FROMONT AND RISLER

By ALPHONSE DAUDET

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 so changed. As for Georges, all these eccentricities amused him; it seemed to himthat he had ten women in one. He was the real husband, the master of thehouse. 

To divert Sidonie's thoughts, he had provided a simulacrum of society forher--his bachelor friends, a few fast tradesmen, almost no women, womenhave too sharp eyes. Madame Dobson was the only friend of Sidonie'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 factory wereoften discussed at that table, to which Georges brought his acquaintancesfrom the club with the tranquil self-assurance of the gentleman 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 take herby 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 to disturbher. She wept now when she received the little notes, the despatcheswhich arrived daily at the dinner-hour: "Don't expect me to-night, dearlove. I shall not be able to come to Savigny until to-morrow or the dayafter 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 eager tobe 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 upon her, 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, richer thanthe other. To complete the vulgarization of their liaison, she hadsummoned her parents to Asnieres, lodged them in a little house in thecountry, 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 might continueto 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 among bluishreeds--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 in theriver 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; andwith 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, is mine 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 make then--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. Theair was warm, perfumed by fresh flowers which, on that first day of heat, 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 do notknow 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, and Iat 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:'I could not be his wife. Very well, I will be his sister. At allevents, in that way it will still be allowable for me to love him, and weshall not pass our whole lives as strangers. ' Alas! those are theinnocent dreams a girl has at twenty, dreams of which she very soonlearns the impossibility. I could not love you as a sister, Frantz; Icould not forget you, either; my marriage prevented that. With anotherhusband I might perhaps have succeeded, but with Risler it was terrible. He was forever talking about you and your success and your future--Frantzsaid this; Frantz did that--He loves you so well, poor fellow! And thenthe most 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 ceased tothink of you, and if any one had a right to come here and call me toaccount 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 deprived himof the strength to defend himself. Sidonie had placed her hand on his. "Frantz--Frantz!" she said; and they remained there side by side, silentand burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dobson's romance, whichreached 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 and mother-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 usual inhis gayety and his enthusiasm, waved his arms, talked of killing severalfatted calves to celebrate the return of the prodigal son, and roared tothe singing-mistress in a voice that echoed through the neighboringgardens:

"Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson--if you'll allow me, it's a pity for youto 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-step waltz-a genuine valse de Vaucanson--he dragged his breathless mamma-in-law, whostopped at every step to restore to their usual orderliness the danglingribbons of her hat and the lace trimming of her shawl, her lovely shawlbought 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 was sparednone of the charms of Asnieres; and all the time, in the dazzlingsunlight of the roads, in the glare reflected by the water, he must laughand chatter, describe his journey, talk of the Isthmus of Suez and thegreat work undertaken there, listen to the whispered complaints of M. Chebe, who was still incensed with his children, and to his brother'sdescription of the Press. "Rotary, my dear Frantz, rotary anddodecagonal!" 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 on thehorses' 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 from theriver, Risler begged his wife to sing. He wished her to exhibit all hernewly 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 of thehyacinths 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 to agloomy chamber in the Marais, a long way from Sidonie's salon, and hiscompassionate heart evoked the image of little Desiree Delobelle, who hadloved 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 vain nowdid the other sing. Frantz no longer heard her or saw her. He was inthat 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's love, 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 foryou. "

"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 he saidit: "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 spirits andabove all so active. For instead of remaining always buried in her easy-chair, with the self-renunciation of a young grandmother, the littlecreature was continually jumping up and running to the window as lightlyas if she were putting out wings; and she practised standing erect, asking her mother in a whisper:

"Do you notice IT when I am not walking?"

From her graceful little head, upon which she had previously concentratedall her energies in the arrangement of her hair, her coquetry extendedover her whole person, as did her fine, waving tresses when she unloosedthem. Yes, she was very, very coquettish now; and everybody noticed it. Even the "birds and insects for ornament" assumed a 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 many atime 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. They had found these great water-lilies on the edge of a ditch, stilldamp from the winter rains, and, in order to reach them, she had leanedvery heavily on Frantz's arm. All these memories occurred to her as sheworked. 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 even thememory of Sidonie. To be sure, the poor judge did all that he could toaccomplish 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 to DesireeDelobelle. He had not yet mentioned it to any one, not even to her; butMam'zelle Zizi must have suspected something, for she became prettier andmore lighthearted from day to day, as if she foresaw that the day wouldsoon come when she would need all her gayety and all her beauty. 

They were alone in the workroom one Sunday afternoon. Mamma Delobellehad gone out, proud enough to show herself for once in public with hergreat 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 the wayin which the little low chair took its place beside the great easy-chair, the easy-chair understood that a very serious communication was about tobe made to it in confidence, and it had some little suspicion as to whatit might be. 

The conversation began with divers unimportant remarks, interspersed withlong 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 engrossed byher delight in talking with her former friend, she hardly looked at him. After the effusive greetings and caresses, after a pleasant chat over oldtimes, she expressed a wish to see the window on the landing and the roomformerly occupied by the Rislers. It pleased her thus to live all heryouth 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. Somethingwarned him that it was on his account, solely on his account, that thewoman had come, that she was determined to see him again, to prevent himfrom giving himself to another, and the poor wretch realized with dismaythat she would not have to exert herself overmuch to accomplish herobject. When he saw her enter the room, his whole heart had been caughtin her net once more. 

Desiree suspected nothing, not she! Sidonie's manner was so frank andfriendly. And then, they were brother and sister now. Love was nolonger possible 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 next norever 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 lure herbrother-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; andin that strange contest, in which the one who really loved fought againsthis own cause, she had often felt that she was at the end of her strengthand was almost discouraged. When she was most confident that he wasconquered, his sense of right would suddenly rebel, and he would be allready to flee, to escape her once more. 

What a triumph it was for her, therefore, when that letter was handed toher one morning. Madame Dobson happened to be there. She had justarrived, laden with complaints from Georges, who was horribly bored awayfrom 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 the sentimentalAmerican, "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, to givevent to her emotion in an atmosphere of intrigue and mystery which meltedher 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, which she sopetted and coddled, had seemed to her to be exposed to serious danger. Yes, the thought that her husband might some day be apprized of herconduct 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, shewould show the letter, and all his accusations would become in Risler'seyes calumny pure and simple. Ah, master judge, we have you now!

"I am born again--I am born again!" she cried to Madame Dobson. She ranout into the garden, gathered great bouquets for her salon, threw thewindows wide open to the sunlight, gave orders to the cook, the coachman, the gardener. The house must be made to look beautiful, for Georges wascoming back, and for a beginning she organized a grand dinner-party forthe end of the week. 

The next evening Sidonie, Risler, and Madame Dobson were together in thesalon. 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" he hadso 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, in thedistant 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 from thecrowd 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 the luggage-ladenwagons and the late-comers who jostled him as they ran. The driversshouted, "Take care!" He stood there among the wheels of the cabs, underthe horses' feet, with deaf ears and staring eyes. Only five minutesmore. 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, thesteam escaping with a hissing sound, mingled with the hurried footstepsof belated passengers, the slamming of doors and the rumbling of theheavy 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 a travelling-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 hasbeen transferred to the line of the railway, and suddenly a shrillwhistle falls upon the lover's ear like an ironical farewell, then diesaway in the 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 lamp burnslow on a table laden with humming-birds and insects, but that visionpasses swiftly through his mind in the chaos of confused thoughts towhich 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 a rapidpace, passing soldiers with their knapsacks on their backs, and poorpeople who rise early coming to take the morning train, the train ofpoverty and want. 

In front of one of the stations he saw a crowd collected, rag-pickers andcountrywomen. 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 was likean awakening. The sun, rising in all its glory, set field and river onfire. 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'swell frozen and ready at seven o'clock. Oh! about an entree--let ussee--"

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-gown andher little lace cap, she continued to discuss her menu, inhaling the coolair that rose from the fields and the river. There was not the slightesttrace of chagrin or anxiety upon that tranquil face, which was a strikingcontrast to the lover's features, distorted by a night of agony andfatigue. 

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 him intheir regular order, from the little hot pates, the sole Normande and theinnumerable ingredients of which that dish is composed, to the Montreuilpeaches 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 the vilestories about me that you have threatened me with, I could easily satisfyhim that the only source of your lying tale-bearing was anger with me forrepulsing a criminal passion as it deserved. Consider yourself 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 little curlat the corners of her mouth, triumphant and without anger. And he didnot 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 inquired MadameDelobelle, whom twenty years of exaggerated dramatic pantomime had notyet 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 if he 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!He left 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, to rid 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 longer loved, and she knew her rival's name. She bore them no ill-will, she pitiedthem rather. But, why had he returned? Why had he so heedlessly givenher false hopes? How many tears had she devoured in silence since thosehours! How many tales of woe had she told her little birds! For oncemore it was work that had sustained her, desperate, incessant work, which, by its regularity and monotony, by the constant recurrence of thesame 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 suffering andsay 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 aglance for her, without a parting word. The lover's desertion wasfollowed by the 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 of deathshe should choose. As she was almost never alone, she could not think ofthe brazier of charcoal, to be lighted after closing the doors andwindows. As she never went out she could not think either of poison tobe purchased at the druggist's, a little package of white powder to beburied in the depths of the pocket, with the needle-case and the thimble. There was the phosphorus on the matches, too, the verdigris on old sous, the open window with the paved street below; but the thought of forcingupon her parents the ghastly spectacle of a self-inflicted death-agony, the thought that what would remain of her, picked up amid a crowd ofpeople, would be so frightful to look upon, made her reject that 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 laugh atthat. 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. Shewould be 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 the lamp, one would never have imagined all the sinister thoughts with which it wasthronged. 

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, in thecharming 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 thin shawlwhich she throws over her shoulders; then she goes. What? Not a glanceat her mother, not a silent farewell, not a tear? No, nothing! With theterrible clearness of vision of those who are about to die, she suddenlyrealizes that her childhood and youth have been sacrificed to a vastself-love. She feels very sure that a word from their great man willcomfort 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-doorsat this 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 huge Paris, entirely strange to her as it is, to appear to her like an enormousconfused mass, which her ignorance of the landmarks magnifies still 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 moved topity 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 darkness ahoarse voice is heard saying with a sneer: "That water-hen gave me a lotof trouble. You ought to see how she slipped through my fingers! Ibelieve 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 the breathof 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 people realizedthat they were face to face with something more worthy of attention, moreaffecting than usual. But they could not take her back to her mother asyet. She must go before the commissioner first. That was absolutelynecessary. They called a cab from compassion for her; but she must gofrom the station to the cab, and there was a crowd at the door to stareat the little lame girl with the damp hair glued to her temples, and herpoliceman's blanket which did not prevent her shivering. At headquartersshe was conducted up a dark, damp stairway where sinister figures werepassing 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 bewildered thatit seemed to her as if the river had left a veil over her eyes, a buzzingin her ears. At last she was ushered into a smaller room, into thepresence of a pompous individual, wearing the insignia of the Legion ofHonor, Monsieur le Commissaire in person, who was sipping his 'cafe aulait' 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, the woman 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. "I don'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 never totry 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. It wasrumored that she had gone away with Frantz Risler. The illustriousDelobelle had gone forth very early, intensely agitated, with his hatawry 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 for anote from the child, for any clew, however unimportant, that would enableher 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 a greatbrown cape. When she saw her mother she smiled at her with an almostfoolish 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, and thatin 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 in andthat you weren't in the workroom either!--I just turned round and fellflat. Are you warm now? Do you feel well? You won't do it again, willyou--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. Myriads ofdark 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--hide me--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, arestill 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. And yethe 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 loved hischild dearly; but in that singular nature the most sincere and the mostgenuine feelings adopted a false and unnatural mode of expression, by thesame law which ordains that, when a shelf is placed awry, nothing thatyou 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 his headwith 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 which didnot prevent him, however, from bestowing the most delicate and thoughtfulattentions 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. It shouldbe 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 new lifeupon 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, would havebeen less satisfactorily expressed. Frantz repented, asked forgiveness, and without making any promises, above all without asking anything fromher, described to his faithful friend his struggles, his remorse, hissufferings. 

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 that arebrought 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 suddenly begana grand procession of thoughts and memories. The most distant periods ofher past seemed to approach her. The most trivial incidents of herchildhood, scenes that she had not then understood, words heard as in adream, recurred to her mind. 

From her bed she could see her father and mother, one by her side, theother in the workroom, the door of which had been left open. MammaDelobelle was lying back in her chair in the careless attitude of long-continued fatigue, heeded at last; and all the scars, the ugly sabre cutswith which age and suffering brand the faces of the old, manifestedthemselves, ineffaceable and pitiful to see, in the relaxation ofslumber. Desiree would have liked to be strong enough to rise and kissthat lovely, placid brow, furrowed by wrinkles which did not mar itsbeauty. 

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 she reallywas, and her happy, well-fed, idle, placid, thoughtless father. At aglance she realized the difference between the two lives. What wouldbecome of them when she was no longer there? Either her mother wouldwork too hard and would kill herself; or else the poor woman would beobliged to cease working altogether, and that selfish husband, foreverengrossed by his theatrical ambition, would allow them both to driftgradually into abject poverty, that black hole which widens and deepensas 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 bandage thatthe 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 amid theprevailing gloom. Desiree motioned to him not to speak, pointing to hersleeping 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 glance thathe 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 know thatyou have great hopes, but it takes them a long while to come to anything. The results you have waited for so long may not arrive for a long time tocome; and until then what will you do? Listen! my dear father, I wouldnot willingly hurt you; but it seems to me that at your age, asintelligent as you are, it would be easy for you--I am sure MonsieurRisler 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 might befilled by a movement, an exclamation from her father. But the actor didnot understand. 

"I think that you would do well, " pursued Desiree, timidly, "I think thatyou 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 behind hishand 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 rattling ofchains, followed by that fatal cry:

"The notes!"

"That is true, " thought the worthy man, sitting up in bed; "day after to-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 the firsttime 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 see nor hearanything about him. He answered the old cashier's anxious questions, 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 than hiscashier's anxiety. As for Risler, no one ever saw him; he passed hisdays 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 degrees togeneral 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 preferableto that. 

"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. He was 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, he wassure of it, --she was false to him with the Toulousan tenor, that Cazabon, alias Cazaboni, whom Madame Dobson had brought to the house. For a longtime he had implored her not to receive that man; but Sidonie would notlisten to him, and on that very day, speaking of a grand ball she wasabout to give, she had declared explicitly that nothing should preventher 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--his fortune, his honor, even his lovely Claire, who lay sleeping withher child in the adjoining room--a whole lifetime of happiness withinreach of his hand, which he had spurned for that vile creature! Now shehad admitted 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 sleeping houselike living insomnia. The other was asleep upstairs. She could sleep byfavor of her heedless, remorseless nature. Perhaps, too, she wasthinking 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 day willbe 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 of allthe 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, unable tospeak. 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, to lessen 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!Surely that was a great sacrifice for her to make for him, and a strikingproof of 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. They werein a manufactory of wallpapers on Faubourg Saint-Antoine, theestablishment of the little Prochassons, who were beginning to beformidable rivals. Those former employes 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 house ofFromont, once so wealthy, now living entirely upon its former reputation, and the ever-increasing prosperity of the establishment before his eyes. His stealthy glance penetrated to the darkest corners, seeking somedefect, something to criticise; and his failure to find anything made hisheart 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. He happened to be passing through the quarter and thought he would comein a 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, as if at a joke, a rather broad joke, on the part of the old cashier. "Go along with you, you sly old Pere Planus!" The old man laughed withthem! He laughed without any desire to laugh, simply to do as the othersdid. 

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 glistened greattears caused by the hearty laugh he had just enjoyed. The young peoplebehind him exchanged glances and shook their heads. They understood. 

The blow he had received was so crushing that the cashier, as soon as hewas 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 bill wassettled. 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 his longfrock-coat and the illustrious Delobelle in his stovepipe hat, turninginto the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes at opposite ends, each with thefactory and Risler's wallet for his objective point. The young woman wasmuch too deeply engrossed by what she had before her to look into thestreet. 

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 opportunity totell 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, the cruel earth, often ungrateful to those who till it, seems toinculcate in all peasants. The old man did not intend that any part ofhis colossal 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 his son-in-law for having made a fortune without assistance from him. For itwas 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 business wasbeginning to take, his sharp, cunning, little blue eye would smileironically, and he would growl, "We shall see what it all comes to in theend, " in a tone that made them tremble. Sometimes, too, at Savigny, inthe evening, when the park, the avenues, the blue slates of the chateau, the red brick of the stables, the ponds and brooks shone resplendent, bathed in the golden glory of a lovely sunset, this eccentric parvenuwould say aloud before his children, after looking about him:

"The one thing that consoles me for dying some day is that no one in thefamily 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, suchrepugnance 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 under thelow-hanging clouds, with its long line of low walls and hedges separatingit from the surrounding fields. The slates on the roof were as dark asthe sky they reflected; and that magnificent summer residence, completelytransformed by the bitter, silent winter, without a leaf on its trees ora pigeon on its roofs, showed no life save in its rippling brooks and themurmuring of the tall poplars as they bowed majestically to one another, shaking the magpies' nests hidden among their 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 she hadchosen 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 done inthe 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 made asign to Fouinat, who disappeared, gliding through the half-open door asif 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 in the coldcountry air, the effort she had made in order to do what she was doing, imparted an unwonted expression to her face, which was much less reservedthan usual. Without the slightest encouragement on his part, she kissedhim and seated herself in front of the fire, where old stumps, surroundedby dry moss and pine needles picked up in the paths, were smoulderingwith occasional outbursts of life and the hissing of sap. She did noteven take time to shake off the frost that stood in beads on her veil, but began to speak at once, faithful to her resolution to state theobject of her visit immediately upon entering the room, before sheallowed herself to be intimidated by the atmosphere of fear and respectwhich encompassed the grandfather and made of him a sort of awe-inspiringdeity. 

She required all her courage not to become confused, not to interrupt hernarrative before that piercing gaze which transfixed her, enlivened fromher 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, with hishands 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, his dominating 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 also herfather's, and which would be dishonored by the failure. The old man wasas cold, as implacable as ever, and took advantage of her humiliation tohumiliate her still more; for he belonged to the race of worthy rusticswho, when their enemy is down, never leave him without leaving on hisface the marks of the nails in their sabots. 

"All I can say to you, little one, is that Savigny is open to you. Let your husband come here. I happen to need a secretary. Very well, Georges can do my writing for twelve hundred francs a year and board forthe whole 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 yourinterest, you understand, that I suggest bringing your husband here. You don't know the life he is leading up yonder. Of course you don'tknow it, or you'd never come and ask me for money to go where yours hasgone. Ah! I know all about your man's affairs. I have my police atParis, yes, and at Asnieres, as well as at Savigny. I know what thefellow does with his days and his nights; and I don't choose that mycrowns shall go to the places where he goes. They're not clean enoughfor money honestly earned. "

Claire's eyes opened wide in amazement and horror, for she felt that aterrible drama had entered her life at that moment through the little lowdoor 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 money forthe 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 to theutmost; 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, heaped them upon her, overpowered her with knife-thrusts in the heart. She had only to go to Darches, the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix. A fortnight before, Georges had bought a diamond necklace there forthirty thousand francs. It was his New Year's gift to Sidonie. Thirtythousand francs for diamonds at the moment of becoming bankrupt!

He might have talked the entire day and Claire would not have interruptedhim. She felt that the slightest effort would cause the tears thatfilled her eyes to overflow, and she was determined to smile to the end, the sweet, brave woman. From time to time she cast a sidelong glance atthe road. She was in haste to go, to fly from the sound of that spitefulvoice, 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, following her 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 to thestation. "

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 the tiniestgrain 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 which theslightest reminder of her peaceful and happy past could not have failedto 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 trivial actsof our lives bearing any relation to present disasters or joys. Was itthe red sun that suddenly broke forth from the clouds, flooding the levelexpanse with its oblique rays in that winter afternoon as at the sunsethour in August? Was it the silence that surrounded her, broken only bythe harmonious sounds of nature, which are almost alike at all seasons?

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 post aletter inviting Sidonie to come and pass a month with her in the country. Something told her that all her misfortunes dated from that moment. "Ah! had I known--had I only known!" And she fancied that she couldstill feel between her fingers the smooth envelope, ready to drop intothe 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 bepossible. Grandfather lied to me. " And as she went on toward thestation, the unhappy girl tried to convince herself, to make herselfbelieve what she said. 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 certain peculiarcircumstances 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 by thetrack, 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 she hadso long restrained to break forth as last. But suddenly she felt ashamedof her weakness. She rose and sent the dog away, sent him awaypitilessly with voice and gesture, pointing to the house in the distance, with a stern face which poor Kiss had never seen. Then she hastily wipedher eyes and her moist hands; for the train for Paris was approaching andshe knew that in a moment she should need all her courage. 

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 in frontof that magnificent establishment, she stopped, afraid to enter. To giveherself countenance, she pretended to be deeply interested in the jewelsdisplayed in velvet cases; and one who had seen her, quietly butfashionably 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 the earlyevening. There are carriages moving swiftly in all directions, a ceaseless 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, if anysorrow is mingled with that bustle and tumult, it seems the more terriblefor that reason. For five minutes Claire suffered martyrdom worse thandeath. Yonder, on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse of thedeserted fields, her despair spread out as it were in the sharp air andseemed 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 abyss ofheartrending thoughts, of black things dancing madly in the depths of hermind. Oh! the coward, the infamous villain! And to think that only lastnight she was speaking comforting words to him, with her arms about him!

Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happened, she found herself in thecourtyard of the factory. Through what streets had she come? Had shecome in a carriage or on foot? She had no remembrance. She had actedunconsciously, 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's room. 

"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, enables you tolook to the very depths of human misery. The realization of her completeisolation, between her half-mad mother, her faithless husband, her tooyoung child, came upon her for the first time; but it served only tostrengthen her in her resolution. 

In a moment the whole household was busily engaged in making preparationsfor this abrupt, unexpected departure. Claire hurried the bewilderedservants, and dressed her mother and the child, who laughed merrily amidall the excitement. She was in haste to go before Georges' return, sothat he might find the cradle empty and the house deserted. Where shouldshe go? She did not know as yet. Perhaps to her aunt at Orleans, perhaps to Savigny, no matter where. What she must do first of all was-go, fly from that atmosphere of treachery and falsehood. 

At that moment she was in her bedroom, packing a trunk, making a pile ofher effects--a heartrending occupation. Every object that she touchedset in motion whole worlds of thoughts, of memories. There is so much ofourselves 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 that hiswife 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 a suddenray of light seemed to make her duty clearer to her. When they came totell her that the child was dressed and the trunks ready, her mind wasmade up anew. 

"Never mind, " she replied gently. "We are not going away. "

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Abundant details which he sometimes volunteeredExaggerated dramatic pantomimeVoid in her heart, a place made ready for disasters to comeWould have liked him to be blind only so far as he was concerned