequentinvasions of Monsieur Chebe and his long frock-coat, and the endlessvisits of good Madame Chebe, in whom the return of comfortablecircumstances had revived former habits of gossip and of indolence. 

Sidonie would have been very glad to rid herself of the Delobelles inthe same way, for their proximity annoyed her. But the Marais was acentral location for the old actor, because the boulevard theatres wereso near; then, too, Desiree, like all sedentary persons, clung to thefamiliar outlook, and her gloomy courtyard, dark at four o'clock inwinter, seemed to her like a friend, like a familiar face which the sunlighted up at times as if it were smiling at her. As she was unableto get rid of them, Sidonie had adopted the course of ceasing to visitthem. 

In truth, her life would have been lonely and depressing enough, hadit not been for the distractions which Claire Fromont procured for her. Each time added fuel to her wrath. She would say to herself:

"Must everything come to me through her?"

And when, just at dinner-time, a box at the theatre or an invitationfor the evening was sent to her from the floor below, while she wasdressing, overjoyed at the opportunity to exhibit herself, she thoughtof nothing but crushing her rival. But such opportunities became morerare as Claire's time was more and more engrossed by her child. WhenGrandfather Gardinois came to Paris, however, he never failed to bringthe two families together. The old peasant's gayety, for its freerexpansion, needed little Sidonie, who did not take alarm at hisjests. He would take them all four to dine at Philippe's, his favoriterestaurant, where he knew all the patrons, the waiters and the steward, would spend a lot of money, and then take them to a reserved box at theOpera-Comique or the Palais-Royal. 

At the theatre he laughed uproariously, talked familiarly with thebox-openers, as he did with the waiters at Philippe's, loudly demandedfootstools for the ladies, and when the performance was over insistedon having the topcoats and fur wraps of his party first of all, as if hewere the only three-million parvenu in the audience. 

For these somewhat vulgar entertainments, from which her husband usuallyexcused himself, Claire, with her usual tact, dressed very plainly andattracted no attention. Sidonie, on the contrary, in all her finery, infull view of the boxes, laughed with all her heart at the grandfather'sanecdotes, happy to have descended from the second or third gallery, herusual place in the old days, to that lovely proscenium box, adorned withmirrors, with a velvet rail that seemed made expressly for her lightgloves, her ivory opera-glass, and her spangled fan. The tawdry glitterof the theatre, the red and gold of the hangings, were genuine splendorto her. She bloomed among them like a pretty paper flower in a filigreejardiniere. 

One evening, at the performance of a successful play at thePalais-Royal, among all the noted women who were present, paintedcelebrities wearing microscopic hats and armed with huge fans, theirrouge-besmeared faces standing out from the shadow of the boxes in thegaudy setting of their gowns, Sidonie's behavior, her toilette, thepeculiarities of her laugh and her expression attracted much attention. All the opera-glasses in the hall, guided by the magnetic current thatis so powerful under the great chandeliers, were turned one by one uponthe box in which she sat. Claire soon became embarrassed, and modestlyinsisted upon changing places with her husband, who, unluckily, hadaccompanied them that evening. 

Georges, youthful and elegant, sitting beside Sidonie, seemedher natural companion, while Risler Allie, always so placid andself-effacing, seemed in his proper place beside Claire Fromont, who inher dark clothes suggested the respectable woman incog. At the Bal del'Opera. 

Upon leaving the theatre each of the partners offered his arm to hisneighbor. A box-opener, speaking to Sidonie, referred to Georges as"your husband, " and the little woman beamed with delight. 

"Your husband!"

That simple phrase was enough to upset her and set in motion a multitudeof evil currents in the depths of her heart. As they passed through thecorridors and the foyer, she watched Risler and Madame "Chorche" walkingin front of them. Claire's refinement of manner seemed to her to bevulgarized and annihilated by Risler's shuffling gait. "How ugly he mustmake me look when we are walking together!" she said to herself. And herheart beat fast as she thought what a charming, happy, admired couplethey would have made, she and this Georges Fromont, whose arm wastrembling beneath her own. 

Thereupon, when the blue-lined carriage drove up to the door of thetheatre, she began to reflect, for the first time, that, when all wassaid, Claire had stolen her place and that she would be justified intrying to recover it. 

CHAPTER VIII. THE BREWERY ON THE RUE BLONDEL

After his marriage Risler had given up the brewery. Sidonie would havebeen glad to have him leave the house in the evening for a fashionableclub, a resort of wealthy, well-dressed men; but the idea of hisreturning, amid clouds of pipe-smoke, to his friends of earlier days, Sigismond, Delobelle, and her own father, humiliated her and made herunhappy. So he ceased to frequent the place; and that was something ofa sacrifice. It was almost a glimpse of his native country, that brewerysituated in a remote corner of Paris. The infrequent carriages, thehigh, barred windows of the ground floors, the odor of fresh drugs, ofpharmaceutical preparations, imparted to that narrow little Rue Blondela vague resemblance to certain streets in Basle or Zurich. 

The brewery was managed by a Swiss and crowded with men of thatnationality. When the door was opened, through the smoke-ladenatmosphere, dense with the accents of the North, one had a vision ofa vast, low room with hams hanging from the rafters, casks of beerstanding in a row, the floor ankle-deep with sawdust, and on the countergreat salad-bowls filled with potatoes as red as chestnuts, and basketsof pretzels fresh from the oven, their golden knots sprinkled with whitesalt. 

For twenty years Risler had had his pipe there, a long pipe marked withhis name in the rack reserved for the regular customers. He had alsohis table, at which he was always joined by several discreet, quietcompatriots, who listened admiringly, but without comprehending them, to the endless harangues of Chebe and Delobelle. When Risler ceased hisvisits to the brewery, the two last-named worthies likewise turned theirbacks upon it, for several excellent reasons. In the first place, M. Chebe now lived a considerable distance away. Thanks to the generosityof his children, the dream of his whole life was realized at last. 

"When I am rich, " the little man used to say in his cheerless roomsin the Marais, "I will have a house of my own, at the gates of Paris, almost in the country, a little garden which I will plant and watermyself. That will be better for my health than all the excitement of thecapital. "

Well, he had his house now, but he did not enjoy himself in it. It wasat Montrouge, on the road that runs around the city. "A small chalet, with garden, " said the advertisement, printed on a placard which gave analmost exact idea of the dimensions of the property. The papers were newand of rustic design, the paint perfectly fresh; a water-butt plantedbeside a vine-clad arbor played the part of a pond. In addition to allthese advantages, only a hedge separated this paradise from another"chalet with garden" of precisely the same description, occupied bySigismond Planus the cashier, and his sister. To Madame Chebe that wasa most precious circumstance. When the good woman was bored, she wouldtake a stock of knitting and darning and go and sit in the old maid'sarbor, dazzling her with the tale of her past splendors. Unluckily, herhusband had not the same source of distraction. 

However, everything went well at first. It was midsummer, and M. Chebe, always in his shirt-sleeves, was busily employed in getting settled. Each nail to be driven in the house was the subject of leisurelyreflections, of endless discussions. It was the same with the garden. He had determined at first to make an English garden of it, lawns alwaysgreen, winding paths shaded by shrubbery. But the trouble of it was thatit took so long for the shrubbery to grow. 

"I have a mind to make an orchard of it, " said the impatient little man. 

And thenceforth he dreamed of nothing but vegetables, long lines ofbeans, and peach-trees against the wall. He dug for whole mornings, knitting his brows in a preoccupied way and wiping his foreheadostentatiously before his wife, so that she would say:

"For heaven's sake, do rest a bit--you're killing yourself. "

The result was that the garden was a mixture: flowers and fruit, parkand kitchen garden; and whenever he went into Paris M. Chebe was carefulto decorate his buttonhole with a rose from his rose-bushes. 

While the fine weather lasted, the good people did not weary of admiringthe sunsets behind the fortifications, the long days, the bracingcountry air. Sometimes, in the evening, when the windows were open, they sang duets; and in presence of the stars in heaven, which began totwinkle simultaneously with the lanterns on the railway around the city, Ferdinand would become poetical. But when the rain came and he could notgo out, what misery! Madame Chebe, a thorough Parisian, sighed forthe narrow streets of the Marais, her expeditions to the market ofBlancs-Manteaux, and to the shops of the quarter. 

As she sat by the window, her usual place for sewing and observation, she would gaze at the damp little garden, where the volubilis and thenasturtiums, stripped of their blossoms, were dropping away from thelattices with an air of exhaustion, at the long, straight line of thegrassy slope of the fortifications, still fresh and green, and, alittle farther on, at the corner of a street, the office of the Parisomnibuses, with all the points of their route inscribed in enticingletters on the green walls. Whenever one of the omnibuses lumbered awayon its journey, she followed it with her eyes, as a government clerk atCayenne or Noumea gazes after the steamer about to return to France; shemade the trip with it, knew just where it would stop, at what point itwould lurch around a corner, grazing the shop-windows with its wheels. 

As a prisoner, M. Chebe became a terrible trial. He could not work inthe garden. On Sundays the fortifications were deserted; he could nolonger strut about among the workingmen's families dining on the grass, and pass from group to group in a neighborly way, his feet encasedin embroidered slippers, with the authoritative demeanor of a wealthylandowner of the vicinity. This he missed more than anything else, consumed as he was by the desire to make people think about him. Sothat, having nothing to do, having no one to pose before, no one tolisten to his schemes, his stories, the anecdote of the accident to theDuc d'Orleans--a similar accident had happened to him in his youth, you remember--the unfortunate Ferdinand overwhelmed his wife withreproaches. 

"Your daughter banishes us--your daughter is ashamed of us!"

She heard nothing but that "Your daughter--your daughter--yourdaughter!" For, in his anger with Sidonie, he denied her, throwingupon his wife the whole responsibility for that monstrous and unnaturalchild. It was a genuine relief for poor Madame Chebe when her husbandtook an omnibus at the office to go and hunt up Delobelle--whose hoursfor lounging were always at his disposal--and pour into his bosom allhis rancor against his son-in-law and his daughter. 

The illustrious Delobelle also bore Risler a grudge, and freely said ofhim: "He is a dastard. "

The great man had hoped to form an integral part of the new household, to be the organizer of festivities, the 'arbiter elegantiarum'. Insteadof which, Sidonie received him very coldly, and Risler no longer eventook him to the brewery. However, the actor did not complain too loud, and whenever he met his friend he overwhelmed him with attentions andflattery; for he had need of him. 

Weary of awaiting the discerning manager, seeing that the engagement hehad longed for so many years did not come, it had occurred to Delobelleto purchase a theatre and manage it himself. He counted upon Risler forthe funds. Opportunely enough, a small theatre on the boulevard happenedto be for sale, as a result of the failure of its manager. Delobellementioned it to Risler, at first very vaguely, in a wholly hypotheticalform--"There would be a good chance to make a fine stroke. " Rislerlistened with his usual phlegm, saying, "Indeed, it would be a goodthing for you. " And to a more direct suggestion, not daring to answer, "No, " he took refuge behind such phrases as "I will see"--"Perhapslater"--"I don't say no"--and finally uttered the unlucky words "I mustsee the estimates. "

For a whole week the actor had delved away at plans and figures, seatedbetween his wife and daughter, who watched him in admiration, andintoxicated themselves with this latest dream. The people in the housesaid, "Monsieur Delobelle is going to buy a theatre. " On the boulevard, in the actors' cafes, nothing was talked of but this transaction. Delobelle did not conceal the fact that he had found some one toadvance the funds; the result being that he was surrounded by a crowdof unemployed actors, old comrades who tapped him familiarly on theshoulder and recalled themselves to his recollection--"You know, oldboy. " He promised engagements, breakfasted at the cafe, wrote lettersthere, greeted those who entered with the tips of his fingers, held veryanimated conversations in corners; and already two threadbare authorshad read to him a drama in seven tableaux, which was "exactly what hewanted" for his opening piece. He talked about "my theatre!" and hisletters were addressed, "Monsieur Delobelle, Manager. "

When he had composed his prospectus and made his estimates, he went tothe factory to see Risler, who, being very busy, made an appointment tomeet him in the Rue Blondel; and that same evening, Delobelle, being thefirst to arrive at the brewery, established himself at their old table, ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and waited. He waited a longwhile, with his eye on the door, trembling with impatience. Whenever anyone entered, the actor turned his head. He had spread his papers onthe table, and pretended to be reading them, with animated gestures andmovements of the head and lips. 

It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in its way. He already fanciedhimself acting--for that was the main point--acting, in a theatre of hisown, roles written expressly for him, to suit his talents, in which hewould produce all the effect of--

Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe made his appearance amid thepipe-smoke. He was as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelle there asDelobelle himself was by his coming. He had written to his son-in-lawthat morning that he wished to speak with him on a matter of veryserious importance, and that he would meet him at the brewery. It was anaffair of honor, entirely between themselves, from man to man. The realfact concerning this affair of honor was that M. Chebe had given noticeof his intention to leave the little house at Montrouge, and had hireda shop with an entresol in the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a businessdistrict. A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he was a little alarmed regardinghis hasty step, anxious to know how his son-in-law would take it, especially as the shop cost much more than the Montrouge house, andthere were some repairs to be made at the outset. As he had longbeen acquainted with his son-in-law's kindness of heart, M. Chebe haddetermined to appeal to him at once, hoping to lead him into his gameand throw upon him the responsibility for this domestic change. Insteadof Risler he found Delobelle. 

They looked askance at each other, with an unfriendly eye, like twodogs meeting beside the same dish. Each divined for whom the other waswaiting, and they did not try to deceive each other. 

"Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebe, eying the documents spreadover the table, and emphasizing the words "my son-in-law, " to indicatethat Risler belonged to him and to nobody else. 

"I am waiting for him, " Delobelle replied, gathering up his papers. 

He pressed his lips together, as he added with a dignified, mysterious, but always theatrical air:

"It is a matter of very great importance. "

"So is mine, " declared M. Chebe, his three hairs standing erect like aporcupine's quills. 

As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench beside Delobelle, ordered apitcher and two glasses as the former had done, then sat erect with hishands in his pockets and his back against the wall, waiting in his turn. The two empty glasses in front of them, intended for the same absentee, seemed to be hurling defiance at each other. 

But Risler did not come. 

The two men, drinking in silence, lost their patience and fidgeted abouton the bench, each hoping that the other would tire of waiting. 

At last their ill-humor overflowed, and naturally poor Risler receivedthe whole flood. 

"What an outrage to keep a man of my years waiting so long!" began M. Chebe, who never mentioned his great age except upon such occasions. 

"I believe, on my word, that he is making sport of us, " replied M. Delobelle. 

And the other:

"No doubt Monsieur had company to dinner. "

"And such company!" scornfully exclaimed the illustrious actor, in whosemind bitter memories were awakened. 

"The fact is--" continued M. Chebe. 

They drew closer to each other and talked. The hearts of both were fullin respect to Sidonie and Risler. They opened the flood-gates. ThatRisler, with all his good-nature, was an egotist pure and simple, aparvenu. They laughed at his accent and his bearing, they mimickedcertain of his peculiarities. Then they talked about his household, and, lowering their voices, they became confidential, laughed familiarlytogether, were friends once more. 

M. Chebe went very far: "Let him beware! he has been foolish enough tosend the father and mother away from their daughter; if anything happensto her, he can't blame us. A girl who hasn't her parents' example beforeher eyes, you understand--"

"Certainly--certainly, " said Delobelle; "especially as Sidonie hasbecome a great flirt. However, what can you expect? He will get no morethan he deserves. No man of his age ought to--Hush! here he is!"

Risler had entered the room, and was walking toward them, distributinghand-shakes all along the benches. 

There was a moment of embarrassment between the three friends. Rislerexcused himself as well as he could. He had been detained at home;Sidonie had company--Delobelle touched M. Chebe's foot under thetable--and, as he spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexed by the twoempty glasses that awaited him, wondered in front of which of the two heought to take his seat. 

Delobelle was generous. 

"You have business together, Messieurs; do not let me disturb you. "

He added in a low tone, winking at Risler:

"I have the papers. "

"The papers?" echoed Risler, in a bewildered tone. 

"The estimates, " whispered the actor. 

Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, he withdrew within himself, and resumed the reading of his documents, his head in his hands and hisfingers in his ears. 

The two others conversed by his side, first in undertones, then louder, for M. Chebe's shrill, piercing voice could not long be subdued. --Hewasn't old enough to be buried, deuce take it!--He should have died ofennui at Montrouge. --What he must have was the bustle and life of theRue de Mail or the Rue du Sentier--of the business districts. 

"Yes, but a shop? Why a shop?" Risler timidly ventured to ask. 

"Why a shop?--why a shop?" repeated M. Chebe, red as an Easter egg, andraising his voice to its highest pitch. "Why, because I'm a merchant, Monsieur Risler, a merchant and son of a merchant. Oh! I see what you'recoming at. I have no business. But whose fault is it? If the people whoshut me up at Montrouge, at the gates of Bicetre, like a paralytic, hadhad the good sense to furnish me with the money to start in business--"

At that point Risler succeeded in silencing him, and thereafteronly snatches of the conversation could be heard: "a more convenientshop--high ceilings--better air--future plans--enormous business--I willspeak when the time comes--many people will be astonished. "

As he caught these fragments of sentences, Delobelle became more andmore absorbed in his estimates, presenting the eloquent back of the manwho is not listening. Risler, sorely perplexed, slowly sipped his beerfrom time to time to keep himself, in countenance. 

At last, when M. Chebe had grown calm, and with good reason, hisson-in-law turned with a smile to the illustrious Delobelle, and met thestern, impassive glance which seemed to say, "Well! what of me?"

"Ah! Mon Dieu!--that is true, " thought the poor fellow. 

Changing at once his chair and his glass, he took his seat opposite theactor. But M. Chebe had not Delobelle's courtesy. Instead of discreetlymoving away, he took his glass and joined the others, so that the greatman, unwilling to speak before him, solemnly replaced his documents inhis pocket a second time, saying to Risler:

"We will talk this over later. "

Very much later, in truth, for M. Chebe had reflected:

"My son-in-law is so good-natured! If I leave him with this swindler, who knows what he may get out of him?"

And he remained on guard. The actor was furious. It was impossible topostpone the matter to some other day, for Risler told them that he wasgoing the next day to spend the next month at Savigny. 

"A month at Savigny!" exclaimed M. Chebe, incensed at the thought of hisson-in-law escaping him. "How about business?"

"Oh! I shall come to Paris every day with Georges. Monsieur Gardinois isvery anxious to see his little Sidonie. "

M. Chebe shook his head. He considered it very imprudent. Business isbusiness. A man ought to be on the spot, always on the spot, in thebreach. Who could say?--the factory might take fire in the night. And herepeated sententiously: "The eye of the master, my dear fellow, the eyeof the master, " while the actor--who was little better pleased by thisintended departure--opened his great eyes; giving them an expression atonce cunning and authoritative, the veritable expression of the eye ofthe master. 

At last, about midnight, the last Montrouge omnibus bore away thetyrannical father-in-law, and Delobelle was able to speak. 

"Let us first look at the prospectus, " he said, preferring not to attackthe question of figures at once; and with his eyeglasses on his nose, hebegan, in a declamatory tone, always upon the stage: "When one considerscoolly the decrepitude which dramatic art has reached in France, whenone measures the distance that separates the stage of Moliere--"

There were several pages like that. Risler listened, puffing at hispipe, afraid to stir, for the reader looked at him every moment over hiseyeglasses, to watch the effect of his phrases. Unfortunately, rightin the middle of the prospectus, the cafe closed. The lights wereextinguished; they must go. --And the estimates?--It was agreed that theyshould read them as they walked along. They stopped at every gaslight. The actor displayed his figures. So much for the hall, so much forthe lighting, so much for poor-rates, so much for the actors. On thatquestion of the actors he was firm. 

"The best point about the affair, " he said, "is that we shall haveno leading man to pay. Our leading man will be Bibi. " (When Delobellementioned himself, he commonly called himself Bibi. ) "A leading man ispaid twenty thousand francs, and as we have none to pay, it's just asif you put twenty thousand francs in your pocket. Tell me, isn't thattrue?"

Risler did not reply. He had the constrained manner, the wandering eyesof the man whose thoughts are elsewhere. The reading of the estimatesbeing concluded, Delobelle, dismayed to find that they were drawingnear the corner of the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, put the questionsquarely. Would Risler advance the money, yes or no?

"Well!--no, " said Risler, inspired by heroic courage, which he owedprincipally to the proximity of the factory and to the thought that thewelfare of his family was at stake. 

Delobelle was astounded. He had believed that the business was as goodas done, and he stared at his companion, intensely agitated, his eyes asbig as saucers, and rolling his papers in his hand. 

"No, " Risler continued, "I can't do what you ask, for this reason. "

Thereupon the worthy man, slowly, with his usual heaviness of speech, explained that he was not rich. Although a partner in a wealthy house, he had no available funds. Georges and he drew a certain sum from theconcern each month; then, when they struck a balance at the end of theyear they divided the profits. It had cost him a good deal to beginhousekeeping: all his savings. It was still four months before theinventory. Where was he to obtain the 30, 000 francs to be paid down atonce for the theatre? And then, beyond all that, the affair could not besuccessful. 

"Why, it must succeed. Bibi will be there!" As he spoke, poor Bibi drewhimself up to his full height; but Risler was determined, and all Bibi'sarguments met the same refusal--"Later, in two or three years, I don'tsay something may not be done. "

The actor fought for a long time, yielding his ground inch by inch. Heproposed revising his estimates. The thing might be done cheaper. "Itwould still be too dear for me, " Risler interrupted. "My name doesn'tbelong to me. It is a part of the firm. I have no right to pledge it. Imagine my going into bankruptcy!" His voice trembled as he uttered theword. 

"But if everything is in my name, " said Delobelle, who had nosuperstition. He tried everything, invoked the sacred interests ofart, went so far as to mention the fascinating actresses whose alluringglances--Risler laughed aloud. 

"Come, come, you rascal! What's that you're saying? You forget thatwe're both married men, and that it is very late and our wivesare expecting us. No ill-will, eh?--This is not a refusal, youunderstand. --By the way, come and see me after the inventory. We willtalk it over again. Ah! there's Pere Achille putting out his gas. --Imust go in. Good-night. "

It was after one o'clock when the actor returned home. The two womenwere waiting for him, working as usual, but with a sort of feverishactivity which was strange to them. Every moment the great scissors thatMamma Delobelle used to cut the brass wire were seized with strange fitsof trembling, and Desiree's little fingers, as she mounted an insect, moved so fast that it made one dizzy to watch them. Even the longfeathers of the little birds scattered about on the table before herseemed more brilliant, more richly colored, than on other days. It wasbecause a lovely visitor named Hope had called upon them that evening. She had made the tremendous effort required to climb five dark flightsof stairs, and had opened the door of the little room to cast a luminousglance therein. However much you may have been deceived in life, thosemagic gleams always dazzle you. 

"Oh! if your father could only succeed!" said Mamma Delobelle from timeto time, as if to sum up a whole world of happy thoughts to which herreverie abandoned itself. 

"He will succeed, mamma, never fear. Monsieur Risler is so kind, I willanswer for him. And Sidonie is very fond of us, too, although since shewas married she does seem to neglect her old friends a little. But wemust make allowance for the difference in our positions. Besides, Inever shall forget what she did for me. "

And, at the thought of what Sidonie had done for her, the littlecripple applied herself with even more feverish energy to her work. Herelectrified fingers moved with redoubled swiftness. You would havesaid that they were running after some fleeing, elusive thing, likehappiness, for example, or the love of some one who loves you not. 

"What was it that she did for you?" her mother would naturally haveasked her; but at that moment she was only slightly interested in whather daughter said. She was thinking exclusively of her great man. 

"No! do you think so, my dear? Just suppose your father should have atheatre of his own and act again as in former days. You don't remember;you were too small then. But he had tremendous success, no end ofrecalls. One night, at Alencon, the subscribers to the theatre gavehim a gold wreath. Ah! he was a brilliant man in those days, solighthearted, so glad to be alive. Those who see him now don't know him, poor man, misfortune has changed him so. Oh, well! I feel sure that allthat's necessary is a little success to make him young and happy again. And then there's money to be made managing theatres. The manager atNantes had a carriage. Can you imagine us with a carriage? Can youimagine it, I say? That's what would be good for you. You could go out, leave your armchair once in a while. Your father would take us intothe country. You would see the water and the trees you have had such alonging to see. "

"Oh! the trees, " murmured the pale little recluse, trembling from headto foot. 

At that moment the street door of the house was closed violently, and M. Delobelle's measured step echoed in the vestibule. There was a moment ofspeechless, breathless anguish. The women dared not look at each other, and mamma's great scissors trembled so that they cut the wire crooked. 

The poor devil had unquestionably received a terrible blow. Hisillusions crushed, the humiliation of a refusal, the jests of hiscomrades, the bill at the cafe where he had breakfasted on credit duringthe whole period of his managership, a bill which must be paid--allthese things occurred to him in the silence and gloom of the fiveflights he had to climb. His heart was torn. Even so, the actor's naturewas so strong in him that he deemed it his duty to envelop his distress, genuine as it was, in a conventional tragic mask. 

As he entered, he paused, cast an ominous glance around the work-room, at the table covered with work, his little supper waiting for him ina corner, and the two dear, anxious faces looking up at him withglistening eyes. He stood a full minute without speaking--and you knowhow long a minute's silence seems on the stage; then he took three stepsforward, sank upon a low chair beside the table, and exclaimed in ahissing voice:

"Ah! I am accursed!"

At the same time he dealt the table such a terrible blow with his fistthat the "birds and insects for ornament" flew to the four corners ofthe room. His terrified wife rose and timidly approached him, whileDesiree half rose in her armchair with an expression of nervous agonythat distorted all her features. 

Lolling in his chair, his arms hanging despondently by his sides, hishead on his chest, the actor soliloquized--a fragmentary soliloquy, interrupted by sighs and dramatic hiccoughs, overflowing withimprecations against the pitiless, selfish bourgeois, those monsters towhom the artist gives his flesh and blood for food and drink. 

Then he reviewed his whole theatrical life, his early triumphs, thegolden wreath from the subscribers at Alencon, his marriage to this"sainted woman, " and he pointed to the poor creature who stood by hisside, with tears streaming from her eyes, and trembling lips, noddingher head dotingly at every word her husband said. 

In very truth, a person who never had heard of the illustrious Delobellecould have told his history in detail after that long monologue. Herecalled his arrival in Paris, his humiliations, his privations. Alas!he was not the one who had known privation. One had but to look at hisfull, rotund face beside the thin, drawn faces of the two women. But theactor did not look so closely. 

"Oh!" he said, continuing to intoxicate himself with declamatoryphrases, "oh! to have struggled so long. For ten years, fifteen years, have I struggled on, supported by these devoted creatures, fed by them. "

"Papa, papa, hush, " cried Desiree, clasping her hands. 

"Yes, fed by them, I say--and I do not blush for it. For I accept allthis devotion in the name of sacred art. But this is too much. Too muchhas been put upon me. I renounce the stage!"

"Oh! my dear, what is that you say?" cried Mamma Delobelle, rushing tohis side. 

"No, leave me. I have reached the end of my strength. They have slainthe artist in me. It is all over. I renounce the stage. "

If you had seen the two women throw their arms about him then, implorehim to struggle on, prove to him that he had no right to give up, youcould not have restrained your tears. But Delobelle resisted. 

He yielded at last, however, and promised to continue the fight a littlewhile, since it was their wish; but it required many an entreaty andcaress to carry the point. 

CHAPTER IX. AT SAVIGNY

It was a great misfortune, that sojourn of the two families at Savignyfor a month. 

After an interval of two years Georges and Sidonie found themselvesside by side once more on the old estate, too old not to be always likeitself, where the stones, the ponds, the trees, always the same, seemedto cast derision upon all that changes and passes away. A renewal ofintercourse under such circumstances must have been disastrous to twonatures that were not of a very different stamp, and far more virtuousthan those two. 

As for Claire, she never had been so happy; Savigny never had seemed solovely to her. What joy to walk with her child over the greensward whereshe herself had walked as a child; to sit, a young mother, upon theshaded seats from which her own mother had looked on at her childishgames years before; to go, leaning on Georges's arm, to seek out thenooks where they had played together. She felt a tranquil contentment, the overflowing happiness of placid lives which enjoy their bliss insilence; and all day long her skirts swept along the paths, guided bythe tiny footsteps of the child, her cries and her demands upon hermother's care. 

Sidonie seldom took part in these maternal promenades. She said thatthe chatter of children tired her, and therein she agreed with oldGardinois, who seized upon any pretext to annoy his granddaughter. He believed that he accomplished that object by devoting himselfexclusively to Sidonie, and arranging even more entertainments for herthan on her former visit. The carriages that had been shut up in thecarriage-house for two years, and were dusted once a week becausethe spiders spun their webs on the silk cushions, were placed at herdisposal. The horses were harnessed three times a day, and the gate wascontinually turning on its hinges. Everybody in the house followed thisimpulse of worldliness. The gardener paid more attention to his flowersbecause Madame Risler selected the finest ones to wear in her hair atdinner. And then there were calls to be made. Luncheon parties weregiven, gatherings at which Madame Fromont Jeune presided, but at whichSidonie, with her lively manners, shone supreme. Indeed, Claire oftenleft her a clear field. The child had its hours for sleeping and ridingout, with which no amusements could interfere. The mother was compelledto remain away, and it often happened that she was unable to go withSidonie to meet the partners when they came from Paris at night. 

"You will make my excuses, " she would say, as the went up to her room. 

Madame Risler was triumphant. A picture of elegant indolence, she woulddrive away behind the galloping horses, unconscious of the swiftness oftheir pace, without a thought in her mind. 

Other carriages were always waiting at the station. Two or three timesshe heard some one near her whisper, "That is Madame Fromont Jeune, "and, indeed, it was a simple matter for people to make the mistake, seeing the three return together from the station, Sidonie sittingbeside Georges on the back seat, laughing and talking with him, andRisler facing them, smiling contentedly with his broad hands spread flatupon his knees, but evidently feeling a little out of place in that finecarriage. The thought that she was taken for Madame Fromont made hervery proud, and she became a little more accustomed to it every day. Ontheir arrival at the chateau, the two families separated until dinner;but, in the presence of his wife sitting tranquilly beside the sleepingchild, Georges Fromont, too young to be absorbed by the joys ofdomesticity, was continually thinking of the brilliant Sidonie, whosevoice he could hear pouring forth triumphant roulades under the trees inthe garden. 

While the whole chateau was thus transformed in obedience to the whimsof a young woman, old Gardinois continued to lead the narrow life ofa discontented, idle, impotent 'parvenu'. The most successful means ofdistraction he had discovered was espionage. The goings and comings ofhis servants, the remarks that were made about him in the kitchen, the basket of fruit and vegetables brought every morning from thekitchen-garden to the pantry, were objects of continual investigation. 

For the purposes of this constant spying upon his household, he madeuse of a stone bench set in the gravel behind an enormous Paulownia. He would sit there whole days at a time, neither reading nor thinking, simply watching to see who went in or out. For the night he had inventedsomething different. In the great vestibule at the main entrance, whichopened upon the front steps with their array of bright flowers, he hadcaused an opening to be made leading to his bedroom on the floor above. An acoustic tube of an improved type was supposed to convey to hisears every sound on the ground floor, even to the conversation of theservants taking the air on the steps. 

Unluckily, the instrument was so powerful that it exaggerated all thenoises, confused them and prolonged them, and the powerful, regularticking of a great clock, the cries of a paroquet kept in one of thelower rooms, the clucking of a hen in search of a lost kernel of corn, were all Monsieur Gardinois could hear when he applied his ear to thetube. As for voices, they reached him in the form of a confused buzzing, like the muttering of a crowd, in which it was impossible to distinguishanything. He had nothing to show for the expense of the apparatus, andhe concealed his wonderful tube in a fold of his bed-curtains. 

One night Gardinois, who had fallen asleep, was awakened suddenly bythe creaking of a door. It was an extraordinary thing at that hour. Thewhole house hold was asleep. Nothing could be heard save the footstepsof the watch-dogs on the sand, or their scratching at the foot of atree in which an owl was screeching. An excellent opportunity to usehis listening-tube! Upon putting it to his ear, M. Gardinois was assuredthat he had made no mistake. The sounds continued. One door was opened, then another. The bolt of the front door was thrown back with aneffort. But neither Pyramus nor Thisbe, not even Kiss, the formidableNewfoundland, had made a sign. He rose softly to see who those strangeburglars could be, who were leaving the house instead of entering it;and this is what he saw through the slats of his blind:

A tall, slender young man, with Georges's figure and carriage, arm-in-arm with a woman in a lace mantilla. They stopped first at thebench by the Paulownia, which was in full bloom. 

It was a superb moonlight night. The moon, silvering the treetops, madenumberless flakes of light amid the dense foliage. The terraces, whitewith moonbeams, where the Newfoundlands in their curly coats went toand fro, watching the night butterflies, the smooth, deep waters ofthe ponds, all shone with a mute, calm brilliance, as if reflected ina silver mirror. Here and there glow-worms twinkled on the edges of thegreensward. 

The two promenaders remained for a moment beneath the shade of thePaulownia, sitting silent on the bench, lost in the dense darkness whichthe moon makes where its rays do not reach. Suddenly they appeared inthe bright light, wrapped in a languishing embrace; then walked slowlyacross the main avenue, and disappeared among the trees. 

"I was sure of it!" said old Gardinois, recognizing them. Indeed, whatneed had he to recognize them? Did not the silence of the dogs, theaspect of the sleeping house, tell him more clearly than anything elsecould, what species of impudent crime, unknown and unpunished, hauntedthe avenues in his park by night? Be that as it may, the old peasantwas overjoyed by his discovery. He returned to bed without alight, chuckling to himself, and in the little cabinet filled withhunting-implements, whence he had watched them, thinking at first thathe had to do with burglars, the moon's rays shone upon naught save thefowling-pieces hanging on the wall and the boxes of cartridges of allsizes. 

Sidonie and Georges had taken up the thread of their love at the cornerof the same avenue. The year that had passed, marked by hesitation, byvague struggles, by fruitless resistance, seemed to have been only apreparation for their meeting. And it must be said that, when once thefatal step was taken, they were surprised at nothing so much as thefact that they had postponed it so long. Georges Fromont especially wasseized by a mad passion. He was false to his wife, his best friend; hewas false to Risler, his partner, the faithful companion of his everyhour. 

He felt a constant renewal, a sort of overflow of remorse, wherein hispassion was intensified by the magnitude of his sin. Sidonie became hisone engrossing thought, and he discovered that until then he had notlived. As for her, her love was made up of vanity and spite. The thingthat she relished above all else was Claire's degradation in her eyes. Ah! if she could only have said to her, "Your husband loves me--he isfalse to you with me, " her pleasure would have been even greater. As forRisler, in her view he richly deserved what had happened to him. In herold apprentice's jargon, in which she still thought, even if she did notspeak it, the poor man was only "an old fool, " whom she had taken as astepping-stone to fortune. "An old fool" is made to be deceived!

During the day Savigny belonged to Claire, to the child who ran aboutupon the gravel, laughing at the birds and the clouds, and who grewapace. The mother and child had for their own the daylight, the pathsfilled with sunbeams. But the blue nights were given over to sin, tothat sin firmly installed in the chateau, which spoke in undertones, crept noiselessly behind the closed blinds, and in face of whichthe sleeping house became dumb and blind, and resumed its stonyimpassibility, as if it were ashamed to see and hear. 

CHAPTER X. SIGISMOND PLANUS TREMBLES FOR HIS CASH-BOX. 

"Carriage, my dear Chorche?--I--have a carriage? What for?"

"I assure you, my dear Risler, that it is quite essential for you. Ourbusiness, our relations, are extending every day; the coupe is no longerenough for us. Besides, it doesn't look well to see one of the partnersalways in his carriage and the other on foot. Believe me, it is anecessary outlay, and of course it will go into the general expenses ofthe firm. Come, resign yourself to the inevitable. "

It was genuine resignation. It seemed to Risler as if he were stealingsomething in taking the money for such an unheard-of luxury as acarriage; however, he ended by yielding to Georges's persistentrepresentations, thinking as he did so:

"This will make Sidonie very happy!"

The poor fellow had no suspicion that Sidonie herself, a month before, had selected at Binder's the coupe which Georges insisted upon givingher, and which was to be charged to expense account in order not toalarm the husband. 

Honest Risler was so plainly created to be deceived. His inbornuprightness, the implicit confidence in men and things, which was thefoundation of his transparent nature, had been intensified of lateby preoccupation resulting from his pursuit of the Risler Press, an invention destined to revolutionize the wall-paper industry andrepresenting in his eyes his contribution to the partnership assets. When he laid aside his drawings and left his little work-room on thefirst floor, his face invariably wore the absorbed look of the man whohas his life on one side, his anxieties on another. What a delight itwas to him, therefore, to find his home always tranquil, his wife alwaysin good humor, becomingly dressed and smiling. 

Without undertaking to explain the change to himself, he recognizedthat for some time past the "little one" had not been as before in hertreatment of him. She allowed him to resume his old habits: the pipe atdessert, the little nap after dinner, the appointments at the brewerywith Chebe and Delobelle. Their apartments also were transformed, embellished. 

A grand piano by a famous maker made its appearance in the salon inplace of the old one, and Madame Dobson, the singing-teacher, came nolonger twice a week, but every day, music-roll in hand. 

Of a curious type was that young woman of American extraction, with hairof an acid blond, like lemon-pulp, over a bold forehead and metallicblue eyes. As her husband would not allow her to go on the stage, shegave lessons, and sang in some bourgeois salons. As a result of livingin the artificial world of compositions for voice and piano, she hadcontracted a species of sentimental frenzy. 

She was romance itself. In her mouth the words "love" and "passion"seemed to have eighty syllables, she uttered them with so muchexpression. Oh, expression! That was what Mistress Dobson placed beforeeverything, and what she tried, and tried in vain, to impart to herpupil. 

'Ay Chiquita, ' upon which Paris fed for several seasons, was then at theheight of its popularity. Sidonie studied it conscientiously, and allthe morning she could be heard singing:

 "On dit que tu te maries, Tu sais que j'en puis mourir. "

 [They say that thou'rt to marry Thou know'st that I may die. ]

"Mouri-i-i-i-i-r!" the expressive Madame Dobson would interpose, whileher hands wandered feebly over the piano-keys; and die she would, raising her light blue eyes to the ceiling and wildly throwing back herhead. Sidonie never could accomplish it. Her mischievous eyes, herlips, crimson with fulness of life, were not made for such AEolian-harpsentimentalities. The refrains of Offenbach or Herve, interspersed withunexpected notes, in which one resorts to expressive gestures for aid, to a motion of the head or the body, would have suited her better; butshe dared not admit it to her sentimental instructress. By the way, although she had been made to sing a great deal at Mademoiselle LeMire's, her voice was still fresh and not unpleasing. 

Having no social connections, she came gradually to make a friend of hersinging-mistress. She would keep her to breakfast, take her to drive inthe new coupe and to assist in her purchases of gowns and jewels. MadameDobson's sentimental and sympathetic tone led one to repose confidencein her. Her continual repinings seemed too long to attract otherrepinings. Sidonie told her of Georges, of their relations, attemptingto palliate her offence by blaming the cruelty of her parents inmarrying her by force to a man much older than herself. Madame Dobson atonce showed a disposition to assist them; not that the little woman wasvenal, but she had a passion for passion, a taste for romantic intrigue. As she was unhappy in her own home, married to a dentist who beat her, all husbands were monsters in her eyes, and poor Risler especiallyseemed to her a horrible tyrant whom his wife was quite justified inhating and deceiving. 

She was an active confidant and a very useful one. Two or three times aweek she would bring tickets for a box at the Opera or the Italiens, orsome one of the little theatres which enjoy a temporary vogue, and causeall Paris to go from one end of Paris to the other for a season. InRisler's eyes the tickets came from Madame Dobson; she had as many asshe chose to the theatres where operas were given. The poor wretch hadno suspicion that one of those boxes for an important "first night" hadoften cost his partner ten or fifteen Louis. 

In the evening, when his wife went away, always splendidly attired, hewould gaze admiringly at her, having no suspicion of the cost of hercostumes, certainly none of the man who paid for them, and would awaither return at his table by the fire, busy with his drawings, free fromcare, and happy to be able to say to himself, "What a good time she ishaving!"

On the floor below, at the Fromonts', the same comedy was being played, but with a transposition of parts. There it was the young wife who satby the fire. Every evening, half an hour after Sidonie's departure, thegreat gate swung open to give passage to the Fromont coupe conveyingMonsieur to his club. What would you have? Business has its demands. Allthe great deals are arranged at the club, around the bouillotte table, and a man must go there or suffer the penalty of seeing his businessfall off. Claire innocently believed it all. When her husband had gone, she felt sad for a moment. She would have liked so much to keep him withher or to go out leaning on his arm, to seek enjoyment with him. But thesight of the child, cooing in front of the fire and kicking her littlepink feet while she was being undressed, speedily soothed the mother. Then the eloquent word "business, " the merchant's reason of state, wasalways at hand to help her to resign herself. 

Georges and Sidonie met at the theatre. Their feeling at first when theywere together was one of satisfied vanity. People stared at them agreat deal. She was really pretty now, and her irregular but attractivefeatures, which required the aid of all the eccentricities of theprevailing style in order to produce their full effect, adaptedthemselves to them so perfectly that you would have said they wereinvented expressly for her. In a few moments they went away, and MadameDobson was left alone in the box. They had hired a small suite on theAvenue Gabriel, near the 'rond-point' of the Champs Elysees--thedream of the young women at the Le Mire establishment--two luxuriouslyfurnished, quiet rooms, where the silence of the wealthy quarter, disturbed only by passing carriages, formed a blissful surrounding fortheir love. 

Little by little, when she had become accustomed to her sin, sheconceived the most audacious whims. From her old working-days she hadretained in the depths of her memory the names of public balls, offamous restaurants, where she was eager to go now, just as shetook pleasure in causing the doors to be thrown open for her at theestablishments of the great dressmakers, whose signs only she had knownin her earlier days. For what she sought above all else in this liaisonwas revenge for the sorrows and humiliations of her youth. Nothingdelighted her so much, for example, when returning from an eveningdrive in the Bois, as a supper at the Cafe Anglais with the sounds ofluxurious vice around her. From these repeated excursions she broughtback peculiarities of speech and behavior, equivocal songs, and astyle of dress that imported into the bourgeois atmosphere of the oldcommercial house an accurate reproduction of the most advanced type ofthe Paris cocotte of that period. 

At the factory they began to suspect something. The women of the people, even the poorest, are so quick at picking a costume to pieces! WhenMadame Risler went out, about three o'clock, fifty pairs of sharp, envious eyes, lying in ambush at the windows of the polishing-shop, watched her pass, penetrating to the lowest depths of her guiltyconscience through her black velvet dolman and her cuirass of sparklingjet. 

Although she did not suspect it, all the secrets of that mad brain wereflying about her like the ribbons that played upon her bare neck; andher daintily-shod feet, in their bronzed boots with ten buttons, toldthe story of all sorts of clandestine expeditions, of the carpetedstairways they ascended at night on their way to supper, and the warmfur robes in which they were wrapped when the coupe made the circuit ofthe lake in the darkness dotted with lanterns. 

The work-women laughed sneeringly and whispered:

"Just look at that Tata Bebelle! A fine way to dress to go out. Shedon't rig herself up like that to go to mass, that's sure! To think thatit ain't three years since she used to start for the shop every morningin an old waterproof, and two sous' worth of roasted chestnuts in herpockets to keep her fingers warm. Now she rides in her carriage. "

And amid the talc dust and the roaring of the stoves, red-hot in winterand summer alike, more than one poor girl reflected on the caprice ofchance in absolutely transforming a woman's existence, and began todream vaguely of a magnificent future which might perhaps be in storefor herself without her suspecting it. 

In everybody's opinion Risler was a dishonored husband. Twoassistants in the printing-room--faithful patrons of the FoliesDramatiques--declared that they had seen Madame Risler several times attheir theatre, accompanied by some escort who kept out of sight at therear of the box. Pere Achille, too, told of amazing things. That Sidoniehad a lover, that she had several lovers, in fact, no one entertained adoubt. But no one had as yet thought of Fromont jeune. 

And yet she showed no prudence whatever in her relations with him. Onthe contrary, she seemed to make a parade of them; it may be that thatwas what saved them. How many times she accosted him boldly on thesteps to agree upon a rendezvous for the evening! How many times shehad amused herself in making him shudder by looking into his eyes beforeevery one! When the first confusion had passed, Georges was gratefulto her for these exhibitions of audacity, which he attributed to theintensity of her passion. He was mistaken. 

What she would have liked, although she did not admit it to herself, would have been to have Claire see them, to have her draw aside thecurtain at her window, to have her conceive a suspicion of what waspassing. She needed that in order to be perfectly happy: that her rivalshould be unhappy. But her wish was ungratified; Claire Fromont noticednothing and lived, as did Risler, in imperturbable serenity. 

Only Sigismond, the old cashier, was really ill at ease. And yet he wasnot thinking of Sidonie when, with his pen behind his ear, he paused amoment in his work and gazed fixedly through his grating at the drenchedsoil of the little garden. He was thinking solely of his master, ofMonsieur "Chorche, " who was drawing a great deal of money now for hiscurrent expenses and sowing confusion in all his books. Every timeit was some new excuse. He would come to the little wicket with anunconcerned air:

"Have you a little money, my good Planus? I was worsted again atbouillotte last night, and I don't want to send to the bank for such atrifle. "

Sigismond Planus would open his cash-box, with an air of regret, to getthe sum requested, and he would remember with terror a certain day whenMonsieur Georges, then only twenty years old, had confessed to his unclethat he owed several thousand francs in gambling debts. The elder manthereupon conceived a violent antipathy for the club and contempt forall its members. A rich tradesman who was a member happened to come tothe factory one day, and Sigismond said to him with brutal frankness:

"The devil take your 'Cercle du Chateau d'Eau!' Monsieur Georges hasleft more than thirty thousand francs there in two months. "

The other began to laugh. 

"Why, you're greatly mistaken, Pere Planus--it's at least three monthssince we have seen your master. "

The cashier did not pursue the conversation; but a terrible thought tookup its abode in his mind, and he turned it over and over all day long. 

If Georges did not go to the club, where did he pass his evenings? Wheredid he spend so much money?

There was evidently a woman at the bottom of the affair. 

As soon as that idea occurred to him, Sigismond Planus began to trembleseriously for his cash-box. That old bear from the canton of Berne, a confirmed bachelor, had a terrible dread of women in general andParisian women in particular. He deemed it his duty, first of all, inorder to set his conscience at rest, to warn Risler. He did it at firstin rather a vague way. 

"Monsieur Georges is spending a great deal of money, " he said to him oneday. 

Risler exhibited no surprise. 

"What do you expect me to do, my old Sigismond? It is his right. "

And the honest fellow meant what he said. In his eyes Fromont jeunewas the absolute master of the establishment. It would have been a finething, and no mistake, for him, an ex-draughtsman, to venture tomake any comments. The cashier dared say no more until the day when amessenger came from a great shawl-house with a bill for six thousandfrancs for a cashmere shawl. 

He went to Georges in his office. 

"Shall I pay it, Monsieur?"

Georges Fromont was a little annoyed. Sidonie had forgotten to tell himof this latest purchase; she used no ceremony with him now. 

"Pay it, pay it, Pere Planus, " he said, with a shade of embarrassment, and added: "Charge it to the account of Fromont jeune. It is acommission intrusted to me by a friend. "

That evening, as Sigismond was lighting his little lamp, he saw Rislercrossing the garden, and tapped on the window to call him. 

"It's a woman, " he said, under his breath. "I have the proof of it now. "

As he uttered the awful words "a woman" his voice shook with alarm andwas drowned in the great uproar of the factory. The sounds of thework in progress had a sinister meaning to the unhappy cashier at thatmoment. It seemed to him as if all the whirring machinery, the greatchimney pouring forth its clouds of smoke, the noise of the workmen attheir different tasks--as if all this tumult and bustle and fatiguewere for the benefit of a mysterious little being, dressed in velvet andadorned with jewels. 

Risler laughed at him and refused to believe him. He had long beenacquainted with his compatriot's mania for detecting in everything thepernicious influence of woman. And yet Planus's words sometimes recurredto his thoughts, especially in the evening when Sidonie, after all thecommotion attendant upon the completion of her toilette, went away tothe theatre with Madame Dobson, leaving the apartment empty as soon asher long train had swept across the threshold. Candles burning in frontof the mirrors, divers little toilette articles scattered about andthrown aside, told of extravagant caprices and a reckless expenditure ofmoney. Risler thought nothing of all that; but, when he heard Georges'scarriage rolling through the courtyard, he had a feeling of discomfortat the thought of Madame Fromont passing her evenings entirely alone. Poor woman! Suppose what Planus said were true!

Suppose Georges really had a second establishment! Oh, it would befrightful!

Thereupon, instead of beginning to work, he would go softly downstairsand ask if Madame were visible, deeming it his duty to keep her company. 

The little girl was always in bed, but the little cap, the blue shoes, were still lying in front of the fire. Claire was either reading orworking, with her silent mother beside her, always rubbing or dustingwith feverish energy, exhausting herself by blowing on the case of herwatch, and nervously taking the same thing up and putting it down againten times in succession, with the obstinate persistence of mania. Nor was honest Risler a very entertaining companion; but that did notprevent the young woman from welcoming him kindly. She knew all that wassaid about Sidonie in the factory; and although she did not believe halfof it, the sight of the poor man, whom his wife left alone so often, moved her heart to pity. Mutual compassion formed the basis of thatplacid friendship, and nothing could be more touching than these twodeserted ones, one pitying the other and each trying to divert theother's thoughts. 

Seated at the small, brightly lighted table in the centre of the salon, Risler would gradually yield to the influence of the warmth of thefire and the harmony of his surroundings. He found there articles offurniture with which he had been familiar for twenty years, the portraitof his former employer; and his dear Madame Chorche, bending over somelittle piece of needle work at his side, seemed to him even younger andmore lovable among all those old souvenirs. From time to time she wouldrise to go and look at the child sleeping in the adjoining room, whosesoft breathing they could hear in the intervals of silence. Withoutfully realizing it, Risler felt more comfortable and warmer there thanin his own apartment; for on certain days those attractive rooms, wherethe doors were forever being thrown open for hurried exits or returns, gave him the impression of a hall without doors or windows, open tothe four winds. His rooms were a camping-ground; this was a home. Acare-taking hand caused order and refinement to reign everywhere. Thechairs seemed to be talking together in undertones, the fire burned witha delightful sound, and Mademoiselle Fromont's little cap retainedin every bow of its blue ribbons suggestions of sweet smiles and babyglances. 

And while Claire was thinking that such an excellent man deserved abetter companion in life, Risler, watching the calm and lovely faceturned toward him, the intelligent, kindly eyes, asked himself whothe hussy could be for whom Georges Fromont neglected such an adorablewoman. 

CHAPTER XI. THE INVENTORY

The house in which old Planus lived at Montrouge adjoined the one whichthe Chebes had occupied for some time. There was the same ground floorwith three windows, and a single floor above, the same garden with itslatticework fence, the same borders of green box. There the old cashierlived with his sister. He took the first omnibus that left the office inthe morning, returned at dinner-time, and on Sundays remained at home, tending his flowers and his poultry. The old maid was his housekeeperand did all the cooking and sewing. A happier couple never lived. 

Celibates both, they were bound together by an equal hatred of marriage. The sister abhorred all men, the brother looked upon all women withsuspicion; but they adored each other, each considering the other anexception to the general perversity of the sex. 

In speaking of him she always said: "Monsieur Planus, my brother!"--andhe, with the same affectionate solemnity, interspersed all his sentenceswith "Mademoiselle Planus, my sister!" To those two retiring andinnocent creatures, Paris, of which they knew nothing, although theyvisited it every day, was a den of monsters of two varieties, bent upondoing one another the utmost possible injury; and whenever, amid thegossip of the quarter, a conjugal drama came to their ears, each ofthem, beset by his or her own idea, blamed a different culprit. 

"It is the husband's fault, " would be the verdict of "MademoisellePlanus, my sister. "

"It is the wife's fault, " "Monsieur Planus, my brother, " would reply. 

"Oh! the men--"

"Oh! the women--"

That was their one never-failing subject of discussion in those rarehours of idleness which old Sigismond set aside in his busy day, whichwas as carefully ruled off as his account-books. For some time pastthe discussions between the brother and sister had been marked byextraordinary animation. They were deeply interested in what was takingplace at the factory. The sister was full of pity for Madame Fromontand considered her husband's conduct altogether outrageous; as forSigismond, he could find no words bitter enough for the unknown trollopwho sent bills for six-thousand-franc shawls to be paid from hiscashbox. In his eyes, the honor and fair fame of the old house he hadserved since his youth were at stake. 

"What will become of us?" he repeated again and again. "Oh! thesewomen--"

One day Mademoiselle Planus sat by the fire with her knitting, waitingfor her brother. 

The table had been laid for half an hour, and the old lady was beginningto be worried by such unheard-of tardiness, when Sigismond entered witha most distressed face, and without a word, which was contrary to allhis habits. 

He waited until the door was shut tight, then said in a low voice, inresponse to his sister's disturbed and questioning expression:

"I have some news. I know who the woman is who is doing her best to ruinus. "

Lowering his voice still more, after glancing about at the silentwalls of their little dining-room, he uttered a name so unexpected thatMademoiselle Planus made him repeat it. 

"Is it possible?"

"It is the truth. "

And, despite his grief, he had almost a triumphant air. 

His old sister could not believe it. Such a refined, polite person, whohad received her with so much cordiality!--How could any one imaginesuch a thing?

"I have proofs, " said Sigismond Planus. 

Thereupon he told her how Pere Achille had met Sidonie and Georgesone night at eleven o'clock, just as they entered a small furnishedlodging-house in the Montmartre quarter; and he was a man who neverlied. They had known him for a long while. Besides, others had met them. Nothing else was talked about at the factory. Risler alone suspectednothing. 

"But it is your duty to tell him, " declared Mademoiselle Planus. 

The cashier's face assumed a grave expression. 

"It is a very delicate matter. In the first place, who knows whetherhe would believe me? There are blind men so blind that--And then, byinterfering between the two partners, I risk the loss of my place. Oh!the women--the women! When I think how happy Risler might have been. When I sent for him to come to Paris with his brother, he hadn't a sou;and to-day he is at the head of one of the first houses in Paris. Doyou suppose that he would be content with that? Oh! no, of course not!Monsieur must marry. As if any one needed to marry! And, worse yet, hemarries a Parisian woman, one of those frowsy-haired chits that are theruin of an honest house, when he had at his hand a fine girl, of almosthis own age, a countrywoman, used to work, and well put together, as youmight say!"

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, " to whose physical structure healluded, had a magnificent opportunity to exclaim, "Oh! the men, themen!" but she was silent. It was a very delicate question, and perhaps, if Risler had chosen in time, he might have been the only one. 

Old Sigismond continued:

"And this is what we have come to. For three months the leadingwall-paper factory in Paris has been tied to the petticoats of thatgood-for-nothing. You should see how the money flies. All day long I donothing but open my wicket to meet Monsieur Georges's calls. He alwaysapplies to me, because at his banker's too much notice would be taken ofit, whereas in our office money comes and goes, comes in and goes out. But look out for the inventory! We shall have some pretty figures toshow at the end of the year. The worst part of the whole business isthat Risler won't listen to anything. I have warned him several times:'Look out, Monsieur Georges is making a fool of himself for some woman. 'He either turns away with a shrug, or else he tells me that it is noneof his business and that Fromont Jeune is the master. Upon my word, onewould almost think--one would almost think--"

The cashier did not finish his sentence; but his silence was pregnantwith unspoken thoughts. 

The old maid was appalled; but, like most women under suchcircumstances, instead of seeking a remedy for the evil, she wanderedoff into a maze of regrets, conjectures, and retrospective lamentations. What a misfortune that they had not known it sooner when they had theChebes for neighbors. Madame Chebe was such an honorable woman. Theymight have put the matter before her so that she would keep an eye onSidonie and talk seriously to her. 

"Indeed, that's a good idea, " Sigismond interrupted. "You must go tothe Rue du Mail and tell her parents. I thought at first of writing tolittle Frantz. He always had a great deal of influence over his brother, and he's the only person on earth who could say certain things to him. But Frantz is so far away. And then it would be such a terrible thing todo. I can't help pitying that unlucky Risler, though. No! the best wayis to tell Madame Chebe. Will you undertake to do it, sister?"

It was a dangerous commission. Mademoiselle Planus made some objections, but she never had been able to resist her brother's wishes, and thedesire to be of service to their old friend Risler assisted materiallyin persuading her. 

Thanks to his son-in-law's kindness, M. Chebe had succeeded ingratifying his latest whim. For three months past he had been livingat his famous warehouse on the Rue du Mail, and a great sensation wascreated in the quarter by that shop without merchandise, the shuttersof which were taken down in the morning and put up again at night, asin wholesale houses. Shelves had been placed all around the walls, therewas a new counter, a safe, a huge pair of scales. In a word, M. Chebepossessed all the requisites of a business of some sort, but did notknow as yet just what business he would choose. 

He pondered the subject all day as he walked to and fro across the shop, encumbered with several large pieces of bedroom furniture which they hadbeen unable to get into the back room; he pondered it, too, as he stoodon his doorstep, with his pen behind his ear, and feasted his eyesdelightedly on the hurly-burly of Parisian commerce. The clerks whopassed with their packages of samples under their arms, the vans of theexpress companies, the omnibuses, the porters, the wheelbarrows, thegreat bales of merchandise at the neighboring doors, the packages ofrich stuffs and trimmings which were dragged in the mud before beingconsigned to those underground regions, those dark holes stuffed withtreasures, where the fortune of business lies in embryo--all thesethings delighted M. Chebe. 

He amused himself guessing at the contents of the bales and was first atthe fray when some passer-by received a heavy package upon his feet, or the horses attached to a dray, spirited and restive, made the longvehicle standing across the street an obstacle to circulation. He had, moreover, the thousand-and-one distractions of the petty tradesmanwithout customers, the heavy showers, the accidents, the thefts, thedisputes. 

At the end of the day M. Chebe, dazed, bewildered, worn out by the laborof other people, would stretch himself out in his easy-chair and say tohis wife, as he wiped his forehead:

"That's the kind of life I need--an active life. "

Madame Chebe would smile softly without replying. Accustomed as shewas to all her husband's whims, she had made herself as comfortableas possible in a back room with an outlook upon a dark yard, consolingherself with reflections on the former prosperity of her parents and herdaughter's wealth; and, being always neatly dressed, she had succeededalready in acquiring the respect of neighbors and tradesmen. 

She asked nothing more than not to be confounded with the wives ofworkingmen, often less poor than herself, and to be allowed to retain, in spite of everything, a petty bourgeois superiority. That was herconstant thought; and so the back room in which she lived, and whereit was dark at three in the afternoon, was resplendent with order andcleanliness. During the day the bed became a couch, an old shawl didduty as a tablecloth, the fireplace, hidden by a screen, served as apantry, and the meals were cooked in modest retirement on a stove nolarger than a foot-warmer. A tranquil life--that was the dream of thepoor woman, who was continually tormented by the whims of an uncongenialcompanion. 

In the early days of his tenancy, M. Chebe had caused these words to beinscribed in letters a foot long on the fresh paint of his shop-front:

 COMMISSION--EXPORTATION

No specifications. His neighbors sold tulle, broadcloth, linen; he wasinclined to sell everything, but could not make up his mind just what. With what arguments did his indecision lead him to favor Madame Chebe asthey sat together in the evening!

"I don't know anything about linen; but when you come to broadcloth, I understand that. Only, if I go into broadcloths I must have a man totravel; for the best kinds come from Sedan and Elbeuf. I say nothingabout calicoes; summer is the time for them. As for tulle, that's out ofthe question; the season is too far advanced. "

He usually brought his discourse to a close with the words:

"The night will bring counsel--let us go to bed. "

And to bed he would go, to his wife's great relief. 

After three or four months of this life, M. Chebe began to tire of it. The pains in the head, the dizzy fits gradually returned. The quarterwas noisy and unhealthy: besides, business was at a standstill. Nothingwas to be done in any line, broadcloths, tissues, or anything else. 

It was just at the period of this new crisis that "Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, " called to speak about Sidonie. 

The old maid had said to herself on the way, "I must break it gently. "But, like all shy people, she relieved herself of her burden in thefirst words she spoke after entering the house. 

It was a stunning blow. When she heard the accusation made against herdaughter, Madame Chebe rose in indignation. No one could ever make herbelieve such a thing. Her poor Sidonie was the victim of an infamousslander. 

M. Chebe, for his part, adopted a very lofty tone, with significantphrases and motions of the head, taking everything to himself as was hiscustom. How could any one suppose that his child, a Chebe, the daughterof an honorable business man known for thirty years on the street, wascapable of Nonsense!

Mademoiselle Planus insisted. It was a painful thing to her to beconsidered a gossip, a hawker of unsavory stories. But they hadincontestable proofs. It was no longer a secret to anybody. 

"And even suppose it were true, " cried M. Chebe, furious at herpersistence. "Is it for us to worry about it? Our daughter is married. She lives a long way from her parents. It is for her husband, who ismuch older than she, to advise and guide her. Does he so much as thinkof doing it?"

Upon that the little man began to inveigh against his son-in-law, thatcold-blooded Swiss, who passed his life in his office devisingmachines, refused to accompany his wife into society, and preferred hisold-bachelor habits, his pipe and his brewery, to everything else. 

You should have seen the air of aristocratic disdain with which M. Chebepronounced the word "brewery!" And yet almost every evening he wentthere to meet Risler, and overwhelmed him with reproaches if he oncefailed to appear at the rendezvous. 

Behind all this verbiage the merchant of the Rue duMail--"Commission-Exportation"--had a very definite idea. He wished togive up his shop, to retire from business, and for some time he had beenthinking of going to see Sidonie, in order to interest her in his newschemes. That was not the time, therefore, to make disagreeable scenes, to prate about paternal authority and conjugal honor. As for MadameChebe, being somewhat less confident than before of her daughter'svirtue, she took refuge in the most profound silence. The poorwoman wished that she were deaf and blind--that she never had knownMademoiselle Planus. 

Like all persons who have been very unhappy, she loved a benumbedexistence with a semblance of tranquillity, and ignorance seemed to herpreferable to everything. As if life were not sad enough, good heavens!And then, after all, Sidonie had always been a good girl; why should shenot be a good woman?

Night was falling. M. Chebe rose gravely to close the shutters of theshop and light a gas-jet which illumined the bare walls, the empty, polished shelves, and the whole extraordinary place, which remindedone strongly of the day following a failure. With his lips closeddisdainfully, in his determination to remain silent, he seemed to say tothe old lady, "Night has come--it is time for you to go home. " And allthe while they could hear Madame Chebe sobbing in the back room, as shewent to and fro preparing supper. 

Mademoiselle Planus got no further satisfaction from her visit. 

"Well?" queried old Sigismond, who was impatiently awaiting her return. 

"They wouldn't believe me, and politely showed me the door. "

She had tears in her eyes at the thought of her humiliation. 

The old man's face flushed, and he said in a grave voice, taking hissister's hand:

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, I ask your pardon for having made youtake this step; but the honor of the house of Fromont was at stake. "

From that moment Sigismond became more and more depressed. His cash-boxno longer seemed to him safe or secure. Even when Fromont Jeune did notask him for money, he was afraid, and he summed up all his apprehensionsin four words which came continually to his lips when talking with hissister:

"I ha no gonfidence, " he would say, in his hoarse Swiss patois. 

Thinking always of his cash-box, he dreamed sometimes that it had brokenapart at all the joints, and insisted on remaining open, no matter howmuch he turned the key; or else that a high wind had scattered all thepapers, notes, cheques, and bills, and that he ran after them all overthe factory, tiring himself out in the attempt to pick them up. 

In the daytime, as he sat behind his grating in the silence of hisoffice, he imagined that a little white mouse had eaten its way throughthe bottom of the box and was gnawing and destroying all its contents, growing plumper and prettier as the work of destruction went on. 

So that, when Sidonie appeared on the steps about the middle of theafternoon, in her pretty Parisian plumage, old Sigismond shuddered withrage. In his eyes it was the ruin of the house that stood there, ruin ina magnificent costume, with its little coupe at the door, and the placidbearing of a happy coquette. 

Madame Risler had no suspicion that, at that window on the groundfloor, sat an untiring foe who watched her slightest movements, the mosttrivial details of her life, the going and coming of her music-teacher, the arrival of the fashionable dressmaker in the morning, all the boxesthat were brought to the house, and the laced cap of the employe of theMagasin du Louvre, whose heavy wagon stopped at the gate with a jinglingof bells, like a diligence drawn by stout horses which were dragging thehouse of Fromont to bankruptcy at break-neck speed. 

Sigismond counted the packages, weighed them with his eye as theypassed, and gazed inquisitively into Risler's apartments through theopen windows. The carpets that were shaken with a great noise, thejardinieres that were brought into the sunlight filled with fragile, unseasonable flowers, rare and expensive, the gorgeous hangings--none ofthese things escaped his notice. 

The new acquisitions of the household stared him in the face, remindinghim of some request for a large amount. 

But the one thing that he studied more carefully than all else wasRisler's countenance. 

In his view that woman was in a fair way to change his friend, thebest, the most upright of men, into a shameless villain. There was nopossibility of doubt that Risler knew of his dishonor, and submitted toit. He was paid to keep quiet. 

Certainly there was something monstrous in such a supposition. But itis the tendency of innocent natures, when they are made acquainted withevil for the first time, to go at once too far, beyond reason. When hewas once convinced of the treachery of Georges and Sidonie, Risler'sdegradation seemed to the cashier less impossible of comprehension. Onwhat other theory could his indifference, in the face of his partner'sheavy expenditures, be explained?

The excellent Sigismond, in his narrow, stereotyped honesty, couldnot understand the delicacy of Risler's heart. At the same time, themethodical bookkeeper's habit of thought and his clear-sightednessin business were a thousand leagues from that absent-minded, flightycharacter, half-artist, half-inventor. He judged him by himself, havingno conception of the condition of a man with the disease of invention, absorbed by a fixed idea. Such men are somnambulists. They look, but donot see, their eyes being turned within. 

It was Sigismond's belief that Risler did see. That belief made theold cashier very unhappy. He began by staring at his friend wheneverhe entered the counting-room; then, discouraged by his immovableindifference, which he believed to be wilful and premeditated, coveringhis face like a mask, he adopted the plan of turning away and fumblingamong his papers to avoid those false glances, and keeping his eyesfixed on the garden paths or the interlaced wires of the grating whenhe spoke to him. Even his words were confused and distorted, like hisglances. No one could say positively to whom he was talking. 

No more friendly smiles, no more reminiscences as they turned over theleaves of the cash-book together. 

"This was the year you came to the factory. Your first increase of pay. Do you remember? We dined at Douix's that day. And then the Cafe desAveugles in the evening, eh? What a debauch!"

At last Risler noticed the strange coolness that had sprung up betweenSigismond and himself. He mentioned it to his wife. 

For some time past she had felt that antipathy prowling about her. Sometimes, as she crossed the courtyard, she was oppressed, as it were, by malevolent glances which caused her to turn nervously toward the oldcashier's corner. This estrangement between the friends alarmed her, and she very quickly determined to put her husband on his guard againstPlanus's unpleasant remarks. 

"Don't you see that he is jealous of you, of your position? A man whowas once his equal, now his superior, he can't stand that. But whybother one's head about all these spiteful creatures? Why, I amsurrounded by them here. "

Risler looked at her with wide-open eyes:--"You?"

"Why, yes, it is easy enough to see that all these people detest me. They bear little Chebe a grudge because she has become Madame RislerAine. Heaven only knows all the outrageous things that are said aboutme! And your cashier doesn't keep his tongue in his pocket, I assureyou. What a spiteful fellow he is!"

These few words had their effect. Risler, indignant, but too proudto complain, met coldness with coldness. Those two honest men, eachintensely distrustful of the other, could no longer meet without apainful sensation, so that, after a while, Risler ceased to go to thecounting-room at all. It was not difficult for him, as Fromont Jeune hadcharge of all financial matters. His month's allowance was carried tohim on the thirtieth of each month. This arrangement afforded Sidonieand Georges additional facilities, and opportunity for all sorts ofunderhand dealing. 

She thereupon turned her attention to the completion of her programme ofa life of luxury. She lacked a country house. In her heart she detestedthe trees, the fields, the country roads that cover you with dust. "Themost dismal things on earth, " she used to say. But Claire Fromont passedthe summer at Savigny. As soon as the first fine days arrived, thetrunks were packed and the curtains taken down on the floor below; anda great furniture van, with the little girl's blue bassinet rockingon top, set off for the grandfather's chateau. Then, one morning, themother, grandmother, child, and nurse, a medley of white gowns and lightveils, would drive away behind two fast horses toward the sunny lawnsand the pleasant shade of the avenues. 

At that season Paris was ugly, depopulated; and although Sidonie lovedit even in the summer, which heats it like a furnace, it troubled herto think that all the fashion and wealth of Paris were driving by theseashore under their light umbrellas, and would make their outing anexcuse for a thousand new inventions, for original styles of the mostrisque sort, which would permit one to show that one has a pretty ankleand long, curly chestnut hair of one's own. 

The seashore bathing resorts! She could not think of them; Risler couldnot leave Paris. 

How about buying a country house? They had not the means. To be sure, there was the lover, who would have asked nothing better than togratify this latest whim; but a country house cannot be concealed like abracelet or a shawl. The husband must be induced to accept it. That wasnot an easy matter; however, they might venture to try it with Risler. 

To pave the way, she talked to him incessantly about a little nook inthe country, not too expensive, very near Paris. Risler listened witha smile. He thought of the high grass, of the orchard filled with finefruit-trees, being already tormented by the longing to possess whichcomes with wealth; but, as he was prudent, he said:

"We will see, we will see. Let us wait till the end of the year. "

The end of the year, that is to say, the striking of the balance-sheet. 

The balance-sheet! That is the magic word. All through the year we goon and on in the eddying whirl of business. Money comes and goes, circulates, attracts other money, vanishes; and the fortune of the firm, like a slippery, gleaming snake, always in motion, expands, contracts, diminishes, or increases, and it is impossible to know our conditionuntil there comes a moment of rest. Not until the inventory shallwe know the truth, and whether the year, which seems to have beenprosperous, has really been so. 

The account of stock is usually taken late in December, betweenChristmas and New Year's Day. As it requires much extra labor to prepareit, everybody works far into the night. The whole establishment isalert. The lamps remain lighted in the offices long after the doors areclosed, and seem to share in the festal atmosphere peculiar to thatlast week of the year, when so many windows are illuminated for familygatherings. Every one, even to the least important 'employe' of thefirm, is interested in the results of the inventory. The increases ofsalary, the New Year's presents, depend upon those blessed figures. Andso, while the vast interests of a wealthy house are trembling in thebalance, the wives and children and aged parents of the clerks, in theirfifth-floor tenements or poor apartments in the suburbs, talk of nothingbut the inventory, the results of which will make themselves felteither by a greatly increased need of economy or by some purchase, longpostponed, which the New Year's gift will make possible at last. 

On the premises of Fromont Jeune and Risler Aine, Sigismond Planus isthe god of the establishment at that season, and his little office asanctuary where all the clerks perform their devotions. In the silenceof the sleeping factory, the heavy pages of the great books rustle asthey are turned, and names called aloud cause search to be made in otherbooks. Pens scratch. The old cashier, surrounded by his lieutenants, hasa businesslike, awe-inspiring air. From time to time Fromont Jeune, onthe point of going out in his carriage, looks in for a moment, with acigar in his mouth, neatly gloved and ready for the street. He walksslowly, on tiptoe, puts his face to the grating:

"Well!--are you getting on all right?"

Sigismond gives a grunt, and the young master takes his leave, afraid toask any further questions. He knows from the cashier's expression thatthe showing will be a bad one. 

In truth, since the days of the Revolution, when there was fighting inthe very courtyard of the factory, so pitiable an inventory neverhad been seen in the Fromont establishment. Receipts and expendituresbalanced each other. The general expense account had eaten upeverything, and, furthermore, Fromont Jeune was indebted to the firmin a large sum. You should have seen old Planus's air of consternationwhen, on the 31st of December, he went up to Georges's office to makereport of his labors. 

Georges took a very cheerful view of the matter. Everything would gobetter next year. And to restore the cashier's good humor he gave himan extraordinary bonus of a thousand francs, instead of the five hundredhis uncle used always to give. Everybody felt the effects of thatgenerous impulse, and, in the universal satisfaction, the deplorableresults of the yearly accounting were very soon forgotten. As forRisler, Georges chose to take it upon himself to inform him as to thesituation. 

When he entered his partner's little closet, which was lighted fromabove by a window in the ceiling, so that the light fell directly uponthe subject of the inventor's meditations, Fromont hesitated a moment, filled with shame and remorse for what he was about to do. 

The other, when he heard the door, turned joyfully toward his partner. 

"Chorche, Chorche, my dear fellow--I have got it, our press. There arestill a few little things to think out. But no matter! I am sure nowof my invention: you will see--you will see! Ah! the Prochassons canexperiment all they choose. With the Risler Press we will crush allrivalry. "

"Bravo, my comrade!" replied Fromont Jeune. "So much for the future; butyou don't seem to think about the present. What about this inventory?"

"Ah, yes! to be sure. I had forgotten all about it. It isn't verysatisfactory, is it?"

He said that because of the somewhat disturbed and embarrassedexpression on Georges's face. 

"Why, yes, on the contrary, it is very satisfactory indeed, " was thereply. "We have every reason to be satisfied, especially as this is ourfirst year together. We have forty thousand francs each for our share ofthe profits; and as I thought you might need a little money to give yourwife a New Year's present--"

Ashamed to meet the eyes of the honest man whose confidence he wasbetraying, Fromont jeune placed a bundle of cheques and notes on thetable. 

Risler was deeply moved for a moment. So much money at one time for him!His mind dwelt upon the generosity of these Fromonts, who had made himwhat he was; then he thought of his little Sidonie, of the longing whichshe had so often expressed and which he would now be able to gratify. 

With tears in his eyes and a happy smile on his lips, he held out bothhands to his partner. 

"I am very happy! I am very happy!"

That was his favorite phrase on great occasions. Then he pointed to thebundles of bank notes spread out before him in the narrow bands whichare used to confine those fugitive documents, always ready to fly away. 

"Do you know what that is?" he said to Georges, with an air of triumph. "That is Sidonie's house in the country!"

CHAPTER XII. A LETTER

 "TO M. FRANTZ RISLER, "Engineer of the Compagnie Francaise, "Ismailia, Egypt. 

 "Frantz, my boy, it is old Sigismond who is writing to you. If I knew better how to put my ideas on paper, I should have a very long story to tell you. But this infernal French is too hard, and Sigismond Planus is good for nothing away from his figures. So I will come to the point at once. 

 "Affairs in your brother's house are not as they should be. That woman is false to him with his partner. She has made her husband a laughing-stock, and if this goes on she will cause him to be looked upon as a rascal. Frantz, my boy, you must come home at once. You are the only one who can speak to Risler and open his eyes about that little Sidonie. He would not believe any of us. Ask leave of absence at once, and come. 

 "I know that you have your bread to earn out there, and your future to assure; but a man of honor should think more of the name his parents gave him than of anything else. And I tell you that if you do not come at once, a time will come when the name of Risler will be so overwhelmed with shame that you will not dare to bear it. 

 "SIGISMOND PLANUS, "Cashier. "

CHAPTER XIII. THE JUDGE

Those persons who live always in doors, confined by work or infirmity toa chair by the window, take a deep interest in the people who pass, justas they make for themselves a horizon of the neighboring walls, roofs, and windows. 

Nailed to their place, they live in the life of the streets; and thebusy men and women who pass within their range of vision, sometimesevery day at the same hour, do not suspect that they serve as themainspring of other lives, that interested eyes watch for their comingand miss them if they happen to go to their destination by another road. 

The Delobelles, left to themselves all day, indulged in this sort ofsilent observation. Their window was narrow, and the mother, whose eyeswere beginning to weaken as the result of hard usage, sat near the lightagainst the drawn muslin curtain; her daughter's large armchair wasa little farther away. She announced the approach of their dailypassers-by. It was a diversion, a subject of conversation; and the longhours of toil seemed shorter, marked off by the regular appearanceof people who were as busy as they. There were two little sisters, agentleman in a gray overcoat, a child who was taken to school and takenhome again, and an old government clerk with a wooden leg, whose step onthe sidewalk had a sinister sound. 

They hardly ever saw him; he passed after dark, but they heard him, andthe sound always struck the little cripple's ears like a harsh echoof her own mournful thoughts. All these street friends unconsciouslyoccupied a large place in the lives of the two women. If it rained, theywould say:

"They will get wet. I wonder whether the child got home before theshower. " And when the season changed, when the March sun inundated thesidewalks or the December snow covered them with its white mantle andits patches of black mud, the appearance of a new garment on one oftheir friends caused the two recluses to say to themselves, "It issummer, " or, "winter has come. "

Now, on a certain evening in May, one of those soft, luminous eveningswhen life flows forth from the houses into the street through the openwindows, Desiree and her mother were busily at work with needles andfingers, exhausting the daylight to its last ray, before lighting thelamp. They could hear the shouts of children playing in the yards, themuffled notes of pianos, and the voice of a street peddler, drawing hishalf-empty wagon. One could smell the springtime in the air, a vagueodor of hyacinth and lilac. 

Mamma Delobelle had laid aside her work, and, before closing the window, leaned upon the sill listening to all these noises of a great toilingcity, taking delight in walking through the streets when its day's workwas ended. From time to time she spoke to her daughter, without turningher head. 

"Ah! there's Monsieur Sigismond. How early he leaves the factoryto-night! It may be because the days are lengthening so fast, but Idon't think it can be seven o'clock. Who can that man be with the oldcashier?--What a funny thing!--One would say--Why, yes!--One would sayit was Monsieur Frantz. But that isn't possible. Monsieur Frantz is along way from here at this moment; and then he had no beard. That manlooks like him all the same! Just look, my dear. "

But "my dear" does not leave her chair; she does not even stir. Withher eyes staring into vacancy, her needle in the air, arrested in itspretty, industrious movement, she has gone away to the blue country, that wonderful country whither one may go at will, without thought ofany infirmity. The name "Frantz, " uttered mechanically by her mother, because of a chance resemblance, represented to her a whole lifetimeof illusions, of fervent hopes, ephemeral as the flush that rose to hercheeks when, on returning home at night, he used to come and chat withher a moment. How far away that was already! To think that he used tolive in the little room near hers, that they used to hear his step onthe stairs and the noise made by his table when he dragged it to thewindow to draw! What sorrow and what happiness she used to feel when hetalked to her of Sidonie, sitting on the low chair at her knees, whileshe mounted her birds and her insects. 

As she worked, she used to cheer and comfort him, for Sidonie had causedpoor Frantz many little griefs before the last great one. His tone whenhe spoke of Sidonie, the sparkle in his eyes when he thought of her, fascinated Desiree in spite of everything, so that when he went awayin despair, he left behind him a love even greater than that he carriedwith him--a love which the unchanging room, the sedentary, stagnantlife, kept intact with all its bitter perfume, whereas his wouldgradually fade away and vanish in the fresh air of the outer world. 

It grows darker and darker. A great wave of melancholy envelops the poorgirl with the falling darkness of that balmy evening. The blissful gleamfrom the past dies away as the last glimmer of daylight vanishes in thenarrow recess of the window, where her mother still stands leaning onthe sill. 

Suddenly the door opens. Some one is there whose features can not bedistinguished. Who can it be? The Delobelles never receive calls. Themother, who has turned her head, thinks at first that some one has comefrom the shop to get the week's work. 

"My husband has just gone to your place, Monsieur. We have nothing here. Monsieur Delobelle has taken everything. "

The man comes forward without speaking, and as he approaches the windowhis features can be distinguished. He is a tall, solidly built fellowwith a bronzed face, a thick, red beard, and a deep voice, and is alittle slow of speech. 

"Ah! so you don't know me, Mamma Delobelle?"

"Oh! I knew you at once, Monsieur Frantz, " said Desiree, very calmly, ina cold, sedate tone. 

"Merciful heavens! it's Monsieur Frantz. "

Quickly Mamma Delobelle runs to the lamp, lights it, and closes thewindow. 

"What! it is you, is it, my dear Frantz?" How coolly she says it, thelittle rascal! "I knew you at once. " Ah, the little iceberg! She willalways be the same. 

A veritable little iceberg, in very truth. She is very pale, and herhand as it lies in Frantz's is white and cold. 

She seems to him improved, even more refined than before. He seems toher superb, as always, with a melancholy, weary expression in the depthsof his eyes, which makes him more of a man than when he went away. 

His weariness is due to his hurried journey, undertaken immediately onhis receipt of Sigismond's letter. Spurred on by the word dishonor, hehad started instantly, without awaiting his leave of absence, riskinghis place and his future prospects; and, hurrying from steamships torailways, he had not stopped until he reached Paris. Reason enough forbeing weary, especially when one has travelled in eager haste to reachone's destination, and when one's mind has been continually beset byimpatient thoughts, making the journey ten times over in incessant doubtand fear and perplexity. 

His melancholy began further back. It began on the day when the woman heloved refused to marry him, to become, six months later, the wife of hisbrother; two terrible blows in close succession, the second even morepainful than the first. It is true that, before entering into thatmarriage, Risler had written to him to ask his permission to be happy, and had written in such touching, affectionate terms that the violenceof the blow was somewhat diminished; and then, in due time, life in astrange country, hard work, and long journeys had softened his grief. Now only a vast background of melancholy remains; unless, indeed, thehatred and wrath by which he is animated at this moment against thewoman who is dishonoring his brother may be a remnant of his formerlove. 

But no! Frantz Risler thinks only of avenging the honor of the Rislers. He comes not as a lover, but as a judge; and Sidonie may well look toherself. 

The judge had gone straight to the factory on leaving the train, relyingupon the surprise, the unexpectedness, of his arrival to disclose to himat a glance what was taking place. 

Unluckily he had found no one. The blinds of the little house at thefoot of the garden had been closed for two weeks. Pere Achille informedhim that the ladies were at their respective country seats where thepartners joined them every evening. 

Fromont Jeune had left the factory very early; Risler Aine had justgone. Frantz decided to speak to old Sigismond. But it was Saturday, theregular pay-day, and he must needs wait until the long line of workmen, extending from Achille's lodge to the cashier's grated window, hadgradually dispersed. 

Although very impatient and very depressed, the excellent youth, who hadlived the life of a Paris workingman from his childhood, felt a thrillof pleasure at finding himself once more in the midst of the animatedscenes peculiar to that time and place. Upon all those faces, honest orvicious, was an expression of satisfaction that the week was at an end. You felt that, so far as they were concerned, Sunday began at seveno'clock Saturday evening, in front of the cashier's little lamp. 

One must have lived among workingmen to realize the full charm of thatone day's rest and its solemnity. Many of these poor creatures, boundfast to unhealthful trades, await the coming of the blessed Sunday likea puff of refreshing air, essential to their health and their life. Whatan overflow of spirits, therefore, what a pressing need of noisy mirth!It seems as if the oppression of the week's labor vanishes with thesteam from the machinery, as it escapes in a hissing cloud of vapor overthe gutters. 

One by one the workmen moved away from the grating, counting themoney that glistened in their black hands. There were disappointments, mutterings, remonstrances, hours missed, money drawn in advance; andabove the tinkling of coins, Sigismond's voice could be heard, calmand relentless, defending the interests of his employers with a zealamounting to ferocity. 

Frantz was familiar with all the dramas of pay-day, the false accentsand the true. He knew that one man's wages were expended for his family, to pay the baker and the druggist, or for his children's schooling. 

Another wanted his money for the wine-shop or for something even worse. And the melancholy, downcast shadows passing to and fro in front of thefactory gateway--he knew what they were waiting for--that they wereall on the watch for a father or a husband, to hurry him home withcomplaining or coaxing words. 

Oh! the barefooted children, the tiny creatures wrapped in old shawls, the shabby women, whose tear-stained faces were as white as the linencaps that surmounted them. 

Oh! the lurking vice that prowls about on pay-day, the candles thatare lighted in the depths of dark alleys, the dirty windows of thewine-shops where the thousand-and-one poisonous concoctions of alcoholdisplay their alluring colors. 

Frantz was familiar with all these forms of misery; but never had theyseemed to him so depressing, so harrowing as on that evening. 

When the last man was paid, Sigismond came out of his office. The twofriends recognized each other and embraced; and in the silence of thefactory, at rest for twenty-four hours and deathly still in all itsempty buildings, the cashier explained to Frantz the state of affairs. He described Sidonie's conduct, her mad extravagance, the total wreckof the family honor. The Rislers had bought a country house at Asnieres, formerly the property of an actress, and had set up a sumptuousestablishment there. They had horses and carriages, and led a luxurious, gay life. The thing that especially disturbed honest Sigismond was theself restraint of Fromont jeune. For some time he had drawn almost nomoney from the strong-box, and yet Sidonie was spending more than ever. 

"I haf no gonfidence!" said the unhappy cashier, shaking his head, "Ihaf no gonfidence!"

Lowering his voice he added:

"But your brother, my little Frantz, your brother? Who can explain hisactions? He goes about through it all with his eyes in the air, his hands in his pockets, his mind on his famous invention, whichunfortunately doesn't move fast. Look here! do you want me to give youmy opinion?--He's either a knave or a fool. "

They were walking up and down the little garden as they talked, stoppingfor a moment, then resuming their walk. Frantz felt as if he were livingin a horrible dream. The rapid journey, the sudden change of scene andclimate, the ceaseless flow of Sigismond's words, the new idea thathe had to form of Risler and Sidonie--the same Sidonie he had loved sodearly--all these things bewildered him and almost drove him mad. 

It was late. Night was falling. Sigismond proposed to him to go toMontrouge for the night; he declined on the plea of fatigue, and when hewas left alone in the Marais, at that dismal and uncertain hour whenthe daylight has faded and the gas is still unlighted, he walkedinstinctively toward his old quarters on the Rue de Braque. 

At the hall door hung a placard: Bachelor's Chamber to let. 

It was the same room in which he had lived so long with his brother. Herecognized the map fastened to the wall by four pins, the window onthe landing, and the Delobelles' little sign: 'Birds and Insects forOrnament. '

Their door was ajar; he had only to push it a little in order to enterthe room. 

Certainly there was not in all Paris a surer refuge for him, a spotbetter fitted to welcome and console his perturbed spirit, than thathard-working familiar fireside. In his present agitation and perplexityit was like the harbor with its smooth, deep water, the sunny, peacefulquay, where the women work while awaiting their husbands and fathers, though the wind howls and the sea rages. More than all else, although hedid not realize that it was so, it was a network of steadfast affection, that miraculous love-kindness which makes another's love precious to useven when we do not love that other. 

That dear little iceberg of a Desiree loved him so dearly. Her eyessparkled so even when talking of the most indifferent things with him. As objects dipped in phosphorus shine with equal splendor, so the mosttrivial words she said illuminated her pretty, radiant face. What ablissful rest it was for him after Sigismond's brutal disclosures!

They talked together with great animation while Mamma Delobelle wassetting the table. 

"You will dine with us, won't you, Monsieur Frantz? Father has gone totake back the work; but he will surely come home to dinner. "

He will surely come home to dinner!

The good woman said it with a certain pride. 

In fact, since the failure of his managerial scheme, the illustriousDelobelle no longer took his meals abroad, even on the evenings when hewent to collect the weekly earnings. The unlucky manager had eaten somany meals on credit at his restaurant that he dared not go there again. By way of compensation, he never failed, on Saturday, to bring home withhim two or three unexpected, famished guests--"old comrades"--"unluckydevils. " So it happened that, on the evening in question, he appearedupon the stage escorting a financier from the Metz theatre and a comiquefrom the theatre at Angers, both waiting for an engagement. 

The comique, closely shaven, wrinkled, shrivelled by the heat from thefootlights, looked like an old street-arab; the financier wore clothshoes, and no linen, so far as could be seen. 

"Frantz!--my Frantz!" cried the old strolling player in a melodramaticvoice, clutching the air convulsively with his hands. After a long andenergetic embrace he presented his guests to one another. 

"Monsieur Robricart, of the theatre at Metz. 

"Monsieur Chaudezon, of the theatre at Angers. 

"Frantz Risler, engineer. "

In Delobelle's mouth that word "engineer" assumed vast proportions!

Desiree pouted prettily when she saw her father's friends. It would havebeen so nice to be by themselves on a day like to-day. But the great mansnapped his fingers at the thought. He had enough to do to unload hispockets. First of all, he produced a superb pie "for the ladies, " hesaid, forgetting that he adored pie. A lobster next made its appearance, then an Arles sausage, marrons glaces and cherries, the first of theseason!

While the financier enthusiastically pulled up the collar of hisinvisible shirt, while the comique exclaimed "gnouf! gnouf!" with agesture forgotten by Parisians for ten years, Desiree thought withdismay of the enormous hole that impromptu banquet would make in thepaltry earnings of the week, and Mamma Delobelle, full of business, upset the whole buffet in order to find a sufficient number of plates. 

It was a very lively meal. The two actors ate voraciously, to the greatdelight of Delobelle, who talked over with them old memories of theirdays of strolling. Fancy a collection of odds and ends of scenery, extinct lanterns, and mouldy, crumbling stage properties. 

In a sort of vulgar, meaningless, familiar slang, they recalled theirinnumerable triumphs; for all three of them, according to their ownstories, had been applauded, laden with laurel-wreaths, and carried intriumph by whole cities. 

While they talked they ate as actors usually eat, sitting with theirfaces turned three-fourths toward the audience, with the unnatural hasteof stage guests at a pasteboard supper, alternating words and mouthfuls, seeking to produce an effect by their manner of putting down a glassor moving a chair, and expressing interest, amazement, joy, terror, surprise, with the aid of a skilfully handled knife and fork. MadameDelobelle listened to them with a smiling face. 

One can not be an actor's wife for thirty years without becomingsomewhat accustomed to these peculiar mannerisms. 

But one little corner of the table was separated from the rest of theparty as by a cloud which intercepted the absurd remarks, thehoarse laughter, the boasting. Frantz and Desiree talked together inundertones, hearing naught of what was said around them. Things thathappened in their childhood, anecdotes of the neighborhood, a wholeill-defined past which derived its only value from the mutual memoriesevoked, from the spark that glowed in the eyes of both-those were thethemes of their pleasant chat. 

Suddenly the cloud was torn aside, and Delobelle's terrible voiceinterrupted the dialogue. 

"Have you not seen your brother?" he asked, in order to avoid theappearance of neglecting him too much. "And you have not seen his wife, either? Ah! you will find her a Madame. Such toilettes, my dear fellow, and such chic! I assure you. They have a genuine chateau at Asnieres. The Chebes are there also. Ah! my old friend, they have all left usbehind. They are rich, they look down on old friends. Never a word, never a call. For my part, you understand, I snap my fingers at them, but it really wounds these ladies. "

"Oh, papa!" said Desiree hastily, "you know very well that we are toofond of Sidonie to be offended with her. "

The actor smote the table a violent blow with his fist. 

"Why, then, you do wrong. You ought to be offended with people who seekalways to wound and humiliate you. "

He still had upon his mind the refusal to furnish funds for histheatrical project, and he made no secret of his wrath. 

"If you knew, " he said to Frantz, "if you knew how money is beingsquandered over yonder! It is a great pity. And nothing substantial, nothing sensible. I who speak to you, asked your brother for a paltrysum to assure my future and himself a handsome profit. He flatlyrefused. Parbleu! Madame requires too much. She rides, goes to the racesin her carriage, and drives her husband at the same rate as her littlephaeton on the quay at Asnieres. Between you and me, I don't think thatour good friend Risler is very happy. That woman makes him believe blackis white. "

The ex-actor concluded his harangue with a wink at the comique and thefinancier, and for a moment the three exchanged glances, conventionalgrimaces, 'ha-has!' and 'hum-hums!' and all the usual pantomimeexpressive of thoughts too deep for words. 

Frantz was struck dumb. Do what he would, the horrible certaintyassailed him on all sides. Sigismond had spoken in accordance with hisnature, Delobelle with his. The result was the same. 

Fortunately the dinner was drawing near its close. The three actorsleft the table and betook themselves to the brewery on the Rue Blondel. Frantz remained with the two women. 

As he sat beside her, gentle and affectionate in manner, Desiree wassuddenly conscious of a great outflow of gratitude to Sidonie. She saidto herself that, after all, it was to her generosity that she owed thissemblance of happiness, and that thought gave her courage to defend herformer friend. 

"You see, Monsieur Frantz, you mustn't believe all my father told youabout your sister-in-law. Dear papa! he always exaggerates a little. Formy own part, I am very sure that Sidonie is incapable of all the evilshe is accused of. I am sure that her heart has remained the same; andthat she is still fond of her friends, although she does neglect them alittle. Such is life, you know. Friends drift apart without meaning to. Isn't that true, Monsieur Frantz?"

Oh! how pretty she was in his eyes, while she talked in that strain. Henever had taken so much notice of the refined features, the aristocraticpallor of her complexion; and when he left her that evening, deeplytouched by the warmth she had displayed in defending Sidonie, by all thecharming feminine excuses she put forward for her friend's silenceand neglect, Frantz Risler reflected, with a feeling of selfish andingenuous pleasure, that the child had loved him once, and that perhapsshe loved him still, and kept for him in the bottom of her heart thatwarm, sheltered spot to which we turn as to the sanctuary when life haswounded us. 

All night long in his old room, lulled by the imaginary movement of thevessel, by the murmur of the waves and the howling of the wind whichfollow long sea voyages, he dreamed of his youthful days, of littleChebe and Desiree Delobelle, of their games, their labors, and of theEcole Centrale, whose great, gloomy buildings were sleeping near athand, in the dark streets of the Marais. 

And when daylight came, and the sun shining in at his bare window vexedhis eyes and brought him back to a realization of the duty that laybefore him and to the anxieties of the day, he dreamed that it was timeto go to the School, and that his brother, before going down to thefactory, opened the door and called to him:

"Come, lazybones! Come!"

That dear, loving voice, too natural, too real for a dream, made himopen his eyes without more ado. 

Risler was standing by his bed, watching his awakening with a charmingsmile, not untinged by emotion; that it was Risler himself was evidentfrom the fact that, in his joy at seeing his brother Frantz once more, he could find nothing better to say than, "I am very happy, I am veryhappy!"

Although it was Sunday, Risler, as was his custom, had come to thefactory to avail himself of the silence and solitude to work at hispress. Immediately on his arrival, Pere Achille had informed him thathis brother was in Paris and had gone to the old house on the Rue deBraque, and he had hastened thither in joyful surprise, a littlevexed that he had not been forewarned, and especially that Frantz haddefrauded him of the first evening. His regret on that account came tothe surface every moment in his spasmodic attempts at conversation, inwhich everything that he wanted to say was left unfinished, interruptedby innumerable questions on all sorts of subjects and explosions ofaffection and joy. Frantz excused himself on the plea of fatigue, andthe pleasure it had given him to be in their old room once more. 

"All right, all right, " said Risler, "but I sha'n't let you alonenow--you are coming to Asnieres at once. I give myself leave of absencetoday. All thought of work is out of the question now that you havecome, you understand. Ah! won't the little one be surprised and glad! Wetalk about you so often! What joy! what joy!"

The poor fellow fairly beamed with happiness; he, the silent man, chattered like a magpie, gazed admiringly at his Frantz and remarkedupon his growth. The pupil of the Ecole Centrale had had a fine physiquewhen he went away, but his features had acquired greater firmness, his shoulders were broader, and it was a far cry from the tall, studious-looking boy who had left Paris two years before, for Ismailia, to this handsome, bronzed corsair, with his serious yet winning face. 

While Risler was gazing at him, Frantz, on his side, was closelyscrutinizing his brother, and, finding him the same as always, asingenuous, as loving, and as absent-minded as times, he said to himself:

"No! it is not possible--he has not ceased to be an honest man. "

Thereupon, as he reflected upon what people had dared to imagine, allhis wrath turned against that hypocritical, vicious woman, who deceivedher husband so impudently and with such absolute impunity that shesucceeded in causing him to be considered her confederate. Oh! what aterrible reckoning he proposed to have with her; how pitilessly he wouldtalk to her!

"I forbid you, Madame--understand what I say--I forbid you to dishonormy brother!"

He was thinking of that all the way, as he watched the still leaflesstrees glide along the embankment of the Saint-Germain railway. Sittingopposite him, Risler chattered, chattered without pause. He talked aboutthe factory, about their business. They had gained forty thousand francseach the last year; but it would be a different matter when the Presswas at work. "A rotary press, my little Frantz, rotary and dodecagonal, capable of printing a pattern in twelve to fifteen colors at a singleturn of the wheel--red on pink, dark green on light green, without theleast running together or absorption, without a line lapping over itsneighbor, without any danger of one shade destroying or overshadowinganother. Do you understand that, little brother? A machine that is anartist like a man. It means a revolution in the wallpaper trade. "

"But, " queried Frantz with some anxiety, "have you invented this Pressof yours yet, or are you still hunting for it?"

"Invented!--perfected! To-morrow I will show you all my plans. I havealso invented an automatic crane for hanging the paper on the rodsin the drying-room. Next week I intend to take up my quarters inthe factory, up in the garret, and have my first machine made theresecretly, under my own eyes. In three months the patents must be takenout and the Press must be at work. You'll see, my little Frantz, it willmake us all rich-you can imagine how glad I shall be to be able to makeup to these Fromonts for a little of what they have done for me. Ah!upon my word, the Lord has been too good to me. "

Thereupon he began to enumerate all his blessings. Sidonie was the bestof women, a little love of a wife, who conferred much honor upon him. They had a charming home. They went into society, very select society. The little one sang like a nightingale, thanks to Madame Dobson'sexpressive method. By the way, this Madame Dobson was another mostexcellent creature. There was just one thing that disturbed poor Risler, that was his incomprehensible misunderstanding with Sigismond. PerhapsFrantz could help him to clear up that mystery. 

"Oh! yes, I will help you, brother, " replied Frantz through his clenchedteeth; and an angry flush rose to his brow at the idea that any onecould have suspected the open-heartedness, the loyalty, that weredisplayed before him in all their artless spontaneity. Luckily he, thejudge, had arrived; and he proposed to restore everything to its properplace. 

Meanwhile, they were drawing near the house at Asnieres. Frantz hadnoticed at a distance a fanciful little turreted affair, glistening witha new blue slate roof. It seemed to him to have been built expressly forSidonie, a fitting cage for that capricious, gaudy-plumaged bird. 

It was a chalet with two stories, whose bright mirrors and pink-linedcurtains could be seen from the railway, shining resplendent at the farend of a green lawn, where an enormous pewter ball was suspended. 

The river was near at hand, still wearing its Parisian aspect, filledwith chains, bathing establishments, great barges, and multitudesof little, skiffs, with a layer of coal dust on their pretentious, freshly-painted names, tied to the pier and rocking to the slightestmotion of the water. From her windows Sidonie could see the restaurantson the beach, silent through the week, but filled to overflowing onSunday with a motley, noisy crowd, whose shouts of laughter, mingledwith the dull splash of oars, came from both banks to meet in midstreamin that current of vague murmurs, shouts, calls, laughter, and singingthat floats without ceasing up and down the Seine on holidays for adistance of ten miles. 

During the week she saw shabbily-dressed idlers sauntering along theshore, men in broad-brimmed straw hats and flannel shirts, women who saton the worn grass of the sloping bank, doing nothing, with the dreamyeyes of a cow at pasture. All the peddlers, hand-organs, harpists;travelling jugglers, stopped there as at a quarantine station. The quaywas crowded with them, and as they approached, the windows in thelittle houses near by were always thrown open, disclosing whitedressing-jackets, half-buttoned, heads of dishevelled hair, and anoccasional pipe, all watching these paltry strolling shows, as if witha sigh of regret for Paris, so near at hand. It was a hideous anddepressing sight. 

The grass, which had hardly begun to grow, was already turning yellowbeneath the feet of the crowd. The dust was black; and yet, everyThursday, the cocotte aristocracy passed through on the way to theCasino, with a great show of rickety carriages and borrowed postilions. All these things gave pleasure to that fanatical Parisian, Sidonie; andthen, too, in her childhood, she had heard a great deal about Asnieresfrom the illustrious Delobelle, who would have liked to have, like somany of his profession, a little villa in those latitudes, a cozy nookin the country to which to return by the midnight train, after the playis done. 

All these dreams of little Chebe, Sidonie Risler had realized. 

The brothers went to the gate opening on the quay, in which the key wasusually left. They entered, making their way among trees and shrubs ofrecent growth. Here and there the billiard-room, the gardener's lodge, alittle greenhouse, made their appearance, like the pieces of one ofthe Swiss chalets we give to children to play with; all very light andfragile, hardly more than resting on the ground, as if ready to fly awayat the slightest breath of bankruptcy or caprice: the villa of a cocotteor a pawnbroker. 

Frantz looked about in some bewilderment. In the distance, opening on aporch surrounded by vases of flowers, was the salon with its long blindsraised. An American easy-chair, folding-chairs, a small table from whichthe coffee had not been removed, could be seen near the door. Withinthey heard a succession of loud chords on the piano and the murmur oflow voices. 

"I tell you Sidonie will be surprised, " said honest Risler, walkingsoftly on the gravel; "she doesn't expect me until tonight. She andMadame Dobson are practising together at this moment. "

Pushing the door open suddenly, he cried from the threshold in his loud, good-natured voice:

"Guess whom I've brought. "

Madame Dobson, who was sitting alone at the piano, jumped up from herstool, and at the farther end of the grand salon Georges and Sidonierose hastily behind the exotic plants that reared their heads above atable, of whose delicate, slender lines they seemed a prolongation. 

"Ah! how you frightened me!" said Sidonie, running to meet Risler. 

The flounces of her white peignoir, through which blue ribbons weredrawn, like little patches of blue sky among the clouds, rolledin billows over the carpet, and, having already recovered from herembarrassment, she stood very straight, with an affable expression andher everlasting little smile, as she kissed her husband and offered herforehead to Frantz, saying:

"Good morning, brother. "

Risler left them confronting each other, and went up to Fromont Jeune, whom he was greatly surprised to find there. 

"What, Chorche, you here? I supposed you were at Savigny. "

"Yes, to be sure, but--I came--I thought you stayed at Asnieres Sundays. I wanted to speak to you on a matter of business. "

Thereupon, entangling himself in his words, he began to talk hurriedlyof an important order. Sidonie had disappeared after exchanging a fewunmeaning words with the impassive Frantz. Madame Dobson continuedher tremolos on the soft pedal, like those which accompany criticalsituations at the theatre. 

In very truth, the situation at that moment was decidedly strained. But Risler's good-humor banished all constraint. He apologized to hispartner for not being at home, and insisted upon showing Frantz thehouse. They went from the salon to the stable, from the stable to thecarriage-house, the servants' quarters, and the conservatory. Everythingwas new, brilliant, gleaming, too small, and inconvenient. 

"But, " said Risler, with a certain pride, "it cost a heap of money!"

He persisted in compelling admiration of Sidonie's purchase even to itssmallest details, exhibited the gas and water fixtures on everyfloor, the improved system of bells, the garden seats, the Englishbilliard-table, the hydropathic arrangements, and accompanied hisexposition with outbursts of gratitude to Fromont Jeune, who, by takinghim into partnership, had literally placed a fortune in his hands. 

At each new effusion on Risler's part, Georges Fromont shrank visibly, ashamed and embarrassed by the strange expression on Frantz's face. 

The breakfast was lacking in gayety. 

Madame Dobson talked almost without interruption, overjoyed to beswimming in the shallows of a romantic love-affair. Knowing, or ratherbelieving that she knew her friend's story from beginning to end, sheunderstood the lowering wrath of Frantz, a former lover furious atfinding his place filled, and the anxiety of Georges, due to theappearance of a rival; and she encouraged one with a glance, consoledthe other with a smile, admired Sidonie's tranquil demeanor, andreserved all her contempt for that abominable Risler, the vulgar, uncivilized tyrant. She made an effort to prevent any of those horribleperiods of silence, when the clashing knives and forks mark time in suchan absurd and embarrassing way. 

As soon as breakfast was at an end Fromont Jeune announced that he mustreturn to Savigny. Risler did not venture to detain him, thinking thathis dear Madame Chorche would pass her Sunday all alone; and so, withoutan opportunity to say a word to his mistress, the lover went away inthe bright sunlight to take an afternoon train, still attended by thehusband, who insisted upon escorting him to the station. 

Madame Dobson sat for a moment with Frantz and Sidonie under a littlearbor which a climbing vine studded with pink buds; then, realizingthat she was in the way, she returned to the salon, and as before, whileGeorges was there, began to play and sing softly and with expression. In the silent garden, that muffled music, gliding between the branches, seemed like the cooing of birds before the storm. 

At last they were alone. Under the lattice of the arbor, still bare andleafless, the May sun shone too bright. Sidonie shaded her eyes withher hand as she watched the people passing on the quay. Frantz likewiselooked out, but in another direction; and both of them, affecting to beentirely independent of each other, turned at the same instant with thesame gesture and moved by the same thought. 

"I have something to say to you, " he said, just as she opened her mouth. 

"And I to you, " she replied gravely; "but come in here; we shall be morecomfortable. "

And they entered together a little summer-house at the foot of thegarden. 

BOOK 3. 

CHAPTER XIV. EXPLANATION

By slow degrees Sidonie sank to her former level, yes, even lower. Fromthe rich, well-considered bourgeoise to which her marriage had raisedher, she descended the ladder to the rank of a mere toy. By dint oftravelling in railway carriages with fantastically dressed courtesans, with their hair worn over their eyes like a terrier's, or falling overthe back 'a la Genevieve de Brabant', she came at last to resemble them. She transformed herself into a blonde for two months, to the unboundedamazement of Rizer, who could not understand how his doll was sochanged. As for Georges, all these eccentricities amused him; it seemedto him that he had ten women in one. He was the real husband, the masterof the house. 

To divert Sidonie's thoughts, he had provided a simulacrum of societyfor her--his bachelor friends, a few fast tradesmen, almost no women, women have too sharp eyes. Madame Dobson was the only friend ofSidonie's sex. 

They organized grand dinner-parties, excursions on the water, fireworks. From day to day Risler's position became more absurd, more distressing. When he came home in the evening, tired out, shabbily dressed, he musthurry up to his room to dress. 

"We have some people to dinner, " his wife would say. "Make haste. "

And he would be the last to take his place at the table, after shakinghands all around with his guests, friends of Fromont Jeune, whom hehardly knew by name. Strange to say, the affairs of the factorywere often discussed at that table, to which Georges brought hisacquaintances from the club with the tranquil self-assurance of thegentleman who pays. 

"Business breakfasts and dinners!" To Risler's mind that phraseexplained everything: his partner's constant presence, his choice ofguests, and the marvellous gowns worn by Sidonie, who beautified herselfin the interests of the firm. This coquetry on his mistress's part droveFromont Jeune to despair. Day after day he came unexpectedly to takeher by surprise, uneasy, suspicious, afraid to leave that perverse anddeceitful character to its own devices for long. 

"What in the deuce has become of your husband?"

Pere Gardinois would ask his grand-daughter with a cunning leer. "Whydoesn't he come here oftener?"

Claire apologized for Georges, but his continual neglect began todisturb her. She wept now when she received the little notes, thedespatches which arrived daily at the dinner-hour: "Don't expect meto-night, dear love. I shall not be able to come to Savigny untilto-morrow or the day after by the night-train. "

She ate her dinner sadly, opposite an empty chair, and although she didnot know that she was betrayed, she felt that her husband was becomingaccustomed to living away from her. He was so absent-minded when afamily gathering or some other unavoidable duty detained him at thechateau, so silent concerning what was in his mind. Claire, having nowonly the most distant relations with Sidonie, knew nothing of what wastaking place at Asnieres: but when Georges left her, apparently eagerto be gone, and with smiling face, she tormented her loneliness withunavowed suspicions, and, like all those who anticipate a great sorrow, she suddenly became conscious of a great void in her heart, a place madeready for disasters to come. 

Her husband was hardly happier than she. That cruel Sidonie seemed totake pleasure in tormenting him. She allowed everybody to pay court toher. At that moment a certain Cazabon, alias Cazaboni, an Italian tenorfrom Toulouse, introduced by Madame Dobson, came every day to singdisturbing duets. Georges, jealous beyond words, hurried to Asnieres inthe afternoon, neglecting everything, and was already beginning to thinkthat Risler did not watch his wife closely enough. He would have likedhim to be blind only so far as he was concerned. 

Ah! if he had been her husband, what a tight rein he would have kept onher! But he had no power over her and she was not at all backward abouttelling him so. Sometimes, too, with the invincible logic that oftenoccurs to the greatest fools, he reflected that, as he was deceiving hisfriend, perhaps he deserved to be deceived. In short, his was a wretchedlife. He passed his time running about to jewellers and dry-goodsdealers, inventing gifts and surprises. Ah! he knew her well. He knewthat he could pacify her with trinkets, yet not retain his hold uponher, and that, when the day came that she was bored--

But Sidonie was not bored as yet. She was living the life that shelonged to live; she had all the happiness she could hope to attain. There was nothing passionate or romantic about her feeling for Georges. He was like a second husband to her, younger and, above all, richerthan the other. To complete the vulgarization of their liaison, she hadsummoned her parents to Asnieres, lodged them in a little house inthe country, and made of that vain and wilfully blind father and thataffectionate, still bewildered mother a halo of respectability of whichshe felt the necessity as she sank lower and lower. 

Everything was shrewdly planned in that perverse little brain, whichreflected coolly upon vice; and it seemed to her as if she mightcontinue to live thus in peace, when Frantz Risler suddenly arrived. 

Simply from seeing him enter the room, she had realized that her reposewas threatened, that an interview of the gravest importance was to takeplace between them. 

Her plan was formed on the instant. She must at once put it intoexecution. 

The summer-house that they entered contained one large, circular roomwith four windows, each looking out upon a different landscape; it wasfurnished for the purposes of summer siestas, for the hot hours when oneseeks shelter from the sunlight and the noises of the garden. A broad, very low divan ran all around the wall. A small lacquered table, alsovery low, stood in the middle of the room, covered with odd numbers ofsociety journals. 

The hangings were new, and the Persian pattern-birds flying amongbluish reeds--produced the effect of a dream in summer, ethereal figuresfloating before one's languid eyes. The lowered blinds, the matting onthe floor, the Virginia jasmine clinging to the trellis-work outside, produced a refreshing coolness which was enhanced by the splashing inthe river near by, and the lapping of its wavelets on the shore. 

Sidonie sat down as soon as she entered the room, pushing aside her longwhite skirt, which sank like a mass of snow at the foot of the divan;and with sparkling eyes and a smile playing about her lips, bending herlittle head slightly, its saucy coquettishness heightened by the bow ofribbon on the side, she waited. 

Frantz, pale as death, remained standing, looking about the room. Aftera moment he began:

"I congratulate you, Madame; you understand how to make yourselfcomfortable. "

And in the next breath, as if he were afraid that the conversation, beginning at such a distance, would not arrive quickly enough at thepoint to which he intended to lead it, he added brutally:

"To whom do you owe this magnificence, to your lover or your husband?"

Without moving from the divan, without even raising her eyes to his, sheanswered:

"To both. "

He was a little disconcerted by such self-possession. 

"Then you confess that that man is your lover?"

"Confess it!--yes!"

Frantz gazed at her a moment without speaking. She, too, had turnedpale, notwithstanding her calmness, and the eternal little smile nolonger quivered at the corners of her mouth. 

He continued:

"Listen to me, Sidonie! My brother's name, the name he gave his wife, ismine as well. Since Risler is so foolish, so blind as to allow thename to be dishonored by you, it is my place to defend it against yourattacks. I beg you, therefore, to inform Monsieur Georges Fromont thathe must change mistresses as soon as possible, and go elsewhere to ruinhimself. If not--"

"If not?" queried Sidonie, who had not ceased to play with her ringswhile he was speaking. 

"If not, I shall tell my brother what is going on in his house, and youwill be surprised at the Risler whose acquaintance you will makethen--a man as violent and ungovernable as he usually is inoffensive. Mydisclosure will kill him perhaps, but you can be sure that he will killyou first. "

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Very well! let him kill me. What do I care for that?"

This was said with such a heartbroken, despondent air that Frantz, inspite of himself, felt a little pity for that beautiful, fortunate youngcreature, who talked of dying with such self-abandonment. 

"Do you love him so dearly?" he said, in an indefinably milder tone. "Do you love this Fromont so dearly that you prefer to die rather thanrenounce him?"

She drew herself up hastily. 

"I? Love that fop, that doll, that silly girl in men's clothes?Nonsense!--I took him as I would have taken any other man. "

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't help it, because I was mad, because I had and stillhave in my heart a criminal love, which I am determined to tear out, nomatter at what cost. "

She had risen and was speaking with her eyes in his, her lips near his, trembling from head to foot. 

A criminal love?--Whom did she love, in God's name?

Frantz was afraid to question her. 

Although suspecting nothing as yet, he had a feeling that that glance, that breath, leaning toward him, were about to make some horribledisclosure. 

But his office of judge made it necessary for him to know all. 

"Who is it?" he asked. 

She replied in a stifled voice:

"You know very well that it is you. "

She was his brother's wife. 

For two years he had not thought of her except as a sister. In his eyeshis brother's wife in no way resembled his former fiancee, and it wouldhave been a crime to recognize in a single feature of her face the womanto whom he had formerly so often said, "I love you. "

And now it was she who said that she loved him. 

The unhappy judge was thunderstruck, dazed, could find no words in whichto reply. 

She, standing before him, waited. 

It was one of those spring days, full of heat and light, to which themoisture of recent rains imparts a strange softness and melancholy. The air was warm, perfumed by fresh flowers which, on that first day ofheat, gave forth their fragrance eagerly, like violets hidden in a muff. Through its long, open windows the room in which they were inhaled allthose intoxicating odors. Outside, they could hear the Sunday organs, distant shouts on the river, and nearer at hand, in the garden, MadameDobson's amorous, languishing voice, sighing:

 "On dit que tu te maries; Tu sais que j'en puis mouri-i-i-r!"

"Yes, Frantz, I have always loved you, " said Sidonie. "That love whichI renounced long ago because I was a young girl--and young girls donot know what they are doing--that love nothing has ever succeeded indestroying or lessening. When I learned that Desiree also loved you, the unfortunate, penniless child, in a great outburst of generosity Idetermined to assure her happiness for life by sacrificing my own, andI at once turned you away, so that you should go to her. Ah! as soon asyou had gone, I realized that the sacrifice was beyond my strength. Poorlittle Desiree! How I cursed her in the bottom of my heart! Will youbelieve it? Since that time I have avoided seeing her, meeting her. Thesight of her caused me too much pain. "

"But if you loved me, " asked Frantz, in a low voice, "if you loved me, why did you marry my brother?"

She did not waver. 

"To marry Risler was to bring myself nearer to you. I said to myself: 'Icould not be his wife. Very well, I will be his sister. At all events, in that way it will still be allowable for me to love him, and we shallnot pass our whole lives as strangers. ' Alas! those are the innocentdreams a girl has at twenty, dreams of which she very soon learns theimpossibility. I could not love you as a sister, Frantz; I could notforget you, either; my marriage prevented that. With another husband Imight perhaps have succeeded, but with Risler it was terrible. He wasforever talking about you and your success and your future--Frantz saidthis; Frantz did that--He loves you so well, poor fellow! And then themost cruel thing to me is that your brother looks like you. There isa sort of family resemblance in your features, in your gait, in yourvoices especially, for I have often closed my eyes under his caresses, saying to myself, 'It is he, it is Frantz. ' When I saw that that wickedthought was becoming a source of torment to me, something that I couldnot escape, I tried to find distraction, I consented to listen to thisGeorges, who had been pestering me for a long time, to transform my lifeto one of noise and excitement. But I swear to you, Frantz, that in thatwhirlpool of pleasure into which I then plunged, I never have ceasedto think of you, and if any one had a right to come here and call meto account for my conduct, you certainly are not the one, for you, unintentionally, have made me what I am. "

She paused. Frantz dared not raise his eyes to her face. For a momentpast she had seemed to him too lovely, too alluring. She was hisbrother's wife!

Nor did he dare speak. The unfortunate youth felt that the old passionwas despotically taking possession of his heart once more, and that atthat moment glances, words, everything that burst forth from it would belove. 

And she was his brother's wife!

"Ah! wretched, wretched creatures that we are!" exclaimed the poorjudge, dropping upon the divan beside her. 

Those few words were in themselves an act of cowardice, a beginning ofsurrender, as if destiny, by showing itself so pitiless, had deprivedhim of the strength to defend himself. Sidonie had placed her hand onhis. "Frantz--Frantz!" she said; and they remained there side by side, silent and burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dobson's romance, which reached their ears by snatches through the shrubbery:

 "Ton amour, c'est ma folie. Helas! je n'en puis guei-i-i-r. "

Suddenly Risler's tall figure appeared in the doorway. 

"This way, Chebe, this way. They are in the summerhouse. "

As he spoke the husband entered, escorting his father-in-law andmother-in-law, whom he had gone to fetch. 

There was a moment of effusive greetings and innumerable embraces. Youshould have seen the patronizing air with which M. Chebe scrutinized theyoung man, who was head and shoulders taller than he. 

"Well, my boy, does the Suez Canal progress as you would wish?"

Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz had never ceased to be her futureson-in-law, threw her arms around him, while Risler, tactless as usualin his gayety and his enthusiasm, waved his arms, talked of killingseveral fatted calves to celebrate the return of the prodigal son, and roared to the singing-mistress in a voice that echoed through theneighboring gardens:

"Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson--if you'll allow me, it's a pity foryou to be singing there. To the devil with sadness for to-day! Play ussomething lively, a good waltz, so that I can take a turn with MadameChebe. "

"Risler, Risler, are you crazy, my son-in-law?"

"Come, come, mamma! We must dance. "

And up and down the paths, to the strains of an automatic six-stepwaltz-a genuine valse de Vaucanson--he dragged his breathlessmamma-in-law, who stopped at every step to restore to their usualorderliness the dangling ribbons of her hat and the lace trimming of hershawl, her lovely shawl bought for Sidonie's wedding. 

Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy. 

To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day of agony. Driving, rowingon the river, lunch on the grass on the Ile des Ravageurs--he wasspared none of the charms of Asnieres; and all the time, in the dazzlingsunlight of the roads, in the glare reflected by the water, he mustlaugh and chatter, describe his journey, talk of the Isthmus of Suez andthe great work undertaken there, listen to the whispered complaints ofM. Chebe, who was still incensed with his children, and to hisbrother's description of the Press. "Rotary, my dear Frantz, rotaryand dodecagonal!" Sidonie left the gentlemen to their conversation andseemed absorbed in deep thought. From time to time she said a word ortwo to Madame Dobson, or smiled sadly at her, and Frantz, not daring tolook at her, followed the motions of her blue-lined parasol and of thewhite flounces of her skirt. 

How she had changed in two years! How lovely she had grown!

Then horrible thoughts came to his mind. There were races at Longchampsthat day. Carriages passed theirs, rubbed against it, driven by womenwith painted faces, closely veiled. Sitting motionless on the box, theyheld their long whips straight in the air, with doll-like gestures, andnothing about them seemed alive except their blackened eyes, fixed onthe horses' heads. As they passed, people turned to look. Every eyefollowed them, as if drawn by the wind caused by their rapid motion. 

Sidonie resembled those creatures. She might herself have drivenGeorges' carriage; for Frantz was in Georges' carriage. He had drunkGeorges' wine. All the luxurious enjoyment of that family party camefrom Georges. 

It was shameful, revolting! He would have liked to shout the whole storyto his brother. Indeed, it was his duty, as he had come there for thatexpress purpose. But he no longer felt the courage to do it. Ah! theunhappy judge!

That evening after dinner, in the salon open to the fresh breeze fromthe river, Risler begged his wife to sing. He wished her to exhibit allher newly acquired accomplishments to Frantz. 

Sidonie, leaning on the piano, objected with a melancholy air, whileMadame Dobson ran her fingers over the keys, shaking her long curls. 

"But I don't know anything. What do you wish me to sing?"

She ended, however, by being persuaded. Pale, disenchanted, with hermind upon other things, in the flickering light of the candles whichseemed to be burning incense, the air was so heavy with the odor ofthe hyacinths and lilacs in the garden, she began a Creole ballad verypopular in Louisiana, which Madame Dobson herself had arranged for thevoice and piano:

 "Pauv' pitit Mam'zelle Zizi, C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne la tete a li. "

 ["Poor little Mam'zelle Zizi, 'Tis love, 'tis love that turns her head. "]

And as she told the story of the ill-fated little Zizi, who was drivenmad by passion, Sidonie had the appearance of a love-sick woman. Withwhat heartrending expression, with the cry of a wounded dove, did sherepeat that refrain, so melancholy and so sweet, in the childlike patoisof the colonies:

 "C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne la tete.... "

It was enough to drive the unlucky judge mad as well. 

But no! The siren had been unfortunate in her choice of a ballad. For, at the mere name of Mam'zelle Zizi, Frantz was suddenly transported toa gloomy chamber in the Marais, a long way from Sidonie's salon, and hiscompassionate heart evoked the image of little Desiree Delobelle, whohad loved him so long. Until she was fifteen, she never had been calledanything but Ziree or Zizi, and she was the pauv' pitit of the Creoleballad to the life, the ever-neglected, ever-faithful lover. In vainnow did the other sing. Frantz no longer heard her or saw her. He wasin that poor room, beside the great armchair, on the little low chair onwhich he had sat so often awaiting the father's return. Yes, there, andthere only, was his salvation. He must take refuge in that child'slove, throw himself at her feet, say to her, "Take me, save me!" And whoknows? She loved him so dearly. Perhaps she would save him, would curehim of his guilty passion. 

"Where are you going?" asked Risler, seeing that his brother rosehurriedly as soon as the last flourish was at an end. 

"I am going back. It is late. "

"What? You are not going to sleep here? Why your room is ready for you. "

"It is all ready, " added Sidonie, with a meaning glance. 

He refused resolutely. His presence in Paris was necessary for thefulfilment of certain very important commissions intrusted to him by theCompany. They continued their efforts to detain him when he was in thevestibule, when he was crossing the garden in the moonlight and runningto the station, amid all the divers noises of Asnieres. 

When he had gone, Risler went up to his room, leaving Sidonie and MadameDobson at the windows of the salon. The music from the neighboringCasino reached their ears, with the "Yo-ho!" of the boatmen and thefootsteps of the dancers like a rhythmical, muffled drumming on thetambourine. 

"There's a kill-joy for you!" observed Madame Dobson. 

"Oh, I have checkmated him, " replied Sidonie; "only I must be careful. I shall be closely watched now. He is so jealous. I am going to writeto Cazaboni not to come again for some time, and you must tell Georgesto-morrow morning to go to Savigny for a fortnight. "

CHAPTER XV. POOR LITTLE MAM'ZELLE ZIZI. 

Oh, how happy Desiree was!

Frantz came every day and sat at her feet on the little low chair, as inthe good old days, and he no longer came to talk of Sidonie. 

As soon as she began to work in the morning, she would see the door opensoftly. "Good morning, Mam'zelle Zizi. " He always called her now by thename she had borne as a child; and if you could know how prettily hesaid it: "Good morning, Mam'zelle Zizi. "

In the evening they waited for "the father" together, and while sheworked he made her shudder with the story of his adventures. 

"What is the matter with you? You're not the same as you used to be, "Mamma Delobelle would say, surprised to see her in such high spiritsand above all so active. For instead of remaining always buried inher easy-chair, with the self-renunciation of a young grandmother, thelittle creature was continually jumping up and running to the windowas lightly as if she were putting out wings; and she practised standingerect, asking her mother in a whisper:

"Do you notice IT when I am not walking?"

From her graceful little head, upon which she had previouslyconcentrated all her energies in the arrangement of her hair, hercoquetry extended over her whole person, as did her fine, waving tresseswhen she unloosed them. Yes, she was very, very coquettish now; andeverybody noticed it. Even the "birds and insects for ornament" assumeda knowing little air. 

Ah, yes! Desiree Delobelle was happy. For some days M. Frantz had beentalking of their all going into the country together; and as the father, kind and generous as always, graciously consented to allow the ladies totake a day's rest, all four set out one Sunday morning. 

Oh! the lovely drive, the lovely country, the lovely river, the lovelytrees!

Do not ask her where they went; Desiree never knew. But she will tellyou that the sun was brighter there than anywhere else, the birds morejoyous, the woods denser; and she will not lie. 

The bouquet that the little cripple brought back from that beautifulexcursion made her room fragrant for a week. Among the hyacinths, theviolets, the white-thorn, was a multitude of nameless little flowers, those flowers of the lowly which grow from nomadic seed scatteredeverywhere along the roads. 

Gazing at the slender, pale blue and bright pink blossoms, with all thedelicate shades that flowers invented before colorists, many and manya time during that week Desiree took her excursion again. The violetsreminded her of the little moss-covered mound on which she had pickedthem, seeking them under the leaves, her fingers touching Frantz's. Theyhad found these great water-lilies on the edge of a ditch, still dampfrom the winter rains, and, in order to reach them, she had leanedvery heavily on Frantz's arm. All these memories occurred to her asshe worked. Meanwhile the sun, shining in at the open window, made thefeathers of the hummingbirds glisten. The springtime, youth, the songsof the birds, the fragrance of the flowers, transfigured that dismalfifth-floor workroom, and Desiree said in all seriousness to MammaDelobelle, putting her nose to her friend's bouquet:

"Have you noticed how sweet the flowers smell this year, mamma?"

And Frantz, too, began to fall under the charm. Little by littleMam'zelle Zizi took possession of his heart and banished from it eventhe memory of Sidonie. To be sure, the poor judge did all that he couldto accomplish that result. At every hour in the day he was by Desiree'sside, and clung to her like a child. Not once did he venture to returnto Asnieres. He feared the other too much. 

"Pray come and see us once in a while; Sidonie keeps asking for you, "Risler said to him from time to time, when his brother came to thefactory to see him. But Frantz held firm, alleging all sorts of businessengagements as pretexts for postponing his visit to the next day. It waseasy to satisfy Risler, who was more engrossed than ever with his press, which they had just begun to build. 

Whenever Frantz came down from his brother's closet, old Sigismond wassure to be watching for him, and would walk a few steps with him in hislong, lute-string sleeves, quill and knife in hand. He kept the youngman informed concerning matters at the factory. For some time past, things seemed to have changed for the better. Monsieur Georges came tohis office regularly, and returned to Savigny every night. No more billswere presented at the counting-room. It seemed, too, that Madame overyonder was keeping more within bounds. 

The cashier was triumphant. 

"You see, my boy, whether I did well to write to you. Your arrival wasall that was needed to straighten everything out. And yet, " the good manwould add by force of habit, "and yet I haf no gonfidence. "

"Never fear, Monsieur Sigismond, I am here, " the judge would reply. 

"You're not going away yet, are you, my dear Frantz?"

"No, no--not yet. I have an important matter to finish up first. "

"Ah! so much the better. "

The important matter to which Frantz referred was his marriage toDesiree Delobelle. He had not yet mentioned it to any one, not even toher; but Mam'zelle Zizi must have suspected something, for she becameprettier and more lighthearted from day to day, as if she foresaw thatthe day would soon come when she would need all her gayety and all herbeauty. 

They were alone in the workroom one Sunday afternoon. Mamma Delobellehad gone out, proud enough to show herself for once in public withher great man, and leaving friend Frantz with her daughter to keep hercompany. Carefully dressed, his whole person denoting a holiday air, Frantz had a singular expression on his face that day, an expression atonce timid and resolute, emotional and solemn, and simply from theway in which the little low chair took its place beside the greateasy-chair, the easy-chair understood that a very serious communicationwas about to be made to it in confidence, and it had some littlesuspicion as to what it might be. 

The conversation began with divers unimportant remarks, interspersedwith long and frequent pauses, just as, on a journey, we stop at everybaiting-place to take breath, to enable us to reach our destination. 

"It is a fine day to-day. "

"Oh! yes, beautiful. "

"Our flowers still smell sweet. "

"Oh! very sweet. "

And even as they uttered those trivial sentences, their voices trembledat the thought of what was about to be said. 

At last the little low chair moved a little nearer the great easy-chair;their eyes met, their fingers were intertwined, and the two, in lowtones, slowly called each other by their names. 

"Desiree!"

"Frantz!"

At that moment there was a knock at the door. 

It was the soft little tap of a daintily gloved hand which fears to soilitself by the slightest touch. 

"Come in!" said Desiree, with a slight gesture of impatience; andSidonie appeared, lovely, coquettish, and affable. She had come to seeher little Zizi, to embrace her as she was passing by. She had beenmeaning to come for so long. 

Frantz's presence seemed to surprise her greatly, and, being engrossedby her delight in talking with her former friend, she hardly looked athim. After the effusive greetings and caresses, after a pleasant chatover old times, she expressed a wish to see the window on the landingand the room formerly occupied by the Rislers. It pleased her thus tolive all her youth over again. 

"Do you remember, Frantz, when the Princess Hummingbird entered yourroom, holding her little head very straight under a diadem of birds'feathers?"

Frantz did not reply. He was too deeply moved to reply. Something warnedhim that it was on his account, solely on his account, that the womanhad come, that she was determined to see him again, to prevent him fromgiving himself to another, and the poor wretch realized with dismay thatshe would not have to exert herself overmuch to accomplish her object. When he saw her enter the room, his whole heart had been caught in hernet once more. 

Desiree suspected nothing, not she! Sidonie's manner was so frank andfriendly. And then, they were brother and sister now. Love was no longerpossible between them. 

But the little cripple had a vague presentiment of woe when Sidonie, standing in the doorway and ready to go, turned carelessly to herbrother-in-law and said:

"By the way, Frantz, Risler told me to be sure to bring you back to dinewith us to-night. The carriage is below. We will pick him up as we passthe factory. "

Then she added, with the prettiest smile imaginable:

"You will let us have him, won't you, Ziree? Don't be afraid; we willsend him back. "

And he had the courage to go, the ungrateful wretch!

He went without hesitation, without once turning back, whirled away byhis passion as by a raging sea, and neither on that day nor the nextnor ever after could Mam'zelle Zizi's great easy-chair learn what theinteresting communication was that the little low chair had to make toit. 

CHAPTER XVI. THE WAITING-ROOM

 "Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more than ever and for ever! What is the use of struggling and fighting against fate? Our sin is stronger than we. But, after all, is it a crime for us to love? We were destined for each other. Have we not the right to come together, although life has parted us? So, come! It is all over; we will go away. Meet me to-morrow evening, Lyon station, at ten o'clock. The tickets are secured and I shall be there awaiting you. 

 "FRANTZ. "

For a month past Sidonie had been hoping for that letter, a month duringwhich she had brought all her coaxing and cunning into play to lureher brother-in-law on to that written revelation of passion. She haddifficulty in accomplishing it. It was no easy matter to pervert anhonest young heart like Frantz's to the point of committing a crime;and in that strange contest, in which the one who really loved foughtagainst his own cause, she had often felt that she was at the end of herstrength and was almost discouraged. When she was most confident that hewas conquered, his sense of right would suddenly rebel, and he would beall ready to flee, to escape her once more. 

What a triumph it was for her, therefore, when that letter was handedto her one morning. Madame Dobson happened to be there. She had justarrived, laden with complaints from Georges, who was horribly boredaway from his mistress, and was beginning to be alarmed concerning thisbrother-in-law, who was more attentive, more jealous, more exacting thana husband. 

"Oh! the poor, dear fellow, the poor, dear, fellow, " said thesentimental American, "if you could see how unhappy he is!"

And, shaking her curls, she unrolled her music-roll and took from it thepoor, dear fellow's letters, which she had carefully hidden between theleaves of her songs, delighted to be involved in this love-story, togive vent to her emotion in an atmosphere of intrigue and mystery whichmelted her cold eyes and suffused her dry, pale complexion. 

Strange to say, while lending her aid most willingly to this constantgoing and coming of love-letters, the youthful and attractive Dobson hadnever written or received a single one on her own account. 

Always on the road between Asnieres and Paris with an amorous messageunder her wing, that odd carrier-pigeon remained true to her own dovecotand cooed for none but unselfish motives. 

When Sidonie showed her Frantz's note, Madame Dobson asked:

"What shall you write in reply?"

"I have already written. I consented. "

"What! You will go away with that madman?"

Sidonie laughed scornfully. 

"Ha! ha! well, hardly! I consented so that he may go and wait for me atthe station. That is all. The least I can do is to give him a quarterof an hour of agony. He has made me miserable enough for the last month. Just consider that I have changed my whole life for my gentleman! I havehad to close my doors and give up seeing my friends and everybody I knowwho is young and agreeable, beginning with Georges and ending with you. For you know, my dear, you weren't agreeable to him, and he would haveliked to dismiss you with the rest. "

The one thing that Sidonie did not mention--and it was the deepest causeof her anger against Frantz--was that he had frightened her terribly bythreatening to tell her husband her guilty secret. From that moment shehad felt decidedly ill at ease, and her life, her dear life, whichshe so petted and coddled, had seemed to her to be exposed to seriousdanger. Yes, the thought that her husband might some day be apprized ofher conduct positively terrified her. 

That blessed letter put an end to all her fears. It was impossible nowfor Frantz to expose her, even in the frenzy of his disappointment, knowing that she had such a weapon in her hands; and if he did speak, she would show the letter, and all his accusations would become inRisler's eyes calumny pure and simple. Ah, master judge, we have younow!

"I am born again--I am born again!" she cried to Madame Dobson. She ranout into the garden, gathered great bouquets for her salon, threwthe windows wide open to the sunlight, gave orders to the cook, thecoachman, the gardener. The house must be made to look beautiful, forGeorges was coming back, and for a beginning she organized a granddinner-party for the end of the week. 

The next evening Sidonie, Risler, and Madame Dobson were together inthe salon. While honest Risler turned the leaves of an old handbook ofmechanics, Sidonie sang to Madame Dobson's accompaniment. Suddenly shestopped in the middle of her aria and burst into a peal of laughter. Theclock had just struck ten. 

Risler looked up quickly. 

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing-an idea that came into my head, " replied Sidonie, winking ofMadame Dobson and pointing at the clock. 

It was the hour appointed for the meeting, and she was thinking of herlover's torture as he waited for her to come. 

Since the return of the messenger bringing from Sidonie the "yes" hehad so feverishly awaited, a great calm had come over his troubled mind, like the sudden removal of a heavy burden. No more uncertainty, no moreclashing between passion and duty. 

Not once did it occur to him that on the other side of the landing someone was weeping and sighing because of him. Not once did he think of hisbrother's despair, of the ghastly drama they were to leave behind them. He saw a sweet little pale face resting beside his in the railway train, a blooming lip within reach of his lip, and two fathomless eyes lookingat him by the soft light of the lamp, to the soothing accompaniment ofthe wheels and the steam. 

Two hours before the opening of the gate for the designated train, Frantz was already at the Lyon station, that gloomy station which, inthe distant quarter of Paris in which it is situated, seems like a firsthalting-place in the provinces. He sat down in the darkest corner andremained there without stirring, as if dazed. 

Instinctively, although the appointed hour was still distant, he lookedamong the people who were hurrying along, calling to one another, to seeif he could not discern that graceful figure suddenly emerging fromthe crowd and thrusting it aside at every step with the radiance of herbeauty. 

After many departures and arrivals and shrill whistles, the stationsuddenly became empty, as deserted as a church on weekdays. The time forthe ten o'clock train was drawing near. There was no other train beforethat. Frantz rose. In a quarter of an hour, half an hour at the least, she would be there. 

Frantz went hither and thither, watching the carriages that arrived. Each new arrival made him start. He fancied that he saw her enter, closely veiled, hesitating, a little embarrassed. How quickly he wouldbe by her side, to comfort her, to protect her!

The hour for the departure of the train was approaching. He looked atthe clock. There was but a quarter of an hour more. It alarmed him; butthe bell at the wicket, which had now been opened, summoned him. He ranthither and took his place in the long line. 

"Two first-class for Marseilles, " he said. It seemed to him as if thatwere equivalent to taking possession. 

He made his way back to his post of observation through theluggage-laden wagons and the late-comers who jostled him as they ran. The drivers shouted, "Take care!" He stood there among the wheels of thecabs, under the horses' feet, with deaf ears and staring eyes. Only fiveminutes more. It was almost impossible for her to arrive in time. 

At last she appeared. 

Yes, there she is, it is certainly she--a woman in black, slender andgraceful, accompanied by another shorter woman--Madame Dobson, no doubt. 

But a second glance undeceived him. It was a young woman who resembledher, a woman of fashion like her, with a happy face. A man, also young, joined them. It was evidently a wedding-party; the mother accompaniedthem, to see them safely on board the train. 

Now there is the confusion of departure, the last stroke of the bell, the steam escaping with a hissing sound, mingled with the hurriedfootsteps of belated passengers, the slamming of doors and the rumblingof the heavy omnibuses. Sidonie comes not. And Frantz still waits. 

At that moment a hand is placed on his shoulder. 

Great God!

He turns. The coarse face of M. Gardinois, surrounded by atravelling-cap with ear-pieces, is before him. 

"I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler. Are you going to Marseillesby the express? I am not going far. "

He explains to Frantz that he has missed the Orleans train, and is goingto try to connect with Savigny by the Lyon line; then he talks aboutRisler Aine and the factory. 

"It seems that business hasn't been prospering for some time. They werecaught in the Bonnardel failure. Ah! our young men need to be careful. At the rate they're sailing their ship, the same thing is likely tohappen to them that happened to Bonnardel. But excuse me, I believethey're about to close the gate. Au revoir. "

Frantz has hardly heard what he has been saying. His brother's ruin, thedestruction of the whole world, nothing is of any further consequence tohim. He is waiting, waiting. 

But now the gate is abruptly closed like a last barrier between him andhis persistent hope. Once more the station is empty. The uproar has beentransferred to the line of the railway, and suddenly a shrill whistlefalls upon the lover's ear like an ironical farewell, then dies away inthe darkness. 

The ten o'clock train has gone!

He tries to be calm and to reason. Evidently she missed the train fromAsmeres; but, knowing that he is waiting for her, she will come, nomatter how late it may be. He will wait longer. The waiting-room wasmade for that. 

The unhappy man sits down on a bench. The prospect of a long vigilbrings to his mind a well-known room in which at that hour the lampburns low on a table laden with humming-birds and insects, but thatvision passes swiftly through his mind in the chaos of confused thoughtsto which the delirium of suspense gives birth. 

And while he thus lost himself in thought, the hours passed. The roofsof the buildings of Mazas, buried in darkness, were already beginning tostand out distinctly against the brightening sky. What was he to do? Hemust go to Asnieres at once and try to find out what had happened. Hewished he were there already. 

Having made up his mind, he descended the steps of the station at arapid pace, passing soldiers with their knapsacks on their backs, andpoor people who rise early coming to take the morning train, the trainof poverty and want. 

In front of one of the stations he saw a crowd collected, rag-pickersand countrywomen. Doubtless some drama of the night about to reach itsdenouement before the Commissioner of Police. Ah! if Frantz had knownwhat that drama was! but he could have no suspicion, and he glanced atthe crowd indifferently from a distance. 

When he reached Asnieres, after a walk of two or three hours, it waslike an awakening. The sun, rising in all its glory, set field and riveron fire. The bridge, the houses, the quay, all stood forth with thatmatutinal sharpness of outline which gives the impression of a new dayemerging, luminous and smiling, from the dense mists of the night. Froma distance he descried his brother's house, already awake, the openblinds and the flowers on the window-sills. He wandered about some timebefore he could summon courage to enter. 

Suddenly some one hailed him from the shore:

"Ah! Monsieur Frantz. How early you are today!"

It was Sidonie's coachman taking his horses to bathe in the river. 

"Has anything happened at the house?" inquired Frantz tremblingly. 

"No, Monsieur Frantz. "

"Is my brother at home?"

"No, Monsieur slept at the factory. "

"No one sick?"

"No, Monsieur Frantz, no one, so far as I know. "

Thereupon Frantz made up his mind to ring at the small gate. Thegardener was raking the paths. The house was astir; and, early as itwas, he heard Sidonie's voice as clear and vibrating as the song of abird among the rose-bushes of the facade. 

She was talking with animation. Frantz, deeply moved, drew near tolisten. 

"No, no cream. The 'cafe parfait' will be enough. Be sure that it's wellfrozen and ready at seven o'clock. Oh! about an entree--let us see--"

She was holding council with her cook concerning the famous dinner-partyfor the next day. Her brother-in-law's sudden appearance did notdisconcert her. 

"Ah! good-morning, Frantz, " she said very coolly. "I am at your servicedirectly. We're to have some people to dinner to-morrow, customers ofthe firm, a grand business dinner. You'll excuse me, won't you?"

Fresh and smiling, in the white ruffles of her trailing morning-gownand her little lace cap, she continued to discuss her menu, inhalingthe cool air that rose from the fields and the river. There was not theslightest trace of chagrin or anxiety upon that tranquil face, whichwas a striking contrast to the lover's features, distorted by a night ofagony and fatigue. 

For a long quarter of an hour Frantz, sitting in a corner of the salon, saw all the conventional dishes of a bourgeois dinner pass before himin their regular order, from the little hot pates, the sole Normandeand the innumerable ingredients of which that dish is composed, to theMontreuil peaches and Fontainebleau grapes. 

At last, when they were alone and he was able to speak, he asked in ahollow voice:

"Didn't you receive my letter?"

"Why, yes, of course. "

She had risen to go to the mirror and adjust a little curl or twoentangled with her floating ribbons, and continued, looking at herselfall the while:

"Yes, I received your letter. Indeed, I was charmed to receive it. Now, should you ever feel inclined to tell your brother any of thevile stories about me that you have threatened me with, I could easilysatisfy him that the only source of your lying tale-bearing was angerwith me for repulsing a criminal passion as it deserved. Consideryourself warned, my dear boy--and au revoir. "

As pleased as an actress who has just delivered a telling speech withfine effect, she passed him and left the room smiling, with a littlecurl at the corners of her mouth, triumphant and without anger. And hedid not kill her!

CHAPTER XVII. AN ITEM OF NEWS

In the evening preceding that ill-omened day, a few moments after Frantzhad stealthily left his room on Rue de Braque, the illustrious Delobellereturned home, with downcast face and that air of lassitude anddisillusionment with which he always met untoward events. 

"Oh! mon Dieu, my poor man, what has happened?" instantly inquiredMadame Delobelle, whom twenty years of exaggerated dramatic pantomimehad not yet surfeited. 

Before replying, the ex-actor, who never failed to precede his mosttrivial words with some facial play, learned long before for stagepurposes, dropped his lower lip, in token of disgust and loathing, as ifhe had just swallowed something very bitter. 

"The matter is that those Rislers are certainly ingrates or egotists, and, beyond all question, exceedingly ill-bred. Do you know what I justlearned downstairs from the concierge, who glanced at me out of thecorner of his eye, making sport of me? Well, Frantz Risler has gone! Heleft the house a short time ago, and has left Paris perhaps ere this, without so much as coming to shake my hand, to thank me for the welcomehe has received here. What do you think of that? For he didn't saygood-by to you two either, did he? And yet, only a month ago, he wasalways in our rooms, without any remonstrance from us. "

Mamma Delobelle uttered an exclamation of genuine surprise and grief. Desiree, on the contrary, did not say a word or make a motion. She wasalways the same little iceberg. 

Oh! wretched mother, turn your eyes upon your daughter. See thattransparent pallor, those tearless eyes which gleam unwaveringly, as iftheir thoughts and their gaze were concentrated on some object visibleto them alone. Cause that poor suffering heart to open itself to you. Question your child. Make her speak, above all things make her weep, torid her of the burden that is stifling her, so that her tear-dimmedeyes can no longer distinguish in space that horrible unknown thing uponwhich they are fixed in desperation now. 

For nearly a month past, ever since the day when Sidonie came and tookFrantz away in her coupe, Desiree had known that she was no longerloved, and she knew her rival's name. She bore them no ill-will, shepitied them rather. But, why had he returned? Why had he so heedlesslygiven her false hopes? How many tears had she devoured in silence sincethose hours! How many tales of woe had she told her little birds! Foronce more it was work that had sustained her, desperate, incessant work, which, by its regularity and monotony, by the constant recurrence ofthe same duties and the same motions, served as a balance-wheel to herthoughts. 

Lately Frantz was not altogether lost to her. Although he came butrarely to see her, she knew that he was there, she could hear him go inand out, pace, the floor with restless step, and sometimes, through thehalf-open door, see his loved shadow hurry across the landing. He didnot seem happy. Indeed, what happiness could be in store for him? Heloved his brother's wife. And at the thought that Frantz was not happy, the fond creature almost forgot her own sorrow to think only of thesorrow of the man she loved. 

She was well aware that it was impossible that he could ever love heragain. But she thought that perhaps she would see him come in some day, wounded and dying, that he would sit down on the little low chair, layhis head on her knees, and with a great sob tell her of his sufferingand say to her, "Comfort me. "

That forlorn hope kept her alive for three weeks. She needed so littleas that. 

But no. Even that was denied her. Frantz had gone, gone without a glancefor her, without a parting word. The lover's desertion was followed bythe desertion of the friend. It was horrible!

At her father's first words, she felt as if she were hurled into a deep, ice-cold abyss, filled with darkness, into which she plunged swiftly, helplessly, well knowing that she would never return to the light. Shewas suffocating. She would have liked to resist, to struggle, to callfor help. 

Who was there who had the power to sustain her in that great disaster?

God? The thing that is called Heaven?

She did not even think of that. In Paris, especially in the quarterswhere the working class live, the houses are too high, the streets toonarrow, the air too murky for heaven to be seen. 

It was Death alone at which the little cripple was gazing so earnestly. Her course was determined upon at once: she must die. But how?

Sitting motionless in her easy-chair, she considered what manner ofdeath she should choose. As she was almost never alone, she could notthink of the brazier of charcoal, to be lighted after closing the doorsand windows. As she never went out she could not think either of poisonto be purchased at the druggist's, a little package of white powderto be buried in the depths of the pocket, with the needle-case and thethimble. There was the phosphorus on the matches, too, the verdigris onold sous, the open window with the paved street below; but the thoughtof forcing upon her parents the ghastly spectacle of a self-inflicteddeath-agony, the thought that what would remain of her, picked up amida crowd of people, would be so frightful to look upon, made her rejectthat method. 

She still had the river. At all events, the water carries you awaysomewhere, so that nobody finds you and your death is shrouded inmystery. 

The river! She shuddered at the mere thought. But it was not the visionof the deep, black water that terrified her. The girls of Paris laughat that. You throw your apron over your head so that you can't see, andpouf! But she must go downstairs, into the street, all alone, and thestreet frightened her. 

Yes, it was a terrible thing to go out into the street alone. She mustwait until the gas was out, steal softly downstairs when her mother hadgone to bed, pull the cord of the gate, and make her way across Paris, where you meet men who stare impertinently into your face, and passbrilliantly lighted cafes. The river was a long distance away. She wouldbe very tired. However, there was no other way than that. 

"I am going to bed, my child; are you going to sit up any longer?"

With her eyes on her work, "my child" replied that she was. She wishedto finish her dozen. 

"Good-night, then, " said Mamma Delobelle, her enfeebled sight beingunable to endure the light longer. "I have put father's supper by thefire. Just look at it before you go to bed. "

Desire did not lie. She really intended to finish her dozen, so that herfather could take them to the shop in the morning; and really, to seethat tranquil little head bending forward in the white light of thelamp, one would never have imagined all the sinister thoughts with whichit was thronged. 

At last she takes up the last bird of the dozen, a marvellously lovelylittle bird whose wings seem to have been dipped in sea-water, all greenas they are with a tinge of sapphire. 

Carefully, daintily, Desiree suspends it on a piece of brass wire, inthe charming attitude of a frightened creature about to fly away. 

Ah! how true it is that the little blue bird is about to fly away! Whata desperate flight into space! How certain one feels that this time itis the great journey, the everlasting journey from which there is noreturn!

By and by, very softly, Desiree opens the wardrobe and takes a thinshawl which she throws over her shoulders; then she goes. What? Not aglance at her mother, not a silent farewell, not a tear? No, nothing!With the terrible clearness of vision of those who are about to die, shesuddenly realizes that her childhood and youth have been sacrificed toa vast self-love. She feels very sure that a word from their great manwill comfort that sleeping mother, with whom she is almost angry for notwaking, for allowing her to go without a quiver of her closed eyelids. 

When one dies young, even by one's own act, it is never without arebellious feeling, and poor Desiree bids adieu to life, indignant withdestiny. 

Now she is in the street. Where is she going? Everything seems desertedalready. Desiree walks rapidly, wrapped in her little shawl, head erect, dry-eyed. Not knowing the way, she walks straight ahead. 

The dark, narrow streets of the Marais, where gas-jets twinkle at longintervals, cross and recross and wind about, and again and again in herfeverish course she goes over the same ground. There is always somethingbetween her and the river. And to think that, at that very hour, almostin the same quarter, some one else is wandering through the streets, waiting, watching, desperate! Ah! if they could but meet. Suppose sheshould accost that feverish watcher, should ask him to direct her:

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur. How can I get to the Seine?"

He would recognize her at once. 

"What! Can it be you, Mam'zelle Zizi? What are you doing out-of-doors atthis time of night?"

"I am going to die, Frantz. You have taken away all my pleasure inliving. "

Thereupon he, deeply moved, would seize her, press her to his heart andcarry her away in his arms, saying:

"Oh! no, do not die. I need you to comfort me, to cure all the woundsthe other has inflicted on me. "

But that is a mere poet's dream, one of the meetings that life can notbring about. 

Streets, more streets, then a square and a bridge whose lanterns makeanother luminous bridge in the black water. Here is the river at last. The mist of that damp, soft autumn evening causes all of this hugeParis, entirely strange to her as it is, to appear to her like anenormous confused mass, which her ignorance of the landmarks magnifiesstill more. This is the place where she must die. 

Poor little Desiree!

She recalls the country excursion which Frantz had organized for her. That breath of nature, which she breathed that day for the first time, falls to her lot again at the moment of her death. "Remember, " it seemsto say to her; and she replies mentally, "Oh! yes, I remember. "

She remembers only too well. When it arrives at the end of the quay, which was bedecked as for a holiday, the furtive little shadow pauses atthe steps leading down to the bank. 

Almost immediately there are shouts and excitement all along the quay:

"Quick--a boat--grappling-irons!" Boatmen and policemen come runningfrom all sides. A boat puts off from the shore with a lantern in thebow. 

The flower-women awake, and, when one of them asks with a yawn what ishappening, the woman who keeps the cafe that crouches at the corner ofthe bridge answers coolly:

"A woman just jumped into the river. "

But no. The river has refused to take that child. It has been movedto pity by so great gentleness and charm. In the light of the lanternsswinging to and fro on the shore, a black group forms and moves away. She is saved! It was a sand-hauler who fished her out. Policemen arecarrying her, surrounded by boatmen and lightermen, and in the darknessa hoarse voice is heard saying with a sneer: "That water-hen gave me alot of trouble. You ought to see how she slipped through my fingers!I believe she wanted to make me lose my reward. " Gradually the tumultsubsides, the bystanders disperse, and the black group moves away towarda police-station. 

Ah! poor girl, you thought that it was an easy matter to have done withlife, to disappear abruptly. You did not know that, instead of bearingyou away swiftly to the oblivion you sought, the river would drive youback to all the shame, to all the ignominy of unsuccessful suicide. First of all, the station, the hideous station, with its filthy benches, its floor where the sodden dust seems like mud from the street. ThereDesiree was doomed to pass the rest of the night. 

At last day broke with the shuddering glare so distressing to invalids. Suddenly aroused from her torpor, Desiree sat up in her bed, threw offthe blanket in which they had wrapped her, and despite fatigue and fevertried to stand, in order to regain full possession of her faculties andher will. She had but one thought--to escape from all those eyes thatwere opening on all sides, to leave that frightful place where thebreath of sleep was so heavy and its attitudes so distorted. 

"I implore you, messieurs, " she said, trembling from head to foot, "letme return to mamma. "

Hardened as they were to Parisian dramas, even those good peoplerealized that they were face to face with something more worthy ofattention, more affecting than usual. But they could not take her backto her mother as yet. She must go before the commissioner first. Thatwas absolutely necessary. They called a cab from compassion for her; butshe must go from the station to the cab, and there was a crowd at thedoor to stare at the little lame girl with the damp hair glued toher temples, and her policeman's blanket which did not prevent hershivering. At headquarters she was conducted up a dark, damp stairwaywhere sinister figures were passing to and fro. 

When Desiree entered the room, a man rose from the shadow and came tomeet her, holding out his hand. 

It was the man of the reward, her hideous rescuer at twenty-five francs. 

"Well, little-mother, " he said, with his cynical laugh, and in a voicethat made one think of foggy nights on the water, "how are we since ourdive?"

The unhappy girl was burning red with fever and shame; so bewilderedthat it seemed to her as if the river had left a veil over her eyes, abuzzing in her ears. At last she was ushered into a smaller room, intothe presence of a pompous individual, wearing the insignia of the Legionof Honor, Monsieur le Commissaire in person, who was sipping his 'cafeau lait' and reading the 'Gazette des Tribunaux. '

"Ah! it's you, is it?" he said in a surly tone and without raising hiseyes from his paper, as he dipped a piece of bread in his cup; and theofficer who had brought Desiree began at once to read his report:

"At quarter to twelve, on Quai de la Megisserie, in front of No. 17, thewoman Delobelle, twenty-four years old, flower-maker, living with herparents on Rue de Braque, tried to commit suicide by throwing herselfinto the Seine, and was taken out safe and sound by Sieur Parcheminet, sand-hauler of Rue de la Butte-Chaumont. "

Monsieur le Commissaire listened as he ate, with the listless, boredexpression of a man whom nothing can surprise; at the end he gazedsternly and with a pompous affectation of virtue at the woman Delobelle, and lectured her in the most approved fashion. It was very wicked, itwas cowardly, this thing that she had done. What could have driven herto such an evil act? Why did she seek to destroy herself? Come, womanDelobelle, answer, why was it?

But the woman Delobelle obstinately declined to answer. It seemed to herthat it would put a stigma upon her love to avow it in such a place. "Idon't know--I don't know, " she whispered, shivering. 

Testy and impatient, the commissioner decided that she should be takenback to her parents, but only on one condition: she must promise neverto try it again. 

"Come, do you promise?"

"Oh! yes, Monsieur. "

"You will never try again?"

"Oh! no, indeed I will not, never--never!"

Notwithstanding her protestations, Monsieur le Commissaire de Policeshook his head, as if he did not trust her oath. 

Now she is outside once more, on the way to her home, to a place ofrefuge; but her martyrdom was not yet at an end. 

In the carriage, the officer who accompanied her was too polite, tooaffable. She seemed not to understand, shrank from him, withdrew herhand. What torture! But the most terrible moment of all was the arrivalin Rue de Braque, where the whole house was in a state of commotion, andthe inquisitive curiosity of the neighbors must be endured. Early in themorning the whole quarter had been informed of her disappearance. Itwas rumored that she had gone away with Frantz Risler. The illustriousDelobelle had gone forth very early, intensely agitated, with hishat awry and rumpled wristbands, a sure indication of extraordinarypreoccupation; and the concierge, on taking up the provisions, had foundthe poor mother half mad, running from one room to another, looking fora note from the child, for any clew, however unimportant, that wouldenable her at least to form some conjecture. 

Suddenly a carriage stopped in front of the door. Voices and footstepsechoed through the hall. 

"M'ame Delobelle, here she is! Your daughter's been found. "

It was really Desiree who came toiling up the stairs on the arm of astranger, pale and fainting, without hat or shawl, and wrapped in agreat brown cape. When she saw her mother she smiled at her with analmost foolish expression. 

"Do not be alarmed, it is nothing, " she tried to say, then sank to thefloor. Mamma Delobelle would never have believed that she was so strong. To lift her daughter, take her into the room, and put her to bed was amatter of a moment; and she talked to her and kissed her. 

"Here you are at last. Where have you come from, you bad child? Tellme, is it true that you tried to kill yourself? Were you suffering soterribly? Why did you conceal it from me?"

When she saw her mother in that condition, with tear-stained face, agedin a few short hours, Desiree felt a terrible burden of remorse. Sheremembered that she had gone away without saying good-by to her, andthat in the depths of her heart she had accused her of not loving her. 

Not loving her!

"Why, it would kill me if you should die, " said the poor mother. "Oh!when I got up this morning and saw that your bed hadn't been slept inand that you weren't in the workroom either!--I just turned round andfell flat. Are you warm now? Do you feel well? You won't do it again, will you--try to kill yourself?"

And she tucked in the bed-clothes, rubbed her feet, and rocked her uponher breast. 

As she lay in bed with her eyes closed, Desiree saw anew all theincidents of her suicide, all the hideous scenes through which she hadpassed in returning from death to life. In the fever, which rapidlyincreased, in the intense drowsiness which began to overpower her, hermad journey across Paris continued to excite and torment her. Myriadsof dark streets stretched away before her, with the Seine at the end ofeach. 

That ghastly river, which she could not find in the night, haunted hernow. 

She felt that she was besmirched with its slime, its mud; and in thenightmare that oppressed her, the poor child, powerless to escape theobsession of her recollections, whispered to her mother: "Hide me--hideme--I am ashamed!"

CHAPTER XVIII. SHE PROMISED NOT TO TRY AGAIN

Oh! no, she will not try it again. Monsieur le Commissaire need have nofear. In the first place how could she go as far as the river, now thatshe can not stir from her bed? If Monsieur le Commissaire could see hernow, he would not doubt her word. Doubtless the wish, the longing fordeath, so unmistakably written on her pale face the other morning, are still visible there; but they are softened, resigned. The womanDelobelle knows that by waiting a little, yes, a very little time, shewill have nothing more to wish for. 

The doctors declare that she is dying of pneumonia; she must havecontracted it in her wet clothes. The doctors are mistaken; it is notpneumonia. Is it her love, then, that is killing her? No. Since thatterrible night she no longer thinks of Frantz, she no longer feels thatshe is worthy to love or to be loved. Thenceforth there is a stain uponher spotless life, and it is of the shame of that and of nothing elsethat she is dying. 

Mamma Delobelle sits by Desiree's bed, working by the light from thewindow, and nursing her daughter. From time to time she raises her eyesto contemplate that mute despair, that mysterious disease, then hastilyresumes her work; for it is one of the hardest trials of the poor thatthey can not suffer at their ease. 

Mamma Delobelle had to work alone now, and her fingers had not themarvellous dexterity of Desiree's little hands; medicines were dear, andshe would not for anything in the world have interfered with one of "thefather's" cherished habits. And so, at whatever hour the invalid openedher eyes, she would see her mother, in the pale light of early morning, or under her night lamp, working, working without rest. 

Between two stitches the mother would look up at her child, whose facegrew paler and paler:

"How do you feel?"

"Very well, " the sick girl would reply, with a faint, heartbroken smile, which illumined her sorrowful face and showed all the ravages that hadbeen wrought upon it, as a sunbeam, stealing into a poor man's lodging, instead of brightening it, brings out more clearly its cheerlessness andnudity. 

The illustrious Delobelle was never there. He had not changed in anyrespect the habits of a strolling player out of an engagement. Andyet he knew that his daughter was dying: the doctor had told him so. Moreover, it had been a terrible blow to him, for, at heart, he lovedhis child dearly; but in that singular nature the most sincere and themost genuine feelings adopted a false and unnatural mode of expression, by the same law which ordains that, when a shelf is placed awry, nothingthat you place upon it seems to stand straight. 

Delobelle's natural tendency was, before everything, to air his grief, to spread it abroad. He played the role of the unhappy father from oneend of the boulevard to the other. He was always to be found in theneighborhood of the theatres or at the actors' restaurant, with red eyesand pale cheeks. He loved to invite the question, "Well, my poor oldfellow, how are things going at home?" Thereupon he would shake hishead with a nervous gesture; his grimace held tears in check, his mouthimprecations, and he would stab heaven with a silent glance, overflowingwith wrath, as when he played the 'Medecin des Enfants;' all of whichdid not prevent him, however, from bestowing the most delicate andthoughtful attentions upon his daughter. 

He also maintained an unalterable confidence in himself, no matter whathappened. And yet his eyes came very near being opened to the truth atlast. A hot little hand laid upon that pompous, illusion-ridden headcame very near expelling the bee that had been buzzing there so long. This is how it came to pass. 

One night Desiree awoke with a start, in a very strange state. Itshould be said that the doctor, when he came to see her on the precedingevening, had been greatly surprised to find her suddenly brighter andcalmer, and entirely free from fever. Without attempting to explain thisunhoped-for resurrection, he had gone away, saying, "Let us wait andsee"; he relied upon the power of youth to throw off disease, upon theresistless force of the life-giving sap, which often engrafts a newlife upon the very symptoms of death. If he had looked under Desiree'spillow, he would have found there a letter postmarked Cairo, wherein laythe secret of that happy change. Four pages signed by Frantz, his wholeconduct confessed and explained to his dear little Zizi. 

It was the very letter of which the sick girl had dreamed. If she haddictated it herself, all the phrases likely to touch her heart, all thedelicately worded excuses likely to pour balm into her wounds, wouldhave been less satisfactorily expressed. Frantz repented, askedforgiveness, and without making any promises, above all without askinganything from her, described to his faithful friend his struggles, hisremorse, his sufferings. 

What a misfortune that that letter had not arrived a few days earlier. Now, all those kind words were to Desiree like the dainty dishes thatare brought too late to a man dying of hunger. 

Suddenly she awoke, and, as we said a moment since, in an extraordinarystate. 

In her head, which seemed to her lighter than usual, there suddenlybegan a grand procession of thoughts and memories. The most distantperiods of her past seemed to approach her. The most trivial incidentsof her childhood, scenes that she had not then understood, words heardas in a dream, recurred to her mind. 

From her bed she could see her father and mother, one by her side, the other in the workroom, the door of which had been left open. MammaDelobelle was lying back in her chair in the careless attitude oflong-continued fatigue, heeded at last; and all the scars, the uglysabre cuts with which age and suffering brand the faces of theold, manifested themselves, ineffaceable and pitiful to see, in therelaxation of slumber. Desiree would have liked to be strong enough torise and kiss that lovely, placid brow, furrowed by wrinkles which didnot mar its beauty. 

In striking contrast to that picture, the illustrious Delobelle appearedto his daughter through the open door in one of his favorite attitudes. Seated before the little white cloth that bore his supper, with his bodyat an angle of sixty-seven and a half degrees, he was eating and at thesame time running through a pamphlet which rested against the carafe infront of him. 

For the first time in her life Desiree noticed the striking lack ofharmony between her emaciated mother, scantily clad in little blackdresses which made her look even thinner and more haggard than shereally was, and her happy, well-fed, idle, placid, thoughtless father. At a glance she realized the difference between the two lives. Whatwould become of them when she was no longer there? Either her motherwould work too hard and would kill herself; or else the poor womanwould be obliged to cease working altogether, and that selfish husband, forever engrossed by his theatrical ambition, would allow them both todrift gradually into abject poverty, that black hole which widens anddeepens as one goes down into it. 

Suppose that, before going away--something told her that she would govery soon--before going away, she should tear away the thick bandagethat the poor man kept over his eyes wilfully and by force?

Only a hand as light and loving as hers could attempt that operation. Only she had the right to say to her father:

"Earn your living. Give up the stage. "

Thereupon, as time was flying, Desire Delobelle summoned all her courageand called softly:

"Papa-papa"

At his daughter's first summons the great man hurried to her side. Heentered Desiree's bedroom, radiant and superb, very erect, his lamp inhis hand and a camellia in his buttonhole. 

"Good evening, Zizi. Aren't you asleep?"

His voice had a joyous intonation that produced a strange effect amidthe prevailing gloom. Desiree motioned to him not to speak, pointing toher sleeping mother. 

"Put down your lamp--I have something to say to you. "

Her voice, broken by emotion, impressed him; and so did her eyes, forthey seemed larger than usual, and were lighted by a piercing glancethat he had never seen in them. 

He approached with something like awe. 

"Why, what's the matter, Bichette? Do you feel any worse?"

Desiree replied with a movement of her little pale face that she feltvery ill and that she wanted to speak to him very close, very close. When the great man stood by her pillow, she laid her burning hand on thegreat man's arm and whispered in his ear. She was very ill, hopelesslyill. She realized fully that she had not long to live. 

"Then, father, you will be left alone with mamma. Don't tremble likethat. You knew that this thing must come, yes, that it was very near. But I want to tell you this. When I am gone, I am terribly afraid mammawon't be strong enough to support the family just see how pale andexhausted she is. "

The actor looked at his "sainted wife, " and seemed greatly surprised tofind that she did really look so badly. Then he consoled himself withthe selfish remark:

"She never was very strong. "

That remark and the tone in which it was made angered Desiree andstrengthened her determination. She continued, without pity for theactor's illusions:

"What will become of you two when I am no longer here? Oh! I knowthat you have great hopes, but it takes them a long while to come toanything. The results you have waited for so long may not arrive fora long time to come; and until then what will you do? Listen! my dearfather, I would not willingly hurt you; but it seems to me that at yourage, as intelligent as you are, it would be easy for you--I am sureMonsieur Risler Aine would ask nothing better. "

She spoke slowly, with an effort, carefully choosing her words, leavinglong pauses between every two sentences, hoping always that they mightbe filled by a movement, an exclamation from her father. But the actordid not understand. 

"I think that you would do well, " pursued Desiree, timidly, "I thinkthat you would do well to give up--"

"Eh?--what?--what's that?"

She paused when she saw the effect of her words. The old actor's mobilefeatures were suddenly contracted under the lash of violent despair; andtears, genuine tears which he did not even think of concealing behindhis hand as they do on the stage, filled his eyes but did not flow, sotightly did his agony clutch him by the throat. The poor devil began tounderstand. 

She murmured twice or thrice:

"To give up--to give up--"

Then her little head fell back upon the pillow, and she died withouthaving dared to tell him what he would do well to give up. 

CHAPTER XIX. APPROACHING CLOUDS

One night, near the end of January, old Sigismond Planus, cashier of thehouse of Fromont Jeune and Risler Aine, was awakened with a start in hislittle house at Montrouge by the same teasing voice, the same rattlingof chains, followed by that fatal cry:

"The notes!"

"That is true, " thought the worthy man, sitting up in bed; "day afterto-morrow will be the last day of the month. And I have the courage tosleep!"

In truth, a considerable sum of money must be raised: a hundred thousandfrancs to be paid on two obligations, and at a moment when, for thefirst time in thirty years, the strong-box of the house of Fromont wasabsolutely empty. What was to be done? Sigismond had tried severaltimes to speak to Fromont Jeune, but he seemed to shun the burdensomeresponsibility of business, and when he walked through the offices wasalways in a hurry, feverishly excited, and seemed neither to seenor hear anything about him. He answered the old cashier's anxiousquestions, gnawing his moustache:

"All right, all right, my old Planus. Don't disturb yourself; I willlook into it. " And as he said it, he seemed to be thinking of somethingelse, to be a thousand leagues away from his surroundings. It wasrumored in the factory, where his liaison with Madame Risler was nolonger a secret to anybody, that Sidonie deceived him, made him veryunhappy; and, indeed, his mistress's whims worried him much more thanhis cashier's anxiety. As for Risler, no one ever saw him; he passedhis days shut up in a room under the roof, overseeing the mysterious, interminable manufacture of his machines. 

This indifference on the part of the employers to the affairs of thefactory, this absolute lack of oversight, had led by slow degreesto general demoralization. Some business was still done, because anestablished house will go on alone for years by force of the firstimpetus; but what ruin, what chaos beneath that apparent prosperity?

Sigismond knew it better than any one, and as if to see his way moreclearly amid the multitude of painful thoughts which whirled madlythrough his brain, the cashier lighted his candle, sat down on his bed, and thought, "Where were they to find that hundred thousand francs?"

"Take the notes back. I have no funds to meet them. "

No, no! That was not possible. Any sort of humiliation was preferable tothat. 

"Well, it's decided. I will go to-morrow, " sighed the poor cashier. 

And he tossed about in torture, unable to close an eye until morning. 

Notwithstanding the late hour, Georges Fromont had not yet retired. Hewas sitting by the fire, with his head in his hands, in the blind anddumb concentration due to irreparable misfortune, thinking of Sidonie, of that terrible Sidonie who was asleep at that moment on the floorabove. She was positively driving him mad. She was false to him, hewas sure of it, --she was false to him with the Toulousan tenor, thatCazabon, alias Cazaboni, whom Madame Dobson had brought to the house. For a long time he had implored her not to receive that man; but Sidoniewould not listen to him, and on that very day, speaking of a grand ballshe was about to give, she had declared explicitly that nothing shouldprevent her inviting her tenor. 

"Then he's your lover!" Georges had exclaimed angrily, his eyes gazinginto hers. 

She had not denied it; she had not even turned her eyes away. 

And to think that he had sacrificed everything to that woman--hisfortune, his honor, even his lovely Claire, who lay sleeping with herchild in the adjoining room--a whole lifetime of happiness within reachof his hand, which he had spurned for that vile creature! Now she hadadmitted that she did not love him, that she loved another. And he, the coward, still longed for her. In heaven's name, what potion had shegiven him?

Carried away by indignation that made the blood boil in his veins, Georges Fromont started from his armchair and strode feverishly up anddown the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the sleepinghouse like living insomnia. The other was asleep upstairs. She couldsleep by favor of her heedless, remorseless nature. Perhaps, too, shewas thinking of her Cazaboni. 

When that thought passed through his mind, Georges had a mad longing togo up, to wake Risler, to tell him everything and destroy himself withher. Really that deluded husband was too idiotic! Why did he not watchher more closely? She was pretty enough, yes, and vicious enough, too, for every precaution to be taken with her. 

And it was while he was struggling amid such cruel and unfruitfulreflections as these that the devil of anxiety whispered in his ear:

"The notes! the notes!"

The miserable wretch! In his wrath he had entirely forgotten them. And yet he had long watched the approach of that terrible last day ofJanuary. How many times, between two assignations, when his mind, freefor a moment from thoughts of Sidonie, recurred to his business, to therealities of life-how many times had he said to himself, "That daywill be the end of everything!" But, as with all those who live in thedelirium of intoxication, his cowardice convinced him that it was toolate to mend matters, and he returned more quickly and more determinedlyto his evil courses, in order to forget, to divert his thoughts. 

But that was no longer possible. He saw the impending disaster clearly, in its full meaning; and Sigismond Planus's wrinkled, solemn face rosebefore him with its sharply cut features, whose absence of expressionsoftened their harshness, and his light German-Swiss eyes, which hadhaunted him for many weeks with their impassive stare. 

Well, no, he had not the hundred thousand francs, nor did he know whereto get them. 

The crisis which, a few hours before, seemed to him a chaos, an eddyingwhirl in which he could see nothing distinctly and whose very confusionwas a source of hope, appeared to him at that moment with appallingdistinctness. An empty cash-box, closed doors, notes protested, ruin, are the phantoms he saw whichever way he turned. And when, on top ofall the rest, came the thought of Sidonie's treachery, the wretched, desperate man, finding nothing to cling to in that shipwreck, suddenlyuttered a sob, a cry of agony, as if appealing for help to some higherpower. 

"Georges, Georges, it is I. What is the matter?"

His wife stood before him, his wife who now waited for him every night, watching anxiously for his return from the club, for she still believedthat he passed his evenings there. That night she had heard him walkingvery late in his room. At last her child fell asleep, and Claire, hearing the father sob, ran to him. 

Oh! what boundless, though tardy remorse overwhelmed him when he saw herbefore him, so deeply moved, so lovely and so loving! Yes, she was invery truth the true companion, the faithful friend. How could he havedeserted her? For a long, long time he wept upon her shoulder, unableto speak. And it was fortunate that he did not speak, for he would havetold her all, all. The unhappy man felt the need of pouring out hisheart--an irresistible longing to accuse himself, to ask forgiveness, tolessen the weight of the remorse that was crushing him. 

She spared him the pain of uttering a word:

"You have been gambling, have you not? You have lost--lost heavily?"

He moved his head affirmatively; then, when he was able to speak, heconfessed that he must have a hundred thousand francs for the day afterthe morrow, and that he did not know how to obtain them. 

She did not reproach him. She was one of those women who, when faceto face with disaster, think only of repairing it, without a word ofrecrimination. Indeed, in the bottom of her heart she blessed thismisfortune which brought him nearer to her and became a bond betweentheir two lives, which had long lain so far apart. She reflected amoment. Then, with an effort indicating a resolution which had cost abitter struggle, she said:

"Not all is lost as yet. I will go to Savigny tomorrow and ask mygrandfather for the money. "

He would never have dared to suggest that to her. Indeed, it would neverhave occurred to him. She was so proud and old Gardinois so hard! Surelythat was a great sacrifice for her to make for him, and a striking proofof her love. 

"Claire, Claire--how good your are!" he said. 

Without replying, she led him to their child's cradle. 

"Kiss her, " she said softly; and as they stood there side by side, theirheads leaning over the child, Georges was afraid of waking her, and heembraced the mother passionately. 

CHAPTER XX. REVELATIONS

"Ah! here's Sigismond. How goes the world, Pere Sigismond? How isbusiness? Is it good with you?"

The old cashier smiled affably, shook hands with the master, his wife, and his brother, and, as they talked, looked curiously about. Theywere in a manufactory of wallpapers on Faubourg Saint-Antoine, theestablishment of the little Prochassons, who were beginning to beformidable rivals. Those former employees of the house of Fromont hadset up on their own account, beginning in a very, small way, and hadgradually succeeded in making for themselves a place on 'Change. Fromontthe uncle had assisted them for a long while with his credit and hismoney; the result being most friendly relations between the two firms, and a balance--between ten or fifteen thousand francs--which had neverbeen definitely adjusted, because they knew that money was in good handswhen the Prochassons had it. 

Indeed, the appearance of the factory was most reassuring. The chimneysproudly shook their plumes of smoke. The dull roar of constant toilindicated that the workshops were full of workmen and activity. Thebuildings were in good repair, the windows clean; everything had anaspect of enthusiasm, of good-humor, of discipline; and behind thegrating in the counting-room sat the wife of one of the brothers, simplydressed, with her hair neatly arranged, and an air of authority on heryouthful face, deeply intent upon a long column of figures. 

Old Sigismond thought bitterly of the difference between the houseof Fromont, once so wealthy, now living entirely upon its formerreputation, and the ever-increasing prosperity of the establishmentbefore his eyes. His stealthy glance penetrated to the darkest corners, seeking some defect, something to criticise; and his failure to findanything made his heart heavy and his smile forced and anxious. 

What embarrassed him most of all was the question how he should approachthe subject of the money due his employers without betraying theemptiness of the strongbox. The poor man assumed a jaunty, unconcernedair which was truly pitiful to see. Business was good--very good. Hehappened to be passing through the quarter and thought he would come ina moment--that was natural, was it not? One likes to see old friends. 

But these preambles, these constantly expanding circumlocutions, did notbring him to the point he wished to reach; on the contrary, they led himaway from his goal, and imagining that he detected surprise in the eyesof his auditors, he went completely astray, stammered, lost his head, and, as a last resort, took his hat and pretended to go. At the door hesuddenly bethought himself:

"Ah! by the way, so long as I am here--"

He gave a little wink which he thought sly, but which was in realityheartrending. 

"So long as I am here, suppose we settle that old account. "

The two brothers and the young woman in the counting-room gazed at oneanother a second, unable to understand. 

"Account? What account, pray?"

Then all three began to laugh at the same moment, and heartily too, asif at a joke, a rather broad joke, on the part of the old cashier. "Goalong with you, you sly old Pere Planus!" The old man laughed with them!He laughed without any desire to laugh, simply to do as the others did. 

At last they explained. Fromont Jeune had come in person, six monthsbefore, to collect the balance in their hands. 

Sigismond felt that his strength was going. But he summoned courage tosay:

"Ah! yes; true. I had forgotten. Sigismond Planus is growing old, thatis plain. I am failing, my children, I am failing. "

And the old man went away wiping his eyes, in which still glistenedgreat tears caused by the hearty laugh he had just enjoyed. Theyoung people behind him exchanged glances and shook their heads. Theyunderstood. 

The blow he had received was so crushing that the cashier, as soon ashe was out-of-doors, was obliged to sit down on a bench. So that was thereason why Georges did not come to the counting-room for money. He madehis collections in person. What had taken place at the Prochassons' hadprobably been repeated everywhere else. It was quite useless, therefore, for him to subject himself to further humiliation. Yes, but the notes, the notes!--that thought renewed his strength. He wiped the perspirationfrom his forehead and started once more to try his luck with a customerin the faubourg. But this time he took his precautions and called to thecashier from the doorway, without entering:

"Good-morning, Pere So-and-So. I want to ask you a question. "

He held the door half open, his hand upon the knob. 

"When did we settle our last bill? I forgot to enter it. "

Oh! it was a long while ago, a very long while, that their last billwas settled. Fromont Jeune's receipt was dated in September. It was fivemonths ago. 

The door was hastily closed. Another! Evidently it would be the samething everywhere. 

"Ah! Monsieur Chorche, Monsieur Chorche, " muttered poor Sigismond; andwhile he pursued his journey, with bowed head and trembling legs, MadameFromont Jeune's carriage passed him close, on its way to the Orleansstation; but Claire did not see old Planus, any more than she had seen, when she left her house a few moments earlier, Monsieur Chebe in hislong frock-coat and the illustrious Delobelle in his stovepipe hat, turning into the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes at opposite ends, eachwith the factory and Risler's wallet for his objective point. The youngwoman was much too deeply engrossed by what she had before her to lookinto the street. 

Think of it! It was horrible. To go and ask M. Gardinois for a hundredthousand francs--M. Gardinois, a man who boasted that he had neverborrowed or loaned a sou in his life, who never lost an opportunityto tell how, on one occasion, being driven to ask his father for fortyfrancs to buy a pair of trousers, he had repaid the loan in smallamounts. In his dealings with everybody, even with his children, M. Gardinois followed those traditions of avarice which the earth, thecruel earth, often ungrateful to those who till it, seems to inculcatein all peasants. The old man did not intend that any part of hiscolossal fortune should go to his children during his lifetime. 

"They'll find my property when I am dead, " he often said. 

Acting upon that principle, he had married off his daughter, the elderMadame Fromont, without one sou of dowry, and he never forgave hisson-in-law for having made a fortune without assistance from him. Forit was one of the peculiarities of that nature, made up of vanity andselfishness in equal parts, to wish that every one he knew should needhis help, should bow before his wealth. When the Fromonts expressed inhis presence their satisfaction at the prosperous turn their businesswas beginning to take, his sharp, cunning, little blue eye would smileironically, and he would growl, "We shall see what it all comes to inthe end, " in a tone that made them tremble. Sometimes, too, at Savigny, in the evening, when the park, the avenues, the blue slates of thechateau, the red brick of the stables, the ponds and brooks shoneresplendent, bathed in the golden glory of a lovely sunset, thiseccentric parvenu would say aloud before his children, after lookingabout him:

"The one thing that consoles me for dying some day is that no one inthe family will ever be rich enough to keep a chateau that costs fiftythousand francs a year to maintain. "

And yet, with that latter-day tenderness which even the sternestgrandfathers find in the depths of their hearts, old Gardinois wouldgladly have made a pet of his granddaughter. But Claire, even as achild, had felt an invincible repugnance for the former peasant'shardness of heart and vainglorious selfishness. And when affection formsno bonds between those who are separated by difference in education, such repugnance is increased by innumerable trifles. When Claire marriedGeorges, the grandfather said to Madame Fromont:

"If your daughter wishes, I will give her a royal present; but she mustask for it. "

But Claire received nothing, because she would not ask for anything. 

What a bitter humiliation to come, three years later, to beg a hundredthousand francs from the generosity she had formerly spurned, to humbleherself, to face the endless sermons, the sneering raillery, the wholeseasoned with Berrichon jests, with phrases smacking of the soil, withthe taunts, often well-deserved, which narrow, but logical, minds canutter on occasion, and which sting with their vulgar patois like aninsult from an inferior!

Poor Claire! Her husband and her father were about to be humiliated inher person. She must necessarily confess the failure of the one, thedownfall of the house which the other had founded and of which he hadbeen so proud while he lived. The thought that she would be called uponto defend all that she loved best in the world made her strong and weakat the same time. 

It was eleven o'clock when she reached Savigny. As she had given nowarning of her visit, the carriage from the chateau was not at thestation, and she had no choice but to walk. 

It was a cold morning and the roads were dry and hard. The north windblew freely across the arid fields and the river, and swept unopposedthrough the leafless trees and bushes. The chateau appeared underthe low-hanging clouds, with its long line of low walls and hedgesseparating it from the surrounding fields. The slates on the roofwere as dark as the sky they reflected; and that magnificent summerresidence, completely transformed by the bitter, silent winter, withouta leaf on its trees or a pigeon on its roofs, showed no life save inits rippling brooks and the murmuring of the tall poplars as they bowedmajestically to one another, shaking the magpies' nests hidden amongtheir highest branches. 

At a distance Claire fancied that the home of her youth wore a surly, depressed air. It seemed to het that Savigny watched her approach withthe cold, aristocratic expression which it assumed for passengers on thehighroad, who stopped at the iron bars of its gateways. 

Oh! the cruel aspect of everything!

And yet not so cruel after all. For, with its tightly closed exterior, Savigny seemed to say to her, "Begone--do not come in!" And if shehad chosen to listen, Claire, renouncing her plan of speaking to hergrandfather, would have returned at once to Paris to maintain the reposeof her life. But she did not understand, poor child! and already thegreat Newfoundland dog, who had recognized her, came leaping through thedead leaves and sniffed at the gate. 

"Good-morning, Francoise. Where is grandpapa?" the young woman askedthe gardener's wife, who came to open the gate, fawning and false andtrembling, like all the servants at the chateau when they felt that themaster's eye was upon them. 

Grandpapa was in his office, a little building independent of the mainhouse, where he passed his days fumbling among boxes and pigeonholes andgreat books with green backs, with the rage for bureaucracy due to hisearly ignorance and the strong impression made upon him long before bythe office of the notary in his village. 

At that moment he was closeted there with his keeper, a sort of countryspy, a paid informer who apprised him as to all that was said and donein the neighborhood. 

He was the master's favorite. His name was Fouinat (polecat), and he hadthe flat, crafty, blood-thirsty face appropriate to his name. 

When Claire entered, pale and trembling under her furs, the old manunderstood that something serious and unusual had happened, and he madea sign to Fouinat, who disappeared, gliding through the half-open dooras if he were entering the very wall. 

"What's the matter, little one? Why, you're all 'perlute', " said thegrandfather, seated behind his huge desk. 

Perlute, in the Berrichon dictionary, signifies troubled, excited, upset, and applied perfectly to Claire's condition. Her rapid walk inthe cold country air, the effort she had made in order to do what shewas doing, imparted an unwonted expression to her face, which was muchless reserved than usual. Without the slightest encouragement on hispart, she kissed him and seated herself in front of the fire, where oldstumps, surrounded by dry moss and pine needles picked up in the paths, were smouldering with occasional outbursts of life and the hissing ofsap. She did not even take time to shake off the frost that stoodin beads on her veil, but began to speak at once, faithful to herresolution to state the object of her visit immediately upon enteringthe room, before she allowed herself to be intimidated by the atmosphereof fear and respect which encompassed the grandfather and made of him asort of awe-inspiring deity. 

She required all her courage not to become confused, not to interrupther narrative before that piercing gaze which transfixed her, enlivenedfrom her first words by a malicious joy, before that savage mouth whosecorners seemed tightly closed by premeditated reticence, obstinacy, adenial of any sort of sensibility. She went on to the end in one speech, respectful without humility, concealing her emotion, steadying her voiceby the consciousness of the truth of her story. Really, seeing them thusface to face, he cold and calm, stretched out in his armchair, withhis hands in the pockets of his gray swansdown waistcoat, she carefullychoosing her words, as if each of them might condemn or absolve her, youwould never have said that it was a child before her grandfather, but anaccused person before an examining magistrate. 

His thoughts were entirely engrossed by the joy, the pride of histriumph. So they were conquered at last, those proud upstarts ofFromonts! So they needed old Gardinois at last, did they? Vanity, hisdominating passion, overflowed in his whole manner, do what he would. When she had finished, he took the floor in his turn, began naturallyenough with "I was sure of it--I always said so--I knew we should seewhat it would all come to"--and continued in the same vulgar, insultingtone, ending with the declaration that, in view of his principles, whichwere well known in the family, he would not lend a sou. 

Then Claire spoke of her child, of her husband's name, which was alsoher father's, and which would be dishonored by the failure. The oldman was as cold, as implacable as ever, and took advantage of herhumiliation to humiliate her still more; for he belonged to the race ofworthy rustics who, when their enemy is down, never leave him withoutleaving on his face the marks of the nails in their sabots. 

"All I can say to you, little one, is that Savigny is open to you. Letyour husband come here. I happen to need a secretary. Very well, Georgescan do my writing for twelve hundred francs a year and board for thewhole family. Offer him that from me, and come. "

She rose indignantly. She had come as his child and he had received heras a beggar. They had not reached that point yet, thank God!

"Do you think so?" queried M. Gardinois, with a savage light in his eye. 

Claire shuddered and walked toward the door without replying. The oldman detained her with a gesture. 

"Take care! you don't know what you're refusing. It is in your interest, you understand, that I suggest bringing your husband here. You don'tknow the life he is leading up yonder. Of course you don't know it, oryou'd never come and ask me for money to go where yours has gone. Ah! Iknow all about your man's affairs. I have my police at Paris, yes, andat Asnieres, as well as at Savigny. I know what the fellow does with hisdays and his nights; and I don't choose that my crowns shall go tothe places where he goes. They're not clean enough for money honestlyearned. "

Claire's eyes opened wide in amazement and horror, for she felt that aterrible drama had entered her life at that moment through the littlelow door of denunciation. The old man continued with a sneer:

"That little Sidonie has fine, sharp teeth. "

"Sidonie!"

"Faith, yes, to be sure. I have told you the name. At all events, you'dhave found it out some day or other. In fact, it's an astonishing thingthat, since the time--But you women are so vain! The idea that a mancan deceive you is the last idea to come into your head. Well, yes, Sidonie's the one who has got it all out of him--with her husband'sconsent, by the way. "

He went on pitilessly to tell the young wife the source of the moneyfor the house at Asnieres, the horses, the carriages, and how the prettylittle nest in the Avenue Gabriel had been furnished. He explainedeverything in detail. It was clear that, having found a new opportunityto exercise his mania for espionage, he had availed himself of it tothe utmost; perhaps, too, there was at the bottom of it all a vague, carefully concealed rage against his little Chebe, the anger of a senilepassion never declared. 

Claire listened to him without speaking, with a smile of incredulity. That smile irritated the old man, spurred on his malice. "Ah! you don'tbelieve me. Ah! you want proofs, do you?" And he gave her proofs, heapedthem upon her, overpowered her with knife-thrusts in the heart. She hadonly to go to Darches, the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix. A fortnightbefore, Georges had bought a diamond necklace there for thirty thousandfrancs. It was his New Year's gift to Sidonie. Thirty thousand francsfor diamonds at the moment of becoming bankrupt!

He might have talked the entire day and Claire would not haveinterrupted him. She felt that the slightest effort would cause thetears that filled her eyes to overflow, and she was determined tosmile to the end, the sweet, brave woman. From time to time she casta sidelong glance at the road. She was in haste to go, to fly from thesound of that spiteful voice, which pursued her pitilessly. 

At last he ceased; he had told the whole story. She bowed and walkedtoward the door. 

"Are you going? What a hurry you're in!" said the grandfather, followingher outside. 

At heart he was a little ashamed of his savagery. 

"Won't you breakfast with me?"

She shook her head, not having strength to speak. 

"At least wait till the carriage is ready--some one will drive you tothe station. "

No, still no. 

And she walked on, with the old man close behind her. Proudly, and withhead erect, she crossed the courtyard, filled with souvenirs of herchildhood, without once looking behind. And yet what echoes of heartylaughter, what sunbeams of her younger days were imprinted in thetiniest grain of gravel in that courtyard!

Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were still in the same place. Shehad not a glance for them, nor for the pheasants in the aviary, nor evenfor the great dog Kiss, who followed her docilely, awaiting the caresswhich she did not give him. She had come as a child of the house, shewent away as a stranger, her mind filled with horrible thoughts whichthe slightest reminder of her peaceful and happy past could not havefailed to aggravate. 

"Good-by, grandfather. "

"Good-by, then. "

And the gate closed upon her harshly. As soon as she was alone, shebegan to walk swiftly, swiftly, almost to run. She was not merely goingaway, she was escaping. Suddenly, when she reached the end of the wallof the estate, she found herself in front of the little green gate, surrounded by nasturtiums and honeysuckle, where the chateau mail-boxwas. She stopped instinctively, struck by one of those sudden awakeningsof the memory which take place within us at critical moments and placebefore our eyes with wonderful clearness of outline the most trivialacts of our lives bearing any relation to present disasters or joys. Wasit the red sun that suddenly broke forth from the clouds, flooding thelevel expanse with its oblique rays in that winter afternoon as at thesunset hour in August? Was it the silence that surrounded her, brokenonly by the harmonious sounds of nature, which are almost alike at allseasons?

Whatever the cause she saw herself once more as she was, at that samespot, three years before, on a certain day when she placed in the posta letter inviting Sidonie to come and pass a month with her in thecountry. Something told her that all her misfortunes dated from thatmoment. "Ah! had I known--had I only known!" And she fancied that shecould still feel between her fingers the smooth envelope, ready to dropinto the box. 

Thereupon, as she reflected what an innocent, hopeful, happy child shewas at that moment, she cried out indignantly, gentle creature that shewas, against the injustice of life. She asked herself: "Why is it? Whathave I done?"

Then she suddenly exclaimed: "No! it isn't true. It can not be possible. Grandfather lied to me. " And as she went on toward the station, theunhappy girl tried to convince herself, to make herself believe what shesaid. But she did not succeed. 

The truth dimly seen is like the veiled sun, which tires the eyes farmore than its most brilliant rays. In the semi-obscurity which stillenveloped her misfortune, the poor woman's sight was keener than shecould have wished. Now she understood and accounted for certainpeculiar circumstances in her husband's life, his frequent absences, hisrestlessness, his embarrassed behavior on certain days, and the abundantdetails which he sometimes volunteered, upon returning home, concerninghis movements, mentioning names as proofs which she did not ask. Fromall these conjectures the evidence of his sin was made up. And still sherefused to believe it, and looked forward to her arrival in Paris to sether doubts at rest. 

No one was at the station, a lonely, cheerless little place, where notraveller ever showed his face in winter. As Claire sat there awaitingthe train, gazing vaguely at the station-master's melancholy littlegarden, and the debris of climbing plants running along the fences bythe track, she felt a moist, warm breath on her glove. It was her friendKiss, who had followed her and was reminding her of their happy rompstogether in the old days, with little shakes of the head, short leaps, capers of joy tempered by humility, concluding by stretching hisbeautiful white coat at full length at his mistress's feet, on the coldfloor of the waiting-room. Those humble caresses which sought her out, like a hesitating offer of devotion and sympathy, caused the sobs shehad so long restrained to break forth as last. But suddenly she feltashamed of her weakness. She rose and sent the dog away, sent himaway pitilessly with voice and gesture, pointing to the house in thedistance, with a stern face which poor Kiss had never seen. Then shehastily wiped her eyes and her moist hands; for the train for Pariswas approaching and she knew that in a moment she should need all hercourage. 

Claire's first thought on leaving the train was to take a cab and driveto the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix, who had, as her grandfatheralleged, supplied Georges with a diamond necklace. If that should proveto be true, then all the rest was true. Her dread of learning the truthwas so great that, when she reached her destination and alighted infront of that magnificent establishment, she stopped, afraid to enter. To give herself countenance, she pretended to be deeply interested inthe jewels displayed in velvet cases; and one who had seen her, quietlybut fashionably dressed, leaning forward to look at that gleaming andattractive display, would have taken her for a happy wife engaged inselecting a bracelet, rather than an anxious, sorrow-stricken soul whohad come thither to discover the secret of her life. 

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. At that time of day, in winter, the Rue de la Paix presents a truly dazzling aspect. In that luxuriousneighborhood, life moves quickly between the short morning and theearly evening. There are carriages moving swiftly in all directions, aceaseless rumbling, and on the sidewalks a coquettish haste, a rustlingof silks and furs. Winter is the real Parisian season. To see thatdevil's own Paris in all its beauty and wealth and happiness one mustwatch the current of its life beneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow. Nature is absent from the picture, so to speak. No wind, no sunlight. Just enough light for the dullest colors, the faintest reflections toproduce an admirable effect, from the reddish-gray tone of the monumentsto the gleams of jet which bespangle a woman's dress. Theatre andconcert posters shine resplendent, as if illumined by the effulgence ofthe footlights. The shops are crowded. It seems that all those peoplemust be preparing for perpetual festivities. And at such times, ifany sorrow is mingled with that bustle and tumult, it seems the moreterrible for that reason. For five minutes Claire suffered martyrdomworse than death. Yonder, on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse ofthe deserted fields, her despair spread out as it were in the sharp airand seemed to enfold her less closely. Here she was stifling. The voicesbeside her, the footsteps, the heedless jostling of people who passed, all added to her torture. 

At last she entered the shop. 

"Ah! yes, Madame, certainly--Monsieur Fromont. A necklace of diamondsand roses. We could make you one like it for twenty-five thousandfrancs. "

That was five thousand less than for him. 

"Thanks, Monsieur, " said Claire, "I will think it over. "

A mirror in front of her, in which she saw her dark-ringed eyes and herdeathly pallor, frightened her. She went out quickly, walking stiffly inorder not to fall. 

She had but one idea, to escape from the street, from the noise; to bealone, quite alone, so that she might plunge headlong into that abyssof heartrending thoughts, of black things dancing madly in the depths ofher mind. Oh! the coward, the infamous villain! And to think that onlylast night she was speaking comforting words to him, with her arms abouthim!

Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happened, she found herself inthe courtyard of the factory. Through what streets had she come? Hadshe come in a carriage or on foot? She had no remembrance. She hadacted unconsciously, as in a dream. The sentiment of reality returned, pitiless and poignant, when she reached the steps of her little house. Risler was there, superintending several men who were carrying pottedplants up to his wife's apartments, in preparation for the magnificentparty she was to give that very evening. With his usual tranquillity hedirected the work, protected the tall branches which the workmen mighthave broken: "Not like that. Bend it over. Take care of the carpet. "

The atmosphere of pleasure and merry-making which had so revolted her amoment before pursued her to her own house. It was too much, after allthe rest! She rebelled; and as Risler saluted her, affectionately andwith deep respect as always, her face assumed an expression of intensedisgust, and she passed without speaking to him, without seeing theamazement that opened his great, honest eyes. 

From that moment her course was determined. Wrath, a wrath born ofuprightness and sense of justice, guided her actions. She barely tooktime to kiss her child's rosy cheeks before running to her mother'sroom. 

"Come, mamma, dress yourself quickly. We are going away. We are goingaway. "

The old lady rose slowly from the armchair in which she was sitting, busily engaged in cleaning her watch-chain by inserting a pin betweenevery two links with infinite care. 

"Come, come, hurry. Get your things ready. "

Her voice trembled, and the poor monomaniac's room seemed a horribleplace to her, all glistening as it was with the cleanliness that hadgradually become a mania. She had reached one of those fateful momentswhen the loss of one illusion causes you to lose them all, enablesyou to look to the very depths of human misery. The realization of hercomplete isolation, between her half-mad mother, her faithless husband, her too young child, came upon her for the first time; but it servedonly to strengthen her in her resolution. 

In a moment the whole household was busily engaged in makingpreparations for this abrupt, unexpected departure. Claire hurried thebewildered servants, and dressed her mother and the child, who laughedmerrily amid all the excitement. She was in haste to go before Georges'return, so that he might find the cradle empty and the house deserted. Where should she go? She did not know as yet. Perhaps to her aunt atOrleans, perhaps to Savigny, no matter where. What she must do first ofall was-go, fly from that atmosphere of treachery and falsehood. 

At that moment she was in her bedroom, packing a trunk, making a pileof her effects--a heartrending occupation. Every object that she touchedset in motion whole worlds of thoughts, of memories. There is so muchof ourselves in anything that we use. At times the odor of a sachet-bag, the pattern of a bit of lace, were enough to bring tears to her eyes. Suddenly she heard a heavy footstep in the salon, the door of which waspartly open; then there was a slight cough, as if to let her know thatsome one was there. She supposed that it was Risler: for no one else hadthe right to enter her apartments so unceremoniously. The idea of havingto endure the presence of that hypocritical face, that false smile, wasso distasteful to her that she rushed to close the door. 

"I am not at home to any one. "

The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismond's square head appeared inthe opening. 

"It is I, Madame, " he said in an undertone. "I have come to get themoney. "

"What money?" demanded Claire, for she no longer remembered why she hadgone to Savigny. 

"Hush! The funds to meet my note to-morrow. Monsieur Georges, when hewent out, told me that you would hand it to me very soon. "

"Ah! yes--true. The hundred thousand francs. "

"I haven't them, Monsieur Planus; I haven't anything. "

"Then, " said the cashier, in a strange voice, as if he were speaking tohimself, "then it means failure. "

And he turned slowly away. 

Failure! She sank on a chair, appalled, crushed. For the last few hoursthe downfall of her happiness had caused her to forget the downfall ofthe house; but she remembered now. 

So her husband was ruined! In a little while, when he returned home, hewould learn of the disaster, and he would learn at the same time thathis wife and child had gone; that he was left alone in the midst of thewreck. 

Alone--that weak, easily influenced creature, who could only weep andcomplain and shake his fist at life like a child! What would become ofthe miserable man?

She pitied him, notwithstanding his great sin. 

Then the thought came to her that she would perhaps seem to have fled atthe approach of bankruptcy, of poverty. 

Georges might say to himself:

"Had I been rich, she would have forgiven me!"

Ought she to allow him to entertain that doubt?

To a generous, noble heart like Claire's nothing more than that wasnecessary to change her plans. Instantly she was conscious that herfeeling of repugnance, of revolt, began to grow less bitter, and asudden ray of light seemed to make her duty clearer to her. When theycame to tell her that the child was dressed and the trunks ready, hermind was made up anew. 

"Never mind, " she replied gently. "We are not going away. "

BOOK 4. 

CHAPTER XXI. THE DAY OF RECKONING

The great clock of Saint-Gervais struck one in the morning. It was socold that the fine snow, flying through the air, hardened as it fell, covering the pavements with a slippery, white blanket. 

Risler, wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home from the brewerythrough the deserted streets of the Marais. He had been celebrating, incompany with his two faithful borrowers, Chebe and Delobelle, his firstmoment of leisure, the end of that almost endless period of seclusionduring which he had been superintending the manufacture of his press, with all the searchings, the joys, and the disappointments of theinventor. It had been long, very long. At the last moment he haddiscovered a defect. The crane did not work well; and he had had torevise his plans and drawings. At last, on that very day, the newmachine had been tried. Everything had succeeded to his heart's desire. The worthy man was triumphant. It seemed to him that he had paid a debt, by giving the house of Fromont the benefit of a new machine, which wouldlessen the labor, shorten the hours of the workmen, and at the same timedouble the profits and the reputation of the factory. He indulged inbeautiful dreams as he plodded along. His footsteps rang out proudly, emphasized by the resolute and happy trend of his thoughts. 

Quickening his pace, he reached the corner of Rue desVieilles-Haudriettes. A long line of carriages was standing in front ofthe factory, and the light of their lanterns in the street, the shadowsof the drivers seeking shelter from the snow in the corners and anglesthat those old buildings have retained despite the straightening of thesidewalks, gave an animated aspect to that deserted, silent quarter. 

"Yes, yes! to be sure, " thought the honest fellow, "we have a ball atour house. " He remembered that Sidonie was giving a grand musical anddancing party, which she had excused him from attending, by the way, knowing that he was very busy. 

Shadows passed and repassed behind the fluttering veil of the curtains;the orchestra seemed to follow the movements of those stealthyapparitions with the rising and falling of its muffled notes. Theguests were dancing. Risler let his eyes rest for a moment on thatphantasmagoria of the ball, and fancied that he recognized Sidonie'sshadow in a small room adjoining the salon. 

She was standing erect in her magnificent costume, in the attitude ofa pretty woman before her mirror. A shorter shadow behind her, MadameDobson doubtless, was repairing some accident to the costume, re-tieingthe knot of a ribbon tied about her neck, its long ends floating down tothe flounces of the train. It was all very indistinct, but the woman'sgraceful figure was recognizable in those faintly traced outlines, andRisler tarried long admiring her. 

The contrast on the first floor was most striking. There was no lightvisible, with the exception of a little lamp shining through the lilachangings of the bedroom. Risler noticed that circumstance, and as thelittle girl had been ailing a few days before, he felt anxious abouther, remembering Madame Georges's strange agitation when she passed himso hurriedly in the afternoon; and he retraced his steps as far as PereAchille's lodge to inquire. 

The lodge was full. Coachmen were warming themselves around the stove, chatting and laughing amid the smoke from their pipes. When Rislerappeared there was profound silence, a cunning, inquisitive, significantsilence. They had evidently been speaking of him. 

"Is the Fromont child still sick?" he asked. 

"No, not the child, Monsieur. "

"Monsieur Georges sick?"

"Yes, he was taken when he came home to-night. I went right off toget the doctor. He said that it wouldn't amount to anything--that allMonsieur needed was rest. "

As Risler closed the door Pere Achille added, under his breath, with thehalf-fearful, half-audacious insolence of an inferior, who would like tobe listened to and yet not distinctly heard:

"Ah! 'dame', they're not making such a show on the first floor as theyare on the second. "

This is what had happened. 

Fromont jeune, on returning home during the evening, had found hiswife with such a changed, heartbroken face, that he at once divined acatastrophe. But he had become so accustomed in the past two years tosin with impunity that it did not for one moment occur to him that hiswife could have been informed of his conduct. Claire, for her part, toavoid humiliating him, was generous enough to speak only of Savigny. 

"Grandpapa refused, " she said. 

The miserable man turned frightfully pale. 

"I am lost--I am lost!" he muttered two or three times in the wildaccents of fever; and his sleepless nights, a last terrible scene whichhe had had with Sidonie, trying to induce her not to give this partyon the eve of his downfall, M. Gardinois' refusal, all these maddeningthings which followed so closely on one another's heels and had agitatedhim terribly, culminated in a genuine nervous attack. Claire took pityon him, put him to bed, and established herself by his side; but hervoice had lost that affectionate intonation which soothes and persuades. There was in her gestures, in the way in which she arranged the pillowunder the patient's head and prepared a quieting draught, a strangeindifference, listlessness. 

"But I have ruined you!" Georges said from time to time, as if to rouseher from that apathy which made him uncomfortable. She replied with aproud, disdainful gesture. Ah! if he had done only that to her!

At last, however, his nerves became calmer, the fever subsided, and hefell asleep. 

She remained to attend to his wants. 

"It is my duty, " she said to herself. 

Her duty. She had reached that point with the man whom she had adored soblindly, with the hope of a long and happy life together. 

At that moment the ball in Sidonie's apartments began to become veryanimated. The ceiling trembled rhythmically, for Madame had had all thecarpets removed from her salons for the greater comfort of the dancers. Sometimes, too, the sound of voices reached Claire's ears in waves, and frequent tumultuous applause, from which one could divine the greatnumber of the guests, the crowded condition of the rooms. 

Claire was lost in thought. She did not waste time in regrets, infruitless lamentations. She knew that life was inflexible and thatall the arguments in the world will not arrest the cruel logic of itsinevitable progress. She did not ask herself how that man had succeededin deceiving her so long--how he could have sacrificed the honor andhappiness of his family for a mere caprice. That was the fact, and allher reflections could not wipe it out, could not repair the irreparable. The subject that engrossed her thoughts was the future. A new existencewas unfolding before her eyes, dark, cruel, full of privation and toil;and, strangely enough, the prospect of ruin, instead of terrifying her, restored all her courage. The idea of the change of abode madenecessary by the economy they would be obliged to practise, of work madecompulsory for Georges and perhaps for herself, infused an indefinableenergy into the distressing calmness of her despair. What a heavy burdenof souls she would have with her three children: her mother, her child, and her husband! The feeling of responsibility prevented her giving waytoo much to her misfortune, to the wreck of her love; and in proportionas she forgot herself in the thought of the weak creatures she had toprotect she realized more fully the meaning of the word "sacrifice, " sovague on careless lips, so serious when it becomes a rule of life. 

Such were the poor woman's thoughts during that sad vigil, a vigil ofarms and tears, while she was preparing her forces for the great battle. Such was the scene lighted by the modest little lamp which Risler hadseen from below, like a star fallen from the radiant chandeliers of theballroom. 

Reassured by Pere Achille's reply, the honest fellow thought of goingup to his bedroom, avoiding the festivities and the guests, for whom hecared little. 

On such occasions he used a small servants' staircase communicating withthe counting-room. So he walked through the many-windowed workshops, which the moon, reflected by the snow, made as light as at noonday. Hebreathed the atmosphere of the day of toil, a hot, stifling atmosphere, heavy with the odor of boiled talc and varnish. The papers spread outon the dryers formed long, rustling paths. On all sides tools were lyingabout, and blouses hanging here and there ready for the morrow. Rislernever walked through the shops without a feeling of pleasure. 

Suddenly he spied a light in Planus's office, at the end of that longline of deserted rooms. The old cashier was still at work, at oneo'clock in the morning! That was really most extraordinary. 

Risler's first impulse was to retrace his steps. In fact, since hisunaccountable falling-out with Sigismond, since the cashier had adoptedthat attitude of cold silence toward him, he had avoided meeting him. His wounded friendship had always led him to shun an explanation; he hada sort of pride in not asking Planus why he bore him ill-will. But, onthat evening, Risler felt so strongly the need of cordial sympathy, ofpouring out his heart to some one, and then it was such an excellentopportunity for a tete-a-tete with his former friend, that he did nottry to avoid him but boldly entered the counting-room. 

The cashier was sitting there, motionless, among heaps of papers andgreat books, which he had been turning over, some of which had fallen tothe floor. At the sound of his employer's footsteps he did not even lifthis eyes. He had recognized Risler's step. The latter, somewhat abashed, hesitated a moment; then, impelled by one of those secret springs whichwe have within us and which guide us, despite ourselves, in the path ofour destiny, he walked straight to the cashier's grating. 

"Sigismond, " he said in a grave voice. 

The old man raised his head and displayed a shrunken face down which twogreat tears were rolling, the first perhaps that that animate column offigures had ever shed in his life. 

"You are weeping, old man? What troubles you?"

And honest Risler, deeply touched, held out his hand to his friend, whohastily withdrew his. That movement of repulsion was so instinctive, sobrutal, that all Risler's emotion changed to indignation. 

He drew himself up with stern dignity. 

"I offer you my hand, Sigismond Planus!" he said. 

"And I refuse to take it, " said Planus, rising. 

There was a terrible pause, during which they heard the muffled musicof the orchestra upstairs and the noise of the ball, the dull, wearingnoise of floors shaken by the rhythmic movement of the dance. 

"Why do you refuse to take my hand?" demanded Risler simply, while thegrating upon which he leaned trembled with a metallic quiver. 

Sigismond was facing him, with both hands on his desk, as if toemphasize and drive home what he was about to say in reply. 

"Why? Because you have ruined the house; because in a few hours amessenger from the Bank will come and stand where you are, to collect ahundred thousand francs; and because, thanks to you, I haven't a sou inthe cash-box--that's the reason why!"

Risler was stupefied. 

"I have ruined the house--I?"

"Worse than that, Monsieur. You have allowed it to be ruined by yourwife, and you have arranged with her to benefit by our ruin and yourdishonor. Oh! I can see your game well enough. The money your wife haswormed out of the wretched Fromont, the house at Asnieres, the diamondsand all the rest is invested in her name, of course, out of reach ofdisaster; and of course you can retire from business now. "

"Oh--oh!" exclaimed Risler in a faint voice, a restrained voice rather, that was insufficient for the multitude of thoughts it strove toexpress; and as he stammered helplessly he drew the grating toward himwith such force that he broke off a piece of it. Then he staggered, fellto the floor, and lay there motionless, speechless, retaining only, inwhat little life was still left in him, the firm determination not todie until he had justified himself. That determination must have beenvery powerful; for while his temples throbbed madly, hammered by theblood that turned his face purple, while his ears were ringing andhis glazed eyes seemed already turned toward the terrible unknown, theunhappy man muttered to himself in a thick voice, like the voice of ashipwrecked man speaking with his mouth full of water in a howling gale:"I must live! I must live!"

When he recovered consciousness, he was sitting on the cushioned benchon which the workmen sat huddled together on pay-day, his cloak on thefloor, his cravat untied, his shirt open at the neck, cut by Sigismond'sknife. Luckily for him, he had cut his hands when he tore the gratingapart; the blood had flowed freely, and that accident was enough toavert an attack of apoplexy. On opening his eyes, he saw on either sideold Sigismond and Madame Georges, whom the cashier had summoned in hisdistress. As soon as Risler could speak, he said to her in a chokingvoice:

"Is this true, Madame Chorche--is this true that he just told me?"

She had not the courage to deceive him, so she turned her eyes away. 

"So, " continued the poor fellow, "so the house is ruined, and I--"

"No, Risler, my friend. No, not you. "

"My wife, was it not? Oh! it is horrible! This is how I have paid mydebt of gratitude to you. But you, Madame Chorche, you could not havebelieved that I was a party to this infamy?"

"No, my friend, no; be calm. I know that you are the most honorable manon earth. "

He looked at her a moment, with trembling lips and clasped hands, forthere was something child-like in all the manifestations of that artlessnature. 

"Oh! Madame Chorche, Madame Chorche, " he murmured. "When I think that Iam the one who has ruined you. "

In the terrible blow which overwhelmed him, and by which his heart, overflowing with love for Sidonie, was most deeply wounded, he refusedto see anything but the financial disaster to the house of Fromont, caused by his blind devotion to his wife. Suddenly he stood erect. 

"Come, " he said, "let us not give way to emotion. We must see aboutsettling our accounts. "

Madame Fromont was frightened. 

"Risler, Risler--where are you going?"

She thought that he was going up to Georges' room. 

Risler understood her and smiled in superb disdain. 

"Never fear, Madame. Monsieur Georges can sleep in peace. I havesomething more urgent to do than avenge my honor as a husband. Wait forme here. I will come back. "

He darted toward the narrow staircase; and Claire, relying upon hisword, remained with Planus during one of those supreme moments ofuncertainty which seem interminable because of all the conjectures withwhich they are thronged. 

A few moments later the sound of hurried steps, the rustling of silkfilled the dark and narrow staircase. Sidonie appeared first, in ballcostume, gorgeously arrayed and so pale that the jewels that glistenedeverywhere on her dead-white flesh seemed more alive than she, as ifthey were scattered over the cold marble of a statue. The breathlessnessdue to dancing, the trembling of intense excitement and her rapiddescent, caused her to shake from head to foot, and her floatingribbons, her ruffles, her flowers, her rich and fashionable attiredrooped tragically about her. Risler followed her, laden withjewel-cases, caskets, and papers. Upon reaching his apartments hehad pounced upon his wife's desk, seized everything valuable that itcontained, jewels, certificates, title-deeds of the house at Asnieres;then, standing in the doorway, he had shouted into the ballroom:

"Madame Risler!"

She had run quickly to him, and that brief scene had in no wisedisturbed the guests, then at the height of the evening's enjoyment. When she saw her husband standing in front of the desk, the drawersbroken open and overturned on the carpet with the multitude of triflesthey contained, she realized that something terrible was taking place. 

"Come at once, " said Risler; "I know all. "

She tried to assume an innocent, dignified attitude; but he seized herby the arm with such force that Frantz's words came to her mind: "Itwill kill him perhaps, but he will kill you first. " As she was afraidof death, she allowed herself to be led away without resistance, and hadnot even the strength to lie. 

"Where are we going?" she asked, in a low voice. 

Risler did not answer. She had only time to throw over her shoulders, with the care for herself that never failed her, a light tulle veil, and he dragged her, pushed her, rather, down the stairs leading to thecounting-room, which he descended at the same time, his steps close uponhers, fearing that his prey would escape. 

"There!" he said, as he entered the room. "We have stolen, we makerestitution. Look, Planus, you can raise money with all this stuff. " Andhe placed on the cashier's desk all the fashionable plunder with whichhis arms were filled--feminine trinkets, trivial aids to coquetry, stamped papers. 

Then he turned to his wife:

"Take off your jewels! Come, be quick. "

She complied slowly, opened reluctantly the clasps of bracelets andbuckles, and above all the superb fastening of her diamond necklace onwhich the initial of her name-a gleaming S-resembled a sleeping serpent, imprisoned in a circle of gold. Risler, thinking that she was too slow, ruthlessly broke, the fragile fastenings. Luxury shrieked beneath hisfingers, as if it were being whipped. 

"Now it is my turn, " he said; "I too must give up everything. Here is myportfolio. What else have I? What else have I?"

He searched his pockets feverishly. 

"Ah! my watch. With the chain it will bring four-thousand francs. Myrings, my wedding-ring. Everything goes into the cash-box, everything. We have a hundred thousand francs to pay this morning. As soon as it isdaylight we must go to work, sell out and pay our debts. I know some onewho wants the house at Asnieres. That can be settled at once. "

He alone spoke and acted. Sigismond and Madame Georges watched himwithout speaking. As for Sidonie, she seemed unconscious, lifeless. The cold air blowing from the garden through the little door, whichwas opened at the time of Risler's swoon, made her shiver, and shemechanically drew the folds of her scarf around her shoulders, her eyesfixed on vacancy, her thoughts wandering. Did she not hear the violinsof her ball, which reached their ears in the intervals of silence, likebursts of savage irony, with the heavy thud of the dancers shaking thefloors? An iron hand, falling upon her, aroused her abruptly from hertorpor. Risler had taken her by the arm, and, leading her before hispartner's wife, he said:

"Down on your knees!"

Madame Fromont drew back, remonstrating:

"No, no, Risler, not that. "

"It must be, " said the implacable Risler. "Restitution, reparation!Down on your knees then, wretched woman!" And with irresistible force hethrew Sidonie at Claire's feet; then, still holding her arm;

"You will repeat after me, word for word, what I say: Madame--"

Sidonie, half dead with fear, repeated faintly: "Madame--"

"A whole lifetime of humility and submission--"

"A whole lifetime of humil--No, I can not!" she exclaimed, springing toher feet with the agility of a deer; and, wresting herself from Risler'sgrasp, through that open door which had tempted her from the beginningof this horrible scene, luring her out into the darkness of the night tothe liberty obtainable by flight, she rushed from the house, braving thefalling snow and the wind that stung her bare shoulders. 

"Stop her, stop her!--Risler, Planus, I implore you! In pity's name donot let her go in this way, " cried Claire. 

Planus stepped toward the door. 

Risler detained him. 

"I forbid you to stir! I ask your pardon, Madame, but we have moreimportant matters than this to consider. Madame Risler concerns us nolonger. We have to save the honor of the house of Fromont, which aloneis at stake, which alone fills my thoughts at this moment. "

Sigismond put out his hand. 

"You are a noble man, Risler. Forgive me for having suspected you. "

Risler pretended not to hear him. 

"A hundred thousand francs to pay, you say? How much is there left inthe strong-box?"

He sat bravely down behind the gratin, looking over the booksof account, the certificates of stock in the funds, opening thejewel-cases, estimating with Planus, whose father had been a jeweller, the value of all those diamonds, which he had once so admired on hiswife, having no suspicion of their real value. 

Meanwhile Claire, trembling from head to foot, looked out through thewindow at the little garden, white with snow, where Sidonie's footstepswere already effaced by the fast-falling flakes, as if to bear witnessthat that precipitate departure was without hope of return. 

Up-stairs they were still dancing. The mistress of the house wassupposed to be busy with the preparations for supper, while she wasflying, bare-headed, forcing back sobs and shrieks of rage. 

Where was she going? She had started off like a mad woman, runningacross the garden and the courtyard of the factory, and under the darkarches, where the cruel, freezing wind blew in eddying circles. PereAchille did not recognize her; he had seen so many shadows wrapped inwhite pass his lodge that night. 

The young woman's first thought was to join the tenor Cazaboni, whomat the last she had not dared to invite to her ball; but he lived atMontmartre, and that was very far away for her to go, in that garb; andthen, would he be at home? Her parents would take her in, doubtless; butshe could already hear Madame Chebe's lamentations and the little man'ssermon under three heads. Thereupon she thought of Delobelle, her oldDelobelle. In the downfall of all her splendors she remembered the manwho had first initiated her into fashionable life, who had given herlessons in dancing and deportment when she was a little girl, laughed ather pretty ways, and taught her to look upon herself as beautiful beforeany one had ever told her that she was so. Something told her that thatfallen star would take her part against all others. She entered one ofthe carriages standing at the gate and ordered the driver to take her tothe actor's lodgings on the Boulevard Beaumarchais. 

For some time past Mamma Delobelle had been making straw hats forexport-a dismal trade if ever there was one, which brought in barely twofrancs fifty for twelve hours' work. 

And Delobelle continued to grow fat in the same degree that his "saintedwife" grew thin. At the very moment when some one knocked hurriedly athis door he had just discovered a fragrant soup 'au fromage', whichhad been kept hot in the ashes on the hearth. The actor, who had beenwitnessing at Beaumarchais some dark-browed melodrama drenched with goreeven to the illustrated headlines of its poster, was startled by thatknock at such an advanced hour. 

"Who is there?" he asked in some alarm. 

"It is I, Sidonie. Open the door quickly. "

She entered the room, shivering all over, and, throwing aside her wrap, went close to the stove where the fire was almost extinct. She began totalk at once, to pour out the wrath that had been stifling her for anhour, and while she was describing the scene in the factory, loweringher voice because of Madame Delobelle, who was asleep close by, themagnificence of her costume in that poor, bare, fifth floor, thedazzling whiteness of her disordered finery amid the heaps of coarsehats and the wisps of straw strewn about the room, all combined toproduce the effect of a veritable drama, of one of those terribleupheavals of life when rank, feelings, fortunes are suddenly jumbledtogether. 

"Oh! I never shall return home. It is all over. Free--I am free!"

"But who could have betrayed you to your husband?" asked the actor. 

"It was Frantz! I am sure it was Frantz. He wouldn't have believed itfrom anybody else. Only last evening a letter came from Egypt. Oh!how he treated me before that woman! To force me to kneel! But I'll berevenged. Luckily I took something to revenge myself with before I cameaway. "

And the smile of former days played about the corners of her pale lips. 

The old strolling player listened to it all with deep interest. Notwithstanding his compassion for that poor devil of a Risler, andfor Sidonie herself, for that matter, who seemed to him, in theatricalparlance, "a beautiful culprit, " he could not help viewing the affairfrom a purely scenic standpoint, and finally cried out, carried away byhis hobby:

"What a first-class situation for a fifth act!"

She did not bear him. Absorbed by some evil thought, which made hersmile in anticipation, she stretched out to the fire her dainty shoes, saturated with snow, and her openwork stockings. 

"Well, what do you propose to do now?" Delobelle asked after a pause. 

"Stay here till daylight and get a little rest. Then I will see. "

"I have no bed to offer you, my poor girl. Mamma Delobelle has gone tobed. "

"Don't you worry about me, my dear Delobelle. I'll sleep in thatarmchair. I won't be in your way, I tell you!"

The actor heaved a sigh. 

"Ah! yes, that armchair. It was our poor Zizi's. She sat up many a nightin it, when work was pressing. Ah, me! those who leave this world aremuch the happiest. "

He had always at hand such selfish, comforting maxims. He had no sooneruttered that one than he discovered with dismay that his soup would soonbe stone-cold. Sidonie noticed his movement. 

"Why, you were just eating your supper, weren't you? Pray go on. "

"'Dame'! yes, what would you have? It's part of the trade, of the hardexistence we fellows have. For you see, my girl, I stand firm. I haven'tgiven up. I never will give up. "

What still remained of Desiree's soul in that wretched household inwhich she had lived twenty years must have shuddered at that terribledeclaration. He never would give up!

"No matter what people may say, " continued Delobelle, "it's the noblestprofession in the world. You are free; you depend upon nobody. Devotedto the service of glory and the public! Ah! I know what I would do inyour place. As if you were born to live with all those bourgeois--thedevil! What you need is the artistic life, the fever of success, theunexpected, intense emotion. "

As he spoke he took his seat, tucked his napkin in his neck, and helpedhimself to a great plateful of soup. 

"To say nothing of the fact that your triumphs as a pretty woman wouldin no wise interfere with your triumph as an actress. By the way, do youknow, you must take a few lessons in elocution. With your voice, yourintelligence, your charms, you would have a magnificent prospect. "

Then he added abruptly, as if to initiate her into the joys of thedramatic art:

"But it occurs to me that perhaps you have not supped! Excitement makesone hungry; sit there, and take this soup. I am sure that you haven'teaten soup 'au fromage' for a long while. "

He turned the closet topsy-turvy to find her a spoon and a napkin; andshe took her seat opposite him, assisting him and laughing a little atthe difficulties attending her entertainment. She was less pale already, and there was a pretty sparkle in her eyes, composed of the tears of amoment before and the present gayety. 

The strolling actress! All her happiness in life was lost forever:honor, family, wealth. She was driven from her house, stripped, dishonored. She had undergone all possible humiliations and disasters. That did not prevent her supping with a wonderful appetite and joyouslyholding her own under Delobelle's jocose remarks concerning her vocationand her future triumphs. She felt light-hearted and happy, fairlyembarked for the land of Bohemia, her true country. What more wouldhappen to her? Of how many ups and downs was her new, unforeseen, andwhimsical existence to consist? She thought about that as she fellasleep in Desiree's great easy-chair; but she thought of her revenge, too--her cherished revenge which she held in her hand, all ready foruse, and so unerring, so fierce!

CHAPTER XXII. THE NEW EMPLOYEE OF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT

It was broad daylight when Fromont Jeune awoke. All night long, betweenthe drama that was being enacted below him and the festivity in joyousprogress above, he slept with clenched fists, the deep sleep of completeprostration like that of a condemned man on the eve of his execution orof a defeated General on the night following his disaster; a sleep fromwhich one would wish never to awake, and in which, in the absence of allsensation, one has a foretaste of death. 

The bright light streaming through his curtains, made more dazzlingby the deep snow with which the garden and the surrounding roofs werecovered, recalled him to the consciousness of things as they were. Hefelt a shock throughout his whole being, and, even before his mindbegan to work, that vague impression of melancholy which misfortunes, momentarily forgotten, leave in their place. All the familiar noises ofthe factory, the dull throbbing of the machinery, were in full activity. So the world still existed! and by slow degrees the idea of his ownresponsibility awoke in him. 

"To-day is the day, " he said to himself, with an involuntary movementtoward the dark side of the room, as if he longed to bury himself anewin his long sleep. 

The factory bell rang, then other bells in the neighborhood, then theAngelus. 

"Noon! Already! How I have slept!"

He felt some little remorse and a great sense of relief at the thoughtthat the drama of settling-day had passed off without him. What had theydone downstairs? Why did they not call him?

He rose, drew the curtains aside, and saw Risler and Sigismond talkingtogether in the garden. And it was so long since they had spoken to eachother! What in heaven's name had happened? When he was ready to go downhe found Claire at the door of his room. 

"You must not go out, " she said. 

"Why not?"

"Stay here. I will explain it to you. "

"But what's the matter? Did any one come from the Bank?"

"Yes, they came--the notes are paid. "

"Paid?"

"Risler obtained the money. He has been rushing about with Planus sinceearly morning. It seems that his wife had superb jewels. The diamondnecklace alone brought twenty thousand francs. He has also sold theirhouse at Asnieres with all it contained; but as time was required torecord the deed, Planus and his sister advanced the money. "

She turned away from him as she spoke. He, on his side, hung his head toavoid her glance. 

"Risler is an honorable man, " she continued, "and when he learned fromwhom his wife received all her magnificent things--"

"What!" exclaimed Georges in dismay. "He knows?"

"All, " Claire replied, lowering her voice. 

The wretched man turned pale, stammered feebly:

"Why, then--you?"

"Oh! I knew it all before Risler. Remember, that when I came home lastnight, I told you I had heard very cruel things down at Savigny, andthat I would have given ten years of my life not to have taken thatjourney. "

"Claire!"

Moved by a mighty outburst of affection, he stepped toward his wife; buther face was so cold, so sad, so resolute, her despair was so plainlywritten in the stern indifference of her whole bearing, that he darednot take her in his arms as he longed to do, but simply murmured underhis breath:

"Forgive!--forgive!"

"You must think me strangely calm, " said the brave woman; "but I shedall my tears yesterday. You may have thought that I was weeping over ourruin; you were mistaken. While one is young and strong as we are, suchcowardly conduct is not permissible. We are armed against want and canfight it face to face. No, I was weeping for our departed happiness, for you, for the madness that led you to throw away your only, your truefriend. "

She was lovely, lovelier than Sidonie had ever been, as she spoke thus, enveloped by a pure light which seemed to fall upon her from a greatheight, like the radiance of a fathomless, cloudless sky; whereas theother's irregular features had always seemed to owe their brilliancy, their saucy, insolent charm to the false glamour of the footlightsin some cheap theatre. The touch of statuesque immobility formerlynoticeable in Claire's face was vivified by anxiety, by doubt, by allthe torture of passion; and like those gold ingots which have their fullvalue only when the Mint has placed its stamp upon them, those beautifulfeatures stamped with the effigy of sorrow had acquired since thepreceding day an ineffaceable expression which perfected their beauty. 

Georges gazed at her in admiration. She seemed to him more alive, morewomanly, and worthy of adoration because of their separation and allthe obstacles that he now knew to stand between them. Remorse, despair, shame entered his heart simultaneously with this new love, and he wouldhave fallen on his knees before her. 

"No, no, do not kneel, " said Claire; "if you knew of what you remind me, if you knew what a lying face, distorted with hatred, I saw at my feetlast night!"

"Ah! but I am not lying, " replied Georges with a shudder. "Claire, Iimplore you, in the name of our child--"

At that moment some one knocked at the door. 

"Rise, I beg of you! You see that life has claims upon us, " she said ina low voice and with a bitter smile; then she asked what was wanted. 

Monsieur Risler had sent for Monsieur to come down to the office. 

"Very well, " she said; "say that he will come. "

Georges approached the door, but she stopped him. 

"No, let me go. He must not see you yet. "

"But--"

"I wish you to stay here. You have no idea of the indignation and wrathof that poor man, whom you have deceived. If you had seen him lastnight, crushing his wife's wrists!"

As she said it she looked him in the face with a curiosity most cruel toherself; but Georges did not wince, and replied simply:

"My life belongs to him. "

"It belongs to me, too; and I do not wish you to go down. There has beenscandal enough in my father's house. Remember that the whole factory isaware of what is going on. Every one is watching us, spying upon us. Itrequired all the authority of the foremen to keep the men busy to-day, to compel them to keep their inquisitive looks on their work. "

"But I shall seem to be hiding. "

"And suppose it were so! That is just like a man. They do not recoilfrom the worst crimes: betraying a wife, betraying a friend; but thethought that they may be accused of being afraid touches them morekeenly than anything. Moreover, listen to what I say. Sidonie has gone;she has gone forever; and if you leave this house I shall think that youhave gone to join her. "

"Very well, I will stay, " said Georges. "I will do whatever you wish. "

Claire descended into Planus' office. 

To see Risler striding to and fro, with his hands behind his back, ascalm as usual, no one would ever have suspected all that had taken placein his life since the night before. As for Sigismond, he was fairlybeaming, for he saw nothing in it all beyond the fact that the notes hadbeen paid at maturity and that the honor of the firm was safe. 

When Madame Fromont appeared, Risler smiled sadly and shook his head. 

"I thought that you would prefer to come down in his place; but you arenot the one with whom I have to deal. It is absolutely necessary that Ishould see Georges and talk with him. We have paid the notes thatfell due this morning; the crisis has passed; but we must come to anunderstanding about many matters. "

"Risler, my friend, I beg you to wait a little longer. "

"Why, Madame Chorche, there's not a minute to lose. Oh! I suspect thatyou fear I may give way to an outbreak of anger. Have no fear--let himhave no fear. You know what I told you, that the honor of the houseof Fromont is to be assured before my own. I have endangered it by myfault. First of all, I must repair the evil I have done or allowed to bedone. "

"Your conduct toward us is worthy of all admiration, my good Risler; Iknow it well. "

"Oh! Madame, if you could see him! he's a saint, " said poor Sigismond, who, not daring to speak to his friend, was determined at all events toexpress his remorse. 

"But aren't you afraid?" continued Claire. "Human endurance has itslimits. It may be that in presence of the man who has injured you so--"

Risler took her hands, gazed into her eyes with grave admiration, andsaid:

"You dear creature, who speak of nothing but the injury done to me! Doyou not know that I hate him as bitterly for his falseness to you? Butnothing of that sort has any existence for me at this moment. You seein me simply a business man who wishes to have an understanding withhis partner for the good of the firm. So let him come down without theslightest fear, and if you dread any outbreak on my part, stay here withus. I shall need only to look at my old master's daughter to be remindedof my promise and my duty. "

"I trust you, my friend, " said Claire; and she went up to bring herhusband. 

The first minute of the interview was terrible. Georges was deeplymoved, humiliated, pale as death. He would have preferred a hundredtimes over to be looking into the barrel of that man's pistol attwenty paces, awaiting his fire, instead of appearing before him as anunpunished culprit and being compelled to confine his feelings withinthe commonplace limits of a business conversation. 

Risler pretended not to look at him, and continued to pace the floor ashe talked:

"Our house is passing through a terrible crisis. We have averted thedisaster for to-day; but this is not the last of our obligations. Thatcursed invention has kept my mind away from the business for a longwhile. Luckily, I am free now, and able to attend to it. But you mustgive your attention to it as well. The workmen and clerks have followedthe example of their employers to some extent. Indeed, they have becomeextremely negligent and indifferent. This morning, for the first time ina year, they began work at the proper time. I expect that you willmake it your business to change all that. As for me, I shall work at mydrawings again. Our patterns are old-fashioned. We must have new onesfor the new machines. I have great confidence in our presses. Theexperiments have succeeded beyond my hopes. We unquestionably havein them a means of building up our business. I didn't tell you soonerbecause I wished to surprise you; but we have no more surprises for eachother, have we, Georges?"

There was such a stinging note of irony in his voice that Claireshuddered, fearing an outbreak; but he continued, in his natural tone. 

"Yes, I think I can promise that in six months the Risler Press willbegin to show magnificent results. But those six months will be veryhard to live through. We must limit ourselves, cut down our expenses, save in every way that we can. We have five draughtsmen now; hereafterwe will have but two. I will undertake to make the absence of the othersof no consequence by working at night myself. Furthermore, beginningwith this month, I abandon my interest in the firm. I will take mysalary as foreman as I took it before, and nothing more. "

Fromont attempted to speak, but a gesture from his wife restrained him, and Risler continued:

"I am no longer your partner, Georges. I am once more the clerk that Inever should have ceased to be. From this day our partnership articlesare cancelled. I insist upon it, you understand; I insist upon it. Wewill remain in that relation to each other until the house is out ofdifficulty and I can--But what I shall do then concerns me alone. Thisis what I wanted to say to you, Georges. You must give your attentionto the factory diligently; you must show yourself, make it felt that youare master now, and I believe there will turn out to be, among all ourmisfortunes, some that can be retrieved. "

During the silence that followed, they heard the sound of wheels in thegarden, and two great furniture vans stopped at the door. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Risler, "but I must leave you a moment. Thoseare the vans from the public auction rooms; they have come to take awaymy furniture from upstairs. "

"What! you are going to sell your furniture too?" asked Madame Fromont. 

"Certainly--to the last piece. I am simply giving it back to the firm. It belongs to it. "

"But that is impossible, " said Georges. "I can not allow that. "

Risler turned upon him indignantly. 

"What's that? What is it that you can't allow?"

Claire checked him with an imploring gesture. 

"True--true!" he muttered; and he hurried from the room to escape thesudden temptation to give vent to all that was in his heart. 

The second floor was deserted. The servants, who had been paid anddismissed in the morning, had abandoned the apartments to the disorderof the day following a ball; and they wore the aspect peculiar to placeswhere a drama has been enacted, and which are left in suspense, as itwere, between the events that have happened and those that are stillto happen. The open doors, the rugs lying in heaps in the corners, thesalvers laden with glasses, the preparations for the supper, the tablestill set and untouched, the dust from the dancing on all the furniture, its odor mingled with the fumes of punch, of withered flowers, ofrice-powder--all these details attracted Risler's notice as he entered. 

In the disordered salon the piano was open, the bacchanal from 'Orpheeaux Enfers' on the music-shelf, and the gaudy hangings surrounding thatscene of desolation, the chairs overturned, as if in fear, reminded oneof the saloon of a wrecked packet-boat, of one of those ghostly nightsof watching when one is suddenly informed, in the midst of a fete atsea, that the ship has sprung a leak, that she is taking in water inevery part. 

The men began to remove the furniture. Risler watched them at workwith an indifferent air, as if he were in a stranger's house. Thatmagnificence which had once made him so happy and proud inspired in himnow an insurmountable disgust. But, when he entered his wife's bedroom, he was conscious of a vague emotion. 

It was a large room, hung with blue satin under white lace. A veritablecocotte's nest. There were torn and rumpled tulle ruffles lying about, bows, and artificial flowers. The wax candles around the mirror hadburned down to the end and cracked the candlesticks; and the bed, withits lace flounces and valances, its great curtains raised and drawnback, untouched in the general confusion, seemed like the bed of acorpse, a state bed on which no one would ever sleep again. 

Risler's first feeling upon entering the room was one of madindignation, a longing to fall upon the things before him, to tear andrend and shatter everything. Nothing, you see, resembles a woman so muchas her bedroom. Even when she is absent, her image still smiles inthe mirrors that have reflected it. A little something of her, of herfavorite perfume, remains in everything she has touched. Her attitudesare reproduced in the cushions of her couch, and one can follow hergoings and comings between the mirror and the toilette table in thepattern of the carpet. The one thing above all others in that room thatrecalled Sidonie was an 'etagere' covered with childish toys, petty, trivial knickknacks, microscopic fans, dolls' tea-sets, gilded shoes, little shepherds and shepherdesses facing one another, exchanging cold, gleaming, porcelain glances. That 'etagere' was Sidonie's very soul, and her thoughts, always commonplace, petty, vain, and empty, resembledthose gewgaws. Yes, in very truth, if Risler, while he held her in hisgrasp last night, had in his frenzy broken that fragile little head, awhole world of 'etagere' ornaments would have come from it in place of abrain. 

The poor man was thinking sadly of all these things amid the ringing ofhammers and the heavy footsteps of the furniture-movers, when he heardan interloping, authoritative step behind him, and Monsieur Chebeappeared, little Monsieur Chebe, flushed and breathless, with flamesdarting from his eyes. He assumed, as always, a very high tone with hisson-in-law. 

"What does this mean? What is this I hear? Ah! so you're moving, areyou?"

"I am not moving, Monsieur Chebe--I am selling out. "

The little man gave a leap like a scalded fish. 

"You are selling out? What are you selling, pray?"

"I am selling everything, " said Risler in a hollow voice, without evenlooking at him. 

"Come, come, son-in-law, be reasonable. God knows I don't say thatSidonie's conduct--But, for my part, I know nothing about it. I neverwanted to know anything. Only I must remind you of your dignity. Peoplewash their dirty linen in private, deuce take it! They don't makespectacles of themselves as you've been doing ever since morning. Justsee everybody at the workshop windows; and on the porch, too! Why, you're the talk of the quarter, my dear fellow. "

"So much the better. The dishonor was public, the reparation must bepublic, too. "

This apparent coolness, this indifference to all his observations, exasperated Monsieur Chebe. He suddenly changed his tactics, andadopted, in addressing his son-in-law, the serious, peremptory tonewhich one uses with children or lunatics. 

"Well, I say that you haven't any right to take anything away fromhere. I remonstrate formally, with all my strength as a man, with allmy authority as a father. Do you suppose I am going to let you drivemy child into the street. No, indeed! Oh! no, indeed! Enough of suchnonsense as that! Nothing more shall go out of these rooms. "

And Monsieur Chebe, having closed the door, planted himself in front ofit with a heroic gesture. Deuce take it! his own interest was at stakein the matter. The fact was that when his child was once in the gutterhe ran great risk of not having a feather bed to sleep on himself. Hewas superb in that attitude of an indignant father, but he did not keepit long. Two hands, two vises, seized his wrists, and he found himselfin the middle of the room, leaving the doorway clear for the workmen. 

"Chebe, my boy, just listen, " said Risler, leaning over him. "I amat the end of my forbearance. Since this morning I have been makingsuperhuman efforts to restrain myself, but it would take very little nowto make my anger burst all bonds, and woe to the man on whom it falls! Iam quite capable of killing some one. Come! Be off at once!--"

There was such an intonation in his son-in-law's voice, and the way thatson-in-law shook him as he spoke was so eloquent, that Monsieur Chebewas fully convinced. He even stammered an apology. Certainly Risler hadgood reason for acting as he had. All honorable people would be on hisside. And he backed toward the door as he spoke. When he reached it, heinquired timidly if Madame Chebe's little allowance would be continued. 

"Yes, " was Risler's reply, "but never go beyond it, for my position hereis not what it was. I am no longer a partner in the house. "

Monsieur Chebe stared at him in amazement, and assumed the idioticexpression which led many people to believe that the accident that hadhappened to him--exactly like that of the Duc d'Orleans, you know--wasnot a fable of his own invention; but he dared not make the slightestobservation. Surely some one had changed his son-in-law. Was this reallyRisler, this tiger-cat, who bristled up at the slightest word and talkedof nothing less than killing people?

He took to his heels, recovered his self-possession at the foot of thestairs, and walked across the courtyard with the air of a conqueror. 

When all the rooms were cleared and empty, Risler walked through themfor the last time, then took the key and went down to Planus's office tohand it to Madame Georges. 

"You can let the apartment, " he said, "it will be so much added to theincome of the factory. "

"But you, my friend?"

"Oh! I don't need much. An iron bed up under the eaves. That's all aclerk needs. For, I repeat, I am nothing but a clerk from this time on. A useful clerk, by the way, faithful and courageous, of whom you willhave no occasion to complain, I promise you. "

Georges, who was going over the books with Planus, was so affectedat hearing the poor fellow talk in that strain that he left his seatprecipitately. He was suffocated by his sobs. Claire, too, was deeplymoved; she went to the new clerk of the house of Fromont and said tohim:

"Risler, I thank you in my father's name. "

At that moment Pere Achille appeared with the mail. 

Risler took the pile of letters, opened them tranquilly one by one, andpassed them over to Sigismond. 

"Here's an order for Lyon. Why wasn't it answered at Saint-Etienne?"

He plunged with all his energy into these details, and he brought tothem a keen intelligence, due to the constant straining of the mindtoward peace and forgetfulness. 

Suddenly, among those huge envelopes, stamped with the names of businesshouses, the paper of which and the manner of folding suggested theoffice and hasty despatch, he discovered one smaller one, carefullysealed, and hidden so cunningly between the others that at first hedid not notice it. He recognized instantly that long, fine, firmwriting, --To Monsieur Risler--Personal. It was Sidonie's writing!When he saw it he felt the same sensation he had felt in the bedroomupstairs. 

All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayed husband poured backinto his heart with the frantic force that makes assassins. What was shewriting to him? What lie had she invented now? He was about to open theletter; then he paused. He realized that, if he should read that, it would be all over with his courage; so he leaned over to the oldcashier, and said in an undertone:

"Sigismond, old friend, will you do me a favor?"

"I should think so!" said the worthy man enthusiastically. He was sodelighted to hear his friend speak to him in the kindly voice of the olddays. 

"Here's a letter someone has written me which I don't wish to read now. I am sure it would interfere with my thinking and living. You must keepit for me, and this with it. "

He took from his pocket a little package carefully tied, and handed itto him through the grating. 

"That is all I have left of the past, all I have left of that woman. I have determined not to see her, nor anything that reminds me of her, until my task here is concluded, and concluded satisfactorily, --I needall my intelligence, you understand. You will pay the Chebes' allowance. If she herself should ask for anything, you will give her what sheneeds. But you will never mention my name. And you will keep thispackage safe for me until I ask you for it. "

Sigismond locked the letter and the package in a secret drawer ofhis desk with other valuable papers. Risler returned at once to hiscorrespondence; but all the time he had before his eyes the slenderEnglish letters traced by a little hand which he had so often and soardently pressed to his heart. 

CHAPTER XXIII. CAFE CHANTANT

What a rare, what a conscientious clerk did that new employe of thehouse of Fromont prove himself!

Every day his lamp was the first to appear at, and the last to disappearfrom, the windows of the factory. A little room had been arranged forhim under the eaves, exactly like the one he had formerly occupied withFrantz, a veritable Trappist's cell, furnished with an iron cot and awhite wooden table, that stood under his brother's portrait. He led thesame busy, regular, quiet life as in those old days. 

He worked constantly, and had his meals brought from the same littlecreamery. But, alas! the disappearance forever of youth and hopedeprived those memories of all their charm. Luckily he still had Frantzand Madame "Chorche, " the only two human beings of whom he could thinkwithout a feeling of sadness. Madame "Chorche" was always at hand, always trying to minister to his comfort, to console him; and Frantzwrote to him often, without mentioning Sidonie, by the way. Rislersupposed that some one had told Frantz of the disaster that had befallenhim, and he too avoided all allusion to the subject in his letters. "Oh! when I can send for him to come home!" That was his dream, his soleambition: to restore the factory and recall his brother. 

Meanwhile the days succeeded one another, always the same to him in therestless activity of business and the heartrending loneliness of hisgrief. Every morning he walked through the workshops, where the profoundrespect he inspired and his stern, silent countenance had reestablishedthe orderly conditions that had been temporarily disturbed. In thebeginning there had been much gossip, and various explanations ofSidonie's departure had been made. Some said that she had eloped witha lover, others that Risler had turned her out. The one fact that upsetall conjectures was the attitude of the two partners toward each other, apparently as unconstrained as before. Sometimes, however, when theywere talking together in the office, with no one by, Risler wouldsuddenly start convulsively, as a vision of the crime passed before hiseyes. 

Then he would feel a mad longing to spring upon the villain, seize himby the throat, strangle him without mercy; but the thought ofMadame "Chorche" was always there to restrain him. Should he be lesscourageous, less master of himself than that young wife? Neither Claire, nor Fromont, nor anybody else suspected what was in his mind. They couldbarely detect a severity, an inflexibility in his conduct, which werenot habitual with him. Risler awed the workmen now; and those of themupon whom his white hair, blanched in one night, his drawn, prematurelyold features did not impose respect, quailed before his strange glance-aglance from eyes of a bluish-black like the color of a gun-barrel. Whereas he had always been very kind and affable with the workmen, hehad become pitilessly severe in regard to the slightest infraction ofthe rules. It seemed as if he were taking vengeance upon himself forsome indulgence in the past, blind, culpable indulgence, for which heblamed himself. 

Surely he was a marvellous employe, was this new officer in the house ofFromont. 

Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstanding the quavering of itsold, cracked voice, had very soon resumed its authority; and the man whoguided the whole establishment denied himself the slightest recreation. Sober as an apprentice, he left three-fourths of his salary with Planusfor the Chebes' allowance, but he never asked any questions about them. Punctually on the last day of the month the little man appeared tocollect his little income, stiff and formal in his dealings withSigismond, as became an annuitant on duty. Madame Chebe had tried toobtain an interview with her son-in-law, whom she pitied and loved; butthe mere appearance of her palm-leaf shawl on the steps put Sidonie'shusband to flight. 

In truth, the courage with which he armed himself was more apparent thanreal. The memory of his wife never left him. What had become of her?What was she doing? He was almost angry with Planus for never mentioningher. That letter, above all things, that letter which he had had thecourage not to open, disturbed him. He thought of it continually. Ah!had he dared, how he would have liked to ask Sigismond for it!

One day the temptation was too strong. He was alone in the office. Theold cashier had gone out to luncheon, leaving the key in his drawer, amost extraordinary thing. Risler could not resist. He opened thedrawer, moved the papers, and searched for his letter. It was not there. Sigismond must have put it away even more carefully, perhaps with aforeboding of what actually happened. In his heart Risler was not sorryfor his disappointment; for he well knew that, had he found the letter, it would have been the end of the resigned and busy life which heimposed upon himself with so much difficulty. 

Through the week it was all very well. Life was endurable, absorbed bythe innumerable duties of the factory, and so fatiguing that, when nightcame, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless mass. But Sunday was longand sad. The silence of the deserted yards and workshops opened a farwider field to his thoughts. He tried to busy himself, but he missedthe encouragement of the others' work. He alone was busy in that great, empty factory whose very breath was arrested. The locked doors, theclosed blinds, the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing with his dogin the deserted courtyard, all spoke of solitude. And the wholeneighborhood also produced the same effect. In the streets, which seemedwider because of their emptiness, and where the passers-by were fewand silent, the bells ringing for vespers had a melancholy sound, and sometimes an echo of the din of Paris, rumbling wheels, a belatedhand-organ, the click of a toy-peddler's clappers, broke the silence, asif to make it even more noticeable. 

Risler would try to invent new combinations of flowers and leaves, and, while he handled his pencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient foodthere, would escape him, would fly back to his past happiness, to hishopeless misfortunes, would suffer martyrdom, and then, on returning, would ask the poor somnambulist, still seated at his table: "What haveyou done in my absence?" Alas! he had done nothing. 

Oh! the long, heartbreaking, cruel Sundays! Consider that, mingled withall these perplexities in his mind, was the superstitious reverenceof the common people for holy days, for the twenty-four hours of rest, wherein one recovers strength and courage. If he had gone out, the sightof a workingman with his wife and child would have made him weep, buthis monastic seclusion gave him other forms of suffering, the despairof recluses, their terrible outbreaks of rebellion when the god to whomthey have consecrated themselves does not respond to their sacrifices. Now, Risler's god was work, and as he no longer found comfort orserenity therein, he no longer believed in it, but cursed it. 

Often in those hours of mental struggle the door of the draughting-roomwould open gently and Claire Fromont would appear. The poor man'sloneliness throughout those long Sunday afternoons filled her withcompassion, and she would come with her little girl to keep himcompany, knowing by experience how contagious is the sweet joyousness ofchildren. The little one, who could now walk alone, would slip fromher mother's arms to run to her friend. Risler would hear the little, hurrying steps. He would feel the light breath behind him, and instantlyhe would be conscious of a soothing, rejuvenating influence. She wouldthrow her plump little arms around his neck with affectionate warmth, with her artless, causeless laugh, and a kiss from that little mouthwhich never had lied. Claire Fromont, standing in the doorway, wouldsmile as she looked at them. 

"Risler, my friend, " she would say, "you must come down into the gardena while, --you work too hard. You will be ill. "

"No, no, Madame, --on the contrary, work is what saves me. It keeps mefrom thinking. "

Then, after a long pause, she would continue:

"Come, my dear Risler, you must try to forget. "

Risler would shake his head. 

"Forget? Is that possible? There are some things beyond one's strength. A man may forgive, but he never forgets. "

The child almost always succeeded in dragging him down to the garden. He must play ball, or in the sand, with her; but her playfellow'sawkwardness and lack of enthusiasm soon impressed the little girl. Thenshe would become very sedate, contenting herself with walking gravelybetween the hedges of box, with her hand in her friend's. After a momentRisler would entirely forget that she was there; but, although he didnot realize it, the warmth of that little hand in his had a magnetic, softening effect upon his diseased mind. 

A man may forgive, but he never forgets!

Poor Claire herself knew something about it; for she had neverforgotten, notwithstanding her great courage and the conception shehad formed of her duty. To her, as to Risler; her surroundings were aconstant reminder of her sufferings. The objects amid which she livedpitilessly reopened the wound that was ready to close. The staircase, the garden, the courtyard, all those dumb witnesses of her husband'ssin, assumed on certain days an implacable expression. Even the carefulprecaution her husband took to spare her painful reminders, the way inwhich he called attention to the fact that he no longer went out in theevening, and took pains to tell her where he had been during theday, served only to remind her the more forcibly of his wrong-doing. Sometimes she longed to ask him to forbear, --to say to him: "Do notprotest too much. " Faith was shattered within her, and the horribleagony of the priest who doubts, and seeks at the same time to remainfaithful to his vows, betrayed itself in her bitter smile, her cold, uncomplaining gentleness. 

Georges was wofully unhappy. He loved his wife now. The nobility of hercharacter had conquered him. There was admiration in his love, and--whynot say it?--Claire's sorrow filled the place of the coquetry which wascontrary to her nature, the lack of which had always been a defect inher husband's eyes. He was one of that strange type of men who love tomake conquests. Sidonie, capricious and cold as she was, responded tothat whim of his heart. After parting from her with a tender farewell, he found her indifferent and forgetful the next day, and that continualneed of wooing her back to him took the place of genuine passion. Serenity in love bored him as a voyage without storms wearies a sailor. On this occasion he had been very near shipwreck with his wife, and thedanger had not passed even yet. He knew that Claire was alienatedfrom him and devoted entirely to the child, the only link between themthenceforth. Their separation made her seem lovelier, more desirable, and he exercised all his powers of fascination to recapture her. Heknew how hard a task it would be, and that he had no ordinary, frivolousnature to deal with. But he did not despair. Sometimes a vague gleam inthe depths of the mild and apparently impassive glance with which shewatched his efforts, bade him hope. 

As for Sidonie, he no longer thought of her. Let no one be astonished atthat abrupt mental rupture. Those two superficial beings had nothing toattach them securely to each other. Georges was incapable of receivinglasting impressions unless they were continually renewed; Sidonie, forher part, had no power to inspire any noble or durable sentiment. It wasone of those intrigues between a cocotte and a coxcomb, compounded ofvanity and of wounded self-love, which inspire neither devotion norconstancy, but tragic adventures, duels, suicides which are rarelyfatal, and which end in a radical cure. Perhaps, had he seen her again, he might have had a relapse of his disease; but the impetus of flighthad carried Sidonie away so swiftly and so far that her return wasimpossible. At all events, it was a relief for him to be able to livewithout lying; and the new life he was leading, a life of hard workand self-denial, with the goal of success in the distance, was notdistasteful to him. Luckily; for the courage and determination of bothpartners were none too much to put the house on its feet once more. 

The poor house of Fromont had sprung leaks on all sides. So Pere Planusstill had wretched nights, haunted by the nightmare of notes maturingand the ominous vision of the little blue man. But, by strict economy, they always succeeded in paying. 

Soon four Risler Presses were definitively set up and used in the workof the factory. People began to take a deep interest in them and inthe wall-paper trade. Lyons, Caen, Rixbeim, the great centres of theindustry, were much disturbed concerning that marvellous "rotary anddodecagonal" machine. One fine day the Prochassons appeared, and offeredthree hundred thousand francs simply for an interest in the patentrights. 

"What shall we do?" Fromont Jeune asked Risler Aine. 

The latter shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 

"Decide for yourself. It doesn't concern me. I am only an employe. "

The words, spoken coldly, without anger, fell heavily upon Fromont'sbewildered joy, and reminded him of the gravity of a situation which hewas always on the point of forgetting. 

But when he was alone with his dear Madame "Chorche, " Risler advised hernot to accept the Prochassons' offer. 

"Wait, --don't be in a hurry. Later you will have a better offer. "

He spoke only of them in that affair in which his own share was soglorious. She felt that he was preparing to cut himself adrift fromtheir future. 

Meanwhile orders came pouring in and accumulated on their hands. Thequality of the paper, the reduced price because of the improved methodsof manufacture, made competition impossible. There was no doubt that acolossal fortune was in store for the house of Fromont. The factory hadresumed its former flourishing aspect and its loud, business-like hum. Intensely alive were all the great buildings and the hundreds of workmenwho filled them. Pere Planus never raised his nose from his desk; onecould see him from the little garden, leaning over his great ledgers, jotting down in magnificently molded figures the profits of the Rislerpress. 

Risler still worked as before, without change or rest. The return ofprosperity brought no alteration in his secluded habits, and from thehighest window on the topmost floor of the house he listened to theceaseless roar of his machines. He was no less gloomy, no less silent. One day, however, it became known at the factory that the press, aspecimen of which had been sent to the great Exposition at Manchester, had received the gold medal, whereby its success was definitelyestablished. Madame Georges called Risler into the garden at theluncheon hour, wishing to be the first to tell him the good news. 

For the moment a proud smile relaxed his prematurely old, gloomyfeatures. His inventor's vanity, his pride in his renown, above all, theidea of repairing thus magnificently the wrong done to the family by hiswife, gave him a moment of true happiness. He pressed Claire's hands andmurmured, as in the old days:

"I am very happy! I am very happy!"

But what a difference in tone! He said it without enthusiasm, hopelessly, with the satisfaction of a task accomplished, and nothingmore. 

The bell rang for the workmen to return, and Risler went calmly upstairsto resume his work as on other days. 

In a moment he came down again. In spite of all, that news had excitedhim more than he cared to show. He wandered about the garden, prowledaround the counting-room, smiling sadly at Pere Planus through thewindow. 

"What ails him?" the old cashier wondered. "What does he want of me?"

At last, when night came and it was time to close the office, Rislersummoned courage to go and speak to him. 

"Planus, my old friend, I should like--"

He hesitated a moment. 

"I should like you to give me the--letter, you know, the little letterand the package. "

Sigismond stared at him in amazement. In his innocence, he had imaginedthat Risler never thought of Sidonie, that he had entirely forgottenher. 

"What--you want--?"

"Ah! I have well earned it; I can think of myself a little now. I havethought enough of others. "

"You are right, " said Planus. "Well, this is what we'll do. The letterand package are at my house at Montrouge. If you choose, we will goand dine together at the Palais-Royal, as in the good old times. I willstand treat. We'll water your medal with a bottle of wine; somethingchoice! Then we'll go to the house together. You can get your trinkets, and if it's too late for you to go home, Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, shall make up a bed for you, and you shall pass the night with us. Weare very comfortable there--it's in the country. To-morrow morning atseven o'clock we'll come back to the factory by the first omnibus. Come, old fellow, give me this pleasure. If you don't, I shall think you stillbear your old Sigismond a grudge. "

Risler accepted. He cared little about celebrating the award of hismedal, but he desired to gain a few hours before opening the littleletter he had at last earned the right to read. 

He must dress. That was quite a serious matter, for he had lived in aworkman's jacket during the past six months. And what an event in thefactory! Madame Fromont was informed at once. 

"Madame, Madame! Monsieur Risler is going out!"

Claire looked at him from her window, and that tall form, bowed bysorrow, leaning on Sigismond's arm, aroused in her a profound, unusualemotion which she remembered ever after. 

In the street people bowed to Risler with great interest. Even theirgreetings warmed his heart. He was so much in need of kindness! But thenoise of vehicles made him a little dizzy. 

"My head is spinning, " he said to Planus:

"Lean hard on me, old fellow-don't be afraid. "

And honest Planus drew himself up, escorting his friend with theartless, unconventional pride of a peasant of the South bearing alofthis village saint. 

At last they arrived at the Palais-Royal. 

The garden was full of people. They had come to hear the music, and weretrying to find seats amid clouds of dust and the scraping of chairs. Thetwo friends hurried into the restaurant to avoid all that turmoil. Theyestablished themselves in one of the large salons on the first floor, whence they could see the green trees, the promenaders, and the waterspurting from the fountain between the two melancholy flower-gardens. To Sigismond it was the ideal of luxury, that restaurant, with gildingeverywhere, around the mirrors, in the chandelier and even on thefigured wallpaper. The white napkin, the roll, the menu of a tabled'hote dinner filled his soul with joy. "We are comfortable here, aren'twe?" he said to Risler. 

And he exclaimed at each of the courses of that banquet at two francsfifty, and insisted on filling his friend's plate. 

"Eat that--it's good. "

The other, notwithstanding his desire to do honor to the fete, seemedpreoccupied and gazed out-of-doors. 

"Do you remember, Sigismond?" he said, after a pause. 

The old cashier, engrossed in his memories of long ago, of Risler'sfirst employment at the factory, replied:

"I should think I do remember--listen! The first time we dined togetherat the Palais-Royal was in February, 'forty-six, the year we put in theplanches-plates at the factory. "

Risler shook his head. 

"Oh! no--I mean three years ago. It was in that room just opposite thatwe dined on that memorable evening. "

And he pointed to the great windows of the salon of Cafe Vefour, gleaming in the rays of the setting sun like the chandeliers at awedding feast. 

"Ah! yes, true, " murmured Sigismond, abashed. What an unlucky idea ofhis to bring his friend to a place that recalled such painful things!

Risler, not wishing to cast a gloom upon their banquet, abruptly raisedhis glass. 

"Come! here's your health, my old comrade. "

He tried to change the subject. But a moment later he himself led theconversation back to it again, and asked Sigismond, in an undertone, asif he were ashamed:

"Have you seen her?"

"Your wife? No, never. "

"She hasn't written again?"

"No--never again. "

"But you must have heard of her. What has she been doing these sixmonths? Does she live with her parents?"

"No. "

Risler turned pale. 

He hoped that Sidonie would have returned to her mother, that she wouldhave worked, as he had worked, to forget and atone. He had often thoughtthat he would arrange his life according to what he should learn ofher when he should have the right to speak of her; and in one of thosefar-off visions of the future, which have the vagueness of a dream, hesometimes fancied himself living in exile with the Chebes in an unknownland, where nothing would remind him of his past shame. It was not adefinite plan, to be sure; but the thought lived in the depths of hismind like a hope, caused by the need that all human creatures feel offinding their lost happiness. 

"Is she in Paris?" he asked, after a few moments' reflection. 

"No. She went away three months ago. No one knows where she has gone. "

Sigismond did not add that she had gone with her Cazaboni, whose nameshe now bore, that they were making the circuit of the provincial citiestogether, that her mother was in despair, never saw her, and heardof her only through Delobelle. Sigismond did not deem it his duty tomention all that, and after his last words he held his peace. 

Risler, for his part, dared ask no further questions. 

While they sat there, facing each other, both embarrassed by the longsilence, the military band began to play under the trees in the garden. They played one of those Italian operatic overtures which seem to havebeen written expressly for public open-air resorts; the swiftly-flowingnotes, as they rise into the air, blend with the call of the swallowsand the silvery plash of the fountain. The blaring brass brings out inbold relief the mild warmth of the closing hours of those summer days, so long and enervating in Paris; it seems as if one could hear nothingelse. The distant rumbling of wheels, the cries of children playing, thefootsteps of the promenaders are wafted away in those resonant, gushing, refreshing waves of melody, as useful to the people of Paris as thedaily watering of their streets. On all sides the faded flowers, thetrees white with dust, the faces made pale and wan by the heat, all thesorrows, all the miseries of a great city, sitting dreamily, with bowedhead, on the benches in the garden, feel its comforting, refreshinginfluence. The air is stirred, renewed by those strains that traverseit, filling it with harmony. 

Poor Risler felt as if the tension upon all his nerves were relaxed. 

"A little music does one good, " he said, with glistening eyes. "My heartis heavy, old fellow, " he added, in a lower tone; "if you knew--"

They sat without speaking, their elbows resting on the window-sill, while their coffee was served. 

Then the music ceased, the garden became deserted. The light that hadloitered in the corners crept upward to the roofs, cast its last raysupon the highest windowpanes, followed by the birds, the swallows, whichsaluted the close of day with a farewell chirp from the gutter wherethey were huddled together. 

"Now, where shall we go?" said Planus, as they left the restaurant. 

"Wherever you wish. "

On the first floor of a building on the Rue Montpensier, close at hand, was a cafe chantant, where many people entered. 

"Suppose we go in, " said Planus, desirous of banishing his friend'smelancholy at any cost, "the beer is excellent. "

Risler assented to the suggestion; he had not tasted beer for sixmonths. 

It was a former restaurant transformed into a concert-hall. There werethree large rooms, separated by gilded pillars, the partitions havingbeen removed; the decoration was in the Moorish style, bright red, paleblue, with little crescents and turbans for ornament. 

Although it was still early, the place was full; and even beforeentering one had a feeling of suffocation, simply from seeing the crowdsof people sitting around the tables, and at the farther end, half-hiddenby the rows of pillars, a group of white-robed women on a raisedplatform, in the heat and glare of the gas. 

Our two friends had much difficulty in finding seats, and had to becontent with a place behind a pillar whence they could see only half ofthe platform, then occupied by a superb person in black coat and yellowgloves, curled and waxed and oiled, who was singing in a vibratingvoice--

 Mes beaux lions aux crins dores, Du sang des troupeaux alteres, Halte la!--Je fais sentinello!

 [My proud lions with golden manes Who thirst for the blood of my flocks, Stand back!--I am on guard!]

The audience--small tradesmen of the quarter with their wives anddaughters-seemed highly enthusiastic: especially the women. Herepresented so perfectly the ideal of the shopkeeper imagination, thatmagnificent shepherd of the desert, who addressed lions with such anair of authority and tended his flocks in full evening dress. Andso, despite their bourgeois bearing, their modest costumes and theirexpressionless shop-girl smiles, all those women, made up their littlemouths to be caught by the hook of sentiment, and cast languishingglances upon the singer. It was truly comical to see that glance at theplatform suddenly change and become contemptuous and fierce as it fellupon the husband, the poor husband tranquilly drinking a glass of beeropposite his wife: "You would never be capable of doing sentry dutyin the very teeth of lions, and in a black coat too, and with yellowgloves!"

And the husband's eye seemed to reply:

"Ah! 'dame', yes, he's quite a dashing buck, that fellow. "

Being decidedly indifferent to heroism of that stamp, Risler andSigismond were drinking their beer without paying much attention to themusic, when, at the end of the song, amid the applause and cries anduproar that followed it, Pere Planus uttered an exclamation:

"Why, that is odd; one would say--but no, I'm not mistaken. It is he, it's Delobelle!"

It was, in fact, the illustrious actor, whom he had discovered in thefront row near the platform. His gray head was turned partly away fromthem. He was leaning carelessly against a pillar, hat in hand, in hisgrand make-up as leading man: dazzlingly white linen, hair curled withthe tongs, black coat with a camellia in the buttonhole, like theribbon of an order. He glanced at the crowd from time to time with apatronizing air: but his eyes were most frequently turned toward theplatform, with encouraging little gestures and smiles and pretendedapplause, addressed to some one whom Pere Planus could not see from hisseat. 

There was nothing very extraordinary in the presence of the illustriousDelobelle at a cafe concert, as he spent all his evenings away fromhome; and yet the old cashier felt vaguely disturbed, especially when hediscovered in the same row a blue cape and a pair of steely eyes. It wasMadame Dobson, the sentimental singing-teacher. The conjunction of thosetwo faces amid the pipe-smoke and the confusion of the crowd, producedupon Sigismond the effect of two ghosts evoked by a bad dream. He wasafraid for his friend, without knowing exactly why; and suddenly itoccurred to him to take him away. 

"Let us go, Risler. The heat here is enough to kill one. "

Just as they rose--for Risler was no more desirous to stay than togo--the orchestra, consisting of a piano and several violins, began apeculiar refrain. There was a flutter of curiosity throughout the room, and cries of "Hush! hush! sit down!"

They were obliged to resume their seats. Risler, too, was beginning tobe disturbed. 

"I know that tune, " he said to himself. "Where have I heard it?"

A thunder of applause and an exclamation from Planus made him raise hiseyes. 

"Come, come, let us go, " said the cashier, trying to lead him away. 

But it was too late. 

Risler had already seen his wife come forward to the front of the stageand curtsey to the audience with a ballet-dancer's smile. 

She wore a white gown, as on the night of the ball; but her wholecostume was much less rich and shockingly immodest. 

The dress was barely caught together at the shoulders; her hair floatedin a blond mist low over her eyes, and around her neck was a necklace ofpearls too large to be real, alternated with bits of tinsel. Delobellewas right: the Bohemian life was better suited to her. Her beautyhad gained an indefinably reckless expression, which was its mostcharacteristic feature, and made her a perfect type of the woman whohas escaped from all restraint, placed herself at the mercy of everyaccident, and is descending stage by stage to the lowest depths of theParisian hell, from which nothing is powerful enough to lift her andrestore her to the pure air and the light. 

And how perfectly at ease she seemed in her strolling life! With whatself-possession she walked to the front of the stage! Ah! could she haveseen the desperate, terrible glance fixed upon her down there inthe hall, concealed behind a pillar, her smile would have lostthat equivocal placidity, her voice would have sought in vain thosewheedling, languorous tones in which she warbled the only song MadameDobson had ever been able to teach her:

 Pauv' pitit Mamz'elle Zizi, C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne La tete a li. 

Risler had risen, in spite of Planus's efforts. "Sit down! sit down!"the people shouted. The wretched man heard nothing. He was staring athis wife. 

 C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne La tete a li, Sidonie repeated affectedly. 

For a moment he wondered whether he should not leap on the platformand kill her. Red flames shot before his eyes, and he was blinded withfrenzy. 

Then, suddenly, shame and disgust seized upon him and he rushed fromthe hall, overturning chairs and tables, pursued by the terror andimprecations of all those scandalized bourgeois. 

CHAPTER XXIV. SIDONIE'S VENGEANCE

Never had Sigismond Planus returned home so late without giving hissister warning, during the twenty years and more that he had lived atMontrouge. Consequently Mademoiselle Planus was greatly worried. Livingin community of ideas and of everything else with her brother, havingbut one mind for herself and for him, the old maid had felt for severalmonths the rebound of all the cashier's anxiety and indignation; andthe effect was still noticeable in her tendency to tremble andbecome agitated on slight provocation. At the slightest tardiness onSigismond's part, she would think:

"Ah! mon Dieu! If only nothing has happened at the factory!"

That is the reason why on the evening in question, when the hens andchickens were all asleep on their perches, and the dinner had beenremoved untouched, Mademoiselle Planus was sitting in the littleground-floor living-room, waiting, in great agitation. 

At last, about eleven o'clock, some one rang. A timid, melancholy ring, in no wise resembling Sigismond's vigorous pull. 

"Is it you, Monsieur Planus?" queried the old lady from behind the door. 

It was he; but he was not alone. A tall, bent old man accompanied him, and, as they entered, bade her good-evening in a slow, hesitating voice. Not till then did Mademoiselle Planus recognize Risler Aine, whom shehad not seen since the days of the New Year's calls, that is to say, some time before the dramas at the factory. She could hardly restrain anexclamation of pity; but the grave taciturnity of the two men told herthat she must be silent. 

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, you will put clean sheets on my bed. Our friend Risler does us the honor to pass the night with us. "

The sister hastened away to prepare the bedroom with an almostaffectionate zeal; for, as we know, beside "Monsieur Planus, mybrother, " Risler was the only man excepted from the general reprobationin which she enveloped the whole male sex. 

Upon leaving the cafe concert, Sidonie's husband had had a moment offrantic excitement. He leaned on Planus's arm, every nerve in his bodystrained to the utmost. At that moment he had no thought of going toMontrouge to get the letter and the package. 

"Leave me--go away, " he said to Sigismond. "I must be alone. "

But the other knew better than to abandon him thus to his despair. Unnoticed by Risler, he led him away from the factory, and as hisaffectionate heart suggested to the old cashier what he had best say tohis friend, he talked to him all the time of Frantz, his little Frantzwhom he loved so dearly. 

"That was genuine affection, genuine and trustworthy. No treachery tofear with such hearts as that!"

While they talked they left behind them the noisy streets of the centreof Paris. They walked along the quays, skirted the Jardin des Plantes, plunged into Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Risler followed where the otherled. Sigismond's words did him so much good!

In due time they came to the Bievre, bordered at that point withtanneries whose tall drying-houses with open sides were outlined in blueagainst the sky; and then the ill-defined plains of Montsouris, vasttracts of land scorched and stripped of vegetation by the fiery breaththat Paris exhales around its daily toil, like a monstrous dragon, whosebreath of flame and smoke suffers no vegetation within its range. 

From Montsouris to the fortifications of Montrouge is but a step. Whenthey had reached that point, Planus had no great difficulty in takinghis friend home with him. He thought, and justly, that his tranquilfireside, the spectacle of a placid, fraternal, devoted affection, wouldgive the wretched man's heart a sort of foretaste of the happiness thatwas in store for him with his brother Frantz. And, in truth, the charmof the little household began to work as soon as they arrived. 

"Yes, yes, you are right, old fellow, " said Risler, pacing the floor ofthe living-room, "I mustn't think of that woman any more. She's likea dead woman to me now. I have nobody left in the world but my littleFrantz; I don't know yet whether I shall send for him to come home, orgo out and join him; the one thing that is certain is that we are goingto stay together. Ah! I longed so to have a son! Now I have found one. I want no other. When I think that for a moment I had an idea of killingmyself! Nonsense! it would make Madame What-d'ye-call-her, yonder, toohappy. On the contrary, I mean to live--to live with my Frantz, and forhim, and for nothing else. "

"Bravo!" said Sigismond, "that's the way I like to hear you talk. "

At that moment Mademoiselle Planus came to say that the room was ready. 

Risler apologized for the trouble he was causing them. 

"You are so comfortable, so happy here. Really, it's too bad to burdenyou with my melancholy. "

"Ah! my old friend, you can arrange just such happiness as ours foryourself, " said honest Sigismond with beaming face. "I have my sister, you have your brother. What do we lack?"

Risler smiled vaguely. He fancied himself already installed with Frantzin a quiet little quakerish house like that. 

Decidedly, that was an excellent idea of Pere Planus. 

"Come to bed, " he said triumphantly. "We'll go and show you your room. "

Sigismond Planus's bedroom was on the ground floor, a large room simplybut neatly furnished; with muslin curtains at the windows and the bed, and little squares of carpet on the polished floor, in front of thechairs. The dowager Madame Fromont herself could have found nothing tosay as to the orderly and cleanly aspect of the place. On a shelf ortwo against the wall were a few books: Manual of Fishing, The PerfectCountry Housewife, Bayeme's Book-keeping. That was the whole of theintellectual equipment of the room. 

Pere Planus glanced proudly around. The glass of water was in its placeon the walnut table, the box of razors on the dressing-case. 

"You see, Risler. Here is everything you need. And if you should wantanything else, the keys are in all the drawers--you have only to turnthem. Just see what a beautiful view you get from here. It's a littledark just now, but when you wake up in the morning you'll see; it ismagnificent. "

He opened the widow. Great drops of rain were beginning to fall, andlightning flashes rending the darkness disclosed the long, silentline of the fortifications, with telegraph poles at intervals, or thefrowning door of a casemate. Now and then the footsteps of a patrolmaking the rounds, the clash of muskets or swords, reminded them thatthey were within the military zone. 

That was the outlook so vaunted by Planus--a melancholy outlook if everthere were one. 

"And now good-night. Sleep well!"

But, as the old cashier was leaving the room, his friend called himback:

"Sigismond. "

"Here!" said Sigismond, and he waited. 

Risler blushed slightly and moved his lips like a man who is about tospeak; then, with a mighty effort, he said:

"No, no-nothing. Good-night, old man. "

In the dining-room the brother and sister talked together a long whilein low tones. Planus described the terrible occurrence of the evening, the meeting with Sidonie; and you can imagine the--"Oh! thesewomen!" and "Oh! these men?" At last, when they had locked the littlegarden-door, Mademoiselle Planus went up to her room, and Sigismond madehimself as comfortable as possible in a small cabinet adjoining. 

About midnight the cashier was aroused by his sister calling him in aterrified whisper:

"Monsieur Planus, my brother?"

"What is it?"

"Did you hear?"

"No. What?"

"Oh! it was awful. Something like a deep sigh, but so loud and so sad!It came from the room below. "

They listened. Without, the rain was falling in torrents, with thedreary rustling of leaves that makes the country seem so lonely. 

"That is only the wind, " said Planus. 

"I am sure not. Hush! Listen!"

Amid the tumult of the storm, they heard a wailing sound, like a sob, inwhich a name was pronounced with difficulty:

"Frantz! Frantz!"

It was terrible and pitiful. 

When Christ on the Cross sent up to heaven His despairing cry: 'Eli, eli, lama sabachthani', they who heard him must have felt the samespecies of superstitious terror that suddenly seized upon MademoisellePlanus. 

"I am afraid!" she whispered; "suppose you go and look--"

"No, no, we will let him alone. He is thinking of his brother. Poorfellow! It's the very thought of all others that will do him the mostgood. "

And the old cashier went to sleep again. 

The next morning he woke as usual when the drums beat the reveillein the fortifications; for the little family, surrounded by barracks, regulated its life by the military calls. The sister had already risenand was feeding the poultry. When she saw Sigismond she came to him inagitation. 

"It is very strange, " she said, "I hear nothing stirring in MonsieurRisler's room. But the window is wide open. "

Sigismond, greatly surprised, went and knocked at his friend's door. 

"Risler! Risler!"

He called in great anxiety:

"Risler, are you there? Are you asleep?"

There was no reply. He opened the door. 

The room was cold. It was evident that the damp air had been blowingin all night through the open window. At the first glance at thebed, Sigismond thought: "He hasn't been in bed"--for the clothes wereundisturbed and the condition of the room, even in the most trivialdetails, revealed an agitated vigil: the still smoking lamp, which hehad neglected to extinguish, the carafe, drained to the last drop bythe fever of sleeplessness; but the thing that filled the cashier withdismay was to find the bureau drawer wide open in which he had carefullybestowed the letter and package entrusted to him by his friend. 

The letter was no longer there. The package lay on the table, open, revealing a photograph of Sidonie at fifteen. With her high-neckedfrock, her rebellious hair parted over the forehead, and the embarrassedpose of an awkward girl, the little Chebe of the old days, MademoiselleLe Mire's apprentice, bore little resemblance to the Sidonie of to-day. And that was the reason why Risler had kept that photograph, as asouvenir, not of his wife, but of the "little one. "

Sigismond was in great dismay. 

"This is my fault, " he said to himself. "I ought to have taken away thekeys. But who would have supposed that he was still thinking of her? Hehad sworn so many times that that woman no longer existed for him. "

At that moment Mademoiselle Planus entered the room with consternationwritten on her face. 

"Monsieur Risler has gone!" she exclaimed. 

"Gone? Why, wasn't the garden-gate locked?"

"He must have climbed over the wall. You can see his footprints. "

They looked at each other, terrified beyond measure. 

"It was the letter!" thought Planus. 

Evidently that letter from his wife must have made some extraordinaryrevelation to Risler; and, in order not to disturb his hosts, he hadmade his escape noiselessly through the window, like a burglar. Why?With what aim in view?

"You will see, sister, " said poor Planus, as he dressed with all haste, "you will see that that hussy has played him still another trick. " Andwhen his sister tried to encourage him, he recurred to his favoriterefrain:

"I haf no gonfidence!"

As soon as he was dressed, he darted out of the house. 

Risler's footprints could be distinguished on the wet ground as far asthe gate of the little garden. He must have gone before daylight, forthe beds of vegetables and flowers were trampled down at random by deepfootprints with long spaces between; there were marks of heels on thegarden-wall and the mortar was crumbled slightly on top. The brother andsister went out on the road skirting the fortifications. There it wasimpossible to follow the footprints. They could tell nothing more thanthat Risler had gone in the direction of the Orleans road. 

"After all, " Mademoiselle Planus ventured to say, "we are very foolishto torment ourselves about him; perhaps he has simply gone back to thefactory. "

Sigismond shook his head. Ah! if he had said all that he thought!

"Return to the house, sister. I will go and see. "

And with the old "I haf no gonfidence" he rushed away like a hurricane, his white mane standing even more erect than usual. 

At that hour, on the road near the fortifications, was an endlessprocession of soldiers and market-gardeners, guard-mounting, officers'horses out for exercise, sutlers with their paraphernalia, all thebustle and activity that is seen in the morning in the neighborhoodof forts. Planus was striding along amid the tumult, when suddenly hestopped. At the foot of the bank, on the left, in front of a small, square building, with the inscription. 

 CITY OF PARIS, ENTRANCE TO THE QUARRIES, On the rough plaster, he saw a crowd assembled, and soldiers' andcustom-house officers' uniforms, mingled with the shabby, dirty blousesof barracks-loafers. The old man instinctively approached. A customsofficer, seated on the stone step below a round postern with iron bars, was talking with many gestures, as if he were acting out his narrative. 

"He was where I am, " he said. "He had hanged himself sitting, by pullingwith all his strength on the rope! It's clear that he had made up hismind to die, for he had a razor in his pocket that he would have used incase the rope had broken. "

A voice in the crowd exclaimed: "Poor devil!" Then another, a tremulousvoice, choking with emotion, asked timidly:

"Is it quite certain that he's dead?"

Everybody looked at Planus and began to laugh. 

"Well, here's a greenhorn, " said the officer. "Don't I tell you thathe was all blue this morning, when we cut him down to take him to thechasseurs' barracks!"

The barracks were not far away; and yet Sigismond Planus had thegreatest difficulty in the world in dragging himself so far. In vaindid he say to himself that suicides are of frequent occurrence in Paris, especially in those regions; that not a day passes that a dead bodyis not found somewhere along that line of fortifications, as uponthe shores of a tempestuous sea, --he could not escape the terriblepresentiment that had oppressed his heart since early morning. 

"Ah! you have come to see the man that hanged himself, " said thequartermaster-sergeant at the door of the barracks. "See! there he is. "

The body had been laid on a table supported by trestles in a sort ofshed. A cavalry cloak that had been thrown over it covered it from headto foot, and fell in the shroud-like folds which all draperies assumethat come in contact with the rigidity of death. A group of officersand several soldiers in duck trousers were looking on at a distance, whispering as if in a church; and an assistant-surgeon was writing areport of the death on a high window-ledge. To him Sigismond spoke. 

"I should like very much to see him, " he said softly. 

"Go and look. "

He walked to the table, hesitated a minute, then, summoning courage, uncovered a swollen face, a tall, motionless body in its rain-soakedgarments. 

"She has killed you at last, my old comrade!" murmured Planus, and fellon his knees, sobbing bitterly. 

The officers had come forward, gazing curiously at the body, which wasleft uncovered. 

"Look, surgeon, " said one of them. "His hand is closed, as if he wereholding something in it. "

"That is true, " the surgeon replied, drawing nearer. "That sometimeshappens in the last convulsions. 

"You remember at Solferino, Commandant Bordy held his little daughter'sminiature in his hand like that? We had much difficulty in taking itfrom him. "

As he spoke he tried to open the poor, tightly-closed dead hand. 

"Look!" said he, "it is a letter that he is holding so tight. "

He was about to read it; but one of the officers took it from his handsand passed it to Sigismond, who was still kneeling. 

"Here, Monsieur. Perhaps you will find in this some last wish to becarried out. "

Sigismond Planus rose. As the light in the room was dim, he walked withfaltering step to the window, and read, his eyes filled with tears:

"Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more than ever and forever! Whatis the use of struggling and fighting against fate? Our sin is strongerthan we... "

It was the letter which Frantz had written to his sister-in-law a yearbefore, and which Sidonie had sent to her husband on the day followingtheir terrible scene, to revenge herself on him and his brother at thesame time. 

Risler could have survived his wife's treachery, but that of his brotherhad killed him. 

When Sigismond understood, he was petrified with horror. He stoodthere, with the letter in his hand, gazing mechanically through the openwindow. 

The clock struck six. 

Yonder, over Paris, whose dull roar they could hear although they couldnot see the city, a cloud of smoke arose, heavy and hot, moving slowlyupward, with a fringe of red and black around its edges, like thepowder-smoke on a field of battle. Little by little, steeples, whitebuildings, a gilded cupola, emerged from the mist, and burst forth in asplendid awakening. 

Then the thousands of tall factory chimneys, towering above that sea ofclustered roofs, began with one accord to exhale their quivering vapor, with the energy of a steamer about to sail. Life was beginning anew. Forward, ye wheels of time! And so much the worse for him who lagsbehind!

Thereupon old Planus gave way to a terrible outburst of wrath. 

"Ah! harlot-harlot!" he cried, shaking his fist; and no one could saywhether he was addressing the woman or the city of Paris. 

 ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

 A man may forgive, but he never forgets Abundant details which he sometimes volunteered Affectation of indifference Always smiling condescendingly Charm of that one day's rest and its solemnity Clashing knives and forks mark time Convent of Saint Joseph, four shoes under the bed! Deeming every sort of occupation beneath him Dreams of wealth and the disasters that immediately followed Exaggerated dramatic pantomime Faces taken by surprise allow their real thoughts to be seen He fixed the time mentally when he would speak Little feathers fluttering for an opportunity to fly away Make for themselves a horizon of the neighboring walls and roofs No one has ever been able to find out what her thoughts were Pass half the day in procuring two cakes, worth three sous She was of those who disdain no compliment Such artificial enjoyment, such idiotic laughter Superiority of the man who does nothing over the man who works Terrible revenge she would take hereafter for her sufferings The poor must pay for all their enjoyments The groom isn't handsome, but the bride's as pretty as a picture Void in her heart, a place made ready for disasters to come Wiping his forehead ostentatiously Word "sacrifice, " so vague on careless lips Would have liked him to be blind only so far as he was concerned