fromont and risler

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Fromont and Risler

Alphonse Daudet

W o r k

r e r o d u c e d w i t h n o e d i t o

r i a l r e s o n s i b i l i t



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BOOK 1

CHAPTER I. A WEDDING-PARTY A

THE CAFE VEFOUR

"Madame Chebe!"

"My boy—"

"I am so happy!"

This was the twentieth time that day that th

good Risler had said that he was happy, analways with the same emotional and contentemanner, in the same low, deep voice-the voicthat is held in check by emotion and does no



speak too loud for fear of suddenly breakininto violent tears.

Not for the world would Risler have wept athat moment—imagine a newly-made husbangiving way to tears in the midst of the wedding-festival! And yet he had a strong inclination to do so. His happiness stifled him, hel

him by the throat, prevented the words fromcoming forth. All that he could do was to mumur from time to time, with a slight tremblinof the lips, "I am happy; I am happy!"

Indeed, he had reason to be happy.

Since early morning the poor man had fanciethat he was being whirled along in one of thosmagnificent dreams from which one fears le

he may awake suddenly with blinded eyes; buit seemed to him as if this dream would neveend. It had begun at five o'clock in the morninand at ten o'clock at night, exactly ten o'cloc

by Vefour's clock, he was still dreaming.



How many things had happened during thday, and how vividly he remembered the motrivial details.

He saw himself, at daybreak, striding up andown his bachelor quarters, delight minglewith impatience, clean-shaven, his coat on, antwo pairs of white gloves in his pocket. The

there were the wedding-coaches, and in thforemost one—the one with white horsewhite reins, and a yellow damask lining—thbride, in her finery, floated by like a cloudThen the procession into the church, two btwo, the white veil in advance, ethereal, andazzling to behold. The organ, the verger, thcure's sermon, the tapers casting their lighupon jewels and spring gowns, and the thron

of people in the sacristy, the tiny white clouswallowed up, surrounded, embraced, whithe bridegroom distributed hand-shakeamong all the leading tradesmen of Paris, whhad assembled to do him honor. And the gran



crash from the organ at the close, made morsolemn by the fact that the church door wathrown wide open, so that the whole street too

part in the family ceremony—the music pasing through the vestibule at the same time witthe procession—the exclamations of the crowdand a burnisher in an ample lute-string aproremarking in a loud voice, "The groom isn

handsome, but the bride's as pretty as a piture." That is the kind of thing that makes yoproud when you happen to be the bridegroom

And then the breakfast at the factory, in workroom adorned with hangings and flowerthe drive in the Bois—a concession to thwishes of his mother-in-law, Madame Chebwho, being the petty Parisian bourgeoise tha

she was, would not have deemed her daughtelegally married without a drive around the lakand a visit to the Cascade. Then the return fodinner, as the lamps were being lighted alonthe boulevard, where people turned to loo



after the wedding-party, a typical well-to-dbourgeois wedding-party, as it drove up to thgrand entrance at Vefour's with all the style th

livery horses could command.

Risler had reached that point in his dream.

And now the worthy man, dazed with fatigu

and well-being, glanced vaguely about thahuge table of twenty-four covers, curved in thshape of a horseshoe at the ends, and surounded by smiling, familiar faces, wherein hseemed to see his happiness reflected in ever

eye. The dinner was drawing near its close. Thwave of private conversation flowed arounthe table. Faces were turned toward one another, black sleeves stole behind wais

adorned with bunches of asclepias, a childisface laughed over a fruit ice, and the dessert athe level of the guests' lips encompassed thcloth with animation, bright colors, and light.

Ah, yes! Risler was very happy.



Except his brother Frantz, everybody he lovewas there. First of all, sitting opposite him, waSidonie—yesterday little Sidonie, to-day h

wife. For the ceremony of dinner she had laiaside her veil; she had emerged from her cloudNow, above the smooth, white silk gown, appeared a pretty face of a less lustrous and softewhite, and the crown of hair-beneath that othe

crown so carefully bestowed—would have tolyou of a tendency to rebel against life, of littfeathers fluttering for an opportunity to flaway. But husbands do not see such things a

those.

Next to Sidonie and Frantz, the person whomRisler loved best in the world was MadamGeorges Fromont, whom he called "Madam

Chorche," the wife of his partner and thdaughter of the late Fromont, his former employer and his god. He had placed her besidhim, and in his manner of speaking to her oncould read affection and deference. She was



very young woman, of about the same age aSidonie, but of a more regular, quiet and placitype of beauty. She talked little, being out o

her element in that conglomerate assemblagbut she tried to appear affable.

On Risler's other side sat Madame Chebe, thbride's mother, radiant and gorgeous in he

green satin gown, which gleamed like a shieldEver since the morning the good womanevery thought had been as brilliant as that robof emblematic hue. At every moment she saito herself: "My daughter is marrying FromonJeune and Risler Aine, of Rue des VieilleHaudriettes!" For, in her mind, it was not Rislealone whom her daughter took for her huband, but the whole sign of the establishmen

illustrious in the commercial annals of Pariand whenever she mentally announced thaglorious event, Madame Chebe sat more erethan ever, stretching the silk of the bodice untit almost cracked.



What a contrast to the attitude of MonsieuChebe, who was seated at a short distance. Idifferent households, as a general rule, th

same causes produce altogether different results. That little man, with the high forehead oa visionary, as inflated and hollow as a balwas as fierce in appearance as his wife was radiant. That was nothing unusual, by the way

for Monsieur Chebe was in a frenzy the whoyear long. On this particular evening, howevehe did not wear his customary woe-begonlack-lustre expression, nor the full-skirted coa

with the pockets sticking out behind, filled trepletion with samples of oil, wine, truffles, ovinegar, according as he happened to be deaing in one or the other of those articles. Hblack coat, new and magnificent, made a fittin

pendant to the green gown; but unfortunatelhis thoughts were of the color of his coat. Whhad they not seated him beside the bride, awas his right? Why had they given his seat tyoung Fromont? And there was old Gardinoi



the Fromonts' grandfather, what business hahe by Sidonie's side? Ah! that was how it wato be! Everything for the Fromonts and nothin

for the Chebes! And yet people are amazed ththere are such things as revolutions!

Luckily the little man had by his side, to venhis anger upon, his friend Delobelle, an old

retired actor, who listened to him with his serene and majestic holiday countenance.

Strangely enough, the bride herself had somthing of that same expression. On that prett

and youthful face, which happiness enlivenewithout making glad, appeared indications osome secret preoccupation; and, at times, thcorners of her lips quivered with a smile, as

she were talking to herself.With that same little smile she replied to thsomewhat pronounced pleasantries of Grandfather Gardinois, who sat by her side.



"This Sidonie, on my word!" said the good manwith a laugh. "When I think that not twmonths ago she was talking about going into

convent. We all know what sort of convensuch minxes as she go to! As the saying is iour province: The Convent of Saint Joseph, foushoes under the bed!"

And everybody at the table laughed heartily athe rustic jests of the old Berrichon peasanwhose colossal fortune filled the place omanliness, of education, of kindness of hearbut not of wit; for he had plenty of that, thrascal—more than all his bourgeois fellowguests together. Among the very rare personwho inspired a sympathetic feeling in hbreast, little Chebe, whom he had known as a

urchin, appealed particularly to him; and shfor her part, having become rich too recentlnot to venerate wealth, talked to her right-hanneighbor with a very perceptible air of respeand coquetry.



With her left-hand-neighbor, on the contraryGeorges Fromont, her husband's partner, shexhibited the utmost reserve. Their conversa

tion was restricted to the ordinary courtesies othe table; indeed there was a sort of affectatioof indifference between them.

Suddenly there was that little commotio

among the guests which indicates that they arabout to rise: the rustling of silk, the moving ochairs, the last words of conversations, thcompletion of a laugh, and in that half-silencMadame Chebe, who had become communicative, observed in a very loud tone to a provincial cousin, who was gazing in an ecstasy oadmiration at the newly made bride's reserveand tranquil demeanor, as she stood with he

arm in Monsieur Gardinois's:

"You see that child, cousin—well, no one haever been able to find out what her thoughwere."



Thereupon the whole party rose and repaireto the grand salon.

While the guests invited for the ball were arriving and mingling with the dinner-guests, whithe orchestra was tuning up, while the cavliers, eyeglass in position, strutted before thimpatient, white-gowned damsels, the bride

groom, awed by so great a throng, had takerefuge with his friend Planus—SigismonPlanus, cashier of the house of Fromont fothirty years—in that little gallery decoratewith flowers and hung with a paper represening shrubbery and clambering vines, whicforms a sort of background of artificial verdurto Vefour's gilded salons.

"Sigismond, old friend—I am very happy."And Sigismond too was happy; but Risler dinot give him time to say so. Now that he wano longer in dread of weeping before h

guests, all the joy in his heart overflowed.



"Just think of it, my friend!—It's so extraordnary that a young girl like Sidonie would consent to marry me. For you know I'm not hand

some. I didn't need to have that impudent creature tell me so this morning to know it. Anthen I'm forty-two—and she such a dear littthing! There were so many others she mighhave chosen, among the youngest and the rich

est, to say nothing of my poor Frantz, whloved her so. But, no, she preferred her olRisler. And it came about so strangely. For long time I noticed that she was sad, greatl

changed. I felt sure there was some disappointment in love at the bottom of it. Hemother and I looked about, and we cudgelleour brains to find out what it could be. Onmorning Madame Chebe came into my room

weeping, and said, 'You are the man she lovemy dear friend!'—And I was the man—I wathe man! Bless my soul! Whoever would havsuspected such a thing? And to think that in thsame year I had those two great pieces of goo



fortune—a partnership in the house of Fromonand married to Sidonie—Oh!"

At that moment, to the strains of a giddy, languishing waltz, a couple whirled into the smasalon. They were Risler's bride and his partneGeorges Fromont. Equally young and attrative, they were talking in undertones, confinin

their words within the narrow circle of thwaltz.

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

And the other, paler than she, replied:

"I do not lie. It was my uncle who insisted upothis marriage. He was dying—you had gon

away. I dared not say no."

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

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



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

"What! You here? What are you doing? Theare looking everywhere for you. Why arenyou in there?"

As she spoke she retied his cravat with a pretty

impatient gesture. That enchanted Risler, whsmiled at Sigismond from the corner of his eytoo overjoyed at feeling the touch of that littlgloved hand on his neck, to notice that she watrembling to the ends of her slender fingers.

"Give me your arm," she said to him, and thereturned together to the salons. The white brdal gown with its long train made the badlcut, awkwardly worn black coat appear eve

more uncouth; but a coat can not be retied lika cravat; she must needs take it as it was. Athey passed along, returning the salutations oall the guests who were so eager to smile upo

them, Sidonie had a momentary thrill of prid



of satisfied vanity. Unhappily it did not last. Ia corner of the room sat a young and attractivwoman whom nobody invited to dance, bu

who looked on at the dances with a placid eyillumined by all the joy of a first maternity. Asoon as he saw her, Risler walked straight tthe corner where she sat and compelled Sidonto sit beside her. Needless to say that it wa

Madame "Chorche." To whom else would hhave spoken with such affectionate respect? Iwhat other hand than hers could he havplaced his little Sidonie's, saying: "You will lov

her dearly, won't you? You are so good. Shneeds your advice, your knowledge of thworld."

"Why, my dear Risler," Madame Georges re

plied, "Sidonie and I are old friends. We havreason to be fond of each other still."

And her calm, straightforward glance strovunsuccessfully to meet that of her old friend.



With his ignorance of women, and his habit otreating Sidonie as a child, Risler continued ithe same tone:

"Take her for your model, little one. There arnot two people in the world like MadamChorche. She has her poor father's heart. A truFromont!"

Sidonie, with her eyes cast down, bowed without replying, while an imperceptible shudderan from the tip of her satin shoe to the topmobit of orange-blossom in her crown. But hone

Risler saw nothing. The excitement, the daning, the music, the flowers, the lights made himdrunk, made him mad. He believed that everone breathed the same atmosphere of bliss b

yond compare which enveloped him. He hano perception of the rivalries, the petty hatredthat met and passed one another above athose bejewelled foreheads.



He did not notice Delobelle, standing with helbow on the mantel, one hand in the armhoof his waistcoat and his hat upon his hip, wear

of his eternal attitudinizing, while the hourslipped by and no one thought of utilizing htalents. He did not notice M. Chebe, who waprowling darkly between the two doors, morincensed than ever against the Fromonts. Oh

those Fromonts!—How large a place they filleat that wedding! They were all there with thewives, their children, their friends, their friendfriends. One would have said that one of them

selves was being married. Who had a word tsay of the Rislers or the Chebes? Why, he—hthe father, had not even been presented!—Anthe little man's rage was redoubled by the atttude of Madame Chebe, smiling maternall

upon one and all in her scarab-hued dress.

Furthermore, there were at this, as at almost awedding-parties, two distinct currents whiccame together but without mingling. One of th



two soon gave place to the other. ThFromonts, who irritated Monsieur Chebe smuch and who formed the aristocracy of th

ball, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, the syndic of the solicitors, a famouchocolate-manufacturer and member of thCorps Legislatif, and the old millionaire Gardnois, all retired shortly after midnight. George

Fromont and his wife entered their carriagbehind them. Only the Risler and Chebe partremained, and the festivity at once changed iaspect, becoming more uproarious.

The illustrious Delobelle, disgusted to see thano one called upon him for anything, decideto call upon himself for something, and begain a voice as resonant as a gong the monologu

from Ruy Blas: "Good appetite, Messieurswhile the guests thronged to the buffet, spreawith chocolate and glasses of punch. Inexpensive little costumes were displayed upon thbenches, overjoyed to produce their due effe



at last; and here and there divers young shopclerks, consumed with conceit, amused themselves by venturing upon a quadrille.

The bride had long wished to take her leave. Alast she disappeared with Risler and MadamChebe. As for Monsieur Chebe, who had recovered all his importance, it was impossible t

induce him to go. Some one must be there to dthe honors, deuce take it! And I assure you thathe little man assumed the responsibility! Hwas flushed, lively, frolicsome, noisy, almoseditious. On the floor below he could be heartalking politics with Vefour's headwaiter, anmaking most audacious statements.

Through the deserted streets the wedding

carriage, the tired coachman holding the whitreins somewhat loosely, rolled heavily towarthe Marais.

Madame Chebe talked continuously, enumera

ing all the splendors of that memorable day



rhapsodizing especially over the dinner, thcommonplace menu of which had been to hethe highest display of magnificence. Sidoni

mused in the darkness of the carriage, and Riler, sitting opposite her, even though he no longer said, "I am very happy," continued to thinit with all his heart. Once he tried to take posession of a little white hand that rested again

the closed window, but it was hastily withdrawn, and he sat there without moving, lost imute admiration.

They drove through the Halles and the Rue dRambuteau, thronged with kitchen-gardenerwagons; and, near the end of the Rue deFrancs-Bourgeois, they turned the corner of thArchives into the Rue de Braque. There the

stopped first, and Madame Chebe alighted aher door, which was too narrow for the magnificent green silk frock, so that it vanished ithe hall with rustlings of revolt and with all ifolds muttering. A few minutes later, a tal



massive portal on the Rue des VieilleHaudriettes, bearing on the escutcheon thabetrayed the former family mansion, beneat

half-effaced armorial bearings, a sign in bluletters, Wall Papers, was thrown wide open tallow the wedding-carriage to pass through.

Thereupon the bride, hitherto motionless an

like one asleep, seemed to wake suddenly, anif all the lights in the vast buildings, workshopor storehouses, which surrounded the couryard, had not been extinguished, Risler mighhave seen that pretty, enigmatical face suddenly lighted by a smile of triumph. Thwheels revolved less noisily on the fine gravof a garden, and soon stopped before the stooof a small house of two floors. It was there th

the young Fromonts lived, and Risler and hwife were to take up their abode on the flooabove. The house had an aristocratic air. Flouishing commerce avenged itself therein for thdismal street and the out-of-the-way quarte



There was a carpet on the stairway leading ttheir apartment, and on all sides shone thgleaming whiteness of marble, the reflection o

mirrors and of polished copper.

While Risler was parading his delight througall the rooms of the new apartment, Sidonremained alone in her bedroom. By the light o

the little blue lamp hanging from the ceilingshe glanced first of all at the mirror, which gavback her reflection from head to foot, at all heluxurious surroundings, so unfamiliar to hethen, instead of going to bed, she opened thwindow and stood leaning against the sill, motionless as a statue.

The night was clear and warm. She could se

distinctly the whole factory, its innumerabunshaded windows, its glistening panes, its tachimney losing itself in the depths of the skyand nearer at hand the lovely little gardeagainst the ancient wall of the former mansion

All about were gloomy, miserable roofs an



squalid streets. Suddenly she started. Yondein the darkest, the ugliest of all those atticcrowding so closely together, leaning again

one another, as if overweighted with misery, fifth-floor window stood wide open, showinonly darkness within. She recognized it at oncIt was the window of the landing on which heparents lived.

The window on the landing!

How many things the mere name recalledHow many hours, how many days she ha

passed there, leaning on that damp sill, withourail or balcony, looking toward the factory. Athat moment she fancied that she could see uyonder little Chebe's ragged person, and in th

frame made by that poor window, her whochild life, her deplorable youth as a Parisiastreet arab, passed before her eyes.



CHAPTER II. LITTLE CHEBE'S STORY

In Paris the common landing is like an add

tional room, an enlargement of their abodes, tpoor families confined in their too small aparments. They go there to get a breath of air isummer, and there the women talk and th

children play.When little Chebe made too much noise in thhouse, her mother would say to her: "Therthere! you bother me, go and play on the land

ing." And the child would go quickly enough.

This landing, on the upper floor of an old housin which space had not been spared, formed sort of large lobby, with a high ceiling, guarde

on the staircase side by a wrought-iron rai



lighted by a large window which looked ouupon roofs, courtyards, and other windowand, farther away, upon the garden of th

Fromont factory, which was like a green oasamong the huge old walls.

There was nothing very cheerful about it, buthe child liked it much better than her ow

home. Their rooms were dismal, especiallwhen it rained and Ferdinand did not go out.

With his brain always smoking with new ideawhich unfortunately never came to anything

Ferdinand Chebe was one of those slothfuproject-devising bourgeois of when there are smany in Paris. His wife, whom he had dazzleat first, had soon detected his utter insignif

cance, and had ended by enduring patientland with unchanged demeanor his continudreams of wealth and the disasters that immediately followed them.



Of the dot of eighty thousand francs which shhad brought him, and which he had squandered in his absurd schemes, only a small an

nuity remained, which still gave them a postion of some importance in the eyes of theneighbors, as did Madame Chebe's cashmerwhich had been rescued from every wreck, hewedding laces and two diamond studs, ver

tiny and very modest, which Sidonie somtimes begged her mother to show her, as thelay in the drawer of the bureau, in an oldfashioned white velvet case, on which the jew

eller's name, in gilt letters, thirty years old, wagradually fading. That was the only bit of luxury in that poor annuitant's abode.

For a very long time M. Chebe had sought

place which would enable him to eke out theslender income. But he sought it only in whahe called standing business, his health forbidding any occupation that required him to bseated.



It seemed that, soon after his marriage, whehe was in a flourishing business and had horse and tilbury of his own, the little man ha

had one day a serious fall. That fall, to which hreferred upon every occasion, served as an excuse for his indolence.

One could not be with M. Chebe five minute

before he would say in a confidential tone:

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

And then he would add, tapping his little balpate "The same thing happened to me in myouth."

Since that famous fall any sort of office wor

made him dizzy, and he had found himseinexorably confined to standing business. Thuhe had been in turn a broker in wines, in bookin truffles, in clocks, and in many other thingbeside. Unluckily, he tired of everything, neve



considered his position sufficiently exalted foa former business man with a tilbury, and, bgradual degrees, by dint of deeming every so

of occupation beneath him, he had grown oland incapable, a genuine idler with low tastea good-for-nothing.

Artists are often rebuked for their oddities, fo

the liberties they take with nature, for that horor of the conventional which impels them tfollow by-paths; but who can ever describe athe absurd fancies, all the idiotic eccentricitiewith which a bourgeois without occupation casucceed in filling the emptiness of his life? MChebe imposed upon himself certain rules concerning his goings and comings, and his walkabroad. While the Boulevard Sebastopol wa

being built, he went twice a day "to see how was getting on."

No one knew better than he the fashionabshops and the bargains; and very often Ma

dame Chebe, annoyed to see her husband



idiotic face at the window while she was enegetically mending the family linen, would riherself of him by giving him an errand to d

"You know that place, on the corner of such street, where they sell such nice cakes. Thewould be nice for our dessert."

And the husband would go out, saunter alon

the boulevard by the shops, wait for the omnbus, and pass half the day in procuring twcakes, worth three sous, which he would brinhome in triumph, wiping his forehead.

M. Chebe adored the summer, the Sundays, thgreat footraces in the dust at Clamart or Romainville, the excitement of holidays and thcrowd. He was one of those who went abou

for a whole week before the fifteenth of Augusgazing at the black lamps and their frames, anthe scaffoldings. Nor did his wife complain. Aall events, she no longer had that chronic grumbler prowling around her chair for whole day

with schemes for gigantic enterprises, combina



tions that missed fire in advance, lamentationconcerning the past, and a fixed determinationot to work at anything to earn money.

She no longer earned anything herself, poowoman; but she knew so well how to save, hewonderful economy made up so completely foeverything else, that absolute want, although

near neighbor of such impecuniosity as theirnever succeeded in making its way into thosthree rooms, which were always neat anclean, or in destroying the carefully mendegarments or the old furniture so well concealebeneath its coverings.

Opposite the Chebes' door, whose copper knogleamed in bourgeois fashion upon the land

ing, were two other and smaller ones.On the first, a visiting-card, held in place bfour nails, according to the custom in voguamong industrial artists, bore the name of

RISLER



DESIGNER OF PATTERNS.

On the other was a small square of leather, witthese words in gilt letters:

MESDAMES DELOBELLEBIRDS AND INSECTS FOR ORNA

MENT.

The Delobelles' door was often open, disclosina large room with a brick floor, where twwomen, mother and daughter, the latter almoa child, each as weary and as pale as the otheworked at one of the thousand fanciful littl

trades which go to make up what is called th'Articles de Paris'.

It was then the fashion to ornament hats anballgowns with the lovely little insects from

South America that have the brilliant colorinof jewels and reflect the light like diamondThe Delobelles had adopted that specialty.

A wholesale house, to which consignmen

were made directly from the Antilles, sent t



them, unopened, long, light boxes from whichwhen the lid was removed, arose a faint odor, dust of arsenic through which gleamed th

piles of insects, impaled before being shippedthe birds packed closely together, their wingheld in place by a strip of thin paper. Themust all be mounted—the insects quiverinupon brass wire, the humming-birds with the

feathers ruffled; they must be cleansed anpolished, the beak in a bright red, claw repairewith a silk thread, dead eyes replaced witsparkling pearls, and the insect or the bird re

stored to an appearance of life and grace. Thmother prepared the work under her daughter's direction; for Desiree, though she was stia mere girl, was endowed with exquisite tastwith a fairy-like power of invention, and n

one could, insert two pearl eyes in those tinheads or spread their lifeless wings so deftly ashe. Happy or unhappy, Desiree alwayworked with the same energy. From dawn untwell into the night the table was covered wit



work. At the last ray of daylight, when the fatory bells were ringing in all the neighborinyards, Madame Delobelle lighted the lamp, an

after a more than frugal repast they returned ttheir work. Those two indefatigable womehad one object, one fixed idea, which preventethem from feeling the burden of enforced vigils. That idea was the dramatic renown of th

illustrious Delobelle. After he had left the provincial theatres to pursue his profession iParis, Delobelle waited for an intelligent manager, the ideal and providential manager wh

discovers geniuses, to seek him out and offehim a role suited to his talents. He might, pehaps, especially at the beginning, have obtainea passably good engagement at a theatre of ththird order, but Delobelle did not choose t

lower himself.

He preferred to wait, to struggle, as he saidAnd this is how he awaited the struggle.



In the morning in his bedroom, often in his bedhe rehearsed roles in his former repertory; anthe Delobelle ladies trembled with emotio

when they heard behind the partition tiradefrom 'Antony' or the 'Medecin des Enfantsdeclaimed in a sonorous voice that blendewith the thousand-and-one noises of the greaParisian bee-hive. Then, after breakfast, th

actor would sally forth for the day; would go t"do his boulevard," that is to say, to saunter tand fro between the Chateau d'Eau and thMadeline, with a toothpick in the corner of h

mouth, his hat a little on one side-alwaygloved, and brushed, and glossy.

That question of dress was of great importancin his eyes. It was one of the greatest elemen

of success, a bait for the manager—the famouintelligent manager—who never would dreamof engaging a threadbare, shabbily dresseman.



So the Delobelle ladies took good care that hlacked nothing; and you can imagine howmany birds and insects it required to fit out

blade of that temper! The actor thought it thmost natural thing in the world.

In his view, the labors, the privations of hwife and daughter were not, strictly speaking

for his benefit, but for the benefit of that mysterious and unknown genius, whose trustee hconsidered himself to be.

There was a certain analogy between the pos

tion of the Chebe family and that of the Deloblles. But the latter household was less depresing. The Chebes felt that their petty annuitanexistence was fastened upon them forever, wit

no prospect of amelioration, always the samwhereas, in the actor's family, hope and illusiooften opened magnificent vistas.

The Chebes were like people living in a blin

alley; the Delobelles on a foul little street, whe



re there was no light or air, but where a greaboulevard might some day be laid out. Anthen, too, Madame Chebe no longer believed i

her husband, whereas, by virtue of that singmagic word, "Art!" her neighbor never hadoubted hers.

And yet for years and years Monsieu

Delobelle had been unavailingly drinking vemouth with dramatic agents, absinthe witleaders of claques, bitters with vaudevillistdramatists, and the famous what's-his-namauthor of several great dramas. Engagemendid not always follow. So that, without oncappearing on the boards, the poor man haprogressed from jeune premier to grand prmier roles, then to the financiers, then to th

noble fathers, then to the buffoons—

He stopped there!

On two or three occasions his friends had ob

tained for him a chance to earn his living a



manager of a club or a cafe as an inspector igreat warehouses, at the 'Phares de la Bastillor the 'Colosse de Rhodes.' All that was nece

sary was to have good manners. Delobelle wanot lacking in that respect, God knows! And yeevery suggestion that was made to him thgreat man met with a heroic refusal.

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

In the mouth of that poor devil, who had noset foot on the boards for years, it was irresist

bly comical. But one lost the inclination tlaugh when one saw his wife and his daughteswallowing particles of arsenic day and nighand heard them repeat emphatically as the

broke their needles against the brass wire witwhich the little birds were mounted:

"No! no! Monsieur Delobelle has no right tabandon the stage."



Happy man, whose bulging eyes, always smiing condescendingly, and whose habit of reigning on the stage had procured for him for lif

that exceptional position of a spoiled and admired child-king! When he left the house, thshopkeepers on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeoiwith the predilection of the Parisian for everything and everybody connected with the thea

tre, saluted him respectfully. He was always swell dressed! And then he was so kind, sobliging! When you think that every Saturdanight, he, Ruy Blas, Antony, Raphael in th

'Filles de Maybre,' Andres in the 'Pirates de Savane,' sallied forth, with a bandbox under harm, to carry the week's work of his wife andaughter to a flower establishment on the RuSt.-Denis!

Why, even when performing such a commision as that, this devil of a fellow had such nobility of bearing, such native dignity, that thyoung woman whose duty it was to make u



the Delobelle account was sorely embarrasseto hand to such an irreproachable gentlemathe paltry stipend so laboriously earned.

On those evenings, by the way, the actor dinot return home to dinner. The women werforewarned.

He always met some old comrade on the boulevard, some unlucky devil like himself—therare so many of them in that sacred profesion!—whom he entertained at a restaurant ocafe. Then, with scrupulous fidelity—and ver

grateful they were to him—he would carry threst of the money home, sometimes with a bouquet for his wife or a little present for Desiree,nothing, a mere trifle. What would you have

Those are the customs of the stage. It is such simple matter in a melodrama to toss a handfuof louis through the window!

"Ho! varlet, take this purse and hie thee henc

to tell thy mistress I await her coming."



And so, notwithstanding their marvellous courage, and although their trade was quite lucrative, the Delobelles often found themselves i

straitened circumstances, especially in the duseason of the 'Articles de Paris.'

Luckily the excellent Risler was at hand, alwayready to accommodate his friends.

Guillaume Risler, the third tenant on the landing, lived with his brother Frantz, who wafifteen years his junior. The two young Swistall and fair, strong and ruddy, brought into th

dismal, hard-working house glimpses of thcountry and of health. The elder was draughtsman at the Fromont factory and wapaying for the education of his brother, wh

attended Chaptal's lectures, pending his admision to the Ecole Centrale.

On his arrival at Paris, being sadly perplexed ato the installation of his little household, Gui

laume had derived from his neighbors, Me



dames Chebe and Delobelle, advice and infomation which were an indispensable aid to thaingenuous, timid, somewhat heavy youth, em

barrassed by his foreign accent and manneAfter a brief period of neighborhood and mutual services, the Risler brothers formed a paof both families.

On holidays places were always made for themat one table or the other, and it was a great saisfaction to the two exiles to find in those poohouseholds, modest and straitened as thewere, a taste of affection and family life.

The wages of the designer, who was very cleveat his trade, enabled him to be of service to thDelobelles on rent-day, and to make his ap

pearance at the Chebes' in the guise of the ricuncle, always laden with surprises and prsents, so that the little girl, as soon as she sawhim, would explore his pockets and climb ohis knees.



On Sunday he would take them all to the theatre; and almost every evening he would gwith Messieurs Chebe and Delobelle to a brew

ery on the Rue Blondel, where he regaled themwith beer and pretzels. Beer and pretzels werhis only vice.

For his own part, he knew no greater bliss tha

to sit before a foaming tankard, between htwo friends, listening to their talk, and takinpart only by a loud laugh or a shake of the heain their conversation, which was usually a lonsuccession of grievances against society.

A childlike shyness, and the Germanisms ospeech which he never had laid aside in his lifof absorbing toil, embarrassed him much i

giving expression to his ideas. Moreover, hfriends overawed him. They had in respect thim the tremendous superiority of the mawho does nothing over the man who workand M. Chebe, less generous than Delobell

did not hesitate to make him feel it. He wa



very lofty with him, was M. Chebe! In his opinion, a man who worked, as Risler did, tehours a day, was incapable, when he left h

work, of expressing an intelligent idea. Somtimes the designer, coming home worried fromthe factory, would prepare to spend the nighover some pressing work. You should havseen M. Chebe's scandalized expression then!

"Nobody could make me follow such a busness!" he would say, expanding his chest, anhe would add, looking at Risler with the air ofphysician making a professional call, "Just watill you've had one severe attack."

Delobelle was not so fierce, but he adopted still loftier tone. The cedar does not see a rose

its foot. Delobelle did not see Risler at his feet.When, by chance, the great man deigned tnotice his presence, he had a certain air of stooping down to him to listen, and to smile at h

words as at a child's; or else he would amus



himself by dazzling him with stories of atresses, would give him lessons in deportmenand the addresses of outfitters, unable to un

derstand why a man who earned so mucmoney should always be dressed like an usheat a primary school. Honest Risler, convinceof his inferiority, would try to earn forgivenesby a multitude of little attentions, obliged t

furnish all the delicacy, of course, as he was thconstant benefactor.

Among these three households living on thsame floor, little Chebe, with her goings ancomings, formed the bond of union.

At all times of day she would slip into the wokroom of the Delobelles, amuse herself by wa

ching their work and looking at all the insectand, being already more coquettish than playful, if an insect had lost a wing in its travels, oa humming-bird its necklace of down, shwould try to make herself a headdress of th

remains, to fix that brilliant shaft of colo



among the ripples of her silky hair. It madDesiree and her mother smile to see her stanon tiptoe in front of the old tarnished mirro

with affected little shrugs and grimaces. Thenwhen she had had enough of admiring herselthe child would open the door with all thstrength of her little fingers, and would go dmurely, holding her head perfectly straight fo

fear of disarranging her headdress, and knocat the Rislers' door.

No one was there in the daytime but Frantz thstudent, leaning over his books, doing his dutfaithfully. But when Sidonie enters, farewell tstudy! Everything must be put aside to receivthat lovely creature with the humming-bird iher hair, pretending to be a princess who ha

come to Chaptal's school to ask his hand in marriage from the director.

It was really a strange sight to see that talovergrown boy playing with that little girl o

eight, humoring her caprices, adoring her as h



yielded to her, so that later, when he fell genuinely in love with her, no one could have saiat what time the change began.

Petted as she was in those two homes, littChebe was very fond of running to the windowon the landing. There it was that she found hegreatest source of entertainment, a horizon a

ways open, a sort of vision of the future towarwhich she leaned with eager curiosity and wihout fear, for children are not subject to vertigo

Between the slated roofs sloping toward on

another, the high wall of the factory, the tops othe plane-trees in the garden, the manywindowed workshops appeared to her like promised land, the country of her dreams.

That Fromont establishment was to her minthe highest ideal of wealth.

The place it occupied in that part of the Maraiwhich was at certain hours enveloped by i



smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, hfabulous tales concerning his employerwealth and goodness and cleverness, ha

aroused that childish curiosity; and such potions as she could see of the dwelling-housethe carved wooden blinds, the circular fronsteps, with the garden-seats before them, great white bird-house with gilt stripes glisten

ing in the sun, the blue-lined coupe standing ithe courtyard, were to her objects of continuadmiration.

She knew all the habits of the family: At whahour the bell was rung, when the workmewent away, the Saturday payday which kepthe cashier's little lamp lighted late in the evening, and the long Sunday afternoon, the close

workshops, the smokeless chimney, the profound silence which enabled her to heaMademoiselle Claire at play in the gardenrunning about with her cousin Georges. FromRisler she obtained details.



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

Risler, delighted by this extraordinary interein his beloved factory, would explain to thchild from their lofty position the arrangemenof the buildings, point out the print-shop, thgilding-shop, the designing-room where h

worked, the engine-room, above which towered that enormous chimney blackening all thneighboring walls with its corrosive smokand which never suspected that a young lifconcealed beneath a neighboring roof, mingleits inmost thoughts with its loud, indefatigabpanting.

At last one day Sidonie entered that paradise o

which she had heretofore caught only glimpse.

Madame Fromont, to whom Risler often spokof her little neighbor's beauty and intelligenc

asked him to bring her to the children's ball sh



intended to give at Christmas. At first Monsieur Chebe replied by a curt refusal. Even ithose days, the Fromonts, whose name wa

always on Rider's lips, irritated and humiliatehim by their wealth. Moreover, it was to be fancy ball, and M. Chebe—who did not sewallpapers, not he!—could not afford to dreshis daughter as a circus-dancer. But Risler in

sisted, declared that he would get everythinhimself, and at once set about designing a cotume.

It was a memorable evening.

In Madame Chebe's bedroom, littered witpieces of cloth and pins and small toilet articleDesiree Delobelle superintended Sidonie's to

let. The child, appearing taller because of heshort skirt of red flannel with black stripestood before the mirror, erect and motionlesin the glittering splendor of her costume. Shwas charming. The waist, with bands of velve

laced over the white stomacher, the lovely, lon



tresses of chestnut hair escaping from a hat oplaited straw, all the trivial details of heSavoyard's costume were heightened by th

intelligent features of the child, who was quitat her ease in the brilliant colors of that theatrcal garb.

The whole assembled neighborhood uttere

cries of admiration. While some one went isearch of Delobelle, the lame girl arranged thfolds of the skirt, the bows on the shoes, ancast a final glance over her work, without laying aside her needle; she, too, was excited, poochild! by the intoxication of that festivity twhich she was not invited. The great man arived. He made Sidonie rehearse two or threstately curtseys which he had taught her, th

proper way to walk, to stand, to smile with hemouth slightly open, and the exact position othe little finger. It was truly amusing to see thprecision with which the child went througthe drill.



"She has dramatic blood in her veins!" exclaimed the old actor enthusiastically, unable tunderstand why that stupid Frantz wa

strongly inclined to weep.

A year after that happy evening Sidonie coulhave told you what flowers there were in threception rooms, the color of the furniture, an

the music they were playing as she entered thballroom, so deep an impression did her enjoyment make upon her. She forgot nothinneither the costumes that made an eddyinwhirl about her, nor the childish laughter, noall the tiny steps that glided over the polishefloors. For a moment, as she sat on the edge ofgreat red-silk couch, taking from the plate presented to her the first sherbet of her life, sh

suddenly thought of the dark stairway, of heparents' stuffy little rooms, and it produceupon her mind the effect of a distant countrwhich she had left forever.



However, she was considered a fascinatinlittle creature, and was much admired and peted. Claire Fromont, a miniature Cauchois

dressed in lace, presented her to her cousiGeorges, a magnificent hussar who turned aevery step to observe the effect of his sabre.

"You understand, Georges, she is my friend

She is coming to play with us SundayMamma says she may."

And, with the artless impulsiveness of a happchild, she kissed little Chebe with all her heart

But the time came to go. For a long time, in thfilthy street where the snow was melting, in thdark hall, in the silent room where her motheawaited her, the brilliant light of the salons con

tinued to shine before her dazzled eyes.

"Was it very fine? Did you have a charmintime?" queried Madame Chebe in a low ton



unfastening the buckles of the gorgeous cotume, one by one.

And Sidonie, overcome with fatigue, made nreply, but fell asleep standing, beginning lovely dream which was to last throughout heyouth and cost her many tears.

Claire Fromont kept her word. Sidonie oftewent to play in the beautiful gravelled gardenand was able to see at close range the carveblinds and the dovecot with its threads of goldShe came to know all the corners and hiding

places in the great factory, and took part in many glorious games of hide-and-seek behind thprinting-tables in the solitude of Sunday aftenoon. On holidays a plate was laid for her a

the children's table.Everybody loved her, although she never exhibited much affection for any one. So long ashe was in the midst of that luxury, she wa

conscious of softer impulses, she was happ



and felt that she was embellished by her suroundings; but when she returned to her paents, when she saw the factory through th

dirty panes of the window on the landing, shhad an inexplicable feeling of regret and anger

And yet Claire Fromont treated her as a friend

Sometimes they took her to the Bois, to the Tuleries, in the famous blue-lined carriage, or intthe country, to pass a whole week at Grandfather Gardinois's chateau, at Savigny-sur-OrgThanks to the munificence of Risler, who wa

very proud of his little one's success, she waalways presentable and well dressed. MadamChebe made it a point of honor, and the prettylame girl was always at hand to place her trea

sures of unused coquetry at her little friendservice.

But M. Chebe, who was always hostile to thFromonts, looked frowningly upon this grow

ing intimacy. The true reason was that he him



self never was invited; but he gave other reasons, and would say to his wife:

"Don't you see that your daughter's heart is sawhen she returns from that house, and that shpasses whole hours dreaming at the window?"

But poor Madame Chebe, who had been s

unhappy ever since her marriage, had becomreckless. She declared that one should make thmost of the present for fear of the futurshould seize happiness as it passes, as one oftehas no other support and consolation in lif

than the memory of a happy childhood.

For once it happened that M. Chebe was right.



CHAPTER III. THE FALSE PEARLS

After two or three years of intimacy witClaire, of sharing her amusements, years duing which Sidonie acquired the familiarity witluxury and the graceful manners of the childreof the wealthy, the friendship was suddenl

broken.

Cousin Georges, whose guardian M. Fromonwas, had entered college some time beforClaire in her turn took her departure for thconvent with the outfit of a little queen; and athat very time the Chebes were discussing thquestion of apprenticing Sidonie to some tradThey promised to love each other as before an

to meet twice a month, on the Sundays thaClaire was permitted to go home.

Indeed, little Chebe did still go down sometimes to play with her friends; but as she grew

older she realized more fully the distance tha



separated them, and her clothes began to seemto her very simple for Madame Fromont's salon.

When the three were alone, the childish friendship which made them equals prevented anfeeling of embarrassment; but visitors camgirl friends from the convent, among others

tall girl, always richly dressed, whom hemother's maid used to bring to play with thlittle Fromonts on Sunday.

As soon as she saw her coming up the step

resplendent and disdainful, Sidonie longed tgo away at once. The other embarrassed hewith awkward questions. Where did she liveWhat did her parents do? Had she a carriage?

As she listened to their talk of the convent antheir friends, Sidonie felt that they lived in different world, a thousand miles from heown; and a deathly sadness seized her, esp

cially when, on her return home, her mothe



spoke of sending her as an apprentice tMademoiselle Le Mire, a friend of thDelobelles, who conducted a large false-pea

establishment on the Rue du Roi-Dore.

Risler insisted upon the plan of having the littone serve an apprenticeship. "Let her learn trade," said the honest fellow. "Later I will un

dertake to set her up in business."

Indeed, this same Mademoiselle Le Mire spokof retiring in a few years. It was an excellenopportunity.

One morning, a dull day in November, her father took her to the Rue du Rio-Dore, to thfourth floor of an old house, even older anblacker than her own home.

On the ground floor, at the entrance to the halhung a number of signs with gilt letters: Depofor Travelling-Bags, Plated Chains, ChildrenToys, Mathematical Instruments in Glass, Bou



quets for Brides and Maids of Honor, WilFlowers a Specialty; and above was a little duty show-case, wherein pearls, yellow with ag

glass grapes and cherries surrounded the pretentious name of Angelina Le Mire.

What a horrible house!

It had not even a broad landing like that of thChebes, grimy with old age, but brightened bits window and the beautiful prospect presented by the factory. A narrow staircase, narrow door, a succession of rooms with bric

floors, all small and cold, and in the last an olmaid with a false front and black thread mittreading a soiled copy of the 'Journal pouTous,' and apparently very much annoyed to b

disturbed in her reading.Mademoiselle Le Mire (written in two wordreceived the father and daughter without riing, discoursed at great length of the rank sh

had lost, of her father, an old nobleman of L



Rouergue—it is most extraordinary how manold noblemen Le Rouergue has produced!—and of an unfaithful steward who had carrie

off their whole fortune. She instantly arousethe sympathies of M. Chebe, for whom decayegentlefolk had an irresistible charm, and hwent away overjoyed, promising his daughteto call for her at seven o'clock at night in acco

dance with the terms agreed upon.

The apprentice was at once ushered into thstill empty workroom. Mademoiselle Le Mirseated her in front of a great drawer filled witpearls, needles, and bodkins, with instalmenof four-sou novels thrown in at random amonthem.

It was Sidonie's business to sort the pearls anstring them in necklaces of equal length, whicwere tied together to be sold to the small deaers. Then the young women would soon bthere and they would show her exactly wha

she would have to do, for Mademoiselle L



Mire (always written in two words!) did nointerfere at all, but overlooked her businesfrom a considerable distance, from that dar

room where she passed her life reading newpaper novels.

At nine o'clock the work-women arrived, fivtall, pale-faced, faded girls, wretchedly dressed

but with their hair becomingly arranged, aftethe fashion of poor working-girls who go aboubare-headed through the streets of Paris.

Two or three were yawning and rubbing the

eyes, saying that they were dead with sleep.

At last they went to work beside a long tabwhere each had her own drawer and her owtools. An order had been received for mournin

jewels, and haste was essential. Sidonie, whomthe forewoman instructed in her task in a tonof infinite superiority, began dismally to sort multitude of black pearls, bits of glass, an

wisps of crape.



The others, paying no attention to the little girchatted together as they worked. They talked oa wedding that was to take place that very da

at St. Gervais.

"Suppose we go," said a stout, red-haired girwhose name was Malvina. "It's to be at noonWe shall have time to go and get back again

we hurry."

And, at the lunch hour, the whole party rushedownstairs four steps at a time.

Sidonie had brought her luncheon in a littbasket, like a school-girl; with a heavy heart shsat at a corner of the table and ate alone for thfirst time in her life. Great God! what a sad anwretched thing life seemed to be; what a terr

ble revenge she would take hereafter for hesufferings there!

At one o'clock the girls trooped noisily backhighly excited.



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

Thereupon they repeated in the workroom thremarks they had made in undertones in thchurch, leaning against the rail, throughout thceremony. That question of a wealthy marriagof beautiful clothes, lasted all day long; nor di

it interfere with their work-far from it.

These small Parisian industries, which have tdo with the most trivial details of the toilekeep the work-girls informed as to the fashion

and fill their minds with thoughts of luxurand elegance. To the poor girls who worked oMademoiselle Le Mire's fourth floor, the blackened walls, the narrow street did not exis

They were always thinking of something elsand passed their lives asking one another:

"Malvina, if you were rich what would you doFor my part, I'd live on the Champs-Elysees

And the great trees in the square, the carriage



that wheeled about there, coquettishly slackening their pace, appeared momentarily befortheir minds, a delicious, refreshing vision.

Little Chebe, in her corner, listened withouspeaking, industriously stringing her black grapes with the precocious dexterity and taste shhad acquired in Desiree's neighborhood. S

that in the evening, when M. Chebe came tfetch his daughter, they praised her in thhighest terms.

Thereafter all her days were alike. The nex

day, instead of black pearls, she strung whitpearls and bits of false coral; for at Mademoselle Le Mire's they worked only in what wafalse, in tinsel, and that was where little Cheb

was to serve her apprenticeship to life.For some time the new apprentice-being younger and better bred than the others—found thathey held aloof from her. Later, as she grew

older, she was admitted to their friendship an



their confidence, but without ever sharing thepleasures. She was too proud to go to see weddings at midday; and when she heard them

talking of a ball at Vauxhall or the 'Delices dMarais,' or of a nice little supper at Bonvaletor at the 'Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle,' shwas always very disdainful.

We looked higher than that, did we not, littChebe?

Moreover, her father called for her every evening. Sometimes, however, about the New

Year, she was obliged to work late with thothers, in order to complete pressing orders. Ithe gaslight those pale-faced Parisians, sortinpearls as white as themselves, of a dead, un

wholesome whiteness, were a painful spectaclThere was the same fictitious glitter, the samfragility of spurious jewels. They talked of nohing but masked balls and theatres.



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

The actors' doublets, the embroidered costumeof the queens of melodrama, appeared beforthem in the white light of the necklaces forminbeneath their fingers.

In summer the work was less pressing. It wathe dull season. In the intense heat, whethrough the drawn blinds fruit-sellers could bheard in the street, crying their mirabelles an

Queen Claudes, the workgirls slept heavilytheir heads on the table. Or perhaps Malvinwould go and ask Mademoiselle Le Mire for copy of the 'Journal pour Tous,' and read alou

to the others.But little Chebe did not care for the novels. Shcarried one in her head much more interestinthan all that trash.



The fact is, nothing could make her forget thfactory. When she set forth in the morning oher father's arm, she always cast a glance i

that direction. At that hour the works were justirring, the chimney emitted its first puff oblack smoke. Sidonie, as she passed, could heathe shouts of the workmen, the dull, heavblows of the bars of the printing-press, th

mighty, rhythmical hum of the machinery; anall those sounds of toil, blended in her memorwith recollections of fetes and blue-lined cariages, haunted her persistently.

They spoke louder than the rattle of the omnbuses, the street cries, the cascades in the guters; and even in the workroom, when she wasorting the false pearls even at night, in he

own home, when she went, after dinner, tbreathe the fresh air at the window on the landing and to gaze at the dark, deserted factorythat murmur still buzzed in her ears, forming



as it were, a continual accompaniment to hethoughts.

"The little one is tired, Madame Chebe. Shneeds diversion. Next Sunday I will take yoall into the country."

These Sunday excursions, which honest Risle

organized to amuse Sidonie, served only tsadden her still more.

On those days she must rise at four o'clock ithe morning; for the poor must pay for all the

enjoyments, and there was always a ribbon tbe ironed at the last moment, or a bit of trimming to be sewn on in an attempt to rejuvenatthe everlasting little lilac frock with whistripes which Madame Chebe conscientiousl

lengthened every year.

They would all set off together, the Chebes, thRislers, and the illustrious Delobelle. Only Dsiree and her mother never were of the party



The poor, crippled child, ashamed of her deformity, never would stir from her chair, anMamma Delobelle stayed behind to keep he

company. Moreover, neither possessed a suiable gown in which to show herself out-odoors in their great man's company; it woulhave destroyed the whole effect of his appeaance.

When they left the house, Sidonie would brighten up a little. Paris in the pink haze of a Julmorning, the railway stations filled with lighdresses, the country flying past the car windows, and the healthful exercise, the bath in thpure air saturated with the water of the Seinvivified by a bit of forest, perfumed by floweing meadows, by ripening grain, all combine

to make her giddy for a moment. But that sensation was soon succeeded by disgust at such commonplace way of passing her Sunday.

It was always the same thing.



They stopped at a refreshment booth, in closproximity to a very noisy and numerously atended rustic festival, for there must be an au

dience for Delobelle, who would saunter alonabsorbed by his chimera, dressed in gray, witgray gaiters, a little hat over his ear, a light tocoat on his arm, imagining that the stage represented a country scene in the suburbs of Pari

and that he was playing the part of a Parisiasojourning in the country.

As for M. Chebe, who prided himself on beinas fond of nature as the late Jean Jacques Rouseau, he did not appreciate it without the acompaniments of shooting-matches, woodehorses, sack races, and a profusion of dust anpenny-whistles, which constituted also Ma

dame Chebe's ideal of a country life.

But Sidonie had a different ideal; and thosParisian Sundays passed in strolling througnoisy village streets depressed her beyon

measure. Her only pleasure in those throng



was the consciousness of being stared at. Thveriest boor's admiration, frankly expressealoud at her side, made her smile all day; fo

she was of those who disdain no compliment.

Sometimes, leaving the Chebes and Delobelin the midst of the fete, Risler would go into thfields with his brother and the "little one" i

search of flowers for patterns for his walpapers. Frantz, with his long arms, would pudown the highest branches of a hawthorn, owould climb a park wall to pick a leaf of graceful shape he had spied on the other side. Buthey reaped their richest harvests on the bankof the stream.

There they found those flexible plants, wit

long swaying stalks, which made such a loveleffect on hangings, tall, straight reeds, and thvolubilis, whose flower, opening suddenly as in obedience to a caprice, resembles a livinface, some one looking at you amid the lovely

quivering foliage. Risler arranged his bouque



artistically, drawing his inspiration from thvery nature of the plants, trying to understanthoroughly their manner of life, which can no

be divined after the withering of one day.

Then, when the bouquet was completed, tiewith a broad blade of grass as with a ribbonand slung over Frantz's back, away they wen

Risler, always engrossed in his art, lookeabout for subjects, for possible combinations, athey walked along.

"Look there, little one—see that bunch of lily o

the valley, with its white bells, among thoseglantines. What do you think? Wouldn't thabe pretty against a sea-green or pearl-grabackground?"

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



She remembered that she had seen flowers of different sort at the house of M. Gardinois, athe Chateau de Savigny, in the hothouses, o

the balconies, and all about the gravelled couryard bordered with tall urns. Those were thflowers she loved; that was her idea of thcountry!

The little stations in the outskirts of Paris are sterribly crowded and stuffy on those Sundaevenings in summer! Such artificial enjoymensuch idiotic laughter, such doleful ballads, sunin whispers by voices that no longer have thstrength to roar! That was the time when MChebe was in his element.

He would elbow his way to the gate, scol

about the delay of the train, declaim against thstation-agent, the company, the governmensay to Delobelle in a loud voice, so as to boverheard by his neighbors:



"I say—suppose such a thing as this shoulhappen in America!" Which remark, thanks tthe expressive by-play of the illustrious acto

and to the superior air with which he replied, believe you!" gave those who stood near to understand that these gentlemen knew exactlwhat would happen in America in such a casNow, they were equally and entirely ignoran

on that subject; but upon the crowd their wordmade an impression.

Sitting beside Frantz, with half of his bundle oflowers on her knees, Sidonie would seem to bblotted out, as it were, amid the uproar, durinthe long wait for the evening trains. From thstation, lighted by a single lamp, she could sethe black clumps of trees outside, lighted her

and there by the last illuminations of the fete, dark village street, people continually cominin, and a lantern hanging on a deserted pier.

From time to time, on the other side of the glas

doors, a train would rush by without stopping



with a shower of hot cinders and the roar oescaping steam. Thereupon a tempest of shouand stamping would arise in the station, and

soaring above all the rest, the shrill treble of MChebe, shrieking in his sea-gull's voice: "Breadown the doors! break down the doors!"—thing that the little man would have taken goocare not to do himself, as he had an abject fea

of gendarmes. In a moment the storm woulabate. The tired women, their hair disarrangeby the wind, would fall asleep on the bencheThere were torn and ragged dresses, low

necked white gowns, covered with dust.

The air they breathed consisted mainly of dusIt lay upon their clothes, rose at every step, obscured the light of the lamp, vexed one's eye

and raised a sort of cloud before the tired faceThe cars which they entered at last, after hourof waiting, were saturated with it also. Sidoniwould open the window, and look out at thdark fields, an endless line of shadow. Then



like innumerable stars, the first lanterns of thouter boulevards appeared near the fortifications.

So ended the ghastly day of rest of all thospoor creatures. The sight of Paris brought bacto each one's mind the thought of the morrowtoil. Dismal as her Sunday had been, Sidon

began to regret that it had passed. She thoughof the rich, to whom all the days of their livewere days of rest; and vaguely, as in a dreamthe long park avenues of which she had caughglimpses during the day appeared to her thronged with those happy ones of earth, strolling othe fine gravel, while outside the gate, in thdust of the highroad, the poor man's Sundahurried swiftly by, having hardly time to paus

a moment to look and envy.

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



The years passed, but did not bring with themthe slightest change. Madame Chebe's cashmere was a little more threadbare, the little lila

frock had undergone a few additional repairand that was all. But, as Sidonie grew oldeFrantz, now become a young man, acquired habit of gazing at her silently with a meltinexpression, of paying her loving attentions tha

were visible to everybody, and were unnoticeby none save the girl herself.

Indeed, nothing aroused the interest of littChebe. In the work-room she performed hetask regularly, silently, without the slightethought of the future or of saving. All that shdid seemed to be done as if she were waitinfor something.

Frantz, on the other hand, had been workinfor some time with extraordinary energy, thardor of those who see something at the end otheir efforts; so that, at the age of twenty-fou



he graduated second in his class from the EcoCentrale, as an engineer.

On that evening Risler had taken the Chebfamily to the Gymnase, and throughout thevening he and Madame Chebe had been making signs and winking at each other behind thchildren's backs. And when they left the theatr

Madame Chebe solemnly placed Sidonie's armin Frantz's, as if she would say to the loveloryouth, "Now settle matters—here is your chance."

Thereupon the poor lover tried to settle maters.

It is a long walk from the Gymnase to the Mrais. After a very few steps the brilliancy of th

boulevard is left behind, the streets becomdarker and darker, the passers more and morrare. Frantz began by talking of the play. Hwas very fond of comedies of that sort, i

which there was plenty of sentiment.



"And you, Sidonie?"

"Oh! as for me, Frantz, you know that so lonas there are fine costumes—"

In truth she thought of nothing else at the theatre. She was not one of those sentimental creatures; a la Madame Bovary, who return from

the play with love-phrases ready-made, a conventional ideal. No! the theatre simply madher long madly for luxury and fine raiment; shbrought away from it nothing but new methodof arranging the hair, and patterns of gown

The new, exaggerated toilettes of the actressetheir gait, even the spurious elegance of thespeech, which seemed to her of the highest ditinction, and with it all the tawdry magnif

cence of the gilding and the lights, the gaudplacard at the door, the long line of carriageand all the somewhat unwholesome excitementhat springs up about a popular play; that wawhat she loved, that was what absorbed he

thoughts.



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

And, as he uttered that suggestive phrase, hbent fondly toward a little face surrounded ba white woollen hood, from which the hair ecaped in rebellious curls.

Sidonie sighed:

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

There was a moment's silence. Poor Frantz hamuch difficulty in explaining himself. Thwords he sought would not come, and thentoo, he was afraid. He fixed the time mentallwhen he would speak:

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

But when the time arrived, Sidonie began t

talk of such indifferent matters that his declara



tion froze on his lips, or else it was stopped ba passing carriage, which enabled their elderto overtake them.

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

"Listen to me, Sidonie—I love you!"

That night the Delobelles had sat up very late.

It was the habit of those brave-hearted wometo make their working-day as long as possibl

to prolong it so far into the night that thelamp was among the last to be extinguished othe quiet Rue de Braque. They always sat uuntil the great man returned home, and kept dainty little supper warm for him in the ashe

on the hearth.

In the days when he was an actor there wasome reason for that custom; actors, beinobliged to dine early and very sparingly, have



terrible gnawing at their vitals when they leavthe theatre, and usually eat when they ghome. Delobelle had not acted for a long tim

but having, as he said, no right to abandon thstage, he kept his mania alive by clinging to number of the strolling player's habits, and thsupper on returning home was one of them, awas his habit of delaying his return until th

last footlight in the boulevard theatres was extinguished. To retire without supping, at thhour when all other artists supped, would havbeen to abdicate, to abandon the struggle, an

he would not abandon it, sacre bleu!

On the evening in question the actor had noyet come in and the women were waiting fohim, talking as they worked, and with grea

animation, notwithstanding the lateness of thhour. During the whole evening they had donnothing but talk of Frantz, of his success, of thfuture that lay before him.



"Now," said Mamma Delobelle, "the only thinhe needs is to find a good little wife."

That was Desiree's opinion, too. That was athat was lacking now to Frantz's happiness, good little wife, active and brave and accutomed to work, who would forget everythinfor him. And if Desiree spoke with great conf

dence, it was because she was intimately aquainted with the woman who was so weadapted to Frantz Risler's needs. She was onlyyear younger than he, just enough to make heyounger than her husband and a mother to himat the same time.

Pretty?

No, not exactly, but attractive rather than ugly

notwithstanding her infirmity, for she walame, poor child! And then she was clever anbright, and so loving! No one but Desiree knewhow fondly that little woman loved Frantz, an

how she had thought of him night and day fo



years. He had not noticed it himself, but semed to have eyes for nobody but Sidonie, gamine. But no matter! Silent love is so elo

quent, such a mighty power lies hid in rstrained feelings. Who knows? Perhaps somday or other:

And the little cripple, leaning over her work

started upon one of those long journeys to thland of chimeras of which she had made smany in her invalid's easychair, with her feresting on the stool; one of those wonderfujourneys from which she always returned happy and smiling, leaning on Frantz's arm witall the confidence of a beloved wife. As hefingers followed her thought, the little bird shhad in her hand at the moment, smoothing h

ruffled wings, looked as if he too were of thparty and were about to fly far, far away, ajoyous and light of heart as she.

Suddenly the door flew open.



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

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

"Ah! it's Monsieur Frantz. Pray come in, Monsieur Frantz. We're waiting for father, as yosee. These brigands of artists always stay out s

late! Take a seat—you shall have supper withim."

"Oh! no, thank you," replied Frantz, whose lipwere still pale from the emotion he had unde

gone, "I can't stop. I saw a light and I just stepped in to tell you—to tell you some great newthat will make you very happy, because I knowthat you love me—"

"Great heavens, what is it?"

"Monsieur Frantz Risler and Mademoiselle Sdonie are engaged to be married."



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

Desiree had not the strength to utter a wordShe bent still lower over her work, and aFrantz's eyes were fixed exclusively upon hhappiness, as Mamma Delobelle did nothin

but look at the clock to see whether her greaman would return soon, no one noticed thlame girl's emotion, nor her pallor, nor the convulsive trembling of the little bird that lay iher hands with its head thrown back, like bird with its death-wound.



CHAPTER IV. THE GLOW-WORMS OSAVIGNY

"SAVIGNY-SUR-ORGE.

"DEAR SMONIE:—We were sitting at tabyesterday in the great dining-room which yoremember, with the door wide open leading t

the terrace, where the flowers are all in bloom.was a little bored. Dear grandpapa had beecross all the morning, and poor mamma darenot say a word, being afraid of those frownin

eyebrows which have always laid down thlaw for her. I was thinking what a pity it was tbe so entirely alone, in the middle of the summer, in such a lovely spot, and that I should bvery glad, now that I have left the convent, an

am destined to pass whole seasons in the country, to have as in the old day, some one to ruabout the woods and paths with me.



"To be sure, Georges comes occasionally, but halways arrives very late, just in time for dinneand is off again with my father in the mornin

before I am awake. And then he is a seriouminded man now, is Monsieur Georges. Hworks at the factory, and business cares oftebring frowns to his brow.

"I had reached that point in my reflectionwhen suddenly dear grandpapa turned abruptly to me:

"'What has become of your little friend Sidonie

I should be glad to have her here for a time.'

"You can imagine my delight. What happinesto meet again, to renew the pleasant friendshithat was broken off by the fault of the events o

life rather than by our own! How many thingwe shall have to tell each other! You, who alonhad the knack of driving the frowns from mterrible grandpapa's brow, will bring us gayety

and I assure you we need it.



"This lovely Savigny is so lonely! For instancsometimes in the morning I choose to be a littlcoquettish. I dress myself, I make myself beau

tiful with my hair in curls and put on a prettgown; I walk through all the paths, and suddenly I realize that I have taken all this troubfor the swans and ducks, my dog Kiss, and thcows, who do not even turn to look at me whe

I pass. Thereupon, in my wrath, I hurry homput on a thick gown and busy myself on thfarm, in the servants' quarters, everywherAnd really, I am beginning to believe that en

nui has perfected me, and that I shall make aexcellent housekeeper.

"Luckily the hunting season will soon be herand I rely upon that for a little amusement. I

the first place, Georges and father, both enthusiastic sportsmen, will come oftener. And theyou will be here, you know. For you will replat once that you will come, won't you? Monsieur Risler said not long ago that you were no



well. The air of Savigny will do you worlds ogood.

"Everybody here expects you. And I am dyinwith impatience.

"CLAIRE."

Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned

large straw hat for the first days of August were warm and glorious—and went herself tdrop it in the little box from which the postmacollected the mail from the chateau evermorning.

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in throad. She paused a moment to look at the treeby the roadside, at the neighboring meadowsleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder th

reapers were gathering the last sheaves. Fartheon they were ploughing. But all the melancholof the silent toil had vanished, so far as the giwas concerned, so delighted was she at th

thought of seeing her friend once more.



No breeze came from the hills in the distancno voice from the trees, to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending tha

fatal letter. And immediately upon her returshe gave her attention to the preparation of pretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her own

The letter did its errand faithfully. From th

little green, vine-embowered gate of the chateau it found its way to Paris, and arrived thsame evening, with its Savigny postmark animpregnated with the odor of the country, the fifth-floor apartment on the Rue de Braque

What an event that was! They read it again anagain; and for a whole week, until Sidoniedeparture, it lay on the mantel-shelf besid

Madame Chebe's treasures, the clock under glass globe and the Empire cups. To Sidonie was like a wonderful romance filled with taleof enchantment and promises, which she reawithout opening it, merely by gazing at th



white envelope whereon Claire Fromont's monogram was engraved in relief.

Little she thought of marriage now. The impotant question was, What clothes should shwear at the chateau? She must give her wholmind to that, to cutting and planning, trying odresses, devising new ways of arranging he

hair. Poor Frantz! How heavy his heart wamade by these preparations! That visit to Savgny, which he had tried vainly to opposwould cause a still further postponement otheir wedding, which Sidonie-why, he did noknow—persisted in putting off from day tday. He could not go to see her; and when shwas once there, in the midst of festivities anpleasures, who could say how long she woul

remain?

The lover in his despair always went to thDelobelles to confide his sorrows, but he nevenoticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as h

entered, to make room for him by her side a



the work-table, and how she at once sat dowagain, with cheeks as red as fire and shinineyes.

For some days past they had ceased to work abirds and insects for ornament. The mother andaughter were hemming pink flounces detined for Sidonie's frock, and the little crippl

never had plied her needle with such gooheart.

In truth little Desiree was not Delobelledaughter to no purpose.

She inherited her father's faculty of retaininhis illusions, of hoping on to the end and evebeyond.

While Frantz was dilating upon his woe, Desirwas thinking that, when Sidonie was gone, hwould come every day, if it were only to talabout the absent one; that she would have himthere by her side, that they would sit up to



gether waiting for "father," and that, perhapsome evening, as he sat looking at her, hwould discover the difference between th

woman who loves you and the one who simplallows herself to be loved.

Thereupon the thought that every stitch takein the frock tended to hasten the departur

which she anticipated with such impatiencimparted extraordinary activity to her needland the unhappy lover ruefully watched thflounces and ruffles piling up about her, liklittle pink, white-capped waves.

When the pink frock was finished, Mademoselle Chebe started for Savigny.

The chateau of M. Gardinois was built in th

valley of the Orge, on the bank of that caprciously lovely stream, with its windmills, ilittle islands, its dams, and its broad lawns thend at its shores.



The chateau, an old Louis-Quinze structurlow in reality, although made to appear high ba pointed roof, had a most depressing aspec

suggestive of aristocratic antiquity; broad stepbalconies with rusty balustrades, old urns marred by time, wherein the flowers stood ouvividly against the reddish stone. As far as theye could see, the walls stretched away, d

cayed and crumbling, descending gradualltoward the stream. The chateau overlookethem, with its high, slated roofs, the farmhouswith its red tiles, and the superb park, with i

lindens, ash-trees, poplars and chestnuts growing confusedly together in a dense black mascut here and there by the arched openings othe paths.

But the charm of the old place was the watewhich enlivened its silence and gave characteto its beautiful views. There were at Savigny, tsay nothing of the river, many springs, fountains, and ponds, in which the sun sank to re



in all his glory; and they formed a suitable seting for that venerable mansion, green anmossy as it was, and slightly worn away, like

stone on the edge of a brook.

Unluckily, at Savigny, as in most of those gogeous Parisian summer palaces, which the pavenus in commerce and speculation have mad

their prey, the chatelains were not in harmonwith the chateau.

Since he had purchased his chateau, old Gardnois had done nothing but injure the beauty o

the beautiful property chance had placed in hhands; cut down trees "for the view," filled hpark with rough obstructions to keep out trepassers, and reserved all his solicitude for

magnificent kitchen-garden, which, as it produced fruit and vegetables in abundancseemed to him more like his own part of thcountry—the land of the peasant.



As for the great salons, where the panels witpaintings of famous subjects were fading in thautumn fogs, as for the ponds overrun wit

water-lilies, the grottoes, the stone bridges, hcared for them only because of the admiratioof visitors, and because of such elements wacomposed that thing which so flattered his vanity as an ex-dealer in cattle—a chateau!

Being already old, unable to hunt or fish, hpassed his time superintending the most trividetails of that large property. The grain for thhens, the price of the last load of the seconcrop of hay, the number of bales of straw storein a magnificent circular granary, furnishehim with matter for scolding for a whole dayand certain it is that, when one gazed from

distance at that lovely estate of Savigny, thchateau on the hillside, the river, like a mirroflowing at its feet, the high terraces shaded bivy, the supporting wall of the park followinthe majestic slope of the ground, one neve



would have suspected the proprietor's niggardliness and meanness of spirit.

In the idleness consequent upon his wealth, MGardinois, being greatly bored in Paris, lived aSavigny throughout the year, and the Fromonlived with him during the summer.

Madame Fromont was a mild, dull womanwhom her father's brutal despotism had earlmolded to passive obedience for life. She maintained the same attitude with her husbandwhose constant kindness and indulgence neve

had succeeded in triumphing over that humilated, taciturn nature, indifferent to everythingand, in some sense, irresponsible. Havinpassed her life with no knowledge of busines

she had become rich without knowing it anwithout the slightest desire to take advantagof it. Her fine apartments in Paris, her fathermagnificent chateau, made her uncomfortablShe occupied as small a place as possible i

both, filling her life with a single passion, o



der—a fantastic, abnormal sort of order, whicconsisted in brushing, wiping, dusting, anpolishing the mirrors, the gilding and the doo

knobs, with her own hands, from morning tinight.

When she had nothing else to clean, the strangwoman would attack her rings, her watch

chain, her brooches, scrubbing the cameos anpearls, and, by dint of polishing the combination of her own name and her husband's, shhad effaced all the letters of both. Her fixeidea followed her to Savigny. She picked udead branches in the paths, scratched the mosfrom the benches with the end of her umbrelland would have liked to dust the leaves answeep down the old trees; and often, when i

the train, she looked with envy at the little vilas standing in a line along the track, white anclean, with their gleaming utensils, the pewteball, and the little oblong gardens, which re



semble drawers in a bureau. Those were heideal of a country-house.

M. Fromont, who came only occasionally anwas always absorbed by his business affairenjoyed Savigny little more than she. Clairalone felt really at home in that lovely park. Shwas familiar with its smallest shrub. Being obl

ged to provide her own amusements, like aonly children, she had become attached to cetain walks, watched the flowers bloom, had hefavorite path, her favorite tree, her favoritbench for reading. The dinner-bell always suprised her far away in the park. She would come to the table, out of breath but happy, fluhed with the fresh air. The shadow of the hornbeams, stealing over that youthful brow, ha

imprinted a sort of gentle melancholy therand the deep, dark green of the ponds, crosseby vague rays, was reflected in her eyes.

Those lovely surroundings had in very trut

shielded her from the vulgarity and the abjec



ness of the persons about her. M. Gardinomight deplore in her presence, for hours at time, the perversity of tradesmen and servant

or make an estimate of what was being stolefrom him each month, each week, every dayevery minute; Madame Fromont might enumerate her grievances against the mice, thmaggots, dust and dampness, all desperatel

bent upon destroying her property, and engaged in a conspiracy against her wardrobenot a word of their foolish talk remained iClaire's mind. A run around the lawn, a

hour's reading on the river-bank, restored thtranquillity of that noble and intensely activmind.

Her grandfather looked upon her as a strang

being, altogether out of place in his family. Aschild she annoyed him with her great, honeeyes, her straightforwardness on all occasionand also because he did not find in her a se



ond edition of his own passive and submissivdaughter.

"That child will be a proud chit and an originalike her father," he would say in his uglmoods.

How much better he liked that little Chebe gi

who used to come now and then and play ithe avenues at Savigny! In her, at least, he dtected the strain of the common people likhimself, with a sprinkling of ambition and envy, suggested even in those early days by

certain little smile at the corner of the mouthMoreover, the child exhibited an ingenuouamazement and admiration in presence of hwealth, which flattered his parvenu pride; an

sometimes, when he teased her, she woulbreak out with the droll phrases of a Paris gamine, slang redolent of the faubourgs, seasoneby her pretty, piquant face, inclined to pallowhich not even superficiality could deprive o

its distinction. So he never had forgotten her.



On this occasion above all, when Sidonie arived at Savigny after her long absence, wither fluffy hair, her graceful figure, her brigh

mobile face, the whole effect emphasized bmannerisms suggestive of the shop-girl, shproduced a decided sensation. Old Gardinoiwondering greatly to see a tall young womain place of the child he was expecting to se

considered her prettier and, above all, bettedressed than Claire.

It was a fact that, when Mademoiselle Chebhad left the train and was seated in the greawagonette from the chateau, her appearancwas not bad; but she lacked those details thaconstituted her friend's chief beauty ancharm—a distinguished carriage, a contemp

for poses, and, more than all else, mental tranquillity. Her prettiness was not unlike hegowns, of inexpensive materials, but cut acording to the style of the day-rags, if you wilbut rags of which fashion, that ridiculous bu



charming fairy, had regulated the color, thtrimming, and the shape. Paris has pretty facemade expressly for costumes of that sort, ver

easy to dress becomingly, for the very reasothat they belong to no type, and MademoiselSidonie's face was one of these.

What bliss was hers when the carriage entere

the long avenue, bordered with velvety grasand primeval elms, and at the end Savignawaiting her with its great gate wide open!

And how thoroughly at ease she felt amid a

those refinements of wealth! How perfectly thasort of life suited her! It seemed to her that shnever had known any other.

Suddenly, in the midst of her intoxication, a

rived a letter from Frantz, which brought heback to the realities of her life, to her wretchefate as the future wife of a government clerkwhich transported her, whether she would o

no, to the mean little apartment they woul



occupy some day at the top of some dismahouse, whose heavy atmosphere, dense witprivation, she seemed already to breathe.

Should she break her betrothal promise?

She certainly could do it, as she had given nother pledge than her word. But when he ha

left her, who could say that she would not wishim back?

In that little brain, turned by ambition, thstrangest ideas chased one another. Sometime

while Grandfather Gardinois, who had laiaside in her honor his old-fashioned huntingjackets and swanskin waistcoats, was jestinwith her, amusing himself by contradicting hein order to draw out a sharp reply, she woul

gaze steadily, coldly into his eyes, without rplying. Ah! if only he were ten years youngeBut the thought of becoming Madame Gardnois did not long occupy her. A new personag

a new hope came into her life.



After Sidonie's arrival, Georges Fromont, whwas seldom seen at Savigny except on Sundayadopted the habit of coming to dinner almo

every day.

He was a tall, slender, pale youth, of refineappearance. Having no father or mother, hhad been brought up by his uncle, M. Fromon

and was looked upon by him to succeed him ibusiness, and probably to become Claire's huband. That ready-made future did not arousany enthusiasm in Georges. In the first placbusiness bored him. As for his cousin, the intmate good-fellowship of an education in common and mutual confidence existed betweethem, but nothing more, at least on his side.

With Sidonie, on the contrary, he was exceedingly embarrassed and shy, and at the samtime desirous of producing an effect—a totalldifferent man, in short. She had just the spurous charm, a little free, which was calculated t

attract a superficial nature, and it was not lon



before she discovered the impression that shproduced upon him.

When the two girls were walking together ithe park, it was always Sidonie who remembered that it was time for the train from Paris tarrive. They would go together to the gate tmeet the travellers, and Georges's first glanc

was always for Mademoiselle Chebe, who rmained a little behind her friend, but with thposes and airs that go halfway to meet the eyeThat manoeuvring between them lasted somtime. They did not mention love, but all thwords, all the smiles they exchanged were fuof silent avowals.

One cloudy and threatening summer evenin

when the two friends had left the table as sooas dinner was at an end and were walking ithe long, shady avenue, Georges joined themThey were talking upon indifferent subjectcrunching the gravel beneath their idling foo

steps, when Madame Fromont's voice, from th



chateau, called Claire away. Georges and Sidonie were left alone. They continued to walalong the avenue, guided by the uncertain wh

teness of the path, without speaking of drawinnearer to each other.

A warm wind rustled among the leaves. Thruffled surface of the pond lapped softl

against the arches of the little bridge; and thblossoms of the acacias and lindens, detacheby the breeze, whirled about in circles, perfuming the electricity-laden air. They felt themselves surrounded by an atmosphere of stormvibrant and penetrating. Dazzling flashes oheat passed before their troubled eyes, like those that played along the horizon.

"Oh! what lovely glow-worms!" exclaimed Sdonie, embarrassed by the oppressive silencbroken by so many mysterious sounds.

On the edge of the greensward a blade of gras

here and there was illuminated by a tiny, green



flickering light. She stooped to lift one on heglove. Georges knelt close beside her; and athey leaned down, their hair and cheeks touch

ing, they gazed at each other for a moment bthe light of the glow-worms. How weird anfascinating she seemed to him in that greelight, which shone upon her face and dieaway in the fine network of her waving hai

He put his arm around her waist, and suddenly, feeling that she abandoned herself thim, he clasped her in a long, passionate embrace.

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

Taken by surprise, and with a choking sensa

tion in his throat, Georges trembled so that hcould not reply. Sidonie, on the other handrose with the utmost coolness, and said as shshook out her skirt:



"The glow-worms. See how many of them therare tonight. And how they sparkle."

Her eyes also sparkled with extraordinary briliancy.

"The storm makes them, I suppose," murmureGeorges, still trembling.

The storm was indeed near. At brief intervagreat clouds of leaves and dust whirled fromone end of the avenue to the other. They waked a few steps farther, then all three returne

to the house. The young women took thework, Georges tried to read a newspaper, whiMadame Fromont polished her rings and MGardinois and his son-in-law played billiards ithe adjoining room.

How long that evening seemed to Sidonie! Shhad but one wish, to be alone-alone with hethoughts.



But, in the silence of her little bedroom, wheshe had put out her light, which interferes witdreams by casting too bright an illuminatio

upon reality, what schemes, what transports odelight! Georges loved her, Georges Fromonthe heir of the factory! They would marry; shwould be rich. For in that mercenary little heathe first kiss of love had awakened no idea

save those of ambition and a life of luxury.

To assure herself that her lover was sincere, shtried to recall the scene under the trees to imost trifling details, the expression of his eyethe warmth of his embrace, the vows utterebrokenly, lips to lips, it that weird light shed bthe glow-worms, which one solemn momenhad fixed forever in her heart.

Oh! the glow-worms of Savigny!

All night long they twinkled like stars beforher closed eyes. The park was full of them, t

the farthest limits of its darkest paths. Ther



were clusters of them all along the lawns, othe trees, in the shrubbery. The fine gravel othe avenues, the waves of the river, seemed t

emit green sparks, and all those microscopflashes formed a sort of holiday illumination iwhich Savigny seemed to be enveloped in hehonor, to celebrate the betrothal of Georges anSidonie.

When she rose the next day, her plan was fomed. Georges loved her; that was certain. Dihe contemplate marrying her? She had a suspcion that he did not, the clever minx! But thadid not frighten her. She felt strong enough ttriumph over that childish nature, at once weaand passionate. She had only to resist him, anthat is exactly what she did.

For some days she was cold and indifferenwilfully blind and devoid of memory. He trieto speak to her, to renew the blissful momenbut she avoided him, always placing some on

between them.



Then he wrote to her.

He carried his notes himself to a hollow in rock near a clear spring called "The Phantomwhich was in the outskirts of the park, shetered by a thatched roof. Sidonie thought that charming episode. In the evening she must invent some story, a pretext of some sort for go

ing to "The Phantom" alone. The shadow of thtrees across the path, the mystery of the nighthe rapid walk, the excitement, made her heabeat deliciously. She would find the letter saturated with dew, with the intense cold of thspring, and so white in the moonlight that shwould hide it quickly for fear of being suprised.

And then, when she was alone, what joy topen it, to decipher those magic characterthose words of love which swam before heeyes, surrounded by dazzling blue and yellowcircles, as if she were reading her letter in th

bright sunlight.



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

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

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

Ah! she was a true woman already, was littChebe.

CHAPTER V. HOW LITTLE CHEBE'STORY ENDED

Meanwhile September arrived. The huntinseason brought together a large, noisy, vulgaparty at the chateau. There were long dinners a

which the wealthy bourgeois lingered sloth



fully and wearily, prone to fall asleep like peaants. They went in carriages to meet the returning hunters in the cool air of the autumn ev

ning. The mist arose from the fields, fromwhich the crops had been gathered; and whithe frightened game flew along the stubbwith plaintive cries, the darkness seemed temerge from the forests whose dark masse

increased in size, spreading out over the fields

The carriage lamps were lighted, the hoodraised, and they drove quickly homeward witthe fresh air blowing in their faces. The dininghall, brilliantly illuminated, was filled witgayety and laughter.

Claire Fromont, embarrassed by the vulgarit

of those about her, hardly spoke at all. Sidonwas at her brightest. The drive had given anmation to her pale complexion and Parisiaeyes. She knew how to laugh, understood little too much, perhaps, and seemed to th

male guests the only woman in the party. He



success completed Georges's intoxication; buas his advances became more pronounced, shshowed more and more reserve. Thereupon h

determined that she should be his wife. Hswore it to himself, with the exaggerated emphasis of weak characters, who seem always tcombat beforehand the difficulties to whicthey know that they must yield some day.

It was the happiest moment of little Chebelife. Even aside from any ambitious project, hecoquettish, false nature found a strange fascintion in this intrigue, carried on mysteriouslamid banquets and merry-makings.

No one about them suspected anything. Clairwas at that healthy and delightful period o

youth when the mind, only partly open, clingto the things it knows with blind confidence, icomplete ignorance of treachery and falsehoodM. Fromont thought of nothing but his busness. His wife polished her jewels with frenzie

energy. Only old Gardinois and his little, gim



let-like eyes were to be feared; but Sidonie entertained him, and even if he had discovereanything, he was not the man to interfere wit

her future.

Her hour of triumph was near, when a suddenunforeseen disaster blasted her hopes.

One Sunday morning M. Fromont was broughback fatally wounded from a hunting expedtion. A bullet intended for a deer had piercehis temple. The chateau was turned upsiddown.

All the hunters, among them the unknowbungler that had fired the fatal shot, started ihaste for Paris. Claire, frantic with grief, entered the room where her father lay on h

deathbed, there to remain; and Risler, beinadvised of the catastrophe, came to takSidonie home.On the night before her departure she had final meeting with Georges at The Phantom,—



farewell meeting, painful and stealthy, anmade solemn by the proximity of death. Thevowed, however, to love each other alway

they agreed upon a method of writing to eacother. Then they parted.

It was a sad journey home.

Sidonie returned abruptly to her every-day lifescorted by the despairing grief of Risler, twhom his dear master's death was an irreparable loss. On her arrival, she was compelled tdescribe her visit to the smallest detail; discus

the inmates of the chateau, the guests, the entertainments, the dinners, and the final catatrophe. What torture for her, when, absorbed ashe was by a single, unchanging thought, sh

had so much need of silence and solitude! Buthere was something even more terrible thathat.

On the first day after her return Frantz re

sumed his former place; and the glances wit



which he followed her, the words he addresseto her alone, seemed to her exasperating beyond endurance.

Despite all his shyness and distrust of himselthe poor fellow believed that he had somrights as an accepted and impatient lover, anlittle Chebe was obliged to emerge from he

dreams to reply to that creditor, and to pospone once more the maturity of his claim.

A day came, however, when indecision ceaseto be possible. She had promised to marr

Frantz when he had obtained a good situationand now an engineer's berth in the South, at thsmelting-furnaces of Grand Combe, was ofered to him. That was sufficient for th

support of a modest establishment.There was no way of avoiding the question. Shmust either keep her promise or invent an excuse for breaking it. But what excuse could sh

invent?



In that pressing emergency, she thought of Desiree. Although the lame little girl had neveconfided in her, she knew of her great love fo

Frantz. Long ago she had detected it, with hecoquette's eyes, bright and changing mirrorwhich reflected all the thoughts of others without betraying any of her own. It may be that ththought that another woman loved her b

trothed had made Frantz's love more endurabto her at first; and, just as we place statues otombstones to make them appear less sad, Desiree's pretty, little, pale face at the threshold o

that uninviting future had made it seem lesforbidding to her.

Now it provided—her with a simple and honorable pretext for freeing herself from he

promise.

"No! I tell you, mamma," she said to MadamChebe one day, "I never will consent to make friend like her unhappy. I should suffer to

much from remorse,—poor Desiree! Haven



you noticed how badly she looks since I camhome; what a beseeching way she has of looking at me? No, I won't cause her that sorrow;

won't take away her Frantz."

Even while she admired her daughter's geneous spirit, Madame Chebe looked upon that aa rather exaggerated sacrifice, and remon

strated with her.

"Take care, my child; we aren't rich. A husbanlike Frantz doesn't turn up every day."

"Very well! then I won't marry at all," declareSidonie flatly, and, deeming her pretext an excellent one, she clung persistently to it. Nothincould shake her determination, neither the teashed by Frantz, who was exasperated by he

refusal to fulfil her promise, enveloped as was in vague reasons which she would noeven explain to him, nor the entreaties of Rislein whose ear Madame Chebe had mysteriousl

mumbled her daughter's reasons, and who i



spite of everything could not but admire such sacrifice.

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

"Ah! yes, she is an angel," assented MadamChebe with a sigh, so that the poor betraye

lover had not even the right to complain. Drven to despair, he determined to leave Pariand as Grand Combe seemed too near in hfrenzied longing for flight, he asked and obtained an appointment as overseer on the Sue

Canal at Ismailia. He went away withouknowing, or caring to know aught of, Desireelove; and yet, when he went to bid her farewelthe dear little cripple looked up into his fac

with her shy, pretty eyes, in which were plainlwritten the words:

"I love you, if she does not."



But Frantz Risler did not know how to reawhat was written in those eyes.

Fortunately, hearts that are accustomed to sufer have an infinite store of patience. When hefriend had gone, the lame girl, with her charming morsel of illusion, inherited from her fatheand refined by her feminine nature, returne

bravely to her work, saying to herself:

"I will wait for him."

And thereafter she spread the wings of he

birds to their fullest extent, as if they were agoing, one after another, to Ismailia in EgypAnd that was a long distance!

Before sailing from Marseilles, young Risle

wrote Sidonie a farewell letter, at once laughable and touching, wherein, mingling the motechnical details with the most heartrendinadieux, the unhappy engineer declared that hwas about to set sail, with a broken heart, o



the transport Sahib, "a sailing-ship and steamship combined, with engines of fifteenhundred-horse power," as if he hoped that s

considerable a capacity would make an impresion on his ungrateful betrothed, and cause heceaseless remorse. But Sidonie had very diffeent matters on her mind.

She was beginning to be disturbed by Georgessilence. Since she left Savigny she had hearfrom him only once. All her letters were leunanswered. To be sure, she knew througRisler that Georges was very busy, and that huncle's death had thrown the management othe factory upon him, imposing upon him responsibility that was beyond his strength. Buto abandon her without a word!

From the window on the landing, where shhad resumed her silent observations—for shhad so arranged matters as not to return tMademoiselle Le Mire—little Chebe tried t

distinguish her lover, watched him as he wen



to and fro across the yards and among thbuildings; and in the afternoon, when it watime for the train to start for Savigny, she saw

him enter his carriage to go to his aunt ancousin, who were passing the early months otheir period of mourning at the grandfatherchateau in the country.

All this excited and alarmed her; and the proximity of the factory rendered Georges's avoidance of her even more apparent. To think thaby raising her voice a little she could make himturn toward the place where she stood! Tthink that they were separated only by a walAnd yet, at that moment they were very faapart.

Do you remember, little Chebe, that unhappwinter evening when the excellent Risler ruhed into your parents' room with an extraordnary expression of countenance, exclaiming"Great news!"?



Great news, indeed! Georges Fromont had juinformed him that, in accordance with his uncle's last wishes, he was to marry his cousi

Claire, and that, as he was certainly unequal tthe task of carrying on the business alone, hhad resolved to take him, Risler, for a partneunder the firm name of FROMONT JEUNAND RISLER AINE.

How did you succeed, little Chebe, in maintaining your self-possession when you learned thathe factory had eluded your grasp and thaanother woman had taken your place? What terrible evening!—Madame Chebe sat by thtable mending; M. Chebe before the fire dryinhis clothes, which were wet through by his having walked a long distance in the rain. Oh! tha

miserable room, overflowing with gloom anennui! The lamp gave a dim light. The suppehastily prepared, had left in the room the odoof the poor man's kitchen. And Risler, intox



cated with joy, talking with increasing animation, laid great plans!

All these things tore your heart, and made thtreachery still more horrible by the contrabetween the riches that eluded your oustretched hand and the ignoble mediocrity iwhich you were doomed to pass your life.

Sidonie was seriously ill for a long while. Ashe lay in bed, whenever the window-panerattled behind the curtains, the unhappy creature fancied that Georges's wedding-coache

were driving through the street; and she haparoxysms of nervous excitement, withouwords and inexplicable, as if a fever of wratwere consuming her.

At last, time and youthful strength, her moher's care, and, more than all, the attentions oDesiree, who now knew of the sacrifice hefriend had made for her, triumphed over th

disease. But for a long while Sidonie was ver



weak, oppressed by a deadly melancholy, by constant longing to weep, which played havowith her nervous system.

Sometimes she talked of travelling, of leavinParis. At other times she insisted that she muenter a convent. Her friends were sorely peplexed, and strove to discover the cause of tha

singular state of mind, which was even moralarming than her illness; when she suddenlconfessed to her mother the secret of her meancholy.

She loved the elder Risler! She never had dareto whisper it; but it was he whom she had aways loved and not Frantz.

This news was a surprise to everybody, to Ri

ler most of all; but little Chebe was so prettyher eyes were so soft when she glanced at himthat the honest fellow instantly became as fonof her as a fool! Indeed, it may be that love ha



lain in his heart for a long time without his reaizing it.

And that is how it happened that, on the evening of her wedding-day, young Madame Riler, in her white wedding-dress, gazed with smile of triumph at the window on the landinwhich had been the narrow setting of ten year

of her life. That haughty smile, in which therwas a touch of profound pity and of scorn awell, such scorn as a parvenu feels for his poobeginnings, was evidently addressed to thpoor sickly child whom she fancied she saw uat that window, in the depths of the past anthe darkness. It seemed to say to Claire, poining at the factory:

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



CHAPTER VI. NOON—THE MARAIS IBREAKFASTING.

Sitting near the door, on a stone which oncserved as a horse-block for equestrians, Rislewatches with a smile the exit from the factoryHe never loses his enjoyment of the outspoke

esteem of all these good people whom he knewwhen he was insignificant and humble likthemselves. The "Good-day, Monsieur Risleruttered by so many different voices, all in th

same affectionate tone, warms his heart. Thchildren accost him without fear, the longbearded designers, half-workmen, half-artistshake hands with him as they pass, and address him familiarly as "thou." Perhaps there

a little too much familiarity in all this, for thworthy man has not yet begun to realize thprestige and authority of his new station; anthere was some one who considered this free

and-easy manner very humiliating. But tha



some one can not see him at this moment, anthe master takes advantage of the fact to bestow a hearty greeting upon the old book

keeper, Sigismond, who comes out last of alerect and red-faced, imprisoned in a high collaand bareheaded—whatever the weather—fofear of apoplexy.

He and Risler are fellow-countrymen. Thehave for each other a profound esteem, datinfrom their first employment at the factory, fromthat time, long, long ago, when they breakfasted together at the little creamery on thcorner, to which Sigismond Planus goes alonnow and selects his refreshment for the dafrom the slate hanging on the wall.

But stand aside! The carriage of Fromont Jeundrives through the gateway. He has been ouon business all the morning; and the partneras they walk toward the pretty little house iwhich they both live at the end of the garden

discuss matters of business in a friendly way.



"I have been at Prochasson's," says Fromon"They showed me some new patterns, prettones too, I assure you. We must be on ou

guard. They are dangerous rivals."

But Risler is not at all anxious. He is strong ihis talent, his experience; and then—but this strictly confidential—he is on the track of

wonderful invention, an improved printingpress, something that—but we shall see. Stitalking, they enter the garden, which is as carefully kept as a public park, with round-toppeacacias almost as old as the buildings, and magnificent ivies that hide the high, black walls.

Beside Fromont jeune, Risler Aine has the appearance of a clerk making his report to h

employer. At every step he stops to speak, fohis gait is heavy, his mind works slowly, anwords have much difficulty in finding theway to his lips. Oh, if he could see the littlflushed face up yonder, behind the window o



the second floor, watching everything so attentively!

Madame Risler is waiting for her husband tcome to breakfast, and waxes impatient ovethe good man's moderation. She motions thim with her hand:

"Come, come!" but Risler does not notice it. Hattention is engrossed by the little Fromondaughter of Claire and Georges, who is takingsun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her lacin her nurse's arms. How pretty she is! "She

your very picture, Madame Chorche."

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

"Yes, a little. But—"

And there they all stand, the father and motheRisler and the nurse, gravely seeking resemblances in that miniature model of a huma



being, who stares at them out of her little eyeblinking with the noise and glare. Sidonie, aher open window, leans out to see what the

are doing, and why her husband does not comup.

At that moment Risler has taken the tiny creature in his arms, the whole fascinating bund

of white draperies and light ribbons, and trying to make it laugh and crow with babytalk and gestures worthy of a grandfather. Howold he looks, poor man! His tall body, which hcontorts for the child's amusement, his hoarsvoice, which becomes a low growl when htries to soften it, are absurd and ridiculous.

Above, the wife taps the floor with her foot an

mutters between her teeth:"The idiot!"

At last, weary of waiting, she sends a servant ttell Monsieur that breakfast is served; but th



game is so far advanced that Monsieur does nosee how he can go away, how he can interrupthese explosions of laughter and little bird-lik

cries. He succeeds at last, however, in givinthe child back to its nurse, and enters the hallaughing heartily. He is laughing still when henters the dining-room; but a glance from hwife stops him short.

Sidonie is seated at table before the chafingdish, already filled. Her martyr-like attitudsuggests a determination to be cross.

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

Risler took his seat, a little ashamed.

"What would you have, my love? That child

so—"

"I have asked you before now not to speak tme in that way. It isn't good form."

"What, not when we're alone?"



"Bah! you will never learn to adapt yourself tour new fortune. And what is the result? None in this place treats me with any respec

Pere Achille hardly touches his hat to me wheI pass his lodge. To be sure, I'm not a Fromonand I haven't a carriage."

"Come, come, little one, you know perfectl

well that you can use Madame Chorche's coupe. She always says it is at our disposal."

"How many times must I tell you that I donchoose to be under any obligation to that wo

man?"

"O Sidonie"

"Oh! yes, I know, it's all understood. Madam

Fromont is the good Lord himself. Every one forbidden to touch her. And I must make umy mind to be a nobody in my own house, tallow myself to be humiliated, trampled undefoot."



"Come, come, little one—"

Poor Risler tries to interpose, to say a word ifavor of his dear Madame "Chorche." But hhas no tact. This is the worst possible method oeffecting a reconciliation; and Sidonie at oncbursts forth:

"I tell you that that woman, with all her calmairs, is proud and spiteful. In the first place, shdetests me, I know that. So long as I was poolittle Sidonie and she could toss me her brokedolls and old clothes, it was all right, but now

that I am my own mistress as well as she, vexes her and humiliates her. Madame giveme advice with a lofty air, and criticises whatdo. I did wrong to have a maid. Of cours

Wasn't I in the habit of waiting on myself? Shnever loses a chance to wound me. When I caon her on Wednesdays, you should hear thtone in which she asks me, before everybodyhow 'dear Madame Chebe' is. Oh! yes. I'm

Chebe and she's a Fromont. One's as good a



the other, in my opinion. My grandfather was druggist. What was hers? A peasant who gorich by money-lending. I'll tell her so one o

these days, if she shows me too much of hepride; and I'll tell her, too, that their little impalthough they don't suspect it, looks just likthat old Pere Gardinois, and heaven knows hisn't handsome."

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

"Oh! yes, of course! I advise you to admire the

child. She's always ill. She cries all night like little cat. It keeps me awake. And afterwardthrough the day, I have mamma's piano anher scales—tra, la la la! If the music were onl

worth listening to!"Risler has taken the wise course. He does nosay a word until he sees that she is beginning tcalm down a little, when he completes the soo

hing process with compliments.



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

He resorts to this mode of address to avoid thmore familiar form, which is so offensive ther.

"No, I am not going to make calls," Sidonie re

plies with a certain pride. "On the contrary, expect to receive them. This is my day."

In response to her husband's astounded, bewidered expression she continues:

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

"Of course, of course," said honest Risler, look

ing about with some little uneasiness. "So thatwhy I saw so many flowers everywhere, on thlanding and in the drawing-room."

"Yes, my maid went down to the garden th

morning. Did I do wrong? Oh! you don't say s



but I'm sure you think I did wrong. 'Dame'!thought the flowers in the garden belonged tus as much as to the Fromonts."

"Certainly they do—but you—it would havbeen better perhaps—"

"To ask leave? That's it-to humble myself agai

for a few paltry chrysanthemums and two othree bits of green. Besides, I didn't make ansecret of taking the flowers; and when she comes up a little later—"

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

Sidonie turned upon him indignantly.

"What's that? Kind of her? Upon my word,

she doesn't come, it would be the last strawWhen I go every Wednesday to be bored tdeath in her salon with a crowd of affectedsimpering women!"



She did not say that those same Wednesdays oMadame Fromont's were very useful to hethat they were like a weekly journal of fashion

one of those composite little publications iwhich you are told how to enter and to leave room, how to bow, how to place flowers in jardiniere and cigars in a case, to say nothing othe engravings, the procession of graceful, fau

tlessly attired men and women, and the nameof the best modistes. Nor did Sidonie add thashe had entreated all those friends of Claire'of whom she spoke so scornfully, to come t

see her on her own day, and that the day waselected by them.

Will they come? Will Madame Fromont Jeuninsult Madame Risler Aine by absenting herse

on her first Friday? The thought makes her amost feverish with anxiety.

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she says again anagain. "Good heavens! how long you are a

your, breakfast!"



It is a fact that it is one of honest Risler's wayto eat slowly, and to light his pipe at the tablwhile he sips his coffee. To-day he must re

nounce these cherished habits, must leave thpipe in its case because of the smoke, and, asoon as he has swallowed the last mouthfurun hastily and dress, for his wife insists that hmust come up during the afternoon and pay h

respects to the ladies.

What a sensation in the factory when they seRisler Aine come in, on a week-day, in a blacfrock-coat and white cravat!

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

And Risler, not without a feeling of pride, r

plies:

"This is my wife's reception day!"



Soon everybody in the place knows that it Sidonie's day; and Pere Achille, who takes carof the garden, is not very well pleased to fin

that the branches of the winter laurels by thgate are broken.

Before taking his seat at the table upon whiche draws, in the bright light from the tall win

dows, Risler has taken off his fine frock-coawhich embarrasses him, and has turned up hclean shirt-sleeves; but the idea that his wife expecting company preoccupies and disturbhim; and from time to time he puts on his coand goes up to her.

"Has no one come?" he asks timidly.

"No, Monsieur, no one."

In the beautiful red drawing-room—for thehave a drawing-room in red damask, with console between the windows and a pretty table in the centre of the light-flowered carpet—



Sidonie has established herself in the attitude oa woman holding a reception, a circle of chairof many shapes around her. Here and there ar

books, reviews, a little work-basket in the shape of a gamebag, with silk tassels, a bunch oviolets in a glass vase, and green plants in thjardinieres. Everything is arranged exactly as ithe Fromonts' apartments on the floor below

but the taste, that invisible line which separatethe distinguished from the vulgar, is not yerefined. You would say it was a passable copof a pretty genre picture. The hostess's attir

even, is too new; she looks more as if she wermaking a call than as if she were at home. IRisler's eyes everything is superb, beyond reproach; he is preparing to say so as he enterthe salon, but, in face of his wife's wrathfu

glance, he checks himself in terror.

"You see, it's four o'clock," she says, pointing tthe clock with an angry gesture. "No one wicome. But I take it especially ill of Claire not t



come up. She is at home—I am sure of it—I cahear her."

Indeed, ever since noon, Sidonie has listeneintently to the slightest sounds on the floor below, the child's crying, the closing of doorRisler attempts to go down again in order tavoid a renewal of the conversation at break

fast; but his wife will not allow him to do sThe very least he can do is to stay with hewhen everybody else abandons her, and so hremains there, at a loss what to say, rooted tthe spot, like those people who dare not movduring a storm for fear of attracting the lighning. Sidonie moves excitedly about, going iand out of the salon, changing the position ofchair, putting it back again, looking at herse

as she passes the mirror, and ringing for hemaid to send her to ask Pere Achille if no onhas inquired for her. That Pere Achille is suchspiteful creature! Perhaps when people havcome, he has said that she was out.



But no, the concierge has not seen any one.

Silence and consternation. Sidonie is standinat the window on the left, Risler at the one othe right. From there they can see the little gaden, where the darkness is gathering, and thblack smoke which the chimney emits beneatthe lowering clouds. Sigismond's window is th

first to show a light on the ground floor; thcashier trims his lamp himself with painstakincare, and his tall shadow passes in front of thflame and bends double behind the gratingSidonie's wrath is diverted a moment by thesfamiliar details.

Suddenly a small coupe drives into the gardeand stops in front of the door. At last some on

is coming. In that pretty whirl of silk and flowers and jet and flounces and furs, as it runquickly up the step, Sidonie has recognized onof the most fashionable frequenters of the Fromont salon, the wife of a wealthy dealer i

bronzes. What an honor to receive a call from



such an one! Quick, quick! the family takes iposition, Monsieur in front of the hearth, Madame in an easychair, carelessly turning th

leaves of a magazine. Wasted pose! The facaller did not come to see Sidonie; she has stopped at the floor below.

Ah! if Madame Georges could hear what he

neighbor says of her and her friends!

At that moment the door opens and "Mademoselle Planus" is announced. She is the cashiersister, a poor old maid, humble and modes

who has made it her duty to make this caupon the wife of her brother's employer, anwho is amazed at the warm welcome she receives. She is surrounded and made much o

"How kind of you to come! Draw up to the fre." They overwhelm her with attentions anshow great interest in her slightest word. Honest Risler's smiles are as warm as his thankSidonie herself displays all her fascination

overjoyed to exhibit herself in her glory to on



who was her equal in the old days, and to reflect that the other, in the room below, muhear that she has had callers. So she makes a

much noise as possible, moving chairs, pushinthe table around; and when the lady takes heleave, dazzled, enchanted, bewildered, she ecorts her to the landing with a great rustling oflounces, and calls to her in a very loud voic

leaning over the rail, that she is at home everFriday. "You understand, every Friday."

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

Sidonie is pale with rage.

"Just fancy, that minx can't come up eighteesteps! No doubt Madame thinks we're nogrand enough for her. Ah! but I'll have my revenge."



As she pours forth her wrath in unjust wordher voice becomes coarse, takes on the intonations of the faubourg, an accent of the commo

people which betrays the ex-apprentice of Mademoiselle Le Mire.

Risler is unlucky enough to make a remark.

"Who knows? Perhaps the child is ill."

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

"Will you hold your tongue about that braAfter all, it's your fault that this has happeneto me. You don't know how to make peoptreat me with respect."

And as she closed the door of her bedroomviolently, making the globes on the lamptremble, as well as all the knick-knacks on thetageres, Risler, left alone, stands motionless ithe centre of the salon, looking with an air o



consternation at his white cuffs, his broad paent-leather shoes, and mutters mechanically:

"My wife's reception day!"

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER VII. THE TRUE PEARL ANDTHE FALSE

"What can be the matter? What have I done ther?" Claire Fromont very often wonderewhen she thought of Sidonie.



She was entirely ignorant of what had formerltaken place between her friend and Georges aSavigny. Her own life was so upright, her min

so pure, that it was impossible for her to divinthe jealous, mean-spirited ambition that hagrown up by her side within the past fifteeyears. And yet the enigmatical expression ithat pretty face as it smiled upon her gave her

vague feeling of uneasiness which she coulnot understand. An affectation of politenesstrange enough between friends, was suddenlsucceeded by an ill-dissembled anger, a cold

stinging tone, in presence of which Claire waas perplexed as by a difficult problem. Somtimes, too, a singular presentiment, the ildefined intuition of a great misfortune, wamingled with her uneasiness; for all wome

have in some degree a kind of second sighand, even in the most innocent, ignorance oevil is suddenly illumined by visions of extraordinary lucidity.



From time to time, as the result of a conversation somewhat longer than usual, or of one othose unexpected meetings when faces take

by surprise allow their real thoughts to be seenMadame Fromont reflected seriously concerning this strange little Sidonie; but the activurgent duties of life, with its accompaniment oaffections and preoccupations, left her no tim

for dwelling upon such trifles.

To all women comes a time when they encounter such sudden windings in the road that thewhole horizon changes and all their points oview become transformed.

Had Claire been a young girl, the falling awaof that friendship bit by bit, as if torn from he

by an unkindly hand, would have been a souce of great regret to her. But she had lost hefather, the object of her greatest, her onlyouthful affection; then she had married. Thchild had come, with its thrice welcome de

mands upon her every moment. Moreover, sh



had with her her mother, almost in her dotagstill stupefied by her husband's tragic death. Ia life so fully occupied, Sidonie's caprices re

ceived but little attention; and it had hardloccurred to Claire Fromont to be surprised aher marriage to Risler. He was clearly too olfor her; but, after all, what difference did make, if they loved each other?

As for being vexed because little Chebe haattained that lofty position, had become almoher equal, her superior nature was incapable osuch pettiness. On the contrary, she woulhave been glad with all her heart to know thathat young wife, whose home was so near heown, who lived the same life, so to speak, anhad been her playmate in childhood, was hap

py and highly esteemed. Being most kindldisposed toward her, she tried to teach her, tinstruct her in the ways of society, as one mighinstruct an attractive provincial, who fell bulittle short of being altogether charming.



Advice is not readily accepted by one prettyoung woman from another. When MadamFromont gave a grand dinner-party, she too

Madame Risler to her bedroom, and said to hesmiling frankly in order not to vex her: "Yohave put on too many jewels, my dear. Anthen, you know, with a high dress one doesnwear flowers in the hair." Sidonie blushed, an

thanked her friend, but wrote down an addtional grievance against her in the bottom oher heart.

In Claire's circle her welcome was decidedlcold. The Faubourg Saint-Germain has its prtensions; but do not imagine that the Marahas none! Those wives and daughters of mchanics, of wealthy manufacturers, knew litt

Chebe's story; indeed, they would have guesed it simply by her manner of making her appearance and by her demeanor among them.

Sidonie's efforts were unavailing. She retaine

the manners of a shop-girl. Her slightly artif



cial amiability, sometimes too humble, was aunpleasant as the spurious elegance of thshop; and her disdainful attitudes recalled th

superb airs of the head saleswomen in the gredry-goods establishments, arrayed in black silgowns, which they take off in the dressingroom when they go away at night—who starwith an imposing air, from the vantage-point o

their mountains of curls, at the poor creaturewho venture to discuss prices.

She felt that she was being examined and critcised, and her modesty was compelled to placitself upon a war footing. Of the names mentioned in her presence, the amusements, thentertainments, the books of which they talketo her, she knew nothing. Claire did her best t

help her, to keep her on the surface, with friendly hand always outstretched; but many othese ladies thought Sidonie pretty; that waenough to make them bear her a grudge foseeking admission to their circle. Others, prou



of their husbands' standing and of their wealthcould not invent enough unspoken affronts anpatronizing phrases to humiliate the little pa

venue.

Sidonie included them all in a single phras"Claire's friends—that is to say, my enemiesBut she was seriously incensed against but one

The two partners had no suspicion of what wataking place between their wives. Risler, continually engrossed in his press, sometimes rmained at his draughting-table until midnigh

Fromont passed his days abroad, lunched at hclub, was almost never at the factory. He hahis reasons for that.

Sidonie's proximity disturbed him. His capr

cious passion for her, that passion that he hasacrificed to his uncle's last wishes, recurretoo often to his memory with all the regret onfeels for the irreparable; and, conscious that h

was weak, he fled. His was a pliable natur



without sustaining purpose, intelligent enougto appreciate his failings, too weak to guiditself. On the evening of Risler's wedding—h

had been married but a few months himself—he had experienced anew, in that woman's presence, all the emotion of the stormy evening aSavigny. Thereafter, without self-examinationhe avoided seeing her again or speaking wit

her. Unfortunately, as they lived in the samhouse, as their wives saw each other ten timesday, chance sometimes brought them togetheand this strange thing happened—that the hu

band, wishing to remain virtuous, deserted hhome altogether and sought distraction elsewhere.

Claire was not astonished that it was so. Sh

had become accustomed, during her fatherlifetime, to the constant comings and goings oa business life; and during her husband's absences, zealously performing her duties as wifand mother, she invented long tasks, occupa



tions of all sorts, walks for the child, prolongedpeaceful tarryings in the sunlight, from whicshe would return home, overjoyed with th

little one's progress, deeply impressed with thgleeful enjoyment of all infants in the fresh aibut with a touch of their radiance in the depthof her serious eyes.

Sidonie also went out a great deal. It often happened, toward night, that Georges's carriagdriving through the gateway, would compMadame Risler to step hastily aside as she wareturning in a gorgeous costume from a triumphal promenade. The boulevard, the shopwindows, the purchases, made after long deliberation as if to enjoy to the full the pleasure opurchasing, detained her very late. They woul

exchange a bow, a cold glance at the foot of thstaircase; and Georges would hurry into hapartments, as into a place of refuge, conceaing beneath a flood of caresses, bestowed upo



the child his wife held out to him, the suddeemotion that had seized him.

Sidonie, for her part, seemed to have forgotteeverything, and to have retained no other feeing but contempt for that weak, cowardly creature. Moreover, she had many other things tthink about.

Her husband had just had a piano placed in hered salon, between the windows.

After long hesitation she had decided to lear

to sing, thinking that it was rather late to begito play the piano; and twice a week MadamDobson, a pretty, sentimental blonde, came tgive her lessons from twelve o'clock to one. Ithe silence of the neighborhood the a-a-a and o

oo, persistently prolonged, repeated again anagain, with windows open, gave the factory thatmosphere of a boarding-school.



And it was in reality a schoolgirl who was pratising these exercises, an inexperienced, waveing little soul, full of unconfessed longing

with everything to learn and to find out in oder to become a real woman. But her ambitioconfined itself to a superficial aspect of things.

"Claire Fromont plays the piano; I will sing. Sh

is considered a refined and distinguished woman, and I intend that people shall say the same of me."

Without a thought of improving her education

Sidonie passed her life running about amonmilliners and dressmakers. "What are peopgoing to wear this winter?" was her cry. Shwas attracted by the gorgeous displays in th

shop-windows, by everything that caught theye of the passers-by.

The one thing that Sidonie envied Claire morthan all else was the child, the luxurious play

thing, beribboned from the curtains of its crad



to its nurse's cap. She did not think of thsweet, maternal duties, demanding patiencand self-abnegation, of the long rockings whe

sleep would not come, of the laughing awakenings sparkling with fresh water. No! she saw ithe child naught but the daily walk. It is such pretty sight, the little bundle of finery, witfloating ribbons and long feathers, that follow

young mothers through the crowded streets.

When she wanted company she had only heparents or her husband. She preferred to go oualone. The excellent Risler had such an absurway of showing his love for her, playing wither as if she were a doll, pinching her chin anher cheek, capering about her, crying, "Houhou!" or staring at her with his great, soft eye

like an affectionate and grateful dog. That senseless love, which made of her a toy, a mantornament, made her ashamed. As for her paents, they were an embarrassment to her ipresence of the people she wished to know, an



immediately after her marriage she almost gorid of them by hiring a little house for them Montrouge. That step had cut short the fre

quent invasions of Monsieur Chebe and hlong frock-coat, and the endless visits of gooMadame Chebe, in whom the return of comfortable circumstances had revived former habits of gossip and of indolence.

Sidonie would have been very glad to rid heself of the Delobelles in the same way, for theproximity annoyed her. But the Marais was central location for the old actor, because thboulevard theatres were so near; then, too, Dsiree, like all sedentary persons, clung to thfamiliar outlook, and her gloomy courtyarddark at four o'clock in winter, seemed to he

like a friend, like a familiar face which the sulighted up at times as if it were smiling at heAs she was unable to get rid of them, Sidonhad adopted the course of ceasing to visit them



In truth, her life would have been lonely andepressing enough, had it not been for the ditractions which Claire Fromont procured fo

her. Each time added fuel to her wrath. Shwould say to herself:

"Must everything come to me through her?"

And when, just at dinner-time, a box at ththeatre or an invitation for the evening was sento her from the floor below, while she was dresing, overjoyed at the opportunity to exhibherself, she thought of nothing but crushing he

rival. But such opportunities became more raras Claire's time was more and more engrosseby her child. When Grandfather Gardinois came to Paris, however, he never failed to brin

the two families together. The old peasantgayety, for its freer expansion, needed littSidonie, who did not take alarm at his jests. Hwould take them all four to dine at Philippe'his favorite restaurant, where he knew all th

patrons, the waiters and the steward, woul



spend a lot of money, and then take them to reserved box at the Opera-Comique or the Paais-Royal.

At the theatre he laughed uproariously, talkefamiliarly with the box-openers, as he did witthe waiters at Philippe's, loudly demandefootstools for the ladies, and when the pe

formance was over insisted on having thtopcoats and fur wraps of his party first of alas if he were the only three-million parvenu ithe audience.

For these somewhat vulgar entertainmentfrom which her husband usually excused himself, Claire, with her usual tact, dressed verplainly and attracted no attention. Sidonie, o

the contrary, in all her finery, in full view of thboxes, laughed with all her heart at the grandfather's anecdotes, happy to have descendefrom the second or third gallery, her usual place in the old days, to that lovely proscenium

box, adorned with mirrors, with a velvet ra



that seemed made expressly for her light gloves, her ivory opera-glass, and her spanglefan. The tawdry glitter of the theatre, the re

and gold of the hangings, were genuine splendor to her. She bloomed among them like pretty paper flower in a filigree jardiniere.

One evening, at the performance of a successfu

play at the Palais-Royal, among all the notewomen who were present, painted celebritiewearing microscopic hats and armed with hugfans, their rouge-besmeared faces standing oufrom the shadow of the boxes in the gaudy seting of their gowns, Sidonie's behavior, her tolette, the peculiarities of her laugh and her expression attracted much attention. All the opera-glasses in the hall, guided by the magnet

current that is so powerful under the greachandeliers, were turned one by one upon thbox in which she sat. Claire soon became embarrassed, and modestly insisted upon chang



ing places with her husband, who, unluckilyhad accompanied them that evening.

Georges, youthful and elegant, sitting besidSidonie, seemed her natural companion, whiRisler Allie, always so placid and self-effacingseemed in his proper place beside Claire Fromont, who in her dark clothes suggested th

respectable woman incog. at the Bal de l'Opera

Upon leaving the theatre each of the partneroffered his arm to his neighbor. A box-openespeaking to Sidonie, referred to Georges a

"your husband," and the little woman beamewith delight.

"Your husband!"

That simple phrase was enough to upset heand set in motion a multitude of evil currents ithe depths of her heart. As they passed througthe corridors and the foyer, she watched Risleand Madame "Chorche" walking in front o



them. Claire's refinement of manner seemed ther to be vulgarized and annihilated by Rislershuffling gait. "How ugly he must make m

look when we are walking together!" she saito herself. And her heart beat fast as shthought what a charming, happy, admirecouple they would have made, she and thGeorges Fromont, whose arm was tremblin

beneath her own.

Thereupon, when the blue-lined carriage drovup to the door of the theatre, she began to reflect, for the first time, that, when all was saidClaire had stolen her place and that she woulbe justified in trying to recover it.



CHAPTER VIII. THE BREWERY ON THRUE BLONDEL

After his marriage Risler had given up the brewery. Sidonie would have been glad to havhim leave the house in the evening for a fashionable club, a resort of wealthy, well-dresse

men; but the idea of his returning, amid cloudof pipe-smoke, to his friends of earlier daySigismond, Delobelle, and her own father, humiliated her and made her unhappy. So h

ceased to frequent the place; and that was something of a sacrifice. It was almost a glimpsof his native country, that brewery situated in remote corner of Paris. The infrequent cariages, the high, barred windows of the groun

floors, the odor of fresh drugs, of pharmaceutcal preparations, imparted to that narrow littlRue Blondel a vague resemblance to certaistreets in Basle or Zurich.



The brewery was managed by a Swiss ancrowded with men of that nationality. Whethe door was opened, through the smoke-lade

atmosphere, dense with the accents of thNorth, one had a vision of a vast, low roomwith hams hanging from the rafters, casks obeer standing in a row, the floor ankle-deewith sawdust, and on the counter great salad

bowls filled with potatoes as red as chestnutand baskets of pretzels fresh from the oventheir golden knots sprinkled with white salt.

For twenty years Risler had had his pipe thera long pipe marked with his name in the racreserved for the regular customers. He had alshis table, at which he was always joined bseveral discreet, quiet compatriots, who li

tened admiringly, but without comprehendinthem, to the endless harangues of Chebe anDelobelle. When Risler ceased his visits to thbrewery, the two last-named worthies likewisturned their backs upon it, for several excellen



reasons. In the first place, M. Chebe now livea considerable distance away. Thanks to thgenerosity of his children, the dream of h

whole life was realized at last.

"When I am rich," the little man used to say ihis cheerless rooms in the Marais, "I will have house of my own, at the gates of Paris, almo

in the country, a little garden which I will planand water myself. That will be better for mhealth than all the excitement of the capital."

Well, he had his house now, but he did not en

joy himself in it. It was at Montrouge, on throad that runs around the city. "A small chalewith garden," said the advertisement, printeon a placard which gave an almost exact idea o

the dimensions of the property. The paperwere new and of rustic design, the paint pefectly fresh; a water-butt planted beside a vinclad arbor played the part of a pond. In addtion to all these advantages, only a hedge sepa

rated this paradise from another "chalet wit



garden" of precisely the same description, ocupied by Sigismond Planus the cashier, anhis sister. To Madame Chebe that was a mo

precious circumstance. When the good womawas bored, she would take a stock of knittinand darning and go and sit in the old maidarbor, dazzling her with the tale of her pasplendors. Unluckily, her husband had not th

same source of distraction.

However, everything went well at first. It wamidsummer, and M. Chebe, always in his shirsleeves, was busily employed in getting settledEach nail to be driven in the house was the subject of leisurely reflections, of endless discusions. It was the same with the garden. He hadetermined at first to make an English garde

of it, lawns always green, winding paths shaded by shrubbery. But the trouble of it was thait took so long for the shrubbery to grow.

"I have a mind to make an orchard of it," sai

the impatient little man.



And thenceforth he dreamed of nothing buvegetables, long lines of beans, and peach-treeagainst the wall. He dug for whole morning

knitting his brows in a preoccupied way anwiping his forehead ostentatiously before hwife, so that she would say:

"For heaven's sake, do rest a bit—you're killin

yourself."

The result was that the garden was a mixturflowers and fruit, park and kitchen garden; anwhenever he went into Paris M. Chebe wa

careful to decorate his buttonhole with a rosfrom his rose-bushes.

While the fine weather lasted, the good peopdid not weary of admiring the sunsets behin

the fortifications, the long days, the bracincountry air. Sometimes, in the evening, whethe windows were open, they sang duets; anin presence of the stars in heaven, which bega

to twinkle simultaneously with the lanterns o



the railway around the city, Ferdinand woulbecome poetical. But when the rain came anhe could not go out, what misery! Madam

Chebe, a thorough Parisian, sighed for the narow streets of the Marais, her expeditions to thmarket of Blancs-Manteaux, and to the shops othe quarter.

As she sat by the window, her usual place fosewing and observation, she would gaze at thdamp little garden, where the volubilis and thnasturtiums, stripped of their blossoms, werdropping away from the lattices with an air oexhaustion, at the long, straight line of the grasy slope of the fortifications, still fresh angreen, and, a little farther on, at the corner of street, the office of the Paris omnibuses, with a

the points of their route inscribed in enticinletters on the green walls. Whenever one of thomnibuses lumbered away on its journey, shfollowed it with her eyes, as a governmenclerk at Cayenne or Noumea gazes after th



steamer about to return to France; she made thtrip with it, knew just where it would stop, awhat point it would lurch around a corner, gra

zing the shop-windows with its wheels.

As a prisoner, M. Chebe became a terrible triaHe could not work in the garden. On Sundaythe fortifications were deserted; he could n

longer strut about among the workingmenfamilies dining on the grass, and pass fromgroup to group in a neighborly way, his feencased in embroidered slippers, with the authoritative demeanor of a wealthy landowneof the vicinity. This he missed more thaanything else, consumed as he was by thdesire to make people think about him. So thahaving nothing to do, having no one to pos

before, no one to listen to his schemes, hstories, the anecdote of the accident to the Dud'Orleans—a similar accident had happened thim in his youth, you remember—thunfortunate Ferdinand overwhelmed his wif

with reproaches.



"Your daughter banishes us—your daughter ashamed of us!"

She heard nothing but that "Your daughter—your daughter—your daughter!" For, in hanger with Sidonie, he denied her, throwinupon his wife the whole responsibility for thamonstrous and unnatural child. It was a genu

ine relief for poor Madame Chebe when hehusband took an omnibus at the office to gand hunt up Delobelle—whose hours for lounging were always at his disposal—and pouinto his bosom all his rancor against his son-inlaw and his daughter.

The illustrious Delobelle also bore Risler grudge, and freely said of him: "He is a da

tard."The great man had hoped to form an integrpart of the new household, to be the organizeof festivities, the 'arbiter elegantiarum'. Instea

of which, Sidonie received him very coldly, an



Risler no longer even took him to the breweryHowever, the actor did not complain too loudand whenever he met his friend he ove

whelmed him with attentions and flattery; fohe had need of him.

Weary of awaiting the discerning manageseeing that the engagement he had longed fo

so many years did not come, it had occurred tDelobelle to purchase a theatre and manage himself. He counted upon Risler for the fundOpportunely enough, a small theatre on thboulevard happened to be for sale, as a result othe failure of its manager. Delobelle mentioneit to Risler, at first very vaguely, in a whollhypothetical form—"There would be a goochance to make a fine stroke." Risler listene

with his usual phlegm, saying, "Indeed, would be a good thing for you." And to a mordirect suggestion, not daring to answer, "Nohe took refuge behind such phrases as "I wisee"—"Perhaps later"—"I don't say no"—an



finally uttered the unlucky words "I must sethe estimates."

For a whole week the actor had delved away aplans and figures, seated between his wife andaughter, who watched him in admiration, anintoxicated themselves with this latest dreamThe people in the house said, "Monsieur Delo

belle is going to buy a theatre." On the boulevard, in the actors' cafes, nothing was talked obut this transaction. Delobelle did not concethe fact that he had found some one to advancthe funds; the result being that he was surounded by a crowd of unemployed actors, olcomrades who tapped him familiarly on thshoulder and recalled themselves to his recolection—"You know, old boy." He promise

engagements, breakfasted at the cafe, wroletters there, greeted those who entered witthe tips of his fingers, held very animated conversations in corners; and already two threadbare authors had read to him a drama in seve



tableaux, which was "exactly what he wantedfor his opening piece. He talked about "mtheatre!" and his letters were addressed, "Mon

sieur Delobelle, Manager."

When he had composed his prospectus anmade his estimates, he went to the factory tsee Risler, who, being very busy, made an ap

pointment to meet him in the Rue Blondel; anthat same evening, Delobelle, being the first tarrive at the brewery, established himself atheir old table, ordered a pitcher of beer antwo glasses, and waited. He waited a long whle, with his eye on the door, trembling witimpatience. Whenever any one entered, thactor turned his head. He had spread his papers on the table, and pretended to be readin

them, with animated gestures and movemenof the head and lips.

It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in iway. He already fancied himself acting—fo

that was the main point—acting, in a theatre o



his own, roles written expressly for him, to suhis talents, in which he would produce all theffect of—

Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe made his appearance amid the pipe-smoke. Hwas as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelthere as Delobelle himself was by his coming

He had written to his son-in-law that morninthat he wished to speak with him on a matter overy serious importance, and that he woulmeet him at the brewery. It was an affair ohonor, entirely between themselves, from mato man. The real fact concerning this affair ohonor was that M. Chebe had given notice ohis intention to leave the little house at Montrouge, and had hired a shop with an entreso

in the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a businesdistrict. A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he waa little alarmed regarding his hasty step, anxious to know how his son-in-law would take iespecially as the shop cost much more than th



Montrouge house, and there were some repairto be made at the outset. As he had long beeacquainted with his son-in-law's kindness o

heart, M. Chebe had determined to appeal thim at once, hoping to lead him into his gamand throw upon him the responsibility for thdomestic change. Instead of Risler he founDelobelle.

They looked askance at each other, with aunfriendly eye, like two dogs meeting besidthe same dish. Each divined for whom the oher was waiting, and they did not try to deceive each other.

"Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebeying the documents spread over the table, an

emphasizing the words "my son-in-law," tindicate that Risler belonged to him and to nobody else.

"I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, gath

ering up his papers.



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

"It is a matter of very great importance."

"So is mine," declared M. Chebe, his three hairstanding erect like a porcupine's quills.

As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench beside Delobelle, ordered a pitcher and twglasses as the former had done, then sat erewith his hands in his pockets and his bacagainst the wall, waiting in his turn. The tw

empty glasses in front of them, intended for thsame absentee, seemed to be hurling defiancat each other.

But Risler did not come.

The two men, drinking in silence, lost their patience and fidgeted about on the bench, eachoping that the other would tire of waiting.



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

"What an outrage to keep a man of my yearwaiting so long!" began M. Chebe, who nevementioned his great age except upon such ocasions.

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

And the other:

"No doubt Monsieur had company to dinner.""And such company!" scornfully exclaimed thillustrious actor, in whose mind bitter memories were awakened.

"The fact is—" continued M. Chebe.

They drew closer to each other and talked. Thhearts of both were full in respect to Sidon

and Risler. They opened the flood-gates. Tha



Risler, with all his good-nature, was an egotipure and simple, a parvenu. They laughed ahis accent and his bearing, they mimicked ce

tain of his peculiarities. Then they talked abouhis household, and, lowering their voices, thebecame confidential, laughed familiarly together, were friends once more.

M. Chebe went very far: "Let him beware! hhas been foolish enough to send the father anmother away from their daughter; if anythinhappens to her, he can't blame us. A girl whhasn't her parents' example before her eyeyou understand—"

"Certainly—certainly," said Delobelle; "especially as Sidonie has become a great flirt. How

ever, what can you expect? He will get no morthan he deserves. No man of his age ought to—Hush! here he is!"



Risler had entered the room, and was walkintoward them, distributing hand-shakes aalong the benches.

There was a moment of embarrassment between the three friends. Risler excused himseas well as he could. He had been detained ahome; Sidonie had company—Delobelle tou

ched M. Chebe's foot under the table—and, ahe spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexeby the two empty glasses that awaited himwondered in front of which of the two he oughto take his seat.

Delobelle was generous.

"You have business together, Messieurs; do nolet me disturb you."

He added in a low tone, winking at Risler:

"I have the papers."



"The papers?" echoed Risler, in a bewilderetone.

"The estimates," whispered the actor.

Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, hwithdrew within himself, and resumed the reading of his documents, his head in his hand

and his fingers in his ears.

The two others conversed by his side, first iundertones, then louder, for M. Chebe's shrilpiercing voice could not long be subdued.—H

wasn't old enough to be buried, deuce take it!—He should have died of ennui at Montrouge.—What he must have was the bustle and life othe Rue de Mail or the Rue du Sentier—of thbusiness districts.

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



"Why a shop?—why a shop?" repeated M. Chebe, red as an Easter egg, and raising his voice tits highest pitch. "Why, because I'm a merchan

Monsieur Risler, a merchant and son of a mechant. Oh! I see what you're coming at. I havno business. But whose fault is it? If the peopwho shut me up at Montrouge, at the gates oBicetre, like a paralytic, had had the good sens

to furnish me with the money to start in busness—"

At that point Risler succeeded in silencing himand thereafter only snatches of the conversatiocould be heard: "a more convenient shop—higceilings—better air—future plans—enormoubusiness—I will speak when the time comes—many people will be astonished."

As he caught these fragments of sentences, Delobelle became more and more absorbed in hestimates, presenting the eloquent back of thman who is not listening. Risler, sorely pe



plexed, slowly sipped his beer from time ttime to keep himself, in countenance.

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

"Ah! Mon Dieu!—that is true," thought the poofellow.

Changing at once his chair and his glass, h

took his seat opposite the actor. But M. Chebhad not Delobelle's courtesy. Instead of dicreetly moving away, he took his glass anjoined the others, so that the great manunwilling to speak before him, solemnl

replaced his documents in his pocket a secontime, saying to Risler:

"We will talk this over later."



Very much later, in truth, for M. Chebe hareflected:

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

And he remained on guard. The actor was fur

ous. It was impossible to postpone the matter tsome other day, for Risler told them that hwas going the next day to spend the nexmonth at Savigny.

"A month at Savigny!" exclaimed M. Chebincensed at the thought of his son-in-law escaping him. "How about business?"

"Oh! I shall come to Paris every day with Geo

ges. Monsieur Gardinois is very anxious to sehis little Sidonie."

M. Chebe shook his head. He considered it verimprudent. Business is business. A man ough



to be on the spot, always on the spot, in thbreach. Who could say?—the factory mightake fire in the night. And he repeated senten

tiously: "The eye of the master, my dear fellowthe eye of the master," while the actor—whwas little better pleased by this intended depature—opened his great eyes; giving them aexpression at once cunning and authoritativ

the veritable expression of the eye of the mater.

At last, about midnight, the last Montrougomnibus bore away the tyrannical father-inlaw, and Delobelle was able to speak.

"Let us first look at the prospectus," he saidpreferring not to attack the question of figure

at once; and with his eyeglasses on his nose, hbegan, in a declamatory tone, always upon thstage: "When one considers coolly the decreptude which dramatic art has reached in Francwhen one measures the distance that separate

the stage of Moliere—"



There were several pages like that. Risler litened, puffing at his pipe, afraid to stir, for threader looked at him every moment over h

eyeglasses, to watch the effect of his phraseUnfortunately, right in the middle of the prospectus, the cafe closed. The lights were extinguished; they must go.—And the estimates?—was agreed that they should read them as the

walked along. They stopped at every gaslighThe actor displayed his figures. So much for thhall, so much for the lighting, so much fopoor-rates, so much for the actors. On th

question of the actors he was firm.

"The best point about the affair," he said, "that we shall have no leading man to pay. Ouleading man will be Bibi." (When Delobel

mentioned himself, he commonly called himself Bibi.) "A leading man is paid twenty thousand francs, and as we have none to pay, itjust as if you put twenty thousand francs iyour pocket. Tell me, isn't that true?"



Risler did not reply. He had the constrainemanner, the wandering eyes of the man whosthoughts are elsewhere. The reading of the e

timates being concluded, Delobelle, dismayeto find that they were drawing near the corneof the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, put thquestion squarely. Would Risler advance thmoney, yes or no?

"Well!—no," said Risler, inspired by heroic courage, which he owed principally to the proximity of the factory and to the thought that thwelfare of his family was at stake.

Delobelle was astounded. He had believed thathe business was as good as done, and he stared at his companion, intensely agitated, h

eyes as big as saucers, and rolling his papers ihis hand.

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



Thereupon the worthy man, slowly, with husual heaviness of speech, explained that hwas not rich. Although a partner in a wealth

house, he had no available funds. Georges anhe drew a certain sum from the concern eacmonth; then, when they struck a balance at thend of the year they divided the profits. It hacost him a good deal to begin housekeeping: a

his savings. It was still four months before thinventory. Where was he to obtain the 30,00francs to be paid down at once for the theatreAnd then, beyond all that, the affair could no

be successful.

"Why, it must succeed. Bibi will be there!" Ahe spoke, poor Bibi drew himself up to his fuheight; but Risler was determined, and all Bibi

arguments met the same refusal—"Later, in twor three years, I don't say something may nobe done."

The actor fought for a long time, yielding h

ground inch by inch. He proposed revising h



estimates. The thing might be done cheaper. "would still be too dear for me," Risler interupted. "My name doesn't belong to me. It is

part of the firm. I have no right to pledge iImagine my going into bankruptcy!" His voictrembled as he uttered the word.

"But if everything is in my name," said Delobe

lle, who had no superstition. He tried everything, invoked the sacred interests of art, wenso far as to mention the fascinating actressewhose alluring glances—Risler laughed aloud

"Come, come, you rascal! What's that you'rsaying? You forget that we're both marriemen, and that it is very late and our wives arexpecting us. No ill-will, eh?—This is not a re

fusal, you understand.—By the way, come ansee me after the inventory. We will talk it oveagain. Ah! there's Pere Achille putting out hgas.—I must go in. Good-night."



It was after one o'clock when the actor returnehome. The two women were waiting for himworking as usual, but with a sort of feveris

activity which was strange to them. Every moment the great scissors that Mamma Delobelused to cut the brass wire were seized witstrange fits of trembling, and Desiree's littfingers, as she mounted an insect, moved s

fast that it made one dizzy to watch them. Evethe long feathers of the little birds scattereabout on the table before her seemed more briliant, more richly colored, than on other days.

was because a lovely visitor named Hope hacalled upon them that evening. She had madthe tremendous effort required to climb fivdark flights of stairs, and had opened the dooof the little room to cast a luminous glance th

rein. However much you may have been deceived in life, those magic gleams alwaydazzle you.



"Oh! if your father could only succeed!" saiMamma Delobelle from time to time, as if tsum up a whole world of happy thoughts t

which her reverie abandoned itself.

"He will succeed, mamma, never fear. Monsieur Risler is so kind, I will answer for himAnd Sidonie is very fond of us, too, althoug

since she was married she does seem to negleher old friends a little. But we must make alowance for the difference in our positions. Besides, I never shall forget what she did for me.

And, at the thought of what Sidonie had donfor her, the little cripple applied herself witeven more feverish energy to her work. Heelectrified fingers moved with redoubled swif

ness. You would have said that they were running after some fleeing, elusive thing, like happiness, for example, or the love of some onwho loves you not.



"What was it that she did for you?" her mothewould naturally have asked her; but at thamoment she was only slightly interested i

what her daughter said. She was thinking exclusively of her great man.

"No! do you think so, my dear? Just supposyour father should have a theatre of his ow

and act again as in former days. You don't rmember; you were too small then. But he hatremendous success, no end of recalls. Onnight, at Alencon, the subscribers to the theatrgave him a gold wreath. Ah! he was a brillianman in those days, so lighthearted, so glad tbe alive. Those who see him now don't knowhim, poor man, misfortune has changed him sOh, well! I feel sure that all that's necessary is

little success to make him young and happagain. And then there's money to be made mnaging theatres. The manager at Nantes had carriage. Can you imagine us with a carriageCan you imagine it, I say? That's what woul



be good for you. You could go out, leave youarmchair once in a while. Your father woultake us into the country. You would see th

water and the trees you have had such a longing to see."

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

At that moment the street door of the houswas closed violently, and M. Delobelle's meaured step echoed in the vestibule. There was moment of speechless, breathless anguish. Th

women dared not look at each other, and mamma's great scissors trembled so that they cut thwire crooked.

The poor devil had unquestionably received

terrible blow. His illusions crushed, the humiliation of a refusal, the jests of his comradethe bill at the cafe where he had breakfasted ocredit during the whole period of his manage

ship, a bill which must be paid—all thes



things occurred to him in the silence and gloomof the five flights he had to climb. His heart watorn. Even so, the actor's nature was so stron

in him that he deemed it his duty to envelohis distress, genuine as it was, in a conventiontragic mask.

As he entered, he paused, cast an ominou

glance around the work-room, at the table covered with work, his little supper waiting fohim in a corner, and the two dear, anxious facelooking up at him with glistening eyes. Hstood a full minute without speaking—and yoknow how long a minute's silence seems on thstage; then he took three steps forward, sanupon a low chair beside the table, and exclaimed in a hissing voice:

"Ah! I am accursed!"

At the same time he dealt the table such a terrble blow with his fist that the "birds and insec

for ornament" flew to the four corners of th



room. His terrified wife rose and timidly approached him, while Desiree half rose in hearmchair with an expression of nervous agon

that distorted all her features.

Lolling in his chair, his arms hanging despondently by his sides, his head on his chest, thactor soliloquized—a fragmentary soliloquy

interrupted by sighs and dramatic hiccoughoverflowing with imprecations against the pitless, selfish bourgeois, those monsters to whomthe artist gives his flesh and blood for food andrink.

Then he reviewed his whole theatrical life, hearly triumphs, the golden wreath from thsubscribers at Alencon, his marriage to th

"sainted woman," and he pointed to the poocreature who stood by his side, with tearstreaming from her eyes, and trembling lipnodding her head dotingly at every word hehusband said.



In very truth, a person who never had heard othe illustrious Delobelle could have told hhistory in detail after that long monologue. H

recalled his arrival in Paris, his humiliationhis privations. Alas! he was not the one whhad known privation. One had but to look ahis full, rotund face beside the thin, drawn faces of the two women. But the actor did no

look so closely.

"Oh!" he said, continuing to intoxicate himsewith declamatory phrases, "oh! to have struggled so long. For ten years, fifteen years, havestruggled on, supported by these devoted creatures, fed by them."

"Papa, papa, hush," cried Desiree, clasping he

hands."Yes, fed by them, I say—and I do not blush foit. For I accept all this devotion in the name osacred art. But this is too much. Too much ha

been put upon me. I renounce the stage!"



"Oh! my dear, what is that you say?" crieMamma Delobelle, rushing to his side.

"No, leave me. I have reached the end of mstrength. They have slain the artist in me. It all over. I renounce the stage."

If you had seen the two women throw the

arms about him then, implore him to struggon, prove to him that he had no right to givup, you could not have restrained your tearBut Delobelle resisted.

He yielded at last, however, and promised tcontinue the fight a little while, since it watheir wish; but it required many an entreatand caress to carry the point.



CHAPTER IX. AT SAVIGNY

It was a great misfortune, that sojourn of thtwo families at Savigny for a month.

After an interval of two years Georges and Sdonie found themselves side by side once mor

on the old estate, too old not to be always likitself, where the stones, the ponds, the treealways the same, seemed to cast derision upoall that changes and passes away. A renewal ointercourse under such circumstances muhave been disastrous to two natures that wernot of a very different stamp, and far more vituous than those two.

As for Claire, she never had been so happySavigny never had seemed so lovely to heWhat joy to walk with her child over the greensward where she herself had walked as a childto sit, a young mother, upon the shaded sea

from which her own mother had looked on



her childish games years before; to go, leaninon Georges's arm, to seek out the nooks wherthey had played together. She felt a tranqu

contentment, the overflowing happiness oplacid lives which enjoy their bliss in silencand all day long her skirts swept along thpaths, guided by the tiny footsteps of the childher cries and her demands upon her mother

care.

Sidonie seldom took part in these maternpromenades. She said that the chatter of chidren tired her, and therein she agreed with olGardinois, who seized upon any pretext to annoy his granddaughter. He believed that haccomplished that object by devoting himseexclusively to Sidonie, and arranging even mo

re entertainments for her than on her formevisit. The carriages that had been shut up in thcarriage-house for two years, and were dusteonce a week because the spiders spun thewebs on the silk cushions, were placed at he



disposal. The horses were harnessed three tmes a day, and the gate was continually turning on its hinges. Everybody in the house fo

lowed this impulse of worldliness. The gadener paid more attention to his flowers because Madame Risler selected the finest ones twear in her hair at dinner. And then there wercalls to be made. Luncheon parties were given

gatherings at which Madame Fromont Jeunpresided, but at which Sidonie, with her livelmanners, shone supreme. Indeed, Claire ofteleft her a clear field. The child had its hours fo

sleeping and riding out, with which no amusements could interfere. The mother was compelled to remain away, and it often happenethat she was unable to go with Sidonie to meethe partners when they came from Paris a

night.

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



Madame Risler was triumphant. A picture oelegant indolence, she would drive away behind the galloping horses, unconscious of th

swiftness of their pace, without a thought iher mind.

Other carriages were always waiting at the station. Two or three times she heard some on

near her whisper, "That is Madame FromonJeune," and, indeed, it was a simple matter fopeople to make the mistake, seeing the threreturn together from the station, Sidonie sittinbeside Georges on the back seat, laughing antalking with him, and Risler facing them, smiing contentedly with his broad hands spreaflat upon his knees, but evidently feeling a littout of place in that fine carriage. The though

that she was taken for Madame Fromont madher very proud, and she became a little moraccustomed to it every day. On their arrival athe chateau, the two families separated untdinner; but, in the presence of his wife sittin



tranquilly beside the sleeping child, GeorgeFromont, too young to be absorbed by the joyof domesticity, was continually thinking of th

brilliant Sidonie, whose voice he could heapouring forth triumphant roulades under thtrees in the garden.

While the whole chateau was thus transforme

in obedience to the whims of a young womanold Gardinois continued to lead the narrow lifof a discontented, idle, impotent 'parvenu'. Thmost successful means of distraction he hadiscovered was espionage. The goings and comings of his servants, the remarks that wermade about him in the kitchen, the basket ofruit and vegetables brought every morninfrom the kitchen-garden to the pantry, wer

objects of continual investigation.

For the purposes of this constant spying upohis household, he made use of a stone bench sin the gravel behind an enormous Paulowni

He would sit there whole days at a time, ne



ther reading nor thinking, simply watching tsee who went in or out. For the night he hainvented something different. In the great ve

tibule at the main entrance, which opened upothe front steps with their array of bright flowers, he had caused an opening to be made leading to his bedroom on the floor above. Aacoustic tube of an improved type was sup

posed to convey to his ears every sound on thground floor, even to the conversation of thservants taking the air on the steps.

Unluckily, the instrument was so powerful thait exaggerated all the noises, confused themand prolonged them, and the powerful, regulaticking of a great clock, the cries of a paroquekept in one of the lower rooms, the clucking o

a hen in search of a lost kernel of corn, were aMonsieur Gardinois could hear when he applied his ear to the tube. As for voices, thereached him in the form of a confused buzzinlike the muttering of a crowd, in which it wa



impossible to distinguish anything. He hanothing to show for the expense of the apparatus, and he concealed his wonderful tube in

fold of his bed-curtains.

One night Gardinois, who had fallen asleepwas awakened suddenly by the creaking of door. It was an extraordinary thing at tha

hour. The whole house hold was asleep. Nothing could be heard save the footsteps of thwatch-dogs on the sand, or their scratching athe foot of a tree in which an owl was screeching. An excellent opportunity to use his listening-tube! Upon putting it to his ear, M. Gardnois was assured that he had made no mistakThe sounds continued. One door was openedthen another. The bolt of the front door wa

thrown back with an effort. But neither Pyramus nor Thisbe, not even Kiss, the formidabNewfoundland, had made a sign. He rose sotly to see who those strange burglars could bwho were leaving the house instead of enterin



it; and this is what he saw through the slats ohis blind:

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

It was a superb moonlight night. The moonsilvering the treetops, made numberless flakeof light amid the dense foliage. The terracewhite with moonbeams, where the Newfoundlands in their curly coats went to and fro, wa

ching the night butterflies, the smooth, deewaters of the ponds, all shone with a mutcalm brilliance, as if reflected in a silver mirroHere and there glow-worms twinkled on th

edges of the greensward.The two promenaders remained for a momenbeneath the shade of the Paulownia, sittinsilent on the bench, lost in the dense darknes

which the moon makes where its rays do no



reach. Suddenly they appeared in the brighlight, wrapped in a languishing embrace; thewalked slowly across the main avenue, an

disappeared among the trees.

"I was sure of it!" said old Gardinois, recognizing them. Indeed, what need had he to recognize them? Did not the silence of the dogs, th

aspect of the sleeping house, tell him morclearly than anything else could, what specieof impudent crime, unknown and unpunishedhaunted the avenues in his park by night? Bthat as it may, the old peasant was overjoyeby his discovery. He returned to bed without light, chuckling to himself, and in the little cabinet filled with hunting-implements, whenche had watched them, thinking at first that h

had to do with burglars, the moon's rays shonupon naught save the fowling-pieces hanginon the wall and the boxes of cartridges of asizes.



Sidonie and Georges had taken up the thread otheir love at the corner of the same avenue. Thyear that had passed, marked by hesitation, b

vague struggles, by fruitless resistance, seemeto have been only a preparation for their meeing. And it must be said that, when once thfatal step was taken, they were surprised anothing so much as the fact that they had pos

poned it so long. Georges Fromont especiallwas seized by a mad passion. He was false this wife, his best friend; he was false to Rislehis partner, the faithful companion of his ever

hour.

He felt a constant renewal, a sort of overflow oremorse, wherein his passion was intensifieby the magnitude of his sin. Sidonie became h

one engrossing thought, and he discovered thuntil then he had not lived. As for her, her lovwas made up of vanity and spite. The thinthat she relished above all else was Claire's degradation in her eyes. Ah! if she could onl



have said to her, "Your husband loves me—his false to you with me," her pleasure woulhave been even greater. As for Risler, in he

view he richly deserved what had happened thim. In her old apprentice's jargon, in whicshe still thought, even if she did not speak ithe poor man was only "an old fool," whom shhad taken as a stepping-stone to fortune. "A

old fool" is made to be deceived!

During the day Savigny belonged to Claire, tthe child who ran about upon the gravelaughing at the birds and the clouds, and whgrew apace. The mother and child had for theown the daylight, the paths filled with sunbeams. But the blue nights were given over tsin, to that sin firmly installed in the chateau

which spoke in undertones, crept noiselesslbehind the closed blinds, and in face of whicthe sleeping house became dumb and blindand resumed its stony impassibility, as if were ashamed to see and hear.



CHAPTER X. SIGISMOND PLANUTREMBLES FOR HIS CASH-BOX.

"Carriage, my dear Chorche?—I—have a cariage? What for?"

"I assure you, my dear Risler, that it is quitessential for you. Our business, our relationare extending every day; the coupe is no longeenough for us. Besides, it doesn't look well tsee one of the partners always in his carriagand the other on foot. Believe me, it is a nece

sary outlay, and of course it will go into thgeneral expenses of the firm. Come, resigyourself to the inevitable."

It was genuine resignation. It seemed to Risle

as if he were stealing something in taking th



money for such an unheard-of luxury as a cariage; however, he ended by yielding to Geoges's persistent representations, thinking as h

did so:

"This will make Sidonie very happy!"

The poor fellow had no suspicion that Sidon

herself, a month before, had selected at Binderthe coupe which Georges insisted upon givinher, and which was to be charged to expensaccount in order not to alarm the husband.

Honest Risler was so plainly created to be deceived. His inborn uprightness, the implicconfidence in men and things, which was thfoundation of his transparent nature, had beeintensified of late by preoccupation resultin

from his pursuit of the Risler Press, an invention destined to revolutionize the wall-papeindustry and representing in his eyes his contribution to the partnership assets. When h

laid aside his drawings and left his little work



room on the first floor, his face invariably worthe absorbed look of the man who has his lifon one side, his anxieties on another. What

delight it was to him, therefore, to find hhome always tranquil, his wife always in goohumor, becomingly dressed and smiling.

Without undertaking to explain the change t

himself, he recognized that for some time pathe "little one" had not been as before in hetreatment of him. She allowed him to resumhis old habits: the pipe at dessert, the little naafter dinner, the appointments at the brewerwith Chebe and Delobelle. Their apartmenalso were transformed, embellished.

A grand piano by a famous maker made i

appearance in the salon in place of the old onand Madame Dobson, the singing-teacher, came no longer twice a week, but every day, music-roll in hand.



Of a curious type was that young woman oAmerican extraction, with hair of an aciblond, like lemon-pulp, over a bold forehea

and metallic blue eyes. As her husband woulnot allow her to go on the stage, she gave lesons, and sang in some bourgeois salons. As result of living in the artificial world of compositions for voice and piano, she had contracte

a species of sentimental frenzy.

She was romance itself. In her mouth the word"love" and "passion" seemed to have eightsyllables, she uttered them with so much expression. Oh, expression! That was what Mitress Dobson placed before everything, anwhat she tried, and tried in vain, to impart ther pupil.

'Ay Chiquita,' upon which Paris fed for severseasons, was then at the height of its populaity. Sidonie studied it conscientiously, and athe morning she could be heard singing:



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

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

"Mouri-i-i-i-i-r!" the expressive Madame Dobson would interpose, while her hands wan

dered feebly over the piano-keys; and die shwould, raising her light blue eyes to the ceilinand wildly throwing back her head. Sidonnever could accomplish it. Her mischievoueyes, her lips, crimson with fulness of life, wer

not made for such AEolian-harp sentimentalties. The refrains of Offenbach or Herve, intespersed with unexpected notes, in which onresorts to expressive gestures for aid, to a motion of the head or the body, would have suiteher better; but she dared not admit it to hesentimental instructress. By the way, althougshe had been made to sing a great deal at Mademoiselle Le Mire's, her voice was still fres

and not unpleasing.



Having no social connections, she came gradually to make a friend of her singing-mistresShe would keep her to breakfast, take her t

drive in the new coupe and to assist in her puchases of gowns and jewels. Madame Dobsonsentimental and sympathetic tone led one trepose confidence in her. Her continual repinings seemed too long to attract other repining

Sidonie told her of Georges, of their relationattempting to palliate her offence by blaminthe cruelty of her parents in marrying her bforce to a man much older than herself. Ma

dame Dobson at once showed a disposition tassist them; not that the little woman was venal, but she had a passion for passion, a tastfor romantic intrigue. As she was unhappy iher own home, married to a dentist who be

her, all husbands were monsters in her eyeand poor Risler especially seemed to her a horible tyrant whom his wife was quite justifiein hating and deceiving.



She was an active confidant and a very usefuone. Two or three times a week she woulbring tickets for a box at the Opera or the Ita

liens, or some one of the little theatres whicenjoy a temporary vogue, and cause all Paris tgo from one end of Paris to the other for a season. In Risler's eyes the tickets came from Madame Dobson; she had as many as she chose t

the theatres where operas were given. The poowretch had no suspicion that one of those boxefor an important "first night" had often cost hpartner ten or fifteen Louis.

In the evening, when his wife went away, aways splendidly attired, he would gaze admiingly at her, having no suspicion of the cost oher costumes, certainly none of the man wh

paid for them, and would await her return ahis table by the fire, busy with his drawingfree from care, and happy to be able to say thimself, "What a good time she is having!"



On the floor below, at the Fromonts', the samcomedy was being played, but with a transposition of parts. There it was the young wife wh

sat by the fire. Every evening, half an hour afteSidonie's departure, the great gate swung opeto give passage to the Fromont coupe conveying Monsieur to his club. What would yohave? Business has its demands. All the grea

deals are arranged at the club, around the boullotte table, and a man must go there or suffethe penalty of seeing his business fall off. Clairinnocently believed it all. When her husban

had gone, she felt sad for a moment. She woulhave liked so much to keep him with her or tgo out leaning on his arm, to seek enjoymenwith him. But the sight of the child, cooing ifront of the fire and kicking her little pink fee

while she was being undressed, speedily soohed the mother. Then the eloquent word "busness," the merchant's reason of state, was aways at hand to help her to resign herself.



Georges and Sidonie met at the theatre. Thefeeling at first when they were together waone of satisfied vanity. People stared at them

great deal. She was really pretty now, and heirregular but attractive features, which requirethe aid of all the eccentricities of the prevailinstyle in order to produce their full effect, adapted themselves to them so perfectly that yo

would have said they were invented expresslfor her. In a few moments they went away, anMadame Dobson was left alone in the boThey had hired a small suite on the Avenu

Gabriel, near the 'rond-point' of the ChampElysees—the dream of the young women at thLe Mire establishment—two luxuriously funished, quiet rooms, where the silence of thwealthy quarter, disturbed only by passin

carriages, formed a blissful surrounding fotheir love.

Little by little, when she had become accutomed to her sin, she conceived the most auda



cious whims. From her old working-days shhad retained in the depths of her memory thnames of public balls, of famous restaurant

where she was eager to go now, just as she toopleasure in causing the doors to be throwopen for her at the establishments of the greadressmakers, whose signs only she had knowin her earlier days. For what she sought abov

all else in this liaison was revenge for the sorows and humiliations of her youth. Nothindelighted her so much, for example, when returning from an evening drive in the Bois, as

supper at the Cafe Anglais with the sounds oluxurious vice around her. From these repeateexcursions she brought back peculiarities ospeech and behavior, equivocal songs, and style of dress that imported into the bourgeo

atmosphere of the old commercial house aaccurate reproduction of the most advancetype of the Paris cocotte of that period.



At the factory they began to suspect somethinThe women of the people, even the poorest, arso quick at picking a costume to pieces! Whe

Madame Risler went out, about three o'clockfifty pairs of sharp, envious eyes, lying in ambush at the windows of the polishing-shopwatched her pass, penetrating to the lowedepths of her guilty conscience through he

black velvet dolman and her cuirass of spakling jet.

Although she did not suspect it, all the secreof that mad brain were flying about her like thribbons that played upon her bare neck; anher daintily-shod feet, in their bronzed boowith ten buttons, told the story of all sorts oclandestine expeditions, of the carpeted stai

ways they ascended at night on their way tsupper, and the warm fur robes in which thewere wrapped when the coupe made the circuof the lake in the darkness dotted with lantern



The work-women laughed sneeringly anwhispered:

"Just look at that Tata Bebelle! A fine way tdress to go out. She don't rig herself up like thto go to mass, that's sure! To think that it ainthree years since she used to start for the shoevery morning in an old waterproof, and tw

sous' worth of roasted chestnuts in her pocketo keep her fingers warm. Now she rides in hecarriage."

And amid the talc dust and the roaring of th

stoves, red-hot in winter and summer alikmore than one poor girl reflected on the capricof chance in absolutely transforming a womanexistence, and began to dream vaguely of

magnificent future which might perhaps be istore for herself without her suspecting it.

In everybody's opinion Risler was a dishonorehusband. Two assistants in the printing-room—

faithful patrons of the Folies Dramatiques—



declared that they had seen Madame Risleseveral times at their theatre, accompanied bsome escort who kept out of sight at the rear o

the box. Pere Achille, too, told of amazinthings. That Sidonie had a lover, that she haseveral lovers, in fact, no one entertained doubt. But no one had as yet thought of Fromont jeune.

And yet she showed no prudence whatever iher relations with him. On the contrary, shseemed to make a parade of them; it may bthat that was what saved them. How mantimes she accosted him boldly on the steps tagree upon a rendezvous for the evening! Howmany times she had amused herself in makinhim shudder by looking into his eyes befor

every one! When the first confusion had pased, Georges was grateful to her for these exhbitions of audacity, which he attributed to thintensity of her passion. He was mistaken.



What she would have liked, although she dinot admit it to herself, would have been to havClaire see them, to have her draw aside th

curtain at her window, to have her conceive suspicion of what was passing. She needed thain order to be perfectly happy: that her rivshould be unhappy. But her wish was ungratfied; Claire Fromont noticed nothing and lived

as did Risler, in imperturbable serenity.

Only Sigismond, the old cashier, was really iat ease. And yet he was not thinking of Sidonwhen, with his pen behind his ear, he paused moment in his work and gazed fixedly throughis grating at the drenched soil of the little gaden. He was thinking solely of his master, oMonsieur "Chorche," who was drawing a gre

deal of money now for his current expenseand sowing confusion in all his books. Evertime it was some new excuse. He would comto the little wicket with an unconcerned air:



"Have you a little money, my good Planus?was worsted again at bouillotte last night, anddon't want to send to the bank for such a trifle

Sigismond Planus would open his cash-bowith an air of regret, to get the sum requestedand he would remember with terror a certaiday when Monsieur Georges, then only twent

years old, had confessed to his uncle that howed several thousand francs in gamblindebts. The elder man thereupon conceived violent antipathy for the club and contempt foall its members. A rich tradesman who was member happened to come to the factory onday, and Sigismond said to him with brutafrankness:

"The devil take your 'Cercle du Chateau d'EauMonsieur Georges has left more than thirtthousand francs there in two months."

The other began to laugh.



"Why, you're greatly mistaken, Pere Planus—it's at least three months since we have seeyour master."

The cashier did not pursue the conversationbut a terrible thought took up its abode in hmind, and he turned it over and over all dalong.

If Georges did not go to the club, where did hpass his evenings? Where did he spend smuch money?

There was evidently a woman at the bottom othe affair.

As soon as that idea occurred to him, Sigimond Planus began to tremble seriously for h

cash-box. That old bear from the canton of Bene, a confirmed bachelor, had a terrible dreaof women in general and Parisian women iparticular. He deemed it his duty, first of all, i



order to set his conscience at rest, to warn Riler. He did it at first in rather a vague way.

"Monsieur Georges is spending a great deal omoney," he said to him one day.

Risler exhibited no surprise.

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

And the honest fellow meant what he said. Ihis eyes Fromont jeune was the absolute maste

of the establishment. It would have been a finthing, and no mistake, for him, an exdraughtsman, to venture to make any comments. The cashier dared say no more until thday when a messenger came from a grea

shawl-house with a bill for six thousand francfor a cashmere shawl.

He went to Georges in his office.

"Shall I pay it, Monsieur?"



Georges Fromont was a little annoyed. Sidonhad forgotten to tell him of this latest purchasshe used no ceremony with him now.

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

That evening, as Sigismond was lighting hlittle lamp, he saw Risler crossing the gardenand tapped on the window to call him.

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

As he uttered the awful words "a woman" hvoice shook with alarm and was drowned i

the great uproar of the factory. The sounds othe work in progress had a sinister meaning tthe unhappy cashier at that moment. It seemeto him as if all the whirring machinery, thgreat chimney pouring forth its clouds of smo



ke, the noise of the workmen at their differentasks—as if all this tumult and bustle and fatigue were for the benefit of a mysterious litt

being, dressed in velvet and adorned with jewels.

Risler laughed at him and refused to believhim. He had long been acquainted with h

compatriot's mania for detecting in everythinthe pernicious influence of woman. And yPlanus's words sometimes recurred to hthoughts, especially in the evening when Sidonie, after all the commotion attendant upon thcompletion of her toilette, went away to ththeatre with Madame Dobson, leaving thapartment empty as soon as her long train haswept across the threshold. Candles burning i

front of the mirrors, divers little toilette articlescattered about and thrown aside, told of extravagant caprices and a reckless expenditurof money. Risler thought nothing of all thabut, when he heard Georges's carriage rollin



through the courtyard, he had a feeling of dicomfort at the thought of Madame Fromonpassing her evenings entirely alone. Poor wo

man! Suppose what Planus said were true!

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

Thereupon, instead of beginning to work, hwould go softly downstairs and ask if Madamwere visible, deeming it his duty to keep hecompany.

The little girl was always in bed, but the littcap, the blue shoes, were still lying in front othe fire. Claire was either reading or workingwith her silent mother beside her, always rubbing or dusting with feverish energy, exhaus

ing herself by blowing on the case of her watchand nervously taking the same thing up anputting it down again ten times in successionwith the obstinate persistence of mania. No

was honest Risler a very entertaining compan



ion; but that did not prevent the young womafrom welcoming him kindly. She knew all thawas said about Sidonie in the factory; and a

though she did not believe half of it, the sight othe poor man, whom his wife left alone so oten, moved her heart to pity. Mutual compasion formed the basis of that placid friendshipand nothing could be more touching than thes

two deserted ones, one pitying the other aneach trying to divert the other's thoughts.

Seated at the small, brightly lighted table in thcentre of the salon, Risler would graduallyield to the influence of the warmth of the firand the harmony of his surroundings. Hfound there articles of furniture with which hhad been familiar for twenty years, the portra

of his former employer; and his dear MadamChorche, bending over some little piece of needle work at his side, seemed to him eveyounger and more lovable among all those olsouvenirs. From time to time she would rise t



go and look at the child sleeping in the adjoining room, whose soft breathing they could heain the intervals of silence. Without fully realiz

ing it, Risler felt more comfortable and warmethere than in his own apartment; for on certaidays those attractive rooms, where the doorwere forever being thrown open for hurrieexits or returns, gave him the impression of

hall without doors or windows, open to thfour winds. His rooms were a camping-groundthis was a home. A care-taking hand causeorder and refinement to reign everywhere. Th

chairs seemed to be talking together in undetones, the fire burned with a delightful soundand Mademoiselle Fromont's little cap retainein every bow of its blue ribbons suggestions osweet smiles and baby glances.

And while Claire was thinking that such aexcellent man deserved a better companion ilife, Risler, watching the calm and lovely facturned toward him, the intelligent, kindly eye



asked himself who the hussy could be fowhom Georges Fromont neglected such aadorable woman.

CHAPTER XI. THE INVENTORY

The house in which old Planus lived at Montrouge adjoined the one which the Chebes ha

occupied for some time. There was the samground floor with three windows, and a singfloor above, the same garden with its latticwork fence, the same borders of green boThere the old cashier lived with his sister. Htook the first omnibus that left the office in thmorning, returned at dinner-time, and on Sundays remained at home, tending his flowerand his poultry. The old maid was his hous



keeper and did all the cooking and sewing. happier couple never lived.

Celibates both, they were bound together by aequal hatred of marriage. The sister abhorreall men, the brother looked upon all womewith suspicion; but they adored each otheeach considering the other an exception to th

general perversity of the sex.

In speaking of him she always said: "MonsieuPlanus, my brother!"—and he, with the samaffectionate solemnity, interspersed all his sen

tences with "Mademoiselle Planus, my sisterTo those two retiring and innocent creatureParis, of which they knew nothing, althougthey visited it every day, was a den of monster

of two varieties, bent upon doing one anothethe utmost possible injury; and whenever, amithe gossip of the quarter, a conjugal drama came to their ears, each of them, beset by his oher own idea, blamed a different culprit.



"It is the husband's fault," would be the verdiof "Mademoiselle Planus, my sister."

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

"Oh! the men—"

"Oh! the women—"

That was their one never-failing subject of dicussion in those rare hours of idleness whicold Sigismond set aside in his busy day, whic

was as carefully ruled off as his account-bookFor some time past the discussions between thbrother and sister had been marked by extraodinary animation. They were deeply interestein what was taking place at the factory. Th

sister was full of pity for Madame Fromont anconsidered her husband's conduct altogetheoutrageous; as for Sigismond, he could find nwords bitter enough for the unknown trollowho sent bills for six-thousand-franc shawls t



be paid from his cashbox. In his eyes, the honoand fair fame of the old house he had servesince his youth were at stake.

"What will become of us?" he repeated agaiand again. "Oh! these women—"

One day Mademoiselle Planus sat by the fir

with her knitting, waiting for her brother.

The table had been laid for half an hour, anthe old lady was beginning to be worried bsuch unheard-of tardiness, when Sigismon

entered with a most distressed face, and without a word, which was contrary to all his habits.

He waited until the door was shut tight, the

said in a low voice, in response to his sisterdisturbed and questioning expression:

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



Lowering his voice still more, after glancinabout at the silent walls of their little diningroom, he uttered a name so unexpected tha

Mademoiselle Planus made him repeat it.

"Is it possible?"

"It is the truth."

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

His old sister could not believe it. Such a r

fined, polite person, who had received her witso much cordiality!—How could any one imagine such a thing?

"I have proofs," said Sigismond Planus.

Thereupon he told her how Pere Achille hamet Sidonie and Georges one night at eleveo'clock, just as they entered a small furnishelodging-house in the Montmartre quarter; an

he was a man who never lied. They had know



him for a long while. Besides, others had mthem. Nothing else was talked about at the fatory. Risler alone suspected nothing.

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

The cashier's face assumed a grave expression.

"It is a very delicate matter. In the first placwho knows whether he would believe meThere are blind men so blind that—And thenby interfering between the two partners, I ris

the loss of my place. Oh! the women—the women! When I think how happy Risler mighhave been. When I sent for him to come to Parwith his brother, he hadn't a sou; and to-day his at the head of one of the first houses in Pari

Do you suppose that he would be content witthat? Oh! no, of course not! Monsieur must marry. As if any one needed to marry! And, worsyet, he marries a Parisian woman, one of thos

frowsy-haired chits that are the ruin of an hon



est house, when he had at his hand a fine girof almost his own age, a countrywoman, useto work, and well put together, as you migh

say!"

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister," to whosphysical structure he alluded, had a magnifcent opportunity to exclaim, "Oh! the men, th

men!" but she was silent. It was a very delicatquestion, and perhaps, if Risler had chosen itime, he might have been the only one.

Old Sigismond continued:

"And this is what we have come to. For thremonths the leading wall-paper factory in Parhas been tied to the petticoats of that good-fonothing. You should see how the money flie

All day long I do nothing but open my wickto meet Monsieur Georges's calls. He alwayapplies to me, because at his banker's too mucnotice would be taken of it, whereas in our o

fice money comes and goes, comes in and goe



out. But look out for the inventory! We shahave some pretty figures to show at the end othe year. The worst part of the whole busines

is that Risler won't listen to anything. I havwarned him several times: 'Look out, MonsieuGeorges is making a fool of himself for somwoman.' He either turns away with a shrug, oelse he tells me that it is none of his busines

and that Fromont Jeune is the master. Upon mword, one would almost think—one woulalmost think—"

The cashier did not finish his sentence; but hsilence was pregnant with unspoken thoughts

The old maid was appalled; but, like most women under such circumstances, instead of seek

ing a remedy for the evil, she wandered off inta maze of regrets, conjectures, and retrospetive lamentations. What a misfortune that thehad not known it sooner when they had thChebes for neighbors. Madame Chebe wa

such an honorable woman. They might hav



put the matter before her so that she woulkeep an eye on Sidonie and talk seriously ther.

"Indeed, that's a good idea," Sigismond interupted. "You must go to the Rue du Mail antell her parents. I thought at first of writing tlittle Frantz. He always had a great deal of in

fluence over his brother, and he's the only peson on earth who could say certain things thim. But Frantz is so far away. And then would be such a terrible thing to do. I can't helpitying that unlucky Risler, though. No! thbest way is to tell Madame Chebe. Will youndertake to do it, sister?"

It was a dangerous commission. Mademoisel

Planus made some objections, but she nevehad been able to resist her brother's wishes, anthe desire to be of service to their old frienRisler assisted materially in persuading her.



Thanks to his son-in-law's kindness, M. Chebhad succeeded in gratifying his latest whimFor three months past he had been living at h

famous warehouse on the Rue du Mail, and great sensation was created in the quarter bthat shop without merchandise, the shutters owhich were taken down in the morning anput up again at night, as in wholesale house

Shelves had been placed all around the wallthere was a new counter, a safe, a huge pair oscales. In a word, M. Chebe possessed all threquisites of a business of some sort, but di

not know as yet just what business he woulchoose.

He pondered the subject all day as he walketo and fro across the shop, encumbered wit

several large pieces of bedroom furniturwhich they had been unable to get into the bacroom; he pondered it, too, as he stood on hdoorstep, with his pen behind his ear, and feated his eyes delightedly on the hurly-burly o



Parisian commerce. The clerks who passed wittheir packages of samples under their arms, thvans of the express companies, the omnibuse

the porters, the wheelbarrows, the great baleof merchandise at the neighboring doors, thpackages of rich stuffs and trimmings whicwere dragged in the mud before being consigned to those underground regions, thos

dark holes stuffed with treasures, where thfortune of business lies in embryo—all thesthings delighted M. Chebe.

He amused himself guessing at the contents othe bales and was first at the fray when sompasser-by received a heavy package upon hfeet, or the horses attached to a dray, spiriteand restive, made the long vehicle standin

across the street an obstacle to circulation. Hhad, moreover, the thousand-and-one distrations of the petty tradesman without customers, the heavy showers, the accidents, the theftthe disputes.



At the end of the day M. Chebe, dazed, bewidered, worn out by the labor of other peoplwould stretch himself out in his easy-chair an

say to his wife, as he wiped his forehead:

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

Madame Chebe would smile softly withou

replying. Accustomed as she was to all her huband's whims, she had made herself as comfortable as possible in a back room with an oulook upon a dark yard, consoling herself witreflections on the former prosperity of her pa

ents and her daughter's wealth; and, being aways neatly dressed, she had succeeded aready in acquiring the respect of neighbors antradesmen.

She asked nothing more than not to be confounded with the wives of workingmen, ofteless poor than herself, and to be allowed to retain, in spite of everything, a petty bourgeo

superiority. That was her constant thought; an



so the back room in which she lived, and wherit was dark at three in the afternoon, was resplendent with order and cleanliness. Durin

the day the bed became a couch, an old shawdid duty as a tablecloth, the fireplace, hiddeby a screen, served as a pantry, and the meawere cooked in modest retirement on a stovno larger than a foot-warmer. A tranquil life—

that was the dream of the poor woman, whwas continually tormented by the whims of auncongenial companion.

In the early days of his tenancy, M. Chebe hacaused these words to be inscribed in letters foot long on the fresh paint of his shop-front:

COMMISSION—EXPORTATION

No specifications. His neighbors sold tullbroadcloth, linen; he was inclined to sell everything, but could not make up his mind juwhat. With what arguments did his indecisiolead him to favor Madame Chebe as they sa

together in the evening!



"I don't know anything about linen; but wheyou come to broadcloth, I understand that. Only, if I go into broadcloths I must have a man t

travel; for the best kinds come from Sedan anElbeuf. I say nothing about calicoes; summer the time for them. As for tulle, that's out of thquestion; the season is too far advanced."

He usually brought his discourse to a closwith the words:

"The night will bring counsel—let us go tbed."

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

After three or four months of this life, M. Cheb

began to tire of it. The pains in the head, thdizzy fits gradually returned. The quarter wanoisy and unhealthy: besides, business was atstandstill. Nothing was to be done in any linbroadcloths, tissues, or anything else.



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

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

It was a stunning blow. When she heard thaccusation made against her daughter, Madame Chebe rose in indignation. No one coulever make her believe such a thing. Her poo

Sidonie was the victim of an infamous slander

M. Chebe, for his part, adopted a very lofttone, with significant phrases and motions othe head, taking everything to himself as wa

his custom. How could any one suppose thahis child, a Chebe, the daughter of an honoable business man known for thirty years othe street, was capable of Nonsense!



Mademoiselle Planus insisted. It was a painfuthing to her to be considered a gossip, a hawkeof unsavory stories. But they had incontestab

proofs. It was no longer a secret to anybody.

"And even suppose it were true," cried M. Chbe, furious at her persistence. "Is it for us tworry about it? Our daughter is married. Sh

lives a long way from her parents. It is for hehusband, who is much older than she, to advisand guide her. Does he so much as think odoing it?"

Upon that the little man began to inveigagainst his son-in-law, that cold-blooded Swiswho passed his life in his office devising mchines, refused to accompany his wife into so

ciety, and preferred his old-bachelor habits, hpipe and his brewery, to everything else.

You should have seen the air of aristocratdisdain with which M. Chebe pronounced th

word "brewery!" And yet almost every evenin



he went there to meet Risler, and overwhelmehim with reproaches if he once failed to appeaat the rendezvous.

Behind all this verbiage the merchant of thRue du Mail—"Commission-Exportation"—haa very definite idea. He wished to give up hshop, to retire from business, and for some tim

he had been thinking of going to see Sidonie, iorder to interest her in his new schemes. Thawas not the time, therefore, to make disagreeable scenes, to prate about paternal authoritand conjugal honor. As for Madame Chebbeing somewhat less confident than before oher daughter's virtue, she took refuge in thmost profound silence. The poor woman wihed that she were deaf and blind—that she ne

ver had known Mademoiselle Planus.

Like all persons who have been very unhappyshe loved a benumbed existence with a semblance of tranquillity, and ignorance seemed t

her preferable to everything. As if life were no



sad enough, good heavens! And then, after alSidonie had always been a good girl; whshould she not be a good woman?

Night was falling. M. Chebe rose gravely tclose the shutters of the shop and light a gas-jewhich illumined the bare walls, the empty, poished shelves, and the whole extraordinar

place, which reminded one strongly of the dafollowing a failure. With his lips closed didainfully, in his determination to remain silenhe seemed to say to the old lady, "Night hacome—it is time for you to go home." And athe while they could hear Madame Chebe sobbing in the back room, as she went to and frpreparing supper.

Mademoiselle Planus got no further satisfactiofrom her visit.

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



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

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

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

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, I ask youpardon for having made you take this step; buthe honor of the house of Fromont was at stake."

From that moment Sigismond became morand more depressed. His cash-box no longeseemed to him safe or secure. Even when Fromont Jeune did not ask him for money, he wa

afraid, and he summed up all his apprehensions in four words which came continually this lips when talking with his sister:



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

Thinking always of his cash-box, he dreamesometimes that it had broken apart at all thjoints, and insisted on remaining open, no mater how much he turned the key; or else that high wind had scattered all the papers, note

cheques, and bills, and that he ran after themall over the factory, tiring himself out in thattempt to pick them up.

In the daytime, as he sat behind his grating i

the silence of his office, he imagined that a littwhite mouse had eaten its way through thbottom of the box and was gnawing and destroying all its contents, growing plumper an

prettier as the work of destruction went on.So that, when Sidonie appeared on the stepabout the middle of the afternoon, in her prettParisian plumage, old Sigismond shuddere

with rage. In his eyes it was the ruin of the hou



se that stood there, ruin in a magnificent cotume, with its little coupe at the door, and thplacid bearing of a happy coquette.

Madame Risler had no suspicion that, at thawindow on the ground floor, sat an untiring fowho watched her slightest movements, thmost trivial details of her life, the going an

coming of her music-teacher, the arrival of thfashionable dressmaker in the morning, all thboxes that were brought to the house, and thlaced cap of the employe of the Magasin dLouvre, whose heavy wagon stopped at thgate with a jingling of bells, like a diligencdrawn by stout horses which were dragginthe house of Fromont to bankruptcy at breakneck speed.

Sigismond counted the packages, weighethem with his eye as they passed, and gazeinquisitively into Risler's apartments througthe open windows. The carpets that were sha

ken with a great noise, the jardinieres that wer



brought into the sunlight filled with fragilunseasonable flowers, rare and expensive, thgorgeous hangings—none of these things e

caped his notice.

The new acquisitions of the household starehim in the face, reminding him of some requefor a large amount.

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

In his view that woman was in a fair way t

change his friend, the best, the most upright omen, into a shameless villain. There was npossibility of doubt that Risler knew of his dihonor, and submitted to it. He was paid to keequiet.

Certainly there was something monstrous isuch a supposition. But it is the tendency oinnocent natures, when they are made aquainted with evil for the first time, to go a



once too far, beyond reason. When he was oncconvinced of the treachery of Georges and Sdonie, Risler's degradation seemed to the cash

ier less impossible of comprehension. On whother theory could his indifference, in the facof his partner's heavy expenditures, be explained?

The excellent Sigismond, in his narrow, stereotyped honesty, could not understand the delcacy of Risler's heart. At the same time, the mthodical bookkeeper's habit of thought and hclear-sightedness in business were a thousanleagues from that absent-minded, flighty chaacter, half-artist, half-inventor. He judged himby himself, having no conception of the condtion of a man with the disease of invention

absorbed by a fixed idea. Such men are somnambulists. They look, but do not see, theeyes being turned within.

It was Sigismond's belief that Risler did se

That belief made the old cashier very unhappy



He began by staring at his friend whenever hentered the counting-room; then, discourageby his immovable indifference, which he be

lieved to be wilful and premeditated, coverinhis face like a mask, he adopted the plan oturning away and fumbling among his paperto avoid those false glances, and keeping heyes fixed on the garden paths or the interlace

wires of the grating when he spoke to himEven his words were confused and distortedlike his glances. No one could say positively twhom he was talking.

No more friendly smiles, no more reminicences as they turned over the leaves of thcash-book together.

"This was the year you came to the factoryYour first increase of pay. Do you rememberWe dined at Douix's that day. And then thCafe des Aveugles in the evening, eh? What debauch!"



At last Risler noticed the strange coolness thahad sprung up between Sigismond and himself. He mentioned it to his wife.

For some time past she had felt that antipathprowling about her. Sometimes, as she crossethe courtyard, she was oppressed, as it were, bmalevolent glances which caused her to tur

nervously toward the old cashier's corner. Thestrangement between the friends alarmed heand she very quickly determined to put hehusband on his guard against Planus's unpleasant remarks.

"Don't you see that he is jealous of you, of youposition? A man who was once his equal, nowhis superior, he can't stand that. But why bo

her one's head about all these spiteful creatures? Why, I am surrounded by them here."

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



"Why, yes, it is easy enough to see that all thespeople detest me. They bear little Chebe grudge because she has become Madame Risle

Aine. Heaven only knows all the outrageouthings that are said about me! And your cashiedoesn't keep his tongue in his pocket, I assuryou. What a spiteful fellow he is!"

These few words had their effect. Risler, indignant, but too proud to complain, met coldneswith coldness. Those two honest men, eacintensely distrustful of the other, could no longer meet without a painful sensation, so thaafter a while, Risler ceased to go to the couning-room at all. It was not difficult for him, aFromont Jeune had charge of all financial maters. His month's allowance was carried to him

on the thirtieth of each month. This arrangment afforded Sidonie and Georges additionafacilities, and opportunity for all sorts of underhand dealing.



She thereupon turned her attention to the completion of her programme of a life of luxuryShe lacked a country house. In her heart sh

detested the trees, the fields, the country roadthat cover you with dust. "The most dismthings on earth," she used to say. But ClairFromont passed the summer at Savigny. Asoon as the first fine days arrived, the trunk

were packed and the curtains taken down othe floor below; and a great furniture van, witthe little girl's blue bassinet rocking on top, seoff for the grandfather's chateau. Then, on

morning, the mother, grandmother, child, annurse, a medley of white gowns and light veilwould drive away behind two fast horses toward the sunny lawns and the pleasant shadof the avenues.

At that season Paris was ugly, depopulatedand although Sidonie loved it even in thsummer, which heats it like a furnace, it troubled her to think that all the fashion and wealt



of Paris were driving by the seashore undetheir light umbrellas, and would make theouting an excuse for a thousand new inven

tions, for original styles of the most risque sorwhich would permit one to show that one haspretty ankle and long, curly chestnut hair oone's own.

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

How about buying a country house? They hanot the means. To be sure, there was the love

who would have asked nothing better than tgratify this latest whim; but a country houscannot be concealed like a bracelet or a shawThe husband must be induced to accept it. Tha

was not an easy matter; however, they mighventure to try it with Risler.

To pave the way, she talked to him incessantlabout a little nook in the country, not too ex

pensive, very near Paris. Risler listened with



smile. He thought of the high grass, of the ochard filled with fine fruit-trees, being alreadtormented by the longing to possess which co

mes with wealth; but, as he was prudent, hsaid:

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

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

The balance-sheet! That is the magic word. A

through the year we go on and on in the eddying whirl of business. Money comes and goecirculates, attracts other money, vanishes; anthe fortune of the firm, like a slippery, gleaming snake, always in motion, expands, con

tracts, diminishes, or increases, and it is imposible to know our condition until there comes moment of rest. Not until the inventory shawe know the truth, and whether the yea



which seems to have been prosperous, has really been so.

The account of stock is usually taken late iDecember, between Christmas and New YearDay. As it requires much extra labor to preparit, everybody works far into the night. Thwhole establishment is alert. The lamps remai

lighted in the offices long after the doors arclosed, and seem to share in the festal atmophere peculiar to that last week of the yeawhen so many windows are illuminated fofamily gatherings. Every one, even to the leaimportant 'employe' of the firm, is interested ithe results of the inventory. The increases osalary, the New Year's presents, depend upothose blessed figures. And so, while the va

interests of a wealthy house are trembling ithe balance, the wives and children and ageparents of the clerks, in their fifth-floor tenments or poor apartments in the suburbs, talof nothing but the inventory, the results o



which will make themselves felt either by greatly increased need of economy or by sompurchase, long postponed, which the New

Year's gift will make possible at last.

On the premises of Fromont Jeune and RisleAine, Sigismond Planus is the god of the establishment at that season, and his little office

sanctuary where all the clerks perform thedevotions. In the silence of the sleeping factorythe heavy pages of the great books rustle athey are turned, and names called aloud caussearch to be made in other books. Pens scratchThe old cashier, surrounded by his lieutenanthas a businesslike, awe-inspiring air. From timto time Fromont Jeune, on the point of goinout in his carriage, looks in for a moment, wit

a cigar in his mouth, neatly gloved and readfor the street. He walks slowly, on tiptoe, puhis face to the grating:

"Well!—are you getting on all right?"



Sigismond gives a grunt, and the young mastetakes his leave, afraid to ask any further quetions. He knows from the cashier's expressio

that the showing will be a bad one.

In truth, since the days of the Revolution, whethere was fighting in the very courtyard of thfactory, so pitiable an inventory never had bee

seen in the Fromont establishment. Receipand expenditures balanced each other. The gneral expense account had eaten up everythingand, furthermore, Fromont Jeune was indebteto the firm in a large sum. You should havseen old Planus's air of consternation when, othe 31st of December, he went up to Georgesoffice to make report of his labors.

Georges took a very cheerful view of the mater. Everything would go better next year. Anto restore the cashier's good humor he gavhim an extraordinary bonus of a thousanfrancs, instead of the five hundred his unc

used always to give. Everybody felt the effec



of that generous impulse, and, in the universsatisfaction, the deplorable results of the yearlaccounting were very soon forgotten. As fo

Risler, Georges chose to take it upon himself tinform him as to the situation.

When he entered his partner's little closewhich was lighted from above by a window i

the ceiling, so that the light fell directly upothe subject of the inventor's meditations, Fromont hesitated a moment, filled with shamand remorse for what he was about to do.

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

"Chorche, Chorche, my dear fellow—I have goit, our press. There are still a few little things t

think out. But no matter! I am sure now of minvention: you will see—you will see! Ah! thProchassons can experiment all they choosWith the Risler Press we will crush all rivalry."



"Bravo, my comrade!" replied Fromont Jeun"So much for the future; but you don't seem tthink about the present. What about this inven

tory?"

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

He said that because of the somewhat diturbed and embarrassed expression oGeorges's face.

"Why, yes, on the contrary, it is very satisfa

tory indeed," was the reply. "We have everreason to be satisfied, especially as this is oufirst year together. We have forty thousanfrancs each for our share of the profits; and asthought you might need a little money to giv

your wife a New Year's present—"

Ashamed to meet the eyes of the honest mawhose confidence he was betraying, Fromon



jeune placed a bundle of cheques and notes othe table.

Risler was deeply moved for a moment. Smuch money at one time for him! His mindwelt upon the generosity of these Fromontwho had made him what he was; then hthought of his little Sidonie, of the longin

which she had so often expressed and which hwould now be able to gratify.

With tears in his eyes and a happy smile on hlips, he held out both hands to his partner.

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

That was his favorite phrase on great occasionThen he pointed to the bundles of bank note

spread out before him in the narrow bandwhich are used to confine those fugitive documents, always ready to fly away.



"Do you know what that is?" he said to Geoges, with an air of triumph. "That is Sidoniehouse in the country!"

CHAPTER XII. A LETTER

"TO M. FRANTZ RISLER,

"Engineer of the Compagnie Francaise,"Ismailia, Egypt.

"Frantz, my boy, it is old Sigismond who writing to you. If I

knew better how to put my ideas on paper,should have a very long

story to tell you. But this infernal French too hard, and



Sigismond Planus is good for nothing awafrom his figures. So I

will come to the point at once.

"Affairs in your brother's house are not athey should be. That

woman is false to him with his partner. Shhas made her husband a

laughing-stock, and if this goes on she wicause him to be looked

upon as a rascal. Frantz, my boy, you mucome home at once. You

are the only one who can speak to Risler anopen his eyes aboutthat little Sidonie. He would not believe an

of us. Ask leave ofabsence at once, and come.

"I know that you have your bread to earn outhere, and your future

to assure; but a man of honor should thinmore of the name his



parents gave him than of anything else. Andtell you that if you

do not come at once, a time will come whe

the name of Risler willbe so overwhelmed with shame that you wi

not dare to bear it.

"SIGISMOND PLANUS,

"Cashier."

CHAPTER XIII. THE JUDGE

Those persons who live always in doors, con

fined by work or infirmity to a chair by thwindow, take a deep interest in the people whpass, just as they make for themselves a horzon of the neighboring walls, roofs, and windows.



Nailed to their place, they live in the life of thstreets; and the busy men and women whpass within their range of vision, sometime

every day at the same hour, do not suspect ththey serve as the mainspring of other lives, thainterested eyes watch for their coming and misthem if they happen to go to their destinatioby another road.

The Delobelles, left to themselves all day, indulged in this sort of silent observation. Thewindow was narrow, and the mother, whoseyes were beginning to weaken as the result ohard usage, sat near the light against the drawmuslin curtain; her daughter's large armchawas a little farther away. She announced thapproach of their daily passers-by. It was a d

version, a subject of conversation; and the lonhours of toil seemed shorter, marked off by thregular appearance of people who were as busas they. There were two little sisters, a gentleman in a gray overcoat, a child who was take



to school and taken home again, and an olgovernment clerk with a wooden leg, whosstep on the sidewalk had a sinister sound.

They hardly ever saw him; he passed aftedark, but they heard him, and the sound aways struck the little cripple's ears like a harsecho of her own mournful thoughts. All thes

street friends unconsciously occupied a largplace in the lives of the two women. If it rainedthey would say:

"They will get wet. I wonder whether the chil

got home before the shower." And when thseason changed, when the March sun inundated the sidewalks or the December snowcovered them with its white mantle and i

patches of black mud, the appearance of a newgarment on one of their friends caused the twrecluses to say to themselves, "It is summer," o"winter has come."



Now, on a certain evening in May, one of thossoft, luminous evenings when life flows fortfrom the houses into the street through th

open windows, Desiree and her mother werbusily at work with needles and fingers, exhausting the daylight to its last ray, before lighting the lamp. They could hear the shouts ochildren playing in the yards, the muffled note

of pianos, and the voice of a street peddledrawing his half-empty wagon. One coulsmell the springtime in the air, a vague odor ohyacinth and lilac.

Mamma Delobelle had laid aside her workand, before closing the window, leaned upothe sill listening to all these noises of a greatoiling city, taking delight in walking throug

the streets when its day's work was endedFrom time to time she spoke to her daughtewithout turning her head.

"Ah! there's Monsieur Sigismond. How early h

leaves the factory to-night! It may be becaus



the days are lengthening so fast, but I donthink it can be seven o'clock. Who can that mabe with the old cashier?—What a funn

thing!—One would say—Why, yes!—Onwould say it was Monsieur Frantz. But thaisn't possible. Monsieur Frantz is a long wafrom here at this moment; and then he had nbeard. That man looks like him all the sam

Just look, my dear."

But "my dear" does not leave her chair; shdoes not even stir. With her eyes staring intvacancy, her needle in the air, arrested in ipretty, industrious movement, she has gonaway to the blue country, that wonderful country whither one may go at will, withouthought of any infirmity. The name "Frantz

uttered mechanically by her mother, because oa chance resemblance, represented to her whole lifetime of illusions, of fervent hopeephemeral as the flush that rose to her cheekwhen, on returning home at night, he used t



come and chat with her a moment. How faaway that was already! To think that he used tlive in the little room near hers, that they use

to hear his step on the stairs and the noise made by his table when he dragged it to the window to draw! What sorrow and what happness she used to feel when he talked to her oSidonie, sitting on the low chair at her knee

while she mounted her birds and her insects.

As she worked, she used to cheer and comfohim, for Sidonie had caused poor Frantz manlittle griefs before the last great one. His tonwhen he spoke of Sidonie, the sparkle in heyes when he thought of her, fascinated Desirein spite of everything, so that when he wenaway in despair, he left behind him a love eve

greater than that he carried with him—a lovwhich the unchanging room, the sedentarystagnant life, kept intact with all its bitter pefume, whereas his would gradually fade awaand vanish in the fresh air of the outer world.



It grows darker and darker. A great wave omelancholy envelops the poor girl with thfalling darkness of that balmy evening. Th

blissful gleam from the past dies away as thlast glimmer of daylight vanishes in the narrowrecess of the window, where her mother stistands leaning on the sill.

Suddenly the door opens. Some one is therwhose features can not be distinguished. Whcan it be? The Delobelles never receive callThe mother, who has turned her head, thinks first that some one has come from the shop tget the week's work.

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

lle has taken everything."The man comes forward without speaking, anas he approaches the window his features cabe distinguished. He is a tall, solidly built fe



low with a bronzed face, a thick, red beard, ana deep voice, and is a little slow of speech.

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

"Oh! I knew you at once, Monsieur Frantzsaid Desiree, very calmly, in a cold, sedate ton

"Merciful heavens! it's Monsieur Frantz."

Quickly Mamma Delobelle runs to the lamplights it, and closes the window.

"What! it is you, is it, my dear Frantz?" Howcoolly she says it, the little rascal! "I knew yoat once." Ah, the little iceberg! She will alwaybe the same.

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



She seems to him improved, even more refinethan before. He seems to her superb, as alwaywith a melancholy, weary expression in th

depths of his eyes, which makes him more of man than when he went away.

His weariness is due to his hurried journeyundertaken immediately on his receipt of Sig

ismond's letter. Spurred on by the word dihonor, he had started instantly, without awaiing his leave of absence, risking his place anhis future prospects; and, hurrying from steamships to railways, he had not stopped until hreached Paris. Reason enough for being wearyespecially when one has travelled in eagehaste to reach one's destination, and wheone's mind has been continually beset by impa

tient thoughts, making the journey ten timeover in incessant doubt and fear and perplexity

His melancholy began further back. It began othe day when the woman he loved refused t

marry him, to become, six months later, th



wife of his brother; two terrible blows in clossuccession, the second even more painful thathe first. It is true that, before entering into tha

marriage, Risler had written to him to ask hpermission to be happy, and had written isuch touching, affectionate terms that the violence of the blow was somewhat diminishedand then, in due time, life in a strange country

hard work, and long journeys had softened hgrief. Now only a vast background of melancholy remains; unless, indeed, the hatred anwrath by which he is animated at this momen

against the woman who is dishonoring hbrother may be a remnant of his former love.

But no! Frantz Risler thinks only of avenginthe honor of the Rislers. He comes not as a lo

ver, but as a judge; and Sidonie may well looto herself.

The judge had gone straight to the factory oleaving the train, relying upon the surprise, th



unexpectedness, of his arrival to disclose to himat a glance what was taking place.

Unluckily he had found no one. The blinds othe little house at the foot of the garden habeen closed for two weeks. Pere Achille informed him that the ladies were at therespective country seats where the partner

joined them every evening.

Fromont Jeune had left the factory very earlyRisler Aine had just gone. Frantz decided tspeak to old Sigismond. But it was Saturday

the regular pay-day, and he must needs wauntil the long line of workmen, extending fromAchille's lodge to the cashier's grated windowhad gradually dispersed.

Although very impatient and very depressedthe excellent youth, who had lived the life of Paris workingman from his childhood, felt thrill of pleasure at finding himself once mor

in the midst of the animated scenes peculiar t



that time and place. Upon all those faces, honest or vicious, was an expression of satisfactiothat the week was at an end. You felt that, s

far as they were concerned, Sunday began aseven o'clock Saturday evening, in front of thcashier's little lamp.

One must have lived among workingmen t

realize the full charm of that one day's rest anits solemnity. Many of these poor creaturebound fast to unhealthful trades, await the coming of the blessed Sunday like a puff of refreshing air, essential to their health and thelife. What an overflow of spirits, thereforwhat a pressing need of noisy mirth! It seemas if the oppression of the week's labor vanishes with the steam from the machinery, as

escapes in a hissing cloud of vapor over thgutters.

One by one the workmen moved away fromthe grating, counting the money that glistene

in their black hands. There were disappoin



ments, mutterings, remonstrances, hours mised, money drawn in advance; and above thtinkling of coins, Sigismond's voice could b

heard, calm and relentless, defending the inteests of his employers with a zeal amounting tferocity.

Frantz was familiar with all the dramas of pay

day, the false accents and the true. He knewthat one man's wages were expended for hfamily, to pay the baker and the druggist, or fohis children's schooling.

Another wanted his money for the wine-shoor for something even worse. And the melancholy, downcast shadows passing to and fro ifront of the factory gateway—he knew wha

they were waiting for—that they were all othe watch for a father or a husband, to hurrhim home with complaining or coaxing words

Oh! the barefooted children, the tiny creature

wrapped in old shawls, the shabby women



whose tear-stained faces were as white as thlinen caps that surmounted them.

Oh! the lurking vice that prowls about on payday, the candles that are lighted in the depthof dark alleys, the dirty windows of the wineshops where the thousand-and-one poisonouconcoctions of alcohol display their allurin

colors.

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

When the last man was paid, Sigismond camout of his office. The two friends recognizeeach other and embraced; and in the silence othe factory, at rest for twenty-four hours an

deathly still in all its empty buildings, the cashier explained to Frantz the state of affairs. Hdescribed Sidonie's conduct, her mad extravagance, the total wreck of the family honor. Th

Rislers had bought a country house at Asniere



formerly the property of an actress, and had seup a sumptuous establishment there. They hahorses and carriages, and led a luxurious, ga

life. The thing that especially disturbed honeSigismond was the self restraint of Fromonjeune. For some time he had drawn almost nmoney from the strong-box, and yet Sidonwas spending more than ever.

"I haf no gonfidence!" said the unhappy cashieshaking his head, "I haf no gonfidence!"

Lowering his voice he added:

"But your brother, my little Frantz, your broher? Who can explain his actions? He goeabout through it all with his eyes in the air, hhands in his pockets, his mind on his famou

invention, which unfortunately doesn't movfast. Look here! do you want me to give you mopinion?—He's either a knave or a fool."



They were walking up and down the little gaden as they talked, stopping for a moment, theresuming their walk. Frantz felt as if he wer

living in a horrible dream. The rapid journeythe sudden change of scene and climate, thceaseless flow of Sigismond's words, the newidea that he had to form of Risler and Sidonie—the same Sidonie he had loved so dearly—a

these things bewildered him and almost drovhim mad.

It was late. Night was falling. Sigismond proposed to him to go to Montrouge for the nighhe declined on the plea of fatigue, and when hwas left alone in the Marais, at that dismal anuncertain hour when the daylight has fadeand the gas is still unlighted, he walked instin

tively toward his old quarters on the Rue dBraque.

At the hall door hung a placard: BachelorChamber to let.



It was the same room in which he had lived slong with his brother. He recognized the mafastened to the wall by four pins, the window

on the landing, and the Delobelles' little sign'Birds and Insects for Ornament.'

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

Certainly there was not in all Paris a surer reuge for him, a spot better fitted to welcome anconsole his perturbed spirit, than that hardworking familiar fireside. In his present agita

tion and perplexity it was like the harbor witits smooth, deep water, the sunny, peacefuquay, where the women work while awaitintheir husbands and fathers, though the win

howls and the sea rages. More than all elsalthough he did not realize that it was so, it waa network of steadfast affection, that miraculous love-kindness which makes another's lovprecious to us even when we do not love tha

other.



That dear little iceberg of a Desiree loved himso dearly. Her eyes sparkled so even when talking of the most indifferent things with him. A

objects dipped in phosphorus shine with equsplendor, so the most trivial words she saiilluminated her pretty, radiant face. What blissful rest it was for him after Sigismondbrutal disclosures!

They talked together with great animation whle Mamma Delobelle was setting the table.

"You will dine with us, won't you, Monsieu

Frantz? Father has gone to take back the workbut he will surely come home to dinner."

He will surely come home to dinner!

The good woman said it with a certain pride.

In fact, since the failure of his managerischeme, the illustrious Delobelle no longer toohis meals abroad, even on the evenings whe



he went to collect the weekly earnings. Thunlucky manager had eaten so many meals ocredit at his restaurant that he dared not g

there again. By way of compensation, he nevefailed, on Saturday, to bring home with himtwo or three unexpected, famished guests—"old comrades"—"unlucky devils." So it happened that, on the evening in question, he ap

peared upon the stage escorting a financiefrom the Metz theatre and a comique from ththeatre at Angers, both waiting for an engagement.

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

"Frantz!—my Frantz!" cried the old strollinplayer in a melodramatic voice, clutching thair convulsively with his hands. After a lonand energetic embrace he presented his gues

to one another.



"Monsieur Robricart, of the theatre at Metz.

"Monsieur Chaudezon, of the theatre at Anger

"Frantz Risler, engineer."

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

Desiree pouted prettily when she saw her father's friends. It would have been so nice to bby themselves on a day like to-day. But thgreat man snapped his fingers at the though

He had enough to do to unload his pocketFirst of all, he produced a superb pie "for thladies," he said, forgetting that he adored pie. lobster next made its appearance, then an Arlesausage, marrons glaces and cherries, the fir

of the season!

While the financier enthusiastically pulled uthe collar of his invisible shirt, while the comque exclaimed "gnouf! gnouf!" with a gestur



forgotten by Parisians for ten years, Desirethought with dismay of the enormous hole thimpromptu banquet would make in the paltr

earnings of the week, and Mamma Delobellfull of business, upset the whole buffet in ordeto find a sufficient number of plates.

It was a very lively meal. The two actors a

voraciously, to the great delight of Delobellwho talked over with them old memories otheir days of strolling. Fancy a collection oodds and ends of scenery, extinct lanterns, anmouldy, crumbling stage properties.

In a sort of vulgar, meaningless, familiar slanthey recalled their innumerable triumphs; foall three of them, according to their own storie

had been applauded, laden with laurewreaths, and carried in triumph by whole ciies.

While they talked they ate as actors usually ea

sitting with their faces turned three-fourth



toward the audience, with the unnatural hastof stage guests at a pasteboard supper, alternaing words and mouthfuls, seeking to produc

an effect by their manner of putting down glass or moving a chair, and expressing inteest, amazement, joy, terror, surprise, with thaid of a skilfully handled knife and fork. Mdame Delobelle listened to them with a smilin

face.

One can not be an actor's wife for thirty yearwithout becoming somewhat accustomed tthese peculiar mannerisms.

But one little corner of the table was separatefrom the rest of the party as by a cloud whicintercepted the absurd remarks, the hoars

laughter, the boasting. Frantz and Desiree taked together in undertones, hearing naught owhat was said around them. Things that happened in their childhood, anecdotes of thneighborhood, a whole ill-defined past whic

derived its only value from the mutual memo



ries evoked, from the spark that glowed in theyes of both-those were the themes of thepleasant chat.

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

"Have you not seen your brother?" he asked, i

order to avoid the appearance of neglectinhim too much. "And you have not seen his wfe, either? Ah! you will find her a MadamSuch toilettes, my dear fellow, and such chic!assure you. They have a genuine chateau a

Asnieres. The Chebes are there also. Ah! my olfriend, they have all left us behind. They arrich, they look down on old friends. Never word, never a call. For my part, you unde

stand, I snap my fingers at them, but it reallwounds these ladies."

"Oh, papa!" said Desiree hastily, "you knowvery well that we are too fond of Sidonie to b

offended with her."



The actor smote the table a violent blow withis fist.

"Why, then, you do wrong. You ought to boffended with people who seek always twound and humiliate you."

He still had upon his mind the refusal to fu

nish funds for his theatrical project, and he made no secret of his wrath.

"If you knew," he said to Frantz, "if you knewhow money is being squandered over yonde

It is a great pity. And nothing substantial, nothing sensible. I who speak to you, asked youbrother for a paltry sum to assure my futurand himself a handsome profit. He flatly refused. Parbleu! Madame requires too much

She rides, goes to the races in her carriage, andrives her husband at the same rate as her littphaeton on the quay at Asnieres. Between yoand me, I don't think that our good friend Ri



ler is very happy. That woman makes him blieve black is white."

The ex-actor concluded his harangue with wink at the comique and the financier, and foa moment the three exchanged glances, conventional grimaces, 'ha-has!' and 'hum-hums!' anall the usual pantomime expressive of though

too deep for words.

Frantz was struck dumb. Do what he wouldthe horrible certainty assailed him on all sideSigismond had spoken in accordance with h

nature, Delobelle with his. The result was thsame.

Fortunately the dinner was drawing near iclose. The three actors left the table and betoo

themselves to the brewery on the Rue BlondeFrantz remained with the two women.

As he sat beside her, gentle and affectionate imanner, Desiree was suddenly conscious of



great outflow of gratitude to Sidonie. She saito herself that, after all, it was to her generositthat she owed this semblance of happiness, an

that thought gave her courage to defend heformer friend.

"You see, Monsieur Frantz, you mustn't believall my father told you about your sister-in-law

Dear papa! he always exaggerates a little. Fomy own part, I am very sure that Sidonie incapable of all the evil she is accused of. I amsure that her heart has remained the same; anthat she is still fond of her friends, although shdoes neglect them a little. Such is life, yoknow. Friends drift apart without meaning tIsn't that true, Monsieur Frantz?"

Oh! how pretty she was in his eyes, while shtalked in that strain. He never had taken smuch notice of the refined features, the aristocratic pallor of her complexion; and when hleft her that evening, deeply touched by th

warmth she had displayed in defending Sido



nie, by all the charming feminine excuses shput forward for her friend's silence and neglecFrantz Risler reflected, with a feeling of selfis

and ingenuous pleasure, that the child had loved him once, and that perhaps she loved himstill, and kept for him in the bottom of her heathat warm, sheltered spot to which we turn ato the sanctuary when life has wounded us.

All night long in his old room, lulled by thimaginary movement of the vessel, by the mumur of the waves and the howling of the winwhich follow long sea voyages, he dreamed ohis youthful days, of little Chebe and DesireDelobelle, of their games, their labors, and othe Ecole Centrale, whose great, gloomy buildings were sleeping near at hand, in the dar

streets of the Marais.

And when daylight came, and the sun shininin at his bare window vexed his eyes anbrought him back to a realization of the dut

that lay before him and to the anxieties of th



day, he dreamed that it was time to go to thSchool, and that his brother, before going dowto the factory, opened the door and called t

him:

"Come, lazybones! Come!"

That dear, loving voice, too natural, too real fo

a dream, made him open his eyes without morado.

Risler was standing by his bed, watching hawakening with a charming smile, not untin

ged by emotion; that it was Risler himself waevident from the fact that, in his joy at seeinhis brother Frantz once more, he could finnothing better to say than, "I am very happy,am very happy!"

Although it was Sunday, Risler, as was his cutom, had come to the factory to avail himself othe silence and solitude to work at his presImmediately on his arrival, Pere Achille ha



informed him that his brother was in Paris anhad gone to the old house on the Rue de Braque, and he had hastened thither in joyful su

prise, a little vexed that he had not been forewarned, and especially that Frantz had dfrauded him of the first evening. His regret othat account came to the surface every momenin his spasmodic attempts at conversation, i

which everything that he wanted to say waleft unfinished, interrupted by innumerabquestions on all sorts of subjects and explosionof affection and joy. Frantz excused himself o

the plea of fatigue, and the pleasure it had gven him to be in their old room once more.

"All right, all right," said Risler, "but I sha'n't leyou alone now—you are coming to Asnieres a

once. I give myself leave of absence today. Athought of work is out of the question now thayou have come, you understand. Ah! won't thlittle one be surprised and glad! We talk abouyou so often! What joy! what joy!"



The poor fellow fairly beamed with happineshe, the silent man, chattered like a magpie, gazed admiringly at his Frantz and remarke

upon his growth. The pupil of the Ecole Centrale had had a fine physique when he wenaway, but his features had acquired greatefirmness, his shoulders were broader, and was a far cry from the tall, studious-lookin

boy who had left Paris two years before, foIsmailia, to this handsome, bronzed corsaiwith his serious yet winning face.

While Risler was gazing at him, Frantz, on hside, was closely scrutinizing his brother, andfinding him the same as always, as ingenuouas loving, and as absent-minded as times, hsaid to himself:

"No! it is not possible—he has not ceased to ban honest man."

Thereupon, as he reflected upon what peop

had dared to imagine, all his wrath turne



against that hypocritical, vicious woman, whdeceived her husband so impudently and witsuch absolute impunity that she succeeded i

causing him to be considered her confederatOh! what a terrible reckoning he proposed thave with her; how pitilessly he would talk ther!

"I forbid you, Madame—understand what say—I forbid you to dishonor my brother!"

He was thinking of that all the way, as he wached the still leafless trees glide along the em

bankment of the Saint-Germain railway. Sittinopposite him, Risler chattered, chattered without pause. He talked about the factory, aboutheir business. They had gained forty thousan

francs each the last year; but it would be a diferent matter when the Press was at work. "rotary press, my little Frantz, rotary and dodecagonal, capable of printing a pattern in twelvto fifteen colors at a single turn of the wheel—

red on pink, dark green on light green, withou



the least running together or absorption, without a line lapping over its neighbor, withouany danger of one shade destroying or ove

shadowing another. Do you understand thalittle brother? A machine that is an artist like man. It means a revolution in the wallpapetrade."

"But," queried Frantz with some anxiety, "havyou invented this Press of yours yet, or are yostill hunting for it?"

"Invented!—perfected! To-morrow I will show

you all my plans. I have also invented an automatic crane for hanging the paper on the rodin the drying-room. Next week I intend to takup my quarters in the factory, up in the garre

and have my first machine made there secretlyunder my own eyes. In three months the paents must be taken out and the Press must be awork. You'll see, my little Frantz, it will makus all rich-you can imagine how glad I shall b

to be able to make up to these Fromonts for



little of what they have done for me. Ah! upomy word, the Lord has been too good to me."

Thereupon he began to enumerate all his blesings. Sidonie was the best of women, a littlove of a wife, who conferred much honor upohim. They had a charming home. They weninto society, very select society. The little on

sang like a nightingale, thanks to Madame Dobson's expressive method. By the way, this Madame Dobson was another most excellent creature. There was just one thing that disturbepoor Risler, that was his incomprehensible msunderstanding with Sigismond. PerhapFrantz could help him to clear up that mystery

"Oh! yes, I will help you, brother," replie

Frantz through his clenched teeth; and an angry flush rose to his brow at the idea that anone could have suspected the openheartedness, the loyalty, that were displayebefore him in all their artless spontaneity. Luck



ily he, the judge, had arrived; and he proposeto restore everything to its proper place.

Meanwhile, they were drawing near the housat Asnieres. Frantz had noticed at a distance fanciful little turreted affair, glistening with new blue slate roof. It seemed to him to havbeen built expressly for Sidonie, a fitting cag

for that capricious, gaudy-plumaged bird.

It was a chalet with two stories, whose brighmirrors and pink-lined curtains could be seefrom the railway, shining resplendent at the fa

end of a green lawn, where an enormous pewter ball was suspended.

The river was near at hand, still wearing iParisian aspect, filled with chains, bathing e

tablishments, great barges, and multitudes olittle, skiffs, with a layer of coal dust on thepretentious, freshly-painted names, tied to thpier and rocking to the slightest motion of th

water. From her windows Sidonie could see th



restaurants on the beach, silent through thweek, but filled to overflowing on Sunday wita motley, noisy crowd, whose shouts of laugh

ter, mingled with the dull splash of oars, camfrom both banks to meet in midstream in thacurrent of vague murmurs, shouts, calls, laughter, and singing that floats without ceasing uand down the Seine on holidays for a distanc

of ten miles.

During the week she saw shabbily-dressed idlers sauntering along the shore, men in broadbrimmed straw hats and flannel shirts, womewho sat on the worn grass of the sloping bandoing nothing, with the dreamy eyes of a cowat pasture. All the peddlers, hand-organs, harpists; travelling jugglers, stopped there as at

quarantine station. The quay was crowded witthem, and as they approached, the windows ithe little houses near by were always throwopen, disclosing white dressing-jackets, halbuttoned, heads of dishevelled hair, and a



occasional pipe, all watching these paltry stroling shows, as if with a sigh of regret for Pariso near at hand. It was a hideous and depres

ing sight.

The grass, which had hardly begun to growwas already turning yellow beneath the feet othe crowd. The dust was black; and yet, ever

Thursday, the cocotte aristocracy passethrough on the way to the Casino, with a greashow of rickety carriages and borrowed postiions. All these things gave pleasure to that fanatical Parisian, Sidonie; and then, too, in hechildhood, she had heard a great deal abouAsnieres from the illustrious Delobelle, whwould have liked to have, like so many of hprofession, a little villa in those latitudes, a co

zy nook in the country to which to return bthe midnight train, after the play is done.

All these dreams of little Chebe, Sidonie Rislehad realized.



The brothers went to the gate opening on thquay, in which the key was usually left. Theentered, making their way among trees an

shrubs of recent growth. Here and there thbilliard-room, the gardener's lodge, a littgreenhouse, made their appearance, like thpieces of one of the Swiss chalets we give tchildren to play with; all very light and fragil

hardly more than resting on the ground, as ready to fly away at the slightest breath of bankruptcy or caprice: the villa of a cocotte or pawnbroker.

Frantz looked about in some bewilderment. Ithe distance, opening on a porch surroundeby vases of flowers, was the salon with its lonblinds raised. An American easy-chair, folding

chairs, a small table from which the coffee hanot been removed, could be seen near the dooWithin they heard a succession of loud chordon the piano and the murmur of low voices.



"I tell you Sidonie will be surprised," said honest Risler, walking softly on the gravel; "shdoesn't expect me until tonight. She and Ma

dame Dobson are practising together at thmoment."

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

"Guess whom I've brought."

Madame Dobson, who was sitting alone at thpiano, jumped up from her stool, and at th

farther end of the grand salon Georges anSidonie rose hastily behind the exotic planthat reared their heads above a table, of whosdelicate, slender lines they seemed a prolongation.

"Ah! how you frightened me!" said Sidonirunning to meet Risler.



The flounces of her white peignoir, througwhich blue ribbons were drawn, like little paches of blue sky among the clouds, rolled i

billows over the carpet, and, having alreadrecovered from her embarrassment, she stoovery straight, with an affable expression anher everlasting little smile, as she kissed hehusband and offered her forehead to Frant

saying:

"Good morning, brother."

Risler left them confronting each other, an

went up to Fromont Jeune, whom he was gretly surprised to find there.

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

"Yes, to be sure, but—I came—I thought yostayed at Asnieres Sundays. I wanted to speato you on a matter of business."



Thereupon, entangling himself in his words, hbegan to talk hurriedly of an important ordeSidonie had disappeared after exchanging

few unmeaning words with the impassivFrantz. Madame Dobson continued her tremolos on the soft pedal, like those which accompany critical situations at the theatre.

In very truth, the situation at that moment wadecidedly strained. But Risler's good-humobanished all constraint. He apologized to hpartner for not being at home, and insisteupon showing Frantz the house. They wenfrom the salon to the stable, from the stable tthe carriage-house, the servants' quarters, anthe conservatory. Everything was new, briliant, gleaming, too small, and inconvenient.

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

He persisted in compelling admiration of Sido

nie's purchase even to its smallest details, ex



hibited the gas and water fixtures on everfloor, the improved system of bells, the gardeseats, the English billiard-table, the hydropath

arrangements, and accompanied his expositiowith outbursts of gratitude to Fromont Jeunwho, by taking him into partnership, had liteally placed a fortune in his hands.

At each new effusion on Risler's part, GeorgeFromont shrank visibly, ashamed and embarassed by the strange expression on Frantzface.

The breakfast was lacking in gayety.

Madame Dobson talked almost without interuption, overjoyed to be swimming in the shalows of a romantic love-affair. Knowing, o

rather believing that she knew her friend's story from beginning to end, she understood thlowering wrath of Frantz, a former lover furous at finding his place filled, and the anxiet

of Georges, due to the appearance of a riva



and she encouraged one with a glance, consoled the other with a smile, admired Sidonietranquil demeanor, and reserved all her con

tempt for that abominable Risler, the vulgauncivilized tyrant. She made an effort to prevent any of those horrible periods of silencwhen the clashing knives and forks mark timin such an absurd and embarrassing way.

As soon as breakfast was at an end FromonJeune announced that he must return to Savgny. Risler did not venture to detain himthinking that his dear Madame Chorche woulpass her Sunday all alone; and so, without aopportunity to say a word to his mistress, thlover went away in the bright sunlight to takan afternoon train, still attended by the hu

band, who insisted upon escorting him to thstation.Madame Dobson sat for a moment with Frantand Sidonie under a little arbor which a climbing vine studded with pink buds; then, realiz

ing that she was in the way, she returned to th



salon, and as before, while Georges was therbegan to play and sing softly and with expresion. In the silent garden, that muffled musi

gliding between the branches, seemed like thcooing of birds before the storm.

At last they were alone. Under the lattice of tharbor, still bare and leafless, the May sun shon

too bright. Sidonie shaded her eyes with hehand as she watched the people passing on thquay. Frantz likewise looked out, but in another direction; and both of them, affecting tbe entirely independent of each other, turned athe same instant with the same gesture anmoved by the same thought.

"I have something to say to you," he said, ju

as she opened her mouth."And I to you," she replied gravely; "but comin here; we shall be more comfortable."



And they entered together a little summehouse at the foot of the garden.

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XIV. EXPLANATION

By slow degrees Sidonie sank to her forme

level, yes, even lower. From the rich, welconsidered bourgeoise to which her marriaghad raised her, she descended the ladder to thrank of a mere toy. By dint of travelling in raiway carriages with fantastically dressed court



sans, with their hair worn over their eyes like terrier's, or falling over the back 'a la Genevievde Brabant', she came at last to resemble them

She transformed herself into a blonde for twmonths, to the unbounded amazement of Rizewho could not understand how his doll was schanged. As for Georges, all these eccentricitieamused him; it seemed to him that he had te

women in one. He was the real husband, thmaster of the house.

To divert Sidonie's thoughts, he had providedsimulacrum of society for her—his bachelofriends, a few fast tradesmen, almost no women, women have too sharp eyes. MadamDobson was the only friend of Sidonie's sex.

They organized grand dinner-parties, excusions on the water, fireworks. From day to daRisler's position became more absurd, mordistressing. When he came home in the evening, tired out, shabbily dressed, he must hurr

up to his room to dress.



"We have some people to dinner," his wifwould say. "Make haste."

And he would be the last to take his place at thtable, after shaking hands all around with hguests, friends of Fromont Jeune, whom hhardly knew by name. Strange to say, the afairs of the factory were often discussed at tha

table, to which Georges brought his acquainances from the club with the tranquil selassurance of the gentleman who pays.

"Business breakfasts and dinners!" To Risler

mind that phrase explained everything: hpartner's constant presence, his choice oguests, and the marvellous gowns worn bSidonie, who beautified herself in the interes

of the firm. This coquetry on his mistress's padrove Fromont Jeune to despair. Day after dahe came unexpectedly to take her by surprisuneasy, suspicious, afraid to leave that perversand deceitful character to its own devices fo

long.



"What in the deuce has become of your huband?"

Pere Gardinois would ask his grand-daughtewith a cunning leer. "Why doesn't he come heroftener?"

Claire apologized for Georges, but his contin

ual neglect began to disturb her. She wept nowwhen she received the little notes, the depatches which arrived daily at the dinner-hou"Don't expect me to-night, dear love. I shall nobe able to come to Savigny until to-morrow o

the day after by the night-train."

She ate her dinner sadly, opposite an emptchair, and although she did not know that shwas betrayed, she felt that her husband wa

becoming accustomed to living away from heHe was so absent-minded when a family gathering or some other unavoidable duty detainehim at the chateau, so silent concerning wha

was in his mind. Claire, having now only th



most distant relations with Sidonie, knew nothing of what was taking place at Asnieres: buwhen Georges left her, apparently eager to b

gone, and with smiling face, she tormented heloneliness with unavowed suspicions, and, likall those who anticipate a great sorrow, shsuddenly became conscious of a great void iher heart, a place made ready for disasters t

come.

Her husband was hardly happier than shThat cruel Sidonie seemed to take pleasure itormenting him. She allowed everybody to pacourt to her. At that moment a certain Cazabonalias Cazaboni, an Italian tenor from Toulousintroduced by Madame Dobson, came everday to sing disturbing duets. Georges, jealou

beyond words, hurried to Asnieres in the aftenoon, neglecting everything, and was alreadbeginning to think that Risler did not watch hwife closely enough. He would have liked himto be blind only so far as he was concerned.



Ah! if he had been her husband, what a tighrein he would have kept on her! But he had npower over her and she was not at all back

ward about telling him so. Sometimes, towith the invincible logic that often occurs to thgreatest fools, he reflected that, as he was deceiving his friend, perhaps he deserved to bdeceived. In short, his was a wretched life. H

passed his time running about to jewellers andry-goods dealers, inventing gifts and suprises. Ah! he knew her well. He knew that hcould pacify her with trinkets, yet not retain h

hold upon her, and that, when the day camthat she was bored—

But Sidonie was not bored as yet. She was living the life that she longed to live; she had a

the happiness she could hope to attain. Therwas nothing passionate or romantic about hefeeling for Georges. He was like a second huband to her, younger and, above all, richer thathe other. To complete the vulgarization o



their liaison, she had summoned her parents tAsnieres, lodged them in a little house in thcountry, and made of that vain and wilfull

blind father and that affectionate, still bewidered mother a halo of respectability of whicshe felt the necessity as she sank lower anlower.

Everything was shrewdly planned in that peverse little brain, which reflected coolly upovice; and it seemed to her as if she might continue to live thus in peace, when Frantz Rislesuddenly arrived.

Simply from seeing him enter the room, shhad realized that her repose was threatenedthat an interview of the gravest importance wa

to take place between them.Her plan was formed on the instant. She muat once put it into execution.



The summer-house that they entered containeone large, circular room with four windoweach looking out upon a different landscape;

was furnished for the purposes of summer sietas, for the hot hours when one seeks sheltefrom the sunlight and the noises of the gardenA broad, very low divan ran all around thwall. A small lacquered table, also very low

stood in the middle of the room, covered witodd numbers of society journals.

The hangings were new, and the Persian patern-birds flying among bluish reeds—produced the effect of a dream in summer, ehereal figures floating before one's languieyes. The lowered blinds, the matting on thfloor, the Virginia jasmine clinging to the tre

lis-work outside, produced a refreshing cooness which was enhanced by the splashing ithe river near by, and the lapping of its wavelets on the shore.



Sidonie sat down as soon as she entered throom, pushing aside her long white skirwhich sank like a mass of snow at the foot o

the divan; and with sparkling eyes and a smiplaying about her lips, bending her little heaslightly, its saucy coquettishness heightened bthe bow of ribbon on the side, she waited.

Frantz, pale as death, remained standing, looking about the room. After a moment he began:

"I congratulate you, Madame; you understanhow to make yourself comfortable."

And in the next breath, as if he were afraid thathe conversation, beginning at such a distancwould not arrive quickly enough at the point twhich he intended to lead it, he added brutally

"To whom do you owe this magnificence, tyour lover or your husband?"



Without moving from the divan, without everaising her eyes to his, she answered:

"To both."

He was a little disconcerted by such selpossession.

"Then you confess that that man is your lover?

"Confess it!—yes!"

Frantz gazed at her a moment without speaking. She, too, had turned pale, notwithstandin

her calmness, and the eternal little smile nlonger quivered at the corners of her mouth.

He continued:

"Listen to me, Sidonie! My brother's name, thname he gave his wife, is mine as well. SincRisler is so foolish, so blind as to allow the name to be dishonored by you, it is my place t

defend it against your attacks. I beg you, there



fore, to inform Monsieur Georges Fromont thahe must change mistresses as soon as possibland go elsewhere to ruin himself. If not—"

"If not?" queried Sidonie, who had not ceaseto play with her rings while he was speaking.

"If not, I shall tell my brother what is going o

in his house, and you will be surprised at thRisler whose acquaintance you will makthen—a man as violent and ungovernable as husually is inoffensive. My disclosure will kihim perhaps, but you can be sure that he wi

kill you first."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Very well! let him kill me. What do I care fo

that?"

This was said with such a heartbroken, despondent air that Frantz, in spite of himself, fea little pity for that beautiful, fortunate youn



creature, who talked of dying with such selabandonment.

"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 rathethan renounce him?"

She drew herself up hastily.

"I? Love that fop, that doll, that silly girl imen's clothes? Nonsense!—I took him as would have taken any other man."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't help it, because I was madbecause I had and still have in my heart a cr

minal love, which I am determined to tear ouno matter at what cost."

She had risen and was speaking with her eyein his, her lips near his, trembling from head t

foot.



A criminal love?—Whom did she love, in Godname?

Frantz was afraid to question her.

Although suspecting nothing as yet, he had feeling that that glance, that breath, leanintoward him, were about to make some horrib

disclosure.

But his office of judge made it necessary fohim 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 excepas a sister. In his eyes his brother's wife in nway resembled his former fiancee, and it woul



have been a crime to recognize in a single feature of her face the woman to whom he haformerly so often said, "I love you."

And now it was she who said that she lovehim.

The unhappy judge was thunderstruck, dazed

could find no words in which to reply.

She, standing before him, waited.

It was one of those spring days, full of heat an

light, to which the moisture of recent rains imparts a strange softness and melancholy. Thair was warm, perfumed by fresh flowerwhich, on that first day of heat, gave forth thefragrance eagerly, like violets hidden in a muf

Through its long, open windows the room iwhich they were inhaled all those intoxicatinodors. Outside, they could hear the Sundaorgans, distant shouts on the river, and neare



at hand, in the garden, Madame Dobson'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," saiSidonie. "That love which I renounced long agbecause I was a young girl—and young girls d

not know what they are doing—that love nothing has ever succeeded in destroying or lessening. When I learned that Desiree also loveyou, the unfortunate, penniless child, in a greoutburst of generosity I determined to assurher happiness for life by sacrificing my ownand I at once turned you away, so that yoshould go to her. Ah! as soon as you had gonI realized that the sacrifice was beyond m

strength. Poor little Desiree! How I cursed hein the bottom of my heart! Will you believe iSince that time I have avoided seeing her, meeing her. The sight of her caused me too mucpain."



"But if you loved me," asked Frantz, in a lowvoice, "if you loved me, why did you marry mbrother?"

She did not waver.

"To marry Risler was to bring myself nearer tyou. I said to myself: 'I could not be his wif

Very well, I will be his sister. At all events, ithat way it will still be allowable for me to lovhim, and we shall not pass our whole lives astrangers.' Alas! those are the innocent dreama girl has at twenty, dreams of which she ver

soon learns the impossibility. I could not lovyou as a sister, Frantz; I could not forget youeither; my marriage prevented that. With another husband I might perhaps have su

ceeded, but with Risler it was terrible. He waforever talking about you and your success anyour future—Frantz said this; Frantz did that—He loves you so well, poor fellow! And then thmost cruel thing to me is that your brothe

looks like you. There is a sort of family resem



blance in your features, in your gait, in youvoices especially, for I have often closed meyes under his caresses, saying to myself, 'It

he, it is Frantz.' When I saw that that wickethought was becoming a source of torment tme, something that I could not escape, I tried tfind distraction, I consented to listen to thGeorges, who had been pestering me for a lon

time, to transform my life to one of noise anexcitement. But I swear to you, Frantz, that ithat whirlpool of pleasure into which I theplunged, I never have ceased to think of you

and if any one had a right to come here and came to account for my conduct, you certainly arnot the one, for you, unintentionally, have made me what I am."

She paused. Frantz dared not raise his eyes ther face. For a moment past she had seemed thim too lovely, too alluring. She was his broher's wife!



Nor did he dare speak. The unfortunate youtfelt that the old passion was despotically takinpossession of his heart once more, and that a

that moment glances, words, everything thaburst forth from it would be love.

And she was his brother's wife!

"Ah! wretched, wretched creatures that we areexclaimed the poor judge, dropping upon thdivan beside her.

Those few words were in themselves an act o

cowardice, a beginning of surrender, as if detiny, by showing itself so pitiless, had deprivehim of the strength to defend himself. Sidonhad placed her hand on his. "Frantz—Frantzshe said; and they remained there side by sid

silent and burning with emotion, soothed bMadame Dobson's romance, which reachetheir 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 thdoorway.

"This way, Chebe, this way. They are in thsummerhouse."

As he spoke the husband entered, escorting hfather-in-law and mother-in-law, whom he ha

gone to fetch.

There was a moment of effusive greetings aninnumerable embraces. You should have seethe patronizing air with which M. Chebe scru

tinized the young man, who was head anshoulders taller than he.

"Well, my boy, does the Suez Canal progress ayou would wish?"

Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz hanever ceased to be her future son-in-law, threwher arms around him, while Risler, tactless ausual in his gayety and his enthusiasm, wave



his arms, talked of killing several fatted calveto celebrate the return of the prodigal son, anroared to the singing-mistress in a voice tha

echoed through the neighboring gardens:

"Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson—if youallow me, it's a pity for you to be singing therTo the devil with sadness for to-day! Play u

something lively, a good waltz, so that I catake a turn with Madame Chebe."

"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 aautomatic six-step waltz-a genuine valse dVaucanson—he dragged his breathless mam

ma-in-law, who stopped at every step to restorto their usual orderliness the dangling ribbonof her hat and the lace trimming of her shawher lovely shawl bought for Sidonie's wedding



Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy.

To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day oagony. Driving, rowing on the river, lunch othe grass on the Ile des Ravageurs—he waspared none of the charms of Asnieres; and athe time, in the dazzling sunlight of the roadin the glare reflected by the water, he mu

laugh and chatter, describe his journey, talk othe Isthmus of Suez and the great work undetaken there, listen to the whispered complainof M. Chebe, who was still incensed with hchildren, and to his brother's description of thPress. "Rotary, my dear Frantz, rotary and dodecagonal!" Sidonie left the gentlemen to theconversation and seemed absorbed in deethought. From time to time she said a word o

two to Madame Dobson, or smiled sadly at heand Frantz, not daring to look at her, followethe motions of her blue-lined parasol and of thwhite flounces of her skirt.



How she had changed in two years! How lovely she had grown!

Then horrible thoughts came to his mind. Therwere races at Longchamps that day. Carriagepassed theirs, rubbed against it, driven by women with painted faces, closely veiled. Sittinmotionless on the box, they held their lon

whips straight in the air, with doll-like getures, and nothing about them seemed alivexcept their blackened eyes, fixed on the horseheads. As they passed, people turned to lookEvery eye followed them, as if drawn by thwind caused by their rapid motion.

Sidonie resembled those creatures. She mighherself have driven Georges' carriage; fo

Frantz was in Georges' carriage. He had drunGeorges' wine. All the luxurious enjoyment othat family party came from Georges.

It was shameful, revolting! He would have l

ked to shout the whole story to his brothe



Indeed, it was his duty, as he had come therfor that express purpose. But he no longer fethe courage to do it. Ah! the unhappy judge!

That evening after dinner, in the salon open tthe fresh breeze from the river, Risler beggehis wife to sing. He wished her to exhibit all henewly acquired accomplishments to Frantz.

Sidonie, leaning on the piano, objected with melancholy air, while Madame Dobson ran hefingers over the keys, shaking her long curls.

"But I don't know anything. What do you wisme to sing?"

She ended, however, by being persuaded. Paldisenchanted, with her mind upon othe

things, in the flickering light of the candlewhich seemed to be burning incense, the awas so heavy with the odor of the hyacinthand lilacs in the garden, she began a Creoballad very popular in Louisiana, which Ma



dame Dobson herself had arranged for the voce 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 littlZizi, who was driven mad by passion, Sidonhad the appearance of a love-sick woman. Witwhat heartrending expression, with the cry of wounded dove, did she repeat that refrain, smelancholy and so sweet, in the childlike patoof the colonies:

"C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne la tete...."

It was enough to drive the unlucky judge maas well.

But no! The siren had been unfortunate in hechoice of a ballad. For, at the mere name o

Mam'zelle Zizi, Frantz was suddenly tran



ported to a gloomy chamber in the Marais, long way from Sidonie's salon, and his compasionate heart evoked the image of little Desire

Delobelle, who had loved him so long. Untshe was fifteen, she never had been called anything but Ziree or Zizi, and she was the paupitit of the Creole ballad to the life, the eveneglected, ever-faithful lover. In vain now di

the other sing. Frantz no longer heard her osaw her. He was in that poor room, beside thgreat armchair, on the little low chair on whiche had sat so often awaiting the father's return

Yes, there, and there only, was his salvation. Hmust take refuge in that child's love, throwhimself at her feet, say to her, "Take me, savme!" And who knows? She loved him so dealy. Perhaps she would save him, would cur

him of his guilty passion.

"Where are you going?" asked Risler, seeinthat his brother rose hurriedly as soon as thlast flourish was at an end.



"I am going back. It is late."

"What? You are not going to sleep here? Whyour room is ready for you."

"It is all ready," added Sidonie, with a meaninglance.

He refused resolutely. His presence in Parwas necessary for the fulfilment of certain verimportant commissions intrusted to him by thCompany. They continued their efforts to detain him when he was in the vestibule, when h

was crossing the garden in the moonlight anrunning to the station, amid all the divers noses of Asnieres.

When he had gone, Risler went up to his room

leaving Sidonie and Madame Dobson at thwindows of the salon. The music from thneighboring Casino reached their ears, with th"Yo-ho!" of the boatmen and the footsteps of th



dancers like a rhythmical, muffled drumminon the tambourine.

"There's a kill-joy for you!" observed MadamDobson.

"Oh, I have checkmated him," replied Sidoni"only I must be careful. I shall be closely wa

ched now. He is so jealous. I am going to writto Cazaboni not to come again for some timand you must tell Georges to-morrow morninto go to Savigny for a fortnight."

CHAPTER XV. POOR LITTLE MAM'ZE

LLE ZIZI.

Oh, how happy Desiree was!



Frantz came every day and sat at her feet on thlittle low chair, as in the good old days, and hno longer came to talk of Sidonie.

As soon as she began to work in the morningshe would see the door open softly. "Good moning, Mam'zelle Zizi." He always called henow by the name she had borne as a child; an

if you could know how prettily he said i"Good morning, Mam'zelle Zizi."

In the evening they waited for "the father" together, and while she worked he made he

shudder with the story of his adventures.

"What is the matter with you? You're not thsame as you used to be," Mamma Delobelwould say, surprised to see her in such hig

spirits and above all so active. For instead oremaining always buried in her easy-chaiwith the self-renunciation of a young grandmother, the little creature was continually jum

ping up and running to the window as lightl



as if she were putting out wings; and she pratised standing erect, asking her mother in whisper:

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

From her graceful little head, upon which shhad previously concentrated all her energies i

the arrangement of her hair, her coquetry extended over her whole person, as did her finwaving tresses when she unloosed them. Yeshe was very, very coquettish now; and everybody noticed it. Even the "birds and insects fo

ornament" assumed a knowing little air.

Ah, yes! Desiree Delobelle was happy. For some days M. Frantz had been talking of their agoing into the country together; and as the fa

ther, kind and generous as always, graciouslconsented to allow the ladies to take a dayrest, all four set out one Sunday morning.



Oh! the lovely drive, the lovely country, thlovely river, the lovely trees!

Do not ask her where they went; Desiree neveknew. But she will tell you that the sun wabrighter there than anywhere else, the birdmore joyous, the woods denser; and she winot lie.

The bouquet that the little cripple brought bacfrom that beautiful excursion made her roomfragrant for a week. Among the hyacinths, thviolets, the white-thorn, was a multitude o

nameless little flowers, those flowers of thlowly which grow from nomadic seed scattereeverywhere along the roads.

Gazing at the slender, pale blue and bright pin

blossoms, with all the delicate shades that flowers invented before colorists, many and mana time during that week Desiree took her excursion again. The violets reminded her of th

little moss-covered mound on which she ha



picked them, seeking them under the leaveher fingers touching Frantz's. They had founthese great water-lilies on the edge of a ditch

still damp from the winter rains, and, in ordeto reach them, she had leaned very heavily oFrantz's arm. All these memories occurred ther as she worked. Meanwhile the sun, shininin at the open window, made the feathers of th

hummingbirds glisten. The springtime, youththe songs of the birds, the fragrance of the flowers, transfigured that dismal fifth-floor workroom, and Desiree said in all seriousness t

Mamma Delobelle, putting her nose to hefriend's bouquet:

"Have you noticed how sweet the flowers smethis year, mamma?"

And Frantz, too, began to fall under the charmLittle by little Mam'zelle Zizi took possession ohis heart and banished from it even the memory of Sidonie. To be sure, the poor judge di

all that he could to accomplish that result. A



every hour in the day he was by Desiree's sidand clung to her like a child. Not once did hventure to return to Asnieres. He feared th

other too much.

"Pray come and see us once in a while; Sidonkeeps asking for you," Risler said to him fromtime to time, when his brother came to the fa

tory to see him. But Frantz held firm, alleginall sorts of business engagements as pretexfor postponing his visit to the next day. It waeasy to satisfy Risler, who was more engrossethan ever with his press, which they had jubegun to build.

Whenever Frantz came down from his brothercloset, old Sigismond was sure to be watchin

for him, and would walk a few steps with himin his long, lute-string sleeves, quill and knifin hand. He kept the young man informed concerning matters at the factory. For some timpast, things seemed to have changed for th

better. Monsieur Georges came to his offic



regularly, and returned to Savigny every nighNo more bills were presented at the countingroom. It seemed, too, that Madame over yonde

was keeping more within bounds.

The cashier was triumphant.

"You see, my boy, whether I did well to write t

you. Your arrival was all that was needed tstraighten everything out. And yet," the gooman would add by force of habit, "and yet I hno gonfidence."

"Never fear, Monsieur Sigismond, I am herethe judge would reply.

"You're not going away yet, are you, my deaFrantz?"

"No, no—not yet. I have an important matter tfinish up first."

"Ah! so much the better."



The important matter to which Frantz referrewas his marriage to Desiree Delobelle. He hanot yet mentioned it to any one, not even t

her; but Mam'zelle Zizi must have suspectesomething, for she became prettier and morlighthearted from day to day, as if she foresawthat the day would soon come when she woulneed all her gayety and all her beauty.

They were alone in the workroom one Sundaafternoon. Mamma Delobelle had gone ouproud enough to show herself for once in public with her great man, and leaving frienFrantz with her daughter to keep her companyCarefully dressed, his whole person denoting holiday air, Frantz had a singular expression ohis face that day, an expression at once timi

and resolute, emotional and solemn, and simply from the way in which the little low chatook its place beside the great easy-chair, theasy-chair understood that a very serioucommunication was about to be made to it i



confidence, and it had some little suspicion ato what it might be.

The conversation began with divers unimpotant remarks, interspersed with long and frequent pauses, just as, on a journey, we stop aevery baiting-place to take breath, to enable uto 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 trembled at the thought owhat was about to be said.

At last the little low chair moved a little nearethe great easy-chair; their eyes met, their fin



gers were intertwined, and the two, in low tones, 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 glovehand which fears to soil itself by the slightetouch.

"Come in!" said Desiree, with a slight gesture o

impatience; and Sidonie appeared, lovely, coquettish, and affable. She had come to see helittle Zizi, to embrace her as she was passinby. She had been meaning to come for so long.

Frantz's presence seemed to surprise her greatly, and, being engrossed by her delight in talking with her former friend, she hardly looked ahim. After the effusive greetings and caresse

after a pleasant chat over old times, she ex



pressed a wish to see the window on the landing and the room formerly occupied by thRislers. It pleased her thus to live all her yout

over again.

"Do you remember, Frantz, when the PrincesHummingbird entered your room, holding helittle head very straight under a diadem o

birds' feathers?"

Frantz did not reply. He was too deeply moveto reply. Something warned him that it was ohis account, solely on his account, that the wo

man had come, that she was determined to sehim again, to prevent him from giving himseto another, and the poor wretch realized witdismay that she would not have to exert herse

overmuch to accomplish her object. When hsaw her enter the room, his whole heart habeen caught in her net once more.

Desiree suspected nothing, not she! Sidonie

manner was so frank and friendly. And then



they were brother and sister now. Love was nlonger possible between them.

But the little cripple had a vague presentimenof woe when Sidonie, standing in the doorwaand ready to go, turned carelessly to her broher-in-law and said:

"By the way, Frantz, Risler told me to be sure tbring you back to dine with us to-night. Thcarriage is below. We will pick him up as wpass the factory."

Then she added, with the prettiest smile imaginable:

"You will let us have him, won't you, ZireeDon't be afraid; we will send him back."

And he had the courage to go, the ungratefuwretch!

He went without hesitation, without once turn

ing back, whirled away by his passion as by



raging sea, and neither on that day nor the nexnor ever after could Mam'zelle Zizi's great easy-chair learn what the interesting communica

tion was that the little low chair had to make tit.

CHAPTER XVI. THE WAITING-ROOM

"Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more thaever and for ever!What is the use of struggling and fightin

against fate? Our sinis stronger than we. But, after all, is it a crim

for us to love?We were destined for each other. Have w

not the right to cometogether, although life has parted us? So, co

me! 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 b

there awaiting you.

"FRANTZ."

For a month past Sidonie had been hoping fo

that letter, a month during which she habrought all her coaxing and cunning into plato lure her brother-in-law on to that writterevelation of passion. She had difficulty in acomplishing it. It was no easy matter to perve

an honest young heart like Frantz's to the poinof committing a crime; and in that strange contest, in which the one who really loved foughagainst his own cause, she had often felt thashe was at the end of her strength and was amost discouraged. When she was most confdent that he was conquered, his sense of righwould suddenly rebel, and he would be aready to flee, to escape her once more.



What a triumph it was for her, therefore, whethat letter was handed to her one morningMadame Dobson happened to be there. Sh

had just arrived, laden with complaints fromGeorges, who was horribly bored away fromhis mistress, and was beginning to be alarmeconcerning this brother-in-law, who was morattentive, more jealous, more exacting than

husband.

"Oh! the poor, dear fellow, the poor, dear, felow," said the sentimental American, "if yocould see how unhappy he is!"

And, shaking her curls, she unrolled her musiroll and took from it the poor, dear fellowletters, which she had carefully hidden betwee

the leaves of her songs, delighted to be involved in this love-story, to give vent to heemotion in an atmosphere of intrigue anmystery which melted her cold eyes ansuffused her dry, pale complexion.



Strange to say, while lending her aid most wilingly to this constant going and coming of lovletters, the youthful and attractive Dobson ha

never written or received a single one on heown account.

Always on the road between Asnieres and Paris with an amorous message under her win

that odd carrier-pigeon remained true to heown dovecot and cooed for none but unselfismotives.

When Sidonie showed her Frantz's note, Ma

dame 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 hmay go and wait for me at the station. That all. The least I can do is to give him a quarter o

an hour of agony. He has made me miserabenough for the last month. Just consider thathave changed my whole life for my gentlemanI have had to close my doors and give up seeing my friends and everybody I know who

young and agreeable, beginning with Georgeand ending with you. For you know, my deayou weren't agreeable to him, and he woulhave liked to dismiss you with the rest."

The one thing that Sidonie did not mention—and it was the deepest cause of her angeagainst Frantz—was that he had frightened heterribly by threatening to tell her husband he

guilty secret. From that moment she had fedecidedly ill at ease, and her life, her dear lifwhich she so petted and coddled, had seemeto her to be exposed to serious danger. Yes, th



thought that her husband might some day bapprized of her conduct positively terrified her

That blessed letter put an end to all her fears. was impossible now for Frantz to expose heeven in the frenzy of his disappointment, knowing that she had such a weapon in her handand if he did speak, she would show the lette

and all his accusations would become in Riler's eyes calumny pure and simple. Ah, mastejudge, we have you now!

"I am born again—I am born again!" she crie

to Madame Dobson. She ran out into the gaden, gathered great bouquets for her salonthrew the windows wide open to the sunlighgave orders to the cook, the coachman, the ga

dener. The house must be made to look beautful, for Georges was coming back, and for beginning she organized a grand dinner-partfor the end of the week.



The next evening Sidonie, Risler, and MadamDobson were together in the salon. While honest Risler turned the leaves of an old handboo

of mechanics, Sidonie sang to Madame Dobson's accompaniment. Suddenly she stopped ithe middle of her aria and burst into a peal olaughter. The clock had just struck ten.

Risler looked up quickly.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing-an idea that came into my head," re

plied Sidonie, winking of Madame Dobson anpointing at the clock.

It was the hour appointed for the meeting, anshe was thinking of her lover's torture as h

waited for her to come.

Since the return of the messenger bringing fromSidonie the "yes" he had so feverishly awaiteda great calm had come over his troubled mind



like the sudden removal of a heavy burden. Nmore uncertainty, no more clashing betweepassion and duty.

Not once did it occur to him that on the otheside of the landing some one was weeping ansighing because of him. Not once did he thinof his brother's despair, of the ghastly dram

they were to leave behind them. He saw sweet little pale face resting beside his in thrailway train, a blooming lip within reach of hlip, and two fathomless eyes looking at him bthe soft light of the lamp, to the soothing accompaniment of the wheels and the steam.

Two hours before the opening of the gate fothe designated train, Frantz was already at th

Lyon station, that gloomy station which, in thdistant quarter of Paris in which it is situatedseems like a first halting-place in the provinceHe sat down in the darkest corner and remained there without stirring, as if dazed.



Instinctively, although the appointed hour wastill distant, he looked among the people whwere hurrying along, calling to one another, t

see if he could not discern that graceful figursuddenly emerging from the crowd and thrusing it aside at every step with the radiance oher beauty.

After many departures and arrivals and shriwhistles, the station suddenly became emptyas deserted as a church on weekdays. The timfor the ten o'clock train was drawing near. Thre was no other train before that. Frantz rose. Ia quarter of an hour, half an hour at the leasshe would be there.

Frantz went hither and thither, watching th

carriages that arrived. Each new arrival madhim start. He fancied that he saw her enteclosely veiled, hesitating, a little embarrassedHow quickly he would be by her side, to comfort her, to protect her!



The hour for the departure of the train was approaching. He looked at the clock. There wabut a quarter of an hour more. It alarmed him

but the bell at the wicket, which had now beeopened, summoned him. He ran thither antook his place in the long line.

"Two first-class for Marseilles," he said. It see

med to him as if that were equivalent to takinpossession.

He made his way back to his post of observation through the luggage-laden wagons and th

late-comers who jostled him as they ran. Thdrivers shouted, "Take care!" He stood theramong the wheels of the cabs, under the horsefeet, with deaf ears and staring eyes. Only fiv

minutes more. It was almost impossible for heto arrive in time.

At last she appeared.



Yes, there she is, it is certainly she—a woman iblack, slender and graceful, accompanied banother shorter woman—Madame Dobson, n

doubt.

But a second glance undeceived him. It was young woman who resembled her, a woman ofashion like her, with a happy face. A man, als

young, joined them. It was evidently a wedding-party; the mother accompanied them, tsee them safely on board the train.

Now there is the confusion of departure, th

last stroke of the bell, the steam escaping withhissing sound, mingled with the hurried foosteps of belated passengers, the slamming odoors and the rumbling of the heavy omn

buses. Sidonie comes not. And Frantz stiwaits.At that moment a hand is placed on his shouder.

Great God!



He turns. The coarse face of M. Gardinois, surounded by a travelling-cap with ear-pieces, before him.

"I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler. Aryou going to Marseilles by the express? I amnot going far."

He explains to Frantz that he has missed thOrleans train, and is going to try to connewith Savigny by the Lyon line; then he talkabout Risler Aine and the factory.

"It seems that business hasn't been prosperinfor some time. They were caught in the Bonnardel failure. Ah! our young men need to bcareful. At the rate they're sailing their ship, thsame thing is likely to happen to them tha

happened to Bonnardel. But excuse me, I believe they're about to close the gate. Au revoir.

Frantz has hardly heard what he has been saying. His brother's ruin, the destruction of th



whole world, nothing is of any further consquence to him. He is waiting, waiting.

But now the gate is abruptly closed like a labarrier between him and his persistent hopOnce more the station is empty. The uproar habeen transferred to the line of the railway, ansuddenly a shrill whistle falls upon the lover

ear like an ironical farewell, then dies away ithe darkness.

The ten o'clock train has gone!

He tries to be calm and to reason. Evidently shmissed the train from Asmeres; but, knowinthat he is waiting for her, she will come, nmatter how late it may be. He will wait longeThe waiting-room was made for that.

The unhappy man sits down on a bench. Thprospect of a long vigil brings to his mind well-known room in which at that hour thlamp burns low on a table laden with hum



ming-birds and insects, but that vision passeswiftly through his mind in the chaos of confused thoughts to which the delirium of su

pense gives birth.

And while he thus lost himself in thought, thhours passed. The roofs of the buildings of Mazas, buried in darkness, were already begin

ning to stand out distinctly against the brighening sky. What was he to do? He must go tAsnieres at once and try to find out what hahappened. He wished he were there already.

Having made up his mind, he descended thsteps of the station at a rapid pace, passing sodiers with their knapsacks on their backs, anpoor people who rise early coming to take th

morning train, the train of poverty and want.In front of one of the stations he saw a crowcollected, rag-pickers and countrywomenDoubtless some drama of the night about t

reach its denouement before the Commissione



of Police. Ah! if Frantz had known what thdrama was! but he could have no suspicionand he glanced at the crowd indifferently from

a distance.

When he reached Asnieres, after a walk of twor three hours, it was like an awakening. Thsun, rising in all its glory, set field and river o

fire. The bridge, the houses, the quay, all stooforth with that matutinal sharpness of outlinwhich gives the impression of a new day emeging, luminous and smiling, from the densmists of the night. From a distance he descriehis brother's house, already awake, the opeblinds and the flowers on the window-sills. Hwandered about some time before he coulsummon 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 tbathe 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 know."

Thereupon Frantz made up his mind to ring athe small gate. The gardener was raking th

paths. The house was astir; and, early as it wahe heard Sidonie's voice as clear and vibratinas the song of a bird among the rose-bushes othe facade.



She was talking with animation. Frantz, deeplmoved, drew near to listen.

"No, no cream. The 'cafe parfait' will benough. Be sure that it's well frozen and readat seven o'clock. Oh! about an entree—let usee—"

She was holding council with her cook concerning the famous dinner-party for the next dayHer brother-in-law's sudden appearance dinot disconcert her.

"Ah! good-morning, Frantz," she said very coolly. "I am at your service directly. We're to havsome people to dinner to-morrow, customers othe firm, a grand business dinner. You'll excusme, won't you?"

Fresh and smiling, in the white ruffles of hetrailing morning-gown and her little lace capshe continued to discuss her menu, inhaling thcool air that rose from the fields and the rive



There was not the slightest trace of chagrin oanxiety upon that tranquil face, which was striking contrast to the lover's features, di

torted by a night of agony and fatigue.

For a long quarter of an hour Frantz, sitting incorner of the salon, saw all the conventiondishes of a bourgeois dinner pass before him i

their regular order, from the little hot pates, thsole Normande and the innumerable ingredents of which that dish is composed, to thMontreuil peaches and Fontainebleau grapes.

At last, when they were alone and he was abto speak, he asked in a hollow voice:

"Didn't you receive my letter?"

"Why, yes, of course."

She had risen to go to the mirror and adjust little curl or two entangled with her floatin



ribbons, and continued, looking at herself athe while:

"Yes, I received your letter. Indeed, I was chamed to receive it. Now, should you ever feinclined to tell your brother any of the vile stories about me that you have threatened mwith, I could easily satisfy him that the onl

source of your lying tale-bearing was angewith me for repulsing a criminal passion as deserved. Consider yourself warned, my deaboy—and au revoir."

As pleased as an actress who has just deliverea telling speech with fine effect, she passed himand left the room smiling, with a little curl athe corners of her mouth, triumphant and wi

hout anger. And he did not kill her!



CHAPTER XVII. AN ITEM OF NEWS

In the evening preceding that ill-omened day, few moments after Frantz had stealthily left hroom on Rue de Braque, the illustrious Delobelle returned home, with downcast face and thaair of lassitude and disillusionment with whic

he always met untoward events.

"Oh! mon Dieu, my poor man, what has happened?" instantly inquired Madame Delobellwhom twenty years of exaggerated dramatpantomime had not yet surfeited.

Before replying, the ex-actor, who never faileto precede his most trivial words with som

facial play, learned long before for stage puposes, dropped his lower lip, in token odisgust and loathing, as if he had juswallowed something very bitter.



"The matter is that those Rislers are certainlingrates or egotists, and, beyond all questionexceedingly ill-bred. Do you know what I ju

learned downstairs from the concierge, whglanced at me out of the corner of his eye, making sport of me? Well, Frantz Risler has gonHe left the house a short time ago, and has leParis perhaps ere this, without so much as com

ing to shake my hand, to thank me for the wecome he has received here. What do you thinof that? For he didn't say good-by to you tweither, did he? And yet, only a month ago, h

was always in our rooms, without any remonstrance from us."

Mamma Delobelle uttered an exclamation ogenuine surprise and grief. Desiree, on the con

trary, did not say a word or make a motion. Shwas always the same little iceberg.

Oh! wretched mother, turn your eyes upoyour daughter. See that transparent pallor, tho

se tearless eyes which gleam unwaveringly, a



if their thoughts and their gaze were concentrated on some object visible to them alonCause that poor suffering heart to open itself t

you. Question your child. Make her speakabove all things make her weep, to rid her othe burden that is stifling her, so that her teadimmed eyes can no longer distinguish ispace that horrible unknown thing upon whic

they are fixed in desperation now.

For nearly a month past, ever since the dawhen Sidonie came and took Frantz away iher coupe, Desiree had known that she was nlonger loved, and she knew her rival's namShe bore them no ill-will, she pitied them raher. But, why had he returned? Why had he sheedlessly given her false hopes? How man

tears had she devoured in silence since thoshours! How many tales of woe had she told helittle birds! For once more it was work that hasustained her, desperate, incessant workwhich, by its regularity and monotony, by th



constant recurrence of the same duties and thsame motions, served as a balance-wheel to hethoughts.

Lately Frantz was not altogether lost to heAlthough he came but rarely to see her, shknew that he was there, she could hear him gin and out, pace, the floor with restless step

and sometimes, through the half-open door, sehis loved shadow hurry across the landing. Hdid not seem happy. Indeed, what happinescould be in store for him? He loved his broher's wife. And at the thought that Frantz wanot happy, the fond creature almost forgot heown sorrow to think only of the sorrow of thman she loved.

She was well aware that it was impossible thahe could ever love her again. But she thoughthat perhaps she would see him come in somday, wounded and dying, that he would sdown on the little low chair, lay his head on he



knees, and with a great sob tell her of his sufering and say to her, "Comfort me."

That forlorn hope kept her alive for threweeks. She needed so little as that.

But no. Even that was denied her. Frantz hagone, gone without a glance for her, without

parting word. The lover's desertion was folowed by the desertion of the friend. It wahorrible!

At her father's first words, she felt as if she we

re hurled into a deep, ice-cold abyss, filled witdarkness, into which she plunged swiftly, helplessly, well knowing that she would never return to the light. She was suffocating. Shwould have liked to resist, to struggle, to ca

for help.

Who was there who had the power to sustaiher in that great disaster?



God? The thing that is called Heaven?

She did not even think of that. In Paris, especially in the quarters where the working claslive, the houses are too high, the streets tonarrow, the air too murky for heaven to bseen.It was Death alone at which the little cripp

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 death she should choos

As she was almost never alone, she could nothink of the brazier of charcoal, to be lighteafter closing the doors and windows. As shnever went out she could not think either opoison to be purchased at the druggist's, a litt

package of white powder to be buried in thdepths of the pocket, with the needle-case anthe thimble. There was the phosphorus on thmatches, too, the verdigris on old sous, th

open window with the paved street below; bu



the thought of forcing upon her parents thghastly spectacle of a self-inflicted death-agonythe thought that what would remain of he

picked up amid a crowd of people, would be sfrightful to look upon, made her reject thamethod.

She still had the river. At all events, the wate

carries you away somewhere, so that nobodfinds you and your death is shrouded in mytery.

The river! She shuddered at the mere though

But it was not the vision of the deep, black water that terrified her. The girls of Paris laugh athat. You throw your apron over your head sthat you can't see, and pouf! But she must g

downstairs, into the street, all alone, and thstreet frightened her.

Yes, it was a terrible thing to go out into thstreet alone. She must wait until the gas wa

out, steal softly downstairs when her mothe



had gone to bed, pull the cord of the gate, anmake her way across Paris, where you meemen who stare impertinently into your fac

and pass brilliantly lighted cafes. The river waa long distance away. She would be very tiredHowever, there was no other way than that.

"I am going to bed, my child; are you going t

sit up any longer?"

With her eyes on her work, "my child" repliethat she was. She wished to finish her dozen.

"Good-night, then," said Mamma Delobelle, heenfeebled sight being unable to endure the lighlonger. "I have put father's supper by the firJust look at it before you go to bed."

Desire did not lie. She really intended to finisher dozen, so that her father could take them tthe shop in the morning; and really, to see thatranquil little head bending forward in the whte light of the lamp, one would never hav



imagined all the sinister thoughts with which was thronged.

At last she takes up the last bird of the dozen, marvellously lovely little bird whose wingseem to have been dipped in sea-water, agreen as they are with a tinge of sapphire.

Carefully, daintily, Desiree suspends it on piece of brass wire, in the charming attitude oa frightened creature about to fly away.

Ah! how true it is that the little blue bird

about to fly away! What a desperate flight intspace! How certain one feels that this time it the great journey, the everlasting journey fromwhich there is no return!

By and by, very softly, Desiree opens the wardrobe and takes a thin shawl which she throwover her shoulders; then she goes. What? Not glance at her mother, not a silent farewell, not tear? No, nothing! With the terrible clearness o



vision of those who are about to die, she suddenly realizes that her childhood and youthave been sacrificed to a vast self-love. Sh

feels very sure that a word from their greaman will comfort that sleeping mother, witwhom she is almost angry for not waking, foallowing her to go without a quiver of her closed eyelids.

When one dies young, even by one's own act, is never without a rebellious feeling, and pooDesiree bids adieu to life, indignant with detiny.

Now she is in the street. Where is she goingEverything seems deserted already. Desirewalks rapidly, wrapped in her little shaw

head erect, dry-eyed. Not knowing the wayshe walks straight ahead.

The dark, narrow streets of the Marais, whergas-jets twinkle at long intervals, cross and re

cross and wind about, and again and again i



her feverish course she goes over the samground. There is always something betweeher and the river. And to think that, at that ver

hour, almost in the same quarter, some one elsis wandering through the streets, waiting, waching, desperate! Ah! if they could but meeSuppose she should accost that feverish wacher, should ask him to direct her:

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur. How can I get tthe Seine?"

He would recognize her at once.

"What! Can it be you, Mam'zelle Zizi? What aryou doing out-of-doors at this time of night?"

"I am going to die, Frantz. You have take

away all my pleasure in living."

Thereupon he, deeply moved, would seize hepress her to his heart and carry her away in harms, saying:



"Oh! no, do not die. I need you to comfort mto cure all the wounds the other has inflicted ome."

But that is a mere poet's dream, one of the meetings that life can not bring about.

Streets, more streets, then a square and a bridg

whose lanterns make another luminous bridgin the black water. Here is the river at last. Thmist of that damp, soft autumn evening causeall of this huge Paris, entirely strange to her ait is, to appear to her like an enormous confu

sed mass, which her ignorance of the landmarks magnifies still more. This is the placwhere she must die.

Poor little Desiree!

She recalls the country excursion which Franthad organized for her. That breath of naturwhich she breathed that day for the first timfalls to her lot again at the moment of he



death. "Remember," it seems to say to her; anshe replies mentally, "Oh! yes, I remember."

She remembers only too well. When it arriveat the end of the quay, which was bedecked afor a holiday, the furtive little shadow pauses the steps leading down to the bank.

Almost immediately there are shouts and exctement all along the quay:

"Quick—a boat—grappling-irons!" Boatmeand policemen come running from all sides.

boat puts off from the shore with a lantern ithe bow.

The flower-women awake, and, when one othem asks with a yawn what is happening, th

woman who keeps the cafe that crouches at thcorner of the bridge answers coolly:

"A woman just jumped into the river."



But no. The river has refused to take that childIt has been moved to pity by so great gentleness and charm. In the light of the lantern

swinging to and fro on the shore, a black grouforms and moves away. She is saved! It was sand-hauler who fished her out. Policemen arcarrying her, surrounded by boatmen and lightermen, and in the darkness a hoarse voice

heard saying with a sneer: "That water-hegave me a lot of trouble. You ought to see howshe slipped through my fingers! I believe shwanted to make me lose my reward." Gradua

lly the tumult subsides, the bystanders dispese, and the black group moves away toward police-station.

Ah! poor girl, you thought that it was an eas

matter to have done with life, to disappeaabruptly. You did not know that, instead obearing you away swiftly to the oblivion yosought, the river would drive you back to athe shame, to all the ignominy of unsuccessfu



suicide. First of all, the station, the hideous station, with its filthy benches, its floor where thsodden dust seems like mud from the stree

There Desiree was doomed to pass the rest othe night.

At last day broke with the shuddering glare sdistressing to invalids. Suddenly aroused from

her torpor, Desiree sat up in her bed, threw othe blanket in which they had wrapped heand despite fatigue and fever tried to stand, iorder to regain full possession of her facultieand her will. She had but one thought—to ecape from all those eyes that were opening oall sides, to leave that frightful place where thbreath of sleep was so heavy and its attitudeso distorted.

"I implore you, messieurs," she said, tremblinfrom head to foot, "let me return to mamma."

Hardened as they were to Parisian drama

even those good people realized that they wer



face to face with something more worthy oattention, more affecting than usual. But thecould not take her back to her mother as ye

She must go before the commissioner first. Thwas absolutely necessary. They called a cafrom compassion for her; but she must go fromthe station to the cab, and there was a crowd athe door to stare at the little lame girl with th

damp hair glued to her temples, and her polceman's blanket which did not prevent her shvering. At headquarters she was conducted ua dark, damp stairway where sinister figure

were passing to and fro.

When Desiree entered the room, a man rosfrom the shadow and came to meet her, hoding out his hand.

It was the man of the reward, her hideous recuer at twenty-five francs.

"Well, little-mother," he said, with his cynic

laugh, and in a voice that made one think o



foggy nights on the water, "how are we sincour dive?"

The unhappy girl was burning red with feveand shame; so bewildered that it seemed to heas if the river had left a veil over her eyes, buzzing in her ears. At last she was ushereinto a smaller room, into the presence of

pompous individual, wearing the insignia othe Legion of Honor, Monsieur le Commissairin person, who was sipping his 'cafe au lait' anreading the 'Gazette des Tribunaux.'

"Ah! it's you, is it?" he said in a surly tone anwithout raising his eyes from his paper, as hdipped a piece of bread in his cup; and the offcer who had brought Desiree began at once t

read his report:"At quarter to twelve, on Quai de la Megisseriin front of No. 17, the woman Delobelle, twenty-four years old, flower-maker, living with he

parents on Rue de Braque, tried to commit su



cide by throwing herself into the Seine, anwas taken out safe and sound by Sieur Parchminet, sand-hauler of Rue de la Butte

Chaumont."

Monsieur le Commissaire listened as he atwith the listless, bored expression of a mawhom nothing can surprise; at the end he g

zed sternly and with a pompous affectation ovirtue at the woman Delobelle, and lectured hein the most approved fashion. It was very wiked, it was cowardly, this thing that she hadone. What could have driven her to such aevil act? Why did she seek to destroy herselCome, woman Delobelle, answer, why was it?

But the woman Delobelle obstinately decline

to answer. It seemed to her that it would put stigma upon her love to avow it in such a plac"I don't know—I don't know," she whisperedshivering.



Testy and impatient, the commissioner decidethat she should be taken back to her parentbut only on one condition: she must promis

never to try it again.

"Come, do you promise?"

"Oh! yes, Monsieur."

"You will never try again?"

"Oh! no, indeed I will not, never—never!"

Notwithstanding her protestations, Monsieur

Commissaire de Police shook his head, as if hdid not trust her oath.

Now she is outside once more, on the way ther home, to a place of refuge; but her martydom was not yet at an end.

In the carriage, the officer who accompanieher was too polite, too affable. She seemed no

to understand, shrank from him, withdrew he



hand. What torture! But the most terrible moment of all was the arrival in Rue de Braquwhere the whole house was in a state of com

motion, and the inquisitive curiosity of thneighbors must be endured. Early in the moning the whole quarter had been informed oher disappearance. It was rumored that she hagone away with Frantz Risler. The illustriou

Delobelle had gone forth very early, intenselagitated, with his hat awry and rumpled wrisbands, a sure indication of extraordinary preocupation; and the concierge, on taking up th

provisions, had found the poor mother hamad, running from one room to another, looking for a note from the child, for any clewhowever unimportant, that would enable her aleast to form some conjecture.

Suddenly a carriage stopped in front of thdoor. Voices and footsteps echoed through thhall.



"M'ame Delobelle, here she is! Your daughterbeen found."

It was really Desiree who came toiling up thstairs on the arm of a stranger, pale and fainting, without hat or shawl, and wrapped in great brown cape. When she saw her motheshe smiled at her with an almost foolish expre

sion.

"Do not be alarmed, it is nothing," she tried tsay, then sank to the floor. Mamma Delobellwould never have believed that she was s

strong. To lift her daughter, take her into throom, and put her to bed was a matter of moment; and she talked to her and kissed her.

"Here you are at last. Where have you com

from, you bad child? Tell me, is it true that yotried to kill yourself? Were you suffering sterribly? Why did you conceal it from me?"



When she saw her mother in that conditionwith tear-stained face, aged in a few shohours, Desiree felt a terrible burden of remors

She remembered that she had gone away wihout saying good-by to her, and that in thdepths of her heart she had accused her of noloving her.

Not loving her!

"Why, it would kill me if you should die," saithe poor mother. "Oh! when I got up this moning and saw that your bed hadn't been slept i

and that you weren't in the workroom either!—I just turned round and fell flat. Are you warmnow? Do you feel well? You won't do it againwill you—try to kill yourself?"

And she tucked in the bed-clothes, rubbed hefeet, and rocked her upon her breast.

As she lay in bed with her eyes closed, Desiresaw anew all the incidents of her suicide, all th



hideous scenes through which she had passein returning from death to life. In the fevewhich rapidly increased, in the intense drows

ness which began to overpower her, her majourney across Paris continued to excite antorment her. Myriads of dark streets stretcheaway before her, with the Seine at the end oeach.

That ghastly river, which she could not find ithe night, haunted her now.

She felt that she was besmirched with its slim

its mud; and in the nightmare that oppresseher, the poor child, powerless to escape thobsession of her recollections, whispered to hemother: "Hide me—hide me—I am ashamed!"



CHAPTER XVIII. SHE PROMISED NOTO TRY AGAIN

Oh! no, she will not try it again. Monsieur Commissaire need have no fear. In the firplace how could she go as far as the river, nowthat she can not stir from her bed? If Monsieu

le Commissaire could see her now, he woulnot doubt her word. Doubtless the wish, thlonging for death, so unmistakably written oher pale face the other morning, are still visib

there; but they are softened, resigned. The woman Delobelle knows that by waiting a littlyes, a very little time, she will have nothinmore to wish for.

The doctors declare that she is dying of pneumonia; she must have contracted it in her weclothes. The doctors are mistaken; it is nopneumonia. Is it her love, then, that is killinher? No. Since that terrible night she no longe



thinks of Frantz, she no longer feels that she worthy to love or to be loved. Thenceforth there is a stain upon her spotless life, and it is o

the shame of that and of nothing else that she dying.

Mamma Delobelle sits by Desiree's bed, woking by the light from the window, and nursin

her daughter. From time to time she raises heeyes to contemplate that mute despair, thamysterious disease, then hastily resumes hework; for it is one of the hardest trials of thpoor that they can not suffer at their ease.

Mamma Delobelle had to work alone now, anher fingers had not the marvellous dexterity oDesiree's little hands; medicines were dear, an

she would not for anything in the world havinterfered with one of "the father's" cherishehabits. And so, at whatever hour the invaliopened her eyes, she would see her mother, ithe pale light of early morning, or under he

night lamp, working, working without rest.



Between two stitches the mother would look uat her child, whose face grew paler and paler:

"How do you feel?"

"Very well," the sick girl would reply, with faint, heartbroken smile, which illumined hesorrowful face and showed all the ravages tha

had been wrought upon it, as a sunbeam, stealing into a poor man's lodging, instead of brightening it, brings out more clearly its cheerlesness and nudity.

The illustrious Delobelle was never there. Hhad not changed in any respect the habits of strolling player out of an engagement. And yhe knew that his daughter was dying: the dotor had told him so. Moreover, it had been

terrible blow to him, for, at heart, he loved hchild dearly; but in that singular nature thmost sincere and the most genuine feelingadopted a false and unnatural mode of expre

sion, by the same law which ordains that, whe



a shelf is placed awry, nothing that you placupon it seems to stand straight.

Delobelle's natural tendency was, before evrything, to air his grief, to spread it abroad. Hplayed the role of the unhappy father from onend of the boulevard to the other. He was aways to be found in the neighborhood of th

theatres or at the actors' restaurant, with reeyes and pale cheeks. He loved to invite thquestion, "Well, my poor old fellow, how arthings going at home?" Thereupon he woulshake his head with a nervous gesture; his grmace held tears in check, his mouth imprecations, and he would stab heaven with a silenglance, overflowing with wrath, as when hplayed the 'Medecin des Enfants;' all of whic

did not prevent him, however, from bestowinthe most delicate and thoughtful attentionupon his daughter.

He also maintained an unalterable confidenc

in himself, no matter what happened. And ye



his eyes came very near being opened to thtruth at last. A hot little hand laid upon thapompous, illusion-ridden head came very nea

expelling the bee that had been buzzing therso long. This is how it came to pass.

One night Desiree awoke with a start, in a verstrange state. It should be said that the docto

when he came to see her on the preceding evening, had been greatly surprised to find hesuddenly brighter and calmer, and entirely frefrom fever. Without attempting to explain thunhoped-for resurrection, he had gone awaysaying, "Let us wait and see"; he relied upothe power of youth to throw off disease, upothe resistless force of the life-giving sap, whicoften engrafts a new life upon the very symp

toms of death. If he had looked under Desireepillow, he would have found there a letter posmarked Cairo, wherein lay the secret of thahappy change. Four pages signed by Frantz, h



whole conduct confessed and explained to hdear little Zizi.

It was the very letter of which the sick girl hadreamed. If she had dictated it herself, all thphrases likely to touch her heart, all the delicately worded excuses likely to pour balm inther wounds, would have been less satisfactoril

expressed. Frantz repented, asked forgivenesand without making any promises, above awithout asking anything from her, described this faithful friend his struggles, his remorse, hsufferings.

What a misfortune that that letter had not arrved a few days earlier. Now, all those kinwords were to Desiree like the dainty dishe

that are brought too late to a man dying of hunger.

Suddenly she awoke, and, as we said a momensince, in an extraordinary state.



In her head, which seemed to her lighter thausual, there suddenly began a grand processioof thoughts and memories. The most distan

periods of her past seemed to approach heThe most trivial incidents of her childhoodscenes that she had not then understood, wordheard as in a dream, recurred to her mind.

From her bed she could see her father and moher, one by her side, the other in the workroomthe door of which had been left open. MammDelobelle was lying back in her chair in thcareless attitude of long-continued fatigue, heded at last; and all the scars, the ugly sabre cuwith which age and suffering brand the faces othe old, manifested themselves, ineffaceaband pitiful to see, in the relaxation of slumbe

Desiree would have liked to be strong enougto rise and kiss that lovely, placid brow, furrowed by wrinkles which did not mar its beauty

In striking contrast to that picture, the illu

trious Delobelle appeared to his daughte



through the open door in one of his favoritattitudes. Seated before the little white clotthat bore his supper, with his body at an ang

of sixty-seven and a half degrees, he was eatinand at the same time running through pamphlet which rested against the carafe ifront of him.

For the first time in her life Desiree noticed thstriking lack of harmony between her emaciated mother, scantily clad in little black dressewhich made her look even thinner and morhaggard than she really was, and her happywell-fed, idle, placid, thoughtless father. At glance she realized the difference between thtwo lives. What would become of them wheshe was no longer there? Either her mothe

would work too hard and would kill herself; oelse the poor woman would be obliged to ceasworking altogether, and that selfish husbandforever engrossed by his theatrical ambitionwould allow them both to drift gradually int



abject poverty, that black hole which widenand deepens as one goes down into it.

Suppose that, before going away—somethintold her that she would go very soon—beforgoing away, she should tear away the thicbandage that the poor man kept over his eyewilfully and by force?

Only a hand as light and loving as hers coulattempt that operation. Only she had the righto say to her father:

"Earn your living. Give up the stage."

Thereupon, as time was flying, Desire Delobelsummoned all her courage and called softly:

"Papa-papa"

At his daughter's first summons the great mahurried to her side. He entered Desiree's bdroom, radiant and superb, very erect, his lam

in his 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 the prevailing gloomDesiree motioned to him not to speak, pointinto her sleeping mother.

"Put down your lamp—I have something to sa

to you."

Her voice, broken by emotion, impressed himand so did her eyes, for they seemed largethan usual, and were lighted by a piercin

glance that he had never seen in them.

He approached with something like awe.

"Why, what's the matter, Bichette? Do you fe

any worse?"

Desiree replied with a movement of her littpale face that she felt very ill and that she wanted to speak to him very close, very clos

When the great man stood by her pillow, sh



laid her burning hand on the great man's armand whispered in his ear. She was very ilhopelessly ill. She realized fully that she ha

not long to live.

"Then, father, you will be left alone with mamma. Don't tremble like that. You knew that ththing must come, yes, that it was very near. Bu

I want to tell you this. When I am gone, I amterribly afraid mamma won't be strong enougto support the family just see how pale anexhausted she is."

The actor looked at his "sainted wife," and seemed greatly surprised to find that she did relly look so badly. Then he consoled himsewith the selfish remark:

"She never was very strong."

That remark and the tone in which it was madangered Desiree and strengthened her dete



mination. She continued, without pity for thactor's illusions:

"What will become of you two when I am nlonger here? Oh! I know that you have greahopes, but it takes them a long while to come tanything. The results you have waited for slong may not arrive for a long time to com

and until then what will you do? Listen! mdear father, I would not willingly hurt you; buit seems to me that at your age, as intelligent ayou are, it would be easy for you—I am surMonsieur Risler Aine would ask nothing beter."

She spoke slowly, with an effort, carefullchoosing her words, leaving long pauses be

ween every two sentences, hoping always thathey might be filled by a movement, an exclamation from her father. But the actor did nounderstand.



"I think that you would do well," pursued Desree, timidly, "I think that you would do well tgive up—"

"Eh?—what?—what's that?"

She paused when she saw the effect of hewords. The old actor's mobile features wer

suddenly contracted under the lash of violendespair; and tears, genuine tears which he dinot even think of concealing behind his hand athey do on the stage, filled his eyes but did noflow, so tightly did his agony clutch him by th

throat. The poor devil began to understand.

She murmured twice or thrice:

"To give up—to give up—"

Then her little head fell back upon the pillowand she died without having dared to tell himwhat he would do well to give up.



CHAPTER XIX. APPROACHINGCLOUDS

One night, near the end of January, old Sigimond Planus, cashier of the house of FromonJeune and Risler Aine, was awakened with start in his little house at Montrouge by th

same teasing voice, the same rattling of chainfollowed by that fatal cry:

"The notes!"

"That is true," thought the worthy man, sittinup in bed; "day after to-morrow will be the laday of the month. And I have the courage tsleep!"



In truth, a considerable sum of money must braised: a hundred thousand francs to be paion two obligations, and at a moment when, fo

the first time in thirty years, the strong-box othe house of Fromont was absolutely emptyWhat was to be done? Sigismond had tried sveral times to speak to Fromont Jeune, but hseemed to shun the burdensome responsibilit

of business, and when he walked through thoffices was always in a hurry, feverishly excted, and seemed neither to see nor hear anyhing about him. He answered the old cashier

anxious questions, gnawing his moustache:

"All right, all right, my old Planus. Don't diturb yourself; I will look into it." And as he saiit, he seemed to be thinking of something els

to be a thousand leagues away from his surroundings. It was rumored in the factorywhere his liaison with Madame Risler was nlonger a secret to anybody, that Sidonie deceved him, made him very unhappy; and, indeed



his mistress's whims worried him much morthan his cashier's anxiety. As for Risler, no onever saw him; he passed his days shut up in

room under the roof, overseeing the mysterious, interminable manufacture of his machnes.

This indifference on the part of the employer

to the affairs of the factory, this absolute lack ooversight, had led by slow degrees to generdemoralization. Some business was still donbecause an established house will go on alonfor years by force of the first impetus; but wharuin, what chaos beneath that apparent prosprity?

Sigismond knew it better than any one, and a

if to see his way more clearly amid the multitude of painful thoughts which whirled madlthrough his brain, the cashier lighted his candle, sat down on his bed, and thought, "Wherwere they to find that hundred thousan

francs?"



"Take the notes back. I have no funds to methem."

No, no! That was not possible. Any sort ohumiliation was preferable to that.

"Well, it's decided. I will go to-morrow," sighethe poor cashier.

And he tossed about in torture, unable to closan eye until morning.

Notwithstanding the late hour, Georges Fro

mont had not yet retired. He was sitting by thfire, with his head in his hands, in the blind andumb concentration due to irreparable misfotune, thinking of Sidonie, of that terrible Sidonie who was asleep at that moment on the floo

above. She was positively driving him madShe was false to him, he was sure of it,—shwas false to him with the Toulousan tenor, thaCazabon, alias Cazaboni, whom Madame Dobson had brought to the house. For a long tim



he had implored her not to receive that manbut Sidonie would not listen to him, and othat very day, speaking of a grand ball she wa

about to give, she had declared explicitly thanothing should prevent her inviting her tenor.

"Then he's your lover!" Georges had exclaimeangrily, his eyes gazing into hers.

She had not denied it; she had not even turneher eyes away.

And to think that he had sacrificed everythin

to that woman—his fortune, his honor, even hlovely Claire, who lay sleeping with her chilin the adjoining room—a whole lifetime ohappiness within reach of his hand, which hhad spurned for that vile creature! Now sh

had admitted that she did not love him, thashe loved another. And he, the coward, stilonged for her. In heaven's name, what potiohad she given him?



Carried away by indignation that made thblood boil in his veins, Georges Fromont stated from his armchair and strode feverishly u

and down the room, his footsteps echoing ithe silence of the sleeping house like living insomnia. The other was asleep upstairs. Shcould sleep by favor of her heedless, remorsless nature. Perhaps, too, she was thinking o

her Cazaboni.

When that thought passed through his mindGeorges had a mad longing to go up, to wakRisler, to tell him everything and destroy himself with her. Really that deluded husband watoo idiotic! Why did he not watch her morclosely? She was pretty enough, yes, and vcious enough, too, for every precaution to b

taken with her.

And it was while he was struggling amid succruel and unfruitful reflections as these that thdevil of anxiety whispered in his ear:



"The notes! the notes!"

The miserable wretch! In his wrath he had entrely forgotten them. And yet he had long wached the approach of that terrible last day oJanuary. How many times, between two assignations, when his mind, free for a momenfrom thoughts of Sidonie, recurred to his bus

ness, to the realities of life-how many times hahe said to himself, "That day will be the end oeverything!" But, as with all those who live ithe delirium of intoxication, his cowardice convinced him that it was too late to mend matterand he returned more quickly and more deteminedly to his evil courses, in order to forgeto divert his thoughts.

But that was no longer possible. He saw thimpending disaster clearly, in its full meaningand Sigismond Planus's wrinkled, solemn facrose before him with its sharply cut featurewhose absence of expression softened the

harshness, and his light German-Swiss eye



which had haunted him for many weeks wittheir impassive stare.

Well, no, he had not the hundred thousanfrancs, nor did he know where to get them.

The crisis which, a few hours before, seemed thim a chaos, an eddying whirl in which h

could see nothing distinctly and whose verconfusion was a source of hope, appeared thim at that moment with appalling distincness. An empty cash-box, closed doors, noteprotested, ruin, are the phantoms he saw wh

chever way he turned. And when, on top of athe rest, came the thought of Sidonie's treachery, the wretched, desperate man, finding nohing to cling to in that shipwreck, suddenl

uttered a sob, a cry of agony, as if appealing fohelp to some higher power.

"Georges, Georges, it is I. What is the matter?"



His wife stood before him, his wife who nowwaited for him every night, watching anxiouslfor his return from the club, for she still belie

ved that he passed his evenings there. Thanight she had heard him walking very late ihis room. At last her child fell asleep, and Clare, hearing the father sob, ran to him.

Oh! what boundless, though tardy remorsoverwhelmed him when he saw her beforhim, so deeply moved, so lovely and so lovingYes, she was in very truth the true companionthe faithful friend. How could he have deserteher? For a long, long time he wept upon heshoulder, unable to speak. And it was fortunathat he did not speak, for he would have tolher all, all. The unhappy man felt the need o

pouring out his heart—an irresistible longing taccuse himself, to ask forgiveness, to lessen thweight of the remorse that was crushing him.

She spared him the pain of uttering a word:



"You have been gambling, have you not? Yohave lost—lost heavily?"

He moved his head affirmatively; then, whehe was able to speak, he confessed that he muhave a hundred thousand francs for the daafter the morrow, and that he did not knowhow to obtain them.

She did not reproach him. She was one of thoswomen who, when face to face with disastethink only of repairing it, without a word orecrimination. Indeed, in the bottom of he

heart she blessed this misfortune whicbrought him nearer to her and became a bonbetween their two lives, which had long lain sfar apart. She reflected a moment. Then, wit

an effort indicating a resolution which had coa bitter struggle, she said:

"Not all is lost as yet. I will go to Savigny tomorrow and ask my grandfather for the money."



He would never have dared to suggest that ther. Indeed, it would never have occurred thim. She was so proud and old Gardinois s

hard! Surely that was a great sacrifice for her tmake for him, and a striking proof of her love.

"Claire, Claire—how good your are!" he said.

Without replying, she led him to their childcradle.

"Kiss her," she said softly; and as they stoothere side by side, their heads leaning over th

child, Georges was afraid of waking her, and hembraced the mother passionately.



CHAPTER XX. REVELATIONS

"Ah! here's Sigismond. How goes the worldPere Sigismond? How is business? Is it goowith you?"

The old cashier smiled affably, shook hand

with the master, his wife, and his brother, andas they talked, looked curiously about. Thewere in a manufactory of wallpapers on Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the establishment of thlittle Prochassons, who were beginning to bformidable rivals. Those former employees othe house of Fromont had set up on their owaccount, beginning in a very, small way, anhad gradually succeeded in making for them

selves a place on 'Change. Fromont the unchad assisted them for a long while with his credit and his money; the result being most friendly relations between the two firms, and a balance—between ten or fifteen thousand francs—



which had never been definitely adjusted, because they knew that money was in goohands when the Prochassons had it.

Indeed, the appearance of the factory was moreassuring. The chimneys proudly shook theplumes of smoke. The dull roar of constant toindicated that the workshops were full o

workmen and activity. The buildings were igood repair, the windows clean; everythinhad an aspect of enthusiasm, of good-humor, odiscipline; and behind the grating in the counting-room sat the wife of one of the brothersimply dressed, with her hair neatly arrangedand an air of authority on her youthful facdeeply intent upon a long column of figures.

Old Sigismond thought bitterly of the difference between the house of Fromont, once swealthy, now living entirely upon its formereputation, and the ever-increasing prosperitof the establishment before his eyes. His steal

hy glance penetrated to the darkest corner



seeking some defect, something to criticise; anhis failure to find anything made his heart heavy and his smile forced and anxious.

What embarrassed him most of all was thquestion how he should approach the subject othe money due his employers without betraying the emptiness of the strongbox. The poo

man assumed a jaunty, unconcerned air whicwas truly pitiful to see. Business was good—very good. He happened to be passing througthe quarter and thought he would come in moment—that was natural, was it not? Onlikes to see old friends.

But these preambles, these constantly expanding circumlocutions, did not bring him to th

point he wished to reach; on the contrary, theled him away from his goal, and imagining thhe detected surprise in the eyes of his auditorhe went completely astray, stammered, lost hhead, and, as a last resort, took his hat and pre



tended to go. At the door he suddenly behought himself:

"Ah! by the way, so long as I am here—"

He gave a little wink which he thought sly, buwhich was in reality heartrending.

"So long as I am here, suppose we settle thaold account."

The two brothers and the young woman in thcounting-room gazed at one another 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 rathebroad joke, on the part of the old cashier. "Galong with you, you sly old Pere Planus!" Thold man laughed with them! He laughed wihout any desire to laugh, simply to do as th

others did.



At last they explained. Fromont Jeune had come in person, six months before, to collect thbalance in their hands.

Sigismond felt that his strength was going. Buhe summoned courage to say:

"Ah! yes; true. I had forgotten. Sigismond Pla

nus is growing old, that is plain. I am failingmy children, I am failing."

And the old man went away wiping his eyes, iwhich still glistened great tears caused by th

hearty laugh he had just enjoyed. The younpeople behind him exchanged glances anshook their heads. They understood.

The blow he had received was so crushing tha

the cashier, as soon as he was out-of-doors, waobliged to sit down on a bench. So that was threason why Georges did not come to the counting-room for money. He made his collectionin person. What had taken place at the Procha



sons' had probably been repeated everywherelse. It was quite useless, therefore, for him tsubject himself to further humiliation. Yes, bu

the notes, the notes!—that thought renewed hstrength. He wiped the perspiration from hforehead and started once more to try his lucwith a customer in the faubourg. But this timhe took his precautions and called to the ca

hier from the doorway, without entering:

"Good-morning, Pere So-and-So. I want to asyou a question."

He held the door half open, his hand upon thknob.

"When did we settle our last bill? I forgot tenter it."

Oh! it was a long while ago, a very long whilthat their last bill was settled. Fromont Jeunereceipt was dated in September. It was fivmonths ago.



The door was hastily closed. Another! Evidently it would be the same thing everywhere.

"Ah! Monsieur Chorche, Monsieur Chorchemuttered poor Sigismond; and while he pusued his journey, with bowed head and trembling legs, Madame Fromont Jeune's carriagpassed him close, on its way to the Orleans sta

tion; but Claire did not see old Planus, any more than she had seen, when she left her housefew moments earlier, Monsieur Chebe in hlong frock-coat and the illustrious Delobelle ihis stovepipe hat, turning into the Rue des Vielles-Haudriettes at opposite ends, each with thfactory and Risler's wallet for his objectivpoint. The young woman was much too deeplengrossed by what she had before her to loo

into the street.

Think of it! It was horrible. To go and ask MGardinois for a hundred thousand francs—MGardinois, a man who boasted that he had ne

ver borrowed or loaned a sou in his life, wh



never lost an opportunity to tell how, on onoccasion, being driven to ask his father for fortfrancs to buy a pair of trousers, he had repai

the loan in small amounts. In his dealings witeverybody, even with his children, M. Gardnois followed those traditions of avarice whicthe earth, the cruel earth, often ungrateful tthose who till it, seems to inculcate in all pea

sants. The old man did not intend that any paof his colossal fortune should go to his childreduring his lifetime.

"They'll find my property when I am dead," hoften said.

Acting upon that principle, he had married ohis daughter, the elder Madame Fromont, wi

hout one sou of dowry, and he never forgavhis son-in-law for having made a fortune wihout assistance from him. For it was one of thpeculiarities of that nature, made up of vanitand selfishness in equal parts, to wish that eve

ry one he knew should need his help, shoul



bow before his wealth. When the Fromonexpressed in his presence their satisfaction the prosperous turn their business was begin

ning to take, his sharp, cunning, little blue eywould smile ironically, and he would grow"We shall see what it all comes to in the end," ia tone that made them tremble. Sometimes, toat Savigny, in the evening, when the park, th

avenues, the blue slates of the chateau, the rebrick of the stables, the ponds and brooks shone resplendent, bathed in the golden glory of lovely sunset, this eccentric parvenu would sa

aloud before his children, after looking abouhim:

"The one thing that consoles me for dying somday is that no one in the family will ever be ric

enough to keep a chateau that costs fifty thousand francs a year to maintain."

And yet, with that latter-day tenderness whiceven the sternest grandfathers find in th

depths of their hearts, old Gardinois woul



gladly have made a pet of his granddaughteBut Claire, even as a child, had felt an invincble repugnance for the former peasant's hard

ness of heart and vainglorious selfishness. Anwhen affection forms no bonds between thoswho are separated by difference in educationsuch repugnance is increased by innumerabtrifles. When Claire married Georges, th

grandfather said to Madame Fromont:

"If your daughter wishes, I will give her a roypresent; but she must ask for it."

But Claire received nothing, because she woulnot ask for anything.

What a bitter humiliation to come, three yearlater, to beg a hundred thousand francs from

the generosity she had formerly spurned, thumble herself, to face the endless sermons, thsneering raillery, the whole seasoned with Berrichon jests, with phrases smacking of the soi

with the taunts, often well-deserved, whic



narrow, but logical, minds can utter on occasion, and which sting with their vulgar patolike an insult from an inferior!

Poor Claire! Her husband and her father werabout to be humiliated in her person. She munecessarily confess the failure of the one, thdownfall of the house which the other ha

founded and of which he had been so prouwhile he lived. The thought that she would bcalled upon to defend all that she loved best ithe world made her strong and weak at thsame time.

It was eleven o'clock when she reached Savigny. As she had given no warning of her visithe carriage from the chateau was not at th

station, and she had no choice but to walk.It was a cold morning and the roads were drand hard. The north wind blew freely acrosthe arid fields and the river, and swept unop

posed through the leafless trees and bushe



The chateau appeared under the low-hanginclouds, with its long line of low walls and hedges separating it from the surrounding field

The slates on the roof were as dark as the skthey reflected; and that magnificent summeresidence, completely transformed by the bittesilent winter, without a leaf on its trees or pigeon on its roofs, showed no life save in i

rippling brooks and the murmuring of the tapoplars as they bowed majestically to onanother, shaking the magpies' nests hiddeamong their highest branches.

At a distance Claire fancied that the home oher youth wore a surly, depressed air. It seemed to het that Savigny watched her approacwith the cold, aristocratic expression which

assumed for passengers on the highroad, whstopped 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 ther, "Begone—do not come in!" And if she ha

chosen to listen, Claire, renouncing her plan ospeaking to her grandfather, would have retuned at once to Paris to maintain the repose oher life. But she did not understand, poor childand already the great Newfoundland dog, wh

had recognized her, came leaping through thdead leaves and sniffed at the gate.

"Good-morning, Francoise. Where is grandpapa?" the young woman asked the gardenerwife, who came to open the gate, fawning anfalse and trembling, like all the servants at thchateau when they felt that the master's eywas upon them.

Grandpapa was in his office, a little buildinindependent of the main house, where he pased his days fumbling among boxes and pgeonholes and great books with green back

with the rage for bureaucracy due to his earl



ignorance and the strong impression madupon him long before by the office of the notry in his village.

At that moment he was closeted there with hkeeper, a sort of country spy, a paid informewho apprised him as to all that was said andone in the neighborhood.

He was the master's favorite. His name waFouinat (polecat), and he had the flat, craftyblood-thirsty face appropriate to his name.

When Claire entered, pale and trembling undeher furs, the old man understood that somehing serious and unusual had happened, anhe made a sign to Fouinat, who disappearedgliding through the half-open door as if he we

re entering the very wall.

"What's the matter, little one? Why, you're a'perlute'," said the grandfather, seated behinhis huge desk.



Perlute, in the Berrichon dictionary, signifietroubled, excited, upset, and applied perfectlto Claire's condition. Her rapid walk in the col

country air, the effort she had made in order tdo what she was doing, imparted an unwonteexpression to her face, which was much lesreserved than usual. Without the slightest encouragement on his part, she kissed him an

seated herself in front of the fire, where olstumps, surrounded by dry moss and pinneedles picked up in the paths, were smouldering with occasional outbursts of life and th

hissing of sap. She did not even take time tshake off the frost that stood in beads on heveil, but began to speak at once, faithful to heresolution to state the object of her visit immediately upon entering the room, before sh

allowed herself to be intimidated by the amosphere of fear and respect which encompased the grandfather and made of him a sort oawe-inspiring deity.



She required all her courage not to become confused, not to interrupt her narrative before thapiercing gaze which transfixed her, enlivene

from her first words by a malicious joy, beforthat savage mouth whose corners seemed tightly closed by premeditated reticence, obstinacya denial of any sort of sensibility. She went oto the end in one speech, respectful withou

humility, concealing her emotion, steadying hevoice by the consciousness of the truth of hestory. Really, seeing them thus face to face, hcold and calm, stretched out in his armchai

with his hands in the pockets of his graswansdown waistcoat, she carefully choosinher words, as if each of them might condemn oabsolve her, you would never have said that was a child before her grandfather, but an ac

cused person before an examining magistrate.

His thoughts were entirely engrossed by thjoy, the pride of his triumph. So they were conquered at last, those proud upstarts of Fro



monts! So they needed old Gardinois at lasdid they? Vanity, his dominating passion, oveflowed in his whole manner, do what h

would. When she had finished, he took thfloor in his turn, began naturally enough wit"I was sure of it—I always said so—I knew wshould see what it would all come to"—ancontinued in the same vulgar, insulting ton

ending with the declaration that, in view of hprinciples, which were well known in the famly, he would not lend a sou.

Then Claire spoke of her child, of her husbandname, which was also her father's, and whicwould be dishonored by the failure. The olman was as cold, as implacable as ever, antook advantage of her humiliation to humiliat

her still more; for he belonged to the race oworthy rustics who, when their enemy is downnever leave him without leaving on his face thmarks of the nails in their sabots.



"All I can say to you, little one, is that Savignis open to you. Let your husband come here.happen to need a secretary. Very well, George

can do my writing for twelve hundred francs year and board for the whole family. Offer himthat from me, and come."

She rose indignantly. She had come as his chil

and he had received her as a beggar. They hanot reached that point yet, thank God!

"Do you think so?" queried M. Gardinois, wita savage light in his eye.

Claire shuddered and walked toward the doowithout replying. The old man detained hewith a gesture.

"Take care! you don't know what you're refusing. It is in your interest, you understand, thaI suggest bringing your husband here. Yodon't know the life he is leading up yonder. Ocourse you don't know it, or you'd never com



and ask me for money to go where yours hagone. Ah! I know all about your man's affairs.have my police at Paris, yes, and at Asnieres, a

well as at Savigny. I know what the fellow doewith his days and his nights; and I don't choosthat my crowns shall go to the places where hgoes. They're not clean enough for monehonestly earned."

Claire's eyes opened wide in amazement anhorror, for she felt that a terrible drama haentered her life at that moment through thlittle low door of denunciation. The old macontinued with a sneer:

"That little Sidonie has fine, sharp teeth."

"Sidonie!"

"Faith, yes, to be sure. I have told you the namAt all events, you'd have found it out some daor other. In fact, it's an astonishing thing thasince the time—But you women are so vain



The idea that a man can deceive you is the laidea to come into your head. Well, yes, Sidonie's the one who has got it all out of him—

with her husband's consent, by the way."

He went on pitilessly to tell the young wife thsource of the money for the house at Asnierethe horses, the carriages, and how the prett

little nest in the Avenue Gabriel had been funished. He explained everything in detail. was clear that, having found a new opportunitto exercise his mania for espionage, he haavailed himself of it to the utmost; perhaps, tothere was at the bottom of it all a vague, carefully concealed rage against his little Chebe, thanger of a senile passion never declared.

Claire listened to him without speaking, with smile of incredulity. That smile irritated the olman, spurred on his malice. "Ah! you donbelieve me. Ah! you want proofs, do you?" Anhe gave her proofs, heaped them upon he

overpowered her with knife-thrusts in th



heart. She had only to go to Darches, the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix. A fortnight beforGeorges had bought a diamond necklace ther

for thirty thousand francs. It was his NewYear's gift to Sidonie. Thirty thousand francfor diamonds at the moment of becoming bankrupt!

He might have talked the entire day and Clairwould not have interrupted him. She felt thathe slightest effort would cause the tears thafilled her eyes to overflow, and she was detemined to smile to the end, the sweet, bravwoman. From time to time she cast a sidelonglance at the road. She was in haste to go, to flfrom the sound of that spiteful voice, whicpursued her pitilessly.

At last he ceased; he had told the whole storyShe bowed and walked toward the door.

"Are you going? What a hurry you're in!" sai

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 tspeak.

"At least wait till the carriage is ready—somone will drive you to the station."

No, still no.

And she walked on, with the old man clos

behind her. Proudly, and with head erect, shcrossed the courtyard, filled with souvenirs oher childhood, without once looking behindAnd yet what echoes of hearty laughter, wha

sunbeams of her younger days were imprintein the tiniest grain of gravel in that courtyard!

Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were stiin the same place. She had not a glance fo

them, nor for the pheasants in the aviary, no



even for the great dog Kiss, who followed hedocilely, awaiting the caress which she did nogive him. She had come as a child of the hous

she went away as a stranger, her mind fillewith horrible thoughts which the slightest reminder of her peaceful and happy past coulnot have failed to aggravate.

"Good-by, grandfather."

"Good-by, then."

And the gate closed upon her harshly. As soo

as she was alone, she began to walk swiftlyswiftly, almost to run. She was not merelgoing away, she was escaping. Suddenly, wheshe reached the end of the wall of the estatshe found herself in front of the little green ga

te, surrounded by nasturtiums and honeysukle, where the chateau mail-box was. She stopped instinctively, struck by one of those suddeawakenings of the memory which take plac

within us at critical moments and place befor



our eyes with wonderful clearness of outlinthe most trivial acts of our lives bearing anrelation to present disasters or joys. Was it th

red sun that suddenly broke forth from thclouds, flooding the level expanse with its oblque rays in that winter afternoon as at the sunset hour in August? Was it the silence that surrounded her, broken only by the harmoniou

sounds of nature, which are almost alike at aseasons?

Whatever the cause she saw herself once moras she was, at that same spot, three years before, on a certain day when she placed in the poa letter inviting Sidonie to come and pass month with her in the country. Something tolher that all her misfortunes dated from tha

moment. "Ah! had I known—had I onlknown!" And she fancied that she could stifeel between her fingers the smooth envelopready to drop into the box.



Thereupon, as she reflected what an innocenhopeful, happy child she was at that momenshe cried out indignantly, gentle creature tha

she was, against the injustice of life. She askeherself: "Why is it? What have I done?"

Then she suddenly exclaimed: "No! it isn't truIt can not be possible. Grandfather lied to me

And as she went on toward the station, the unhappy girl tried to convince herself, to makherself believe what she said. But she did nosucceed.

The truth dimly seen is like the veiled sunwhich tires the eyes far more than its most brlliant rays. In the semi-obscurity which stienveloped her misfortune, the poor woman

sight was keener than she could have wishedNow she understood and accounted for certaipeculiar circumstances in her husband's life, hfrequent absences, his restlessness, his embarrassed behavior on certain days, and the abun

dant details which he sometimes volunteered



upon returning home, concerning his movments, mentioning names as proofs which shdid not ask. From all these conjectures the ev

dence of his sin was made up. And still shrefused to believe it, and looked forward to hearrival in Paris to set her doubts at rest.

No one was at the station, a lonely, cheerles

little place, where no traveller ever showed hface in winter. As Claire sat there awaiting thtrain, gazing vaguely at the station-mastermelancholy little garden, and the debris oclimbing plants running along the fences by thtrack, she felt a moist, warm breath on her glove. It was her friend Kiss, who had followeher and was reminding her of their happromps together in the old days, with little sha

kes of the head, short leaps, capers of joy tempered by humility, concluding by stretching hbeautiful white coat at full length at his mitress's feet, on the cold floor of the waitingroom. Those humble caresses which sought he



out, like a hesitating offer of devotion ansympathy, caused the sobs she had so long retrained to break forth as last. But suddenly sh

felt ashamed of her weakness. She rose ansent the dog away, sent him away pitilesslwith voice and gesture, pointing to the house ithe distance, with a stern face which poor Kishad never seen. Then she hastily wiped he

eyes and her moist hands; for the train for Parwas approaching and she knew that in a moment she should need all her courage.

Claire's first thought on leaving the train was ttake a cab and drive to the jeweller in the Rude la Paix, who had, as her grandfather allegedsupplied Georges with a diamond necklace. that should prove to be true, then all the re

was true. Her dread of learning the truth waso great that, when she reached her destinatioand alighted in front of that magnificent establishment, she stopped, afraid to enter. To givherself countenance, she pretended to be dee



ply interested in the jewels displayed in velvcases; and one who had seen her, quietly bufashionably dressed, leaning forward to look a

that gleaming and attractive display, woulhave taken her for a happy wife engaged iselecting a bracelet, rather than an anxiousorrow-stricken soul who had come thither tdiscover the secret of her life.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. At thatime of day, in winter, the Rue de la Paix presents a truly dazzling aspect. In that luxuriouneighborhood, life moves quickly between thshort morning and the early evening. There arcarriages moving swiftly in all directions, ceaseless rumbling, and on the sidewalks a coquettish haste, a rustling of silks and furs. Win

ter is the real Parisian season. To see that devilown Paris in all its beauty and wealth and happiness one must watch the current of its lifbeneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow. Nature is absent from the picture, so to speak. N



wind, no sunlight. Just enough light for thdullest colors, the faintest reflections to produce an admirable effect, from the reddish-gra

tone of the monuments to the gleams of jwhich bespangle a woman's dress. Theatre anconcert posters shine resplendent, as if illumned by the effulgence of the footlights. Thshops are crowded. It seems that all those peo

ple must be preparing for perpetual festivitieAnd at such times, if any sorrow is minglewith that bustle and tumult, it seems the morterrible for that reason. For five minutes Clair

suffered martyrdom worse than death. Yondeon the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse othe deserted fields, her despair spread out as were in the sharp air and seemed to enfold heless closely. Here she was stifling. The voice

beside her, the footsteps, the heedless jostlinof people who passed, all added to her torture

At last she entered the shop.



"Ah! yes, Madame, certainly—Monsieur Fromont. A necklace of diamonds and roses. Wcould make you one like it for twenty-fiv

thousand francs."

That was five thousand less than for him.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Claire, "I will think

over."

A mirror in front of her, in which she saw hedark-ringed eyes and her deathly pallor, frightened her. She went out quickly, walking stiffl

in order not to fall.

She had but one idea, to escape from the streefrom the noise; to be alone, quite alone, so thashe might plunge headlong into that abyss o

heartrending thoughts, of black things dancinmadly in the depths of her mind. Oh! the coward, the infamous villain! And to think thaonly last night she was speaking comfortinwords to him, with her arms about him!



Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happened, she found herself in the courtyard of thfactory. Through what streets had she come

Had she come in a carriage or on foot? She hano remembrance. She had acted unconsciouslyas in a dream. The sentiment of reality retuned, pitiless and poignant, when she reachethe steps of her little house. Risler was ther

superintending several men who were carryinpotted plants up to his wife's apartments, ipreparation for the magnificent party she wato give that very evening. With his usual tran

quillity he directed the work, protected the tabranches which the workmen might have broken: "Not like that. Bend it over. Take care othe carpet."

The atmosphere of pleasure and merry-makinwhich had so revolted her a moment beforpursued her to her own house. It was tomuch, after all the rest! She rebelled; and aRisler saluted her, affectionately and with dee



respect as always, her face assumed an expresion of intense disgust, and she passed withouspeaking to him, without seeing the amaz

ment that opened his great, honest eyes.

From that moment her course was determinedWrath, a wrath born of uprightness and sensof justice, guided her actions. She barely too

time to kiss her child's rosy cheeks before running to her mother's room.

"Come, mamma, dress yourself quickly. We argoing away. We are going away."

The old lady rose slowly from the armchair iwhich she was sitting, busily engaged in cleaning her watch-chain by inserting a pin beween every two links with infinite care.

"Come, come, hurry. Get your things ready."

Her voice trembled, and the poor monomaniac's room seemed a horrible place to her, a



glistening as it was with the cleanliness thahad gradually become a mania. She had reached one of those fateful moments when th

loss of one illusion causes you to lose them alenables you to look to the very depths ohuman misery. The realization of her completisolation, between her half-mad mother, hefaithless husband, her too young child, cam

upon her for the first time; but it served only tstrengthen her in her resolution.

In a moment the whole household was busilengaged in making preparations for thabrupt, unexpected departure. Claire hurriethe bewildered servants, and dressed her moher and the child, who laughed merrily amiall the excitement. She was in haste to go befor

Georges' return, so that he might find the cradle empty and the house deserted. Where shoulshe go? She did not know as yet. Perhaps to heaunt at Orleans, perhaps to Savigny, no mattewhere. What she must do first of all was-go, fl



from that atmosphere of treachery and falsehood.

At that moment she was in her bedroom, paking a trunk, making a pile of her effects—heartrending occupation. Every object that shtouched set in motion whole worlds othoughts, of memories. There is so much o

ourselves in anything that we use. At times thodor of a sachet-bag, the pattern of a bit of lacwere enough to bring tears to her eyes. Suddenly she heard a heavy footstep in the salon, thdoor of which was partly open; then there waa slight cough, as if to let her know that somone was there. She supposed that it was Rislefor no one else had the right to enter heapartments so unceremoniously. The idea o

having to endure the presence of that hypocrtical face, that false smile, was so distasteful ther that she rushed to close the door.

"I am not at home to any one."



The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismondsquare head appeared in the opening.

"It is I, Madame," he said in an undertone. have come to get the money."

"What money?" demanded Claire, for she nlonger remembered why she had gone to Sa

vigny.

"Hush! The funds to meet my note to-morrowMonsieur Georges, when he went out, told mthat you would hand it to me very soon."

"Ah! yes—true. The hundred thousand francs.

"I haven't them, Monsieur Planus; I havenanything."

"Then," said the cashier, in a strange voice, as he were speaking to himself, "then it meanfailure."

And he turned slowly away.



Failure! She sank on a chair, appalled, crushedFor the last few hours the downfall of her happiness had caused her to forget the downfall o

the house; but she remembered now.

So her husband was ruined! In a little whilwhen he returned home, he would learn of thdisaster, and he would learn at the same tim

that his wife and child had gone; that he waleft alone in the midst of the wreck.

Alone—that weak, easily influenced creaturwho could only weep and complain and shak

his fist at life like a child! What would becomof the miserable man?

She pitied him, notwithstanding his great sin.

Then the thought came to her that she woulperhaps seem to have fled at the approach obankruptcy, 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 nothinmore than that was necessary to change heplans. Instantly she was conscious that her feeling of repugnance, of revolt, began to grow

less bitter, and a sudden ray of light seemed tmake her duty clearer to her. When they camto tell her that the child was dressed and thtrunks ready, her mind was made up anew.

"Never mind," she replied gently. "We are nogoing away."



BOOK 4.

CHAPTER XXI. THE DAY OF RECKO

NING

The great clock of Saint-Gervais struck one ithe morning. It was so cold that the fine snowflying through the air, hardened as it fell, covring the pavements with a slippery, white blanket.

Risler, wrapped in his cloak, was hasteninhome from the brewery through the desertestreets of the Marais. He had been celebratingin company with his two faithful borrowerChebe and Delobelle, his first moment of leisu

re, the end of that almost endless period of s



clusion during which he had been superintending the manufacture of his press, with all thsearchings, the joys, and the disappointmen

of the inventor. It had been long, very long. Athe last moment he had discovered a defecThe crane did not work well; and he had had trevise his plans and drawings. At last, on thavery day, the new machine had been tried. Eve

rything had succeeded to his heart's desire. Thworthy man was triumphant. It seemed to himthat he had paid a debt, by giving the house oFromont the benefit of a new machine, whic

would lessen the labor, shorten the hours of thworkmen, and at the same time double the profits and the reputation of the factory. He induged in beautiful dreams as he plodded alongHis footsteps rang out proudly, emphasized b

the resolute and happy trend of his thoughts.

Quickening his pace, he reached the corner oRue des Vieilles-Haudriettes. A long line ocarriages was standing in front of the factory



and the light of their lanterns in the street, thshadows of the drivers seeking shelter from thsnow in the corners and angles that those ol

buildings have retained despite the straightning of the sidewalks, gave an animated aspeto that deserted, silent quarter.

"Yes, yes! to be sure," thought the honest fe

llow, "we have a ball at our house." He remembered that Sidonie was giving a grand musicand dancing party, which she had excused himfrom attending, by the way, knowing that hwas very busy.

Shadows passed and repassed behind the flutering veil of the curtains; the orchestra seemeto follow the movements of those stealthy ap

paritions with the rising and falling of its mufled notes. The guests were dancing. Risler lehis eyes rest for a moment on that phantasmagoria of the ball, and fancied that he recognizeSidonie's shadow in a small room adjoining th

salon.



She was standing erect in her magnificent cotume, in the attitude of a pretty woman beforher mirror. A shorter shadow behind her, Ma

dame Dobson doubtless, was repairing somaccident to the costume, re-tieing the knot of ribbon tied about her neck, its long ends floating down to the flounces of the train. It was avery indistinct, but the woman's graceful figur

was recognizable in those faintly traced outlnes, and Risler tarried long admiring her.

The contrast on the first floor was most strking. There was no light visible, with the exception of a little lamp shining through the lilahangings of the bedroom. Risler noticed thacircumstance, and as the little girl had beeailing a few days before, he felt anxious abou

her, remembering Madame Georges's strangagitation when she passed him so hurriedly ithe afternoon; and he retraced his steps as far aPere Achille's lodge to inquire.



The lodge was full. Coachmen were warminthemselves around the stove, chatting anlaughing amid the smoke from their pipe

When Risler appeared there was profound slence, a cunning, inquisitive, significant silencThey had evidently been speaking of him.

"Is the Fromont child still sick?" he asked.

"No, not the child, Monsieur."

"Monsieur Georges sick?"

"Yes, he was taken when he came home tonight. I went right off to get the doctor. He saithat it wouldn't amount to anything—that aMonsieur needed was rest."

As Risler closed the door Pere Achille addedunder his breath, with the half-fearful, halaudacious insolence of an inferior, who woullike to be listened to and yet not distinctlheard:



"Ah! 'dame', they're not making such a show othe first floor as they are on the second."

This is what had happened.

Fromont jeune, on returning home during thevening, had found his wife with such a changed, heartbroken face, that he at once divined

catastrophe. But he had become so accustomein the past two years to sin with impunity thait did not for one moment occur to him that hwife could have been informed of his conducClaire, for her part, to avoid humiliating him

was generous enough to speak only of Savigny

"Grandpapa refused," she said.

The miserable man turned frightfully pale.

"I am lost—I am lost!" he muttered two or thretimes in the wild accents of fever; and his slepless nights, a last terrible scene which he hahad with Sidonie, trying to induce her not t



give this party on the eve of his downfall, MGardinois' refusal, all these maddening thingwhich followed so closely on one another

heels and had agitated him terribly, culminatein a genuine nervous attack. Claire took pity ohim, put him to bed, and established herself bhis side; but her voice had lost that affectionatintonation which soothes and persuades. Ther

was in her gestures, in the way in which sharranged the pillow under the patient's heaand prepared a quieting draught, a strangindifference, listlessness.

"But I have ruined you!" Georges said fromtime to time, as if to rouse her from that apathwhich made him uncomfortable. She repliewith a proud, disdainful gesture. Ah! if he ha

done only that to her!

At last, however, his nerves became calmer, thfever subsided, and he fell asleep.

She remained to attend to his wants.



"It is my duty," she said to herself.

Her duty. She had reached that point with thman whom she had adored so blindly, with thhope of a long and happy life together.

At that moment the ball in Sidonie's apartmenbegan to become very animated. The ceilin

trembled rhythmically, for Madame had had athe carpets removed from her salons for thgreater comfort of the dancers. Sometimes, tothe sound of voices reached Claire's ears in waves, and frequent tumultuous applause, from

which one could divine the great number of thguests, the crowded condition of the rooms.

Claire was lost in thought. She did not wastime in regrets, in fruitless lamentations. Sh

knew that life was inflexible and that all tharguments in the world will not arrest the crulogic of its inevitable progress. She did not asherself how that man had succeeded in dece

ving her so long—how he could have sacrifice



the honor and happiness of his family for mere caprice. That was the fact, and all her rflections could not wipe it out, could not repa

the irreparable. The subject that engrossed hethoughts was the future. A new existence waunfolding before her eyes, dark, cruel, full oprivation and toil; and, strangely enough, thprospect of ruin, instead of terrifying her, resto

red all her courage. The idea of the change oabode made necessary by the economy thewould be obliged to practise, of work madcompulsory for Georges and perhaps for he

self, infused an indefinable energy into the ditressing calmness of her despair. What a heavburden of souls she would have with her threchildren: her mother, her child, and her huband! The feeling of responsibility prevente

her giving way too much to her misfortune, tthe wreck of her love; and in proportion as shforgot herself in the thought of the weak creatures she had to protect she realized more fullthe meaning of the word "sacrifice," so vagu



on careless lips, so serious when it becomes rule of life.

Such were the poor woman's thoughts durinthat sad vigil, a vigil of arms and tears, whilshe was preparing her forces for the great batle. Such was the scene lighted by the modelittle lamp which Risler had seen from below

like a star fallen from the radiant chandeliers othe ballroom.

Reassured by Pere Achille's reply, the honefellow thought of going up to his bedroom

avoiding the festivities and the guests, fowhom he cared little.

On such occasions he used a small servantstaircase communicating with the counting

room. So he walked through the manywindowed workshops, which the moon, refleted by the snow, made as light as at noondayHe breathed the atmosphere of the day of toil,

hot, stifling atmosphere, heavy with the odor o



boiled talc and varnish. The papers spread ouon the dryers formed long, rustling paths. Oall sides tools were lying about, and blouse

hanging here and there ready for the morrowRisler never walked through the shops withoua feeling of pleasure.

Suddenly he spied a light in Planus's office, a

the end of that long line of deserted rooms. Thold cashier was still at work, at one o'clock ithe morning! That was really most extraordinary.

Risler's first impulse was to retrace his steps. Ifact, since his unaccountable falling-out witSigismond, since the cashier had adopted thaattitude of cold silence toward him, he ha

avoided meeting him. His wounded friendshihad always led him to shun an explanation; hhad a sort of pride in not asking Planus why hbore him ill-will. But, on that evening, Rislefelt so strongly the need of cordial sympathy, o

pouring out his heart to some one, and then



was such an excellent opportunity for a tete-atete with his former friend, that he did not trto avoid him but boldly entered the counting

room.

The cashier was sitting there, motionlesamong heaps of papers and great books, whiche had been turning over, some of which ha

fallen to the floor. At the sound of his employer's footsteps he did not even lift his eyes. Hhad recognized Risler's step. The latter, somewhat abashed, hesitated a moment; thenimpelled by one of those secret springs whicwe have within us and which guide us, despitourselves, in the path of our destiny, he walkestraight to the cashier's grating.

"Sigismond," he said in a grave voice.The old man raised his head and displayed shrunken face down which two great tears were rolling, the first perhaps that that anima

column of figures had ever shed in his life.



"You are weeping, old man? What troubleyou?"

And honest Risler, deeply touched, held out hhand to his friend, who hastily withdrew hiThat movement of repulsion was so instinctivso brutal, that all Risler's emotion changed tindignation.

He drew himself up with stern dignity.

"I offer you my hand, Sigismond Planus!" hsaid.

"And I refuse to take it," said Planus, rising.

There was a terrible pause, during which theheard the muffled music of the orchestra up

tairs and the noise of the ball, the dull, wearinnoise of floors shaken by the rhythmic movement of the dance.

"Why do you refuse to take my hand?" deman

ded Risler simply, while the grating upo



which he leaned trembled with a metallic quver.

Sigismond was facing him, with both hands ohis desk, as if to emphasize and drive homwhat he was about to say in reply.

"Why? Because you have ruined the hous

because in a few hours a messenger from thBank will come and stand where you are, tcollect a hundred thousand francs; and because, thanks to you, I haven't a sou in the cashbox—that's the reason why!"

Risler was stupefied.

"I have ruined the house—I?"

"Worse than that, Monsieur. You have alloweit to be ruined by your wife, and you havarranged with her to benefit by our ruin anyour dishonor. Oh! I can see your game weenough. The money your wife has wormed ou



of the wretched Fromont, the house at Asnieres, the diamonds and all the rest is invested iher name, of course, out of reach of disaste

and of course you can retire from businesnow."

"Oh—oh!" exclaimed Risler in a faint voice, restrained voice rather, that was insufficient fo

the multitude of thoughts it strove to expresand as he stammered helplessly he drew thgrating toward him with such force that he broke off a piece of it. Then he staggered, fell to thfloor, and lay there motionless, speechless, retaining only, in what little life was still left ihim, the firm determination not to die until hhad justified himself. That determination muhave been very powerful; for while his temple

throbbed madly, hammered by the blood thaturned his face purple, while his ears were ringing and his glazed eyes seemed already tuned toward the terrible unknown, the unhappman muttered to himself in a thick voice, lik



the voice of a shipwrecked man speaking withis mouth full of water in a howling gale: must live! I must live!"

When he recovered consciousness, he was siting on the cushioned bench on which thworkmen sat huddled together on pay-day, hcloak on the floor, his cravat untied, his shi

open at the neck, cut by Sigismond's knifLuckily for him, he had cut his hands when htore the grating apart; the blood had flowefreely, and that accident was enough to avean attack of apoplexy. On opening his eyes, hsaw on either side old Sigismond and MadamGeorges, whom the cashier had summoned ihis distress. As soon as Risler could speak, hsaid to her in a choking voice:

"Is this true, Madame Chorche—is this true thhe just told me?"

She had not the courage to deceive him, so sh

turned her eyes away.



"So," continued the poor fellow, "so the house ruined, and I—"

"No, Risler, my friend. No, not you."

"My wife, was it not? Oh! it is horrible! This how I have paid my debt of gratitude to youBut you, Madame Chorche, you could not hav

believed that I was a party to this infamy?"

"No, my friend, no; be calm. I know that yoare the most honorable man on earth."

He looked at her a moment, with trembling lipand clasped hands, for there was somethinchild-like in all the manifestations of that atless nature.

"Oh! Madame Chorche, Madame Chorche," hmurmured. "When I think that I am the onwho has ruined you."

In the terrible blow which overwhelmed him

and by which his heart, overflowing with lov



for Sidonie, was most deeply wounded, he refused to see anything but the financial disasteto the house of Fromont, caused by his blin

devotion to his wife. Suddenly he stood erect.

"Come," he said, "let us not give way to emotion. We must see about settling our accounts.

Madame Fromont was frightened.

"Risler, Risler—where are you going?"

She thought that he was going up to George

room.Risler understood her and smiled in superdisdain.

"Never fear, Madame. Monsieur Georges casleep in peace. I have something more urgent tdo than avenge my honor as a husband. Wafor me here. I will come back."



He darted toward the narrow staircase; anClaire, relying upon his word, remained witPlanus during one of those supreme momen

of uncertainty which seem interminable because of all the conjectures with which they arthronged.

A few moments later the sound of hurrie

steps, the rustling of silk filled the dark annarrow staircase. Sidonie appeared first, in bacostume, gorgeously arrayed and so pale thathe jewels that glistened everywhere on hedead-white flesh seemed more alive than shas if they were scattered over the cold marble oa statue. The breathlessness due to dancing, thtrembling of intense excitement and her rapidescent, caused her to shake from head to foo

and her floating ribbons, her ruffles, her flowers, her rich and fashionable attire droopetragically about her. Risler followed her, ladewith jewel-cases, caskets, and papers. Uporeaching his apartments he had pounced upo



his wife's desk, seized everything valuable thait contained, jewels, certificates, title-deeds othe house at Asnieres; then, standing in th

doorway, he had shouted into the ballroom:

"Madame Risler!"

She had run quickly to him, and that brief scen

had in no wise disturbed the guests, then at thheight of the evening's enjoyment. When shsaw her husband standing in front of the deskthe drawers broken open and overturned othe carpet with the multitude of trifles the

contained, she realized that something terribwas taking place.

"Come at once," said Risler; "I know all."

She tried to assume an innocent, dignified atttude; but he seized her by the arm with sucforce that Frantz's words came to her mind: "will kill him perhaps, but he will kill you firstAs she was afraid of death, she allowed herse



to be led away without resistance, and had noeven the strength to lie.

"Where are we going?" she asked, in a low voce.

Risler did not answer. She had only time tthrow over her shoulders, with the care for he

self that never failed her, a light tulle veil, anhe dragged her, pushed her, rather, down thstairs leading to the counting-room, which hdescended at the same time, his steps closupon hers, fearing that his prey would escape.

"There!" he said, as he entered the room. "Whave stolen, we make restitution. Look, Planuyou can raise money with all this stuff." And hplaced on the cashier's desk all the fashionab

plunder with which his arms were filled—feminine trinkets, trivial aids to coquetry, stamped papers.

Then he turned to his wife:



"Take off your jewels! Come, be quick."

She complied slowly, opened reluctantly thclasps of bracelets and buckles, and above athe superb fastening of her diamond necklacon which the initial of her name-a gleaming Sresembled a sleeping serpent, imprisoned in circle of gold. Risler, thinking that she was to

slow, ruthlessly broke, the fragile fasteningLuxury shrieked beneath his fingers, as if were being whipped.

"Now it is my turn," he said; "I too must giv

up everything. Here is my portfolio. What elshave I? What else have I?"

He searched his pockets feverishly.

"Ah! my watch. With the chain it will brinfour-thousand francs. My rings, my weddingring. Everything goes into the cash-box, everyhing. We have a hundred thousand francs tpay this morning. As soon as it is daylight w



must go to work, sell out and pay our debts.know some one who wants the house at Asnieres. That can be settled at once."

He alone spoke and acted. Sigismond and Madame Georges watched him without speakinAs for Sidonie, she seemed unconscious, lifeless. The cold air blowing from the garde

through the little door, which was opened athe time of Risler's swoon, made her shiveand she mechanically drew the folds of hescarf around her shoulders, her eyes fixed ovacancy, her thoughts wandering. Did she nohear the violins of her ball, which reached theears in the intervals of silence, like bursts osavage irony, with the heavy thud of the dancers shaking the floors? An iron hand, fallin

upon her, aroused her abruptly from her topor. Risler had taken her by the arm, and, leading her before his partner's wife, he said:

"Down on your knees!"



Madame Fromont drew back, remonstrating:

"No, no, Risler, not that."

"It must be," said the implacable Risler. "Resttution, reparation! Down on your knees thenwretched woman!" And with irresistible forche threw Sidonie at Claire's feet; then, still ho

ding her arm;

"You will repeat after me, word for word, whaI say: Madame—"

Sidonie, half dead with fear, repeated faintly"Madame—"

"A whole lifetime of humility and submission—"

"A whole lifetime of humil—No, I can not!" shexclaimed, springing to her feet with the agilitof a deer; and, wresting herself from Rislergrasp, through that open door which had temp

ted her from the beginning of this horrible sce



ne, luring her out into the darkness of the nighto the liberty obtainable by flight, she rushefrom the house, braving the falling snow an

the wind that stung her bare shoulders.

"Stop her, stop her!—Risler, Planus, I imploryou! In pity's name do not let her go in thway," cried Claire.

Planus stepped toward the door.

Risler detained him.

"I forbid you to stir! I ask your pardon, Madme, but we have more important matters thathis to consider. Madame Risler concerns us nlonger. We have to save the honor of the housof Fromont, which alone is at stake, which alo

ne fills my thoughts at this moment."

Sigismond put out his hand.

"You are a noble man, Risler. Forgive me fo

having suspected you."



Risler pretended not to hear him.

"A hundred thousand francs to pay, you sayHow much is there left in the strong-box?"

He sat bravely down behind the gratin, lookinover the books of account, the certificates ostock in the funds, opening the jewel-case

estimating with Planus, whose father had beea jeweller, the value of all those diamondwhich he had once so admired on his wifhaving no suspicion of their real value.

Meanwhile Claire, trembling from head to foolooked out through the window at the littgarden, white with snow, where Sidoniefootsteps were already effaced by the fasfalling flakes, as if to bear witness that that pr

cipitate departure was without hope of return.

Up-stairs they were still dancing. The mistresof the house was supposed to be busy with thpreparations for supper, while she was flyin



bare-headed, forcing back sobs and shrieks orage.

Where was she going? She had started off like mad woman, running across the garden anthe courtyard of the factory, and under thdark arches, where the cruel, freezing winblew in eddying circles. Pere Achille did no

recognize her; he had seen so many shadowwrapped in white pass his lodge that night.

The young woman's first thought was to joithe tenor Cazaboni, whom at the last she ha

not dared to invite to her ball; but he lived aMontmartre, and that was very far away for heto go, in that garb; and then, would he be ahome? Her parents would take her in, doub

tless; but she could already hear Madame Chebe's lamentations and the little man's sermounder three heads. Thereupon she thought oDelobelle, her old Delobelle. In the downfall oall her splendors she remembered the man wh

had first initiated her into fashionable life, wh



had given her lessons in dancing and deporment when she was a little girl, laughed at hepretty ways, and taught her to look upon he

self as beautiful before any one had ever tolher that she was so. Something told her thathat fallen star would take her part against aothers. She entered one of the carriages standing at the gate and ordered the driver to tak

her to the actor's lodgings on the BoulevarBeaumarchais.

For some time past Mamma Delobelle had beemaking straw hats for export-a dismal trade ever there was one, which brought in bareltwo francs fifty for twelve hours' work.

And Delobelle continued to grow fat in the sa

me degree that his "sainted wife" grew thin. Athe very moment when some one knockehurriedly at his door he had just discovered fragrant soup 'au fromage', which had beekept hot in the ashes on the hearth. The acto

who had been witnessing at Beaumarchais so



me dark-browed melodrama drenched witgore even to the illustrated headlines of iposter, was startled by that knock at such a

advanced hour.

"Who is there?" he asked in some alarm.

"It is I, Sidonie. Open the door quickly."

She entered the room, shivering all over, andthrowing aside her wrap, went close to the stove where the fire was almost extinct. She begato talk at once, to pour out the wrath that ha

been stifling her for an hour, and while she wadescribing the scene in the factory, lowerinher voice because of Madame Delobelle, whwas asleep close by, the magnificence of hecostume in that poor, bare, fifth floor, the dazz

ling whiteness of her disordered finery amithe heaps of coarse hats and the wisps of strawstrewn about the room, all combined to produce the effect of a veritable drama, of one of tho



se terrible upheavals of life when rank, feelingfortunes are suddenly jumbled together.

"Oh! I never shall return home. It is all oveFree—I am free!"

"But who could have betrayed you to your huband?" asked the actor.

"It was Frantz! I am sure it was Frantz. Hwouldn't have believed it from anybody elsOnly last evening a letter came from Egypt. Ohhow he treated me before that woman! To forc

me to kneel! But I'll be revenged. Luckily I toosomething to revenge myself with before I came away."

And the smile of former days played about th

corners of her pale lips.

The old strolling player listened to it all witdeep interest. Notwithstanding his compassiofor that poor devil of a Risler, and for Sidoni



herself, for that matter, who seemed to him, itheatrical parlance, "a beautiful culprit," hcould not help viewing the affair from a purel

scenic standpoint, and finally cried out, carrieaway by his hobby:

"What a first-class situation for a fifth act!"

She did not bear him. Absorbed by some evthought, which made her smile in anticipationshe stretched out to the fire her dainty shoesaturated with snow, and her openwork stokings.

"Well, what do you propose to do now?" Delobelle asked after a pause.

"Stay here till daylight and get a little rest. The

I will see."

"I have no bed to offer you, my poor girMamma Delobelle has gone to bed."



"Don't you worry about me, my dear DelobellI'll sleep in that armchair. I won't be in youway, I tell you!"

The actor heaved a sigh.

"Ah! yes, that armchair. It was our poor Zizi'She sat up many a night in it, when work wa

pressing. Ah, me! those who leave this worlare much the happiest."

He had always at hand such selfish, comfortinmaxims. He had no sooner uttered that on

than he discovered with dismay that his souwould soon be stone-cold. Sidonie noticed hmovement.

"Why, you were just eating your supper, we

ren't you? Pray go on."

"'Dame'! yes, what would you have? It's part othe trade, of the hard existence we fellow



have. For you see, my girl, I stand firm. haven't given up. I never will give up."

What still remained of Desiree's soul in thawretched household in which she had livetwenty years must have shuddered at that trrible declaration. He never would give up!

"No matter what people may say," continueDelobelle, "it's the noblest profession in thworld. You are free; you depend upon nobodyDevoted to the service of glory and the publiAh! I know what I would do in your place. A

if you were born to live with all those bougeois—the devil! What you need is the artistlife, the fever of success, the unexpected, intense emotion."

As he spoke he took his seat, tucked his napkiin his neck, and helped himself to a great plateful of soup.



"To say nothing of the fact that your triumphas a pretty woman would in no wise interferwith your triumph as an actress. By the way, d

you know, you must take a few lessons in elocution. With your voice, your intelligence, youcharms, you would have a magnificent propect."

Then he added abruptly, as if to initiate her intthe joys of the dramatic art:

"But it occurs to me that perhaps you have nosupped! Excitement makes one hungry; sit the

re, and take this soup. I am sure that yohaven't eaten soup 'au fromage' for a long whle."

He turned the closet topsy-turvy to find her

spoon and a napkin; and she took her seat opposite him, assisting him and laughing a littlat the difficulties attending her entertainmenShe was less pale already, and there was a pre



ty sparkle in her eyes, composed of the tears oa moment before and the present gayety.

The strolling actress! All her happiness in lifwas lost forever: honor, family, wealth. She wadriven from her house, stripped, dishonoredShe had undergone all possible humiliationand disasters. That did not prevent her suppin

with a wonderful appetite and joyously hoding her own under Delobelle's jocose remarkconcerning her vocation and her futurtriumphs. She felt light-hearted and happyfairly embarked for the land of Bohemia, hetrue country. What more would happen to herOf how many ups and downs was her newunforeseen, and whimsical existence to consisShe thought about that as she fell asleep in De

siree's great easy-chair; but she thought of herevenge, too—her cherished revenge which shheld in her hand, all ready for use, and so unrring, so fierce!



CHAPTER XXII. THE NEW EMPLOYEOF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT

It was broad daylight when Fromont Jeunawoke. All night long, between the drama thawas being enacted below him and the festivitin joyous progress above, he slept with clen

ched fists, the deep sleep of complete prostration like that of a condemned man on the eve ohis execution or of a defeated General on thnight following his disaster; a sleep from whicone would wish never to awake, and in which

in the absence of all sensation, one has a foretaste of death.

The bright light streaming through his curtainmade more dazzling by the deep snow wit



which the garden and the surrounding roowere covered, recalled him to the consciousnesof things as they were. He felt a shock throug

hout his whole being, and, even before hmind began to work, that vague impression omelancholy which misfortunes, momentarilforgotten, leave in their place. All the familianoises of the factory, the dull throbbing of th

machinery, were in full activity. So the worlstill existed! and by slow degrees the idea of hown responsibility awoke in him.

"To-day is the day," he said to himself, with ainvoluntary movement toward the dark side othe room, as if he longed to bury himself anewin his long sleep.

The factory bell rang, then other bells in thneighborhood, then the Angelus.

"Noon! Already! How I have slept!"



He felt some little remorse and a great sense orelief at the thought that the drama of settlingday had passed off without him. What had the

done downstairs? Why did they not call him?

He rose, drew the curtains aside, and saw Riler and Sigismond talking together in the gaden. And it was so long since they had spoke

to each other! What in heaven's name had happened? When he was ready to go down hfound Claire at the door of his room.

"You must not go out," she said.

"Why not?"

"Stay here. I will explain it to you."

"But what's the matter? Did any one come fromthe Bank?"

"Yes, they came—the notes are paid."

"Paid?"



"Risler obtained the money. He has been ruhing about with Planus since early morning. seems that his wife had superb jewels. The dia

mond necklace alone brought twenty thousanfrancs. He has also sold their house at Asnierewith all it contained; but as time was requireto record the deed, Planus and his sister advanced the money."

She turned away from him as she spoke. He, ohis side, hung his head to avoid her glance.

"Risler is an honorable man," she continued

"and when he learned from whom his wife rceived all her magnificent things—"

"What!" exclaimed Georges in dismay. "Hknows?"

"All," Claire replied, lowering her voice.

The wretched man turned pale, stammerefeebly:



"Why, then—you?"

"Oh! I knew it all before Risler. Remember, thawhen I came home last night, I told you I haheard very cruel things down at Savigny, anthat I would have given ten years of my life noto have taken that journey."

"Claire!"

Moved by a mighty outburst of affection, hstepped toward his wife; but her face was scold, so sad, so resolute, her despair was s

plainly written in the stern indifference of hewhole bearing, that he dared not take her in harms as he longed to do, but simply murmureunder his breath:

"Forgive!—forgive!"

"You must think me strangely calm," said thbrave woman; "but I shed all my tears yesteday. You may have thought that I was weepin



over our ruin; you were mistaken. While one young and strong as we are, such cowardlconduct is not permissible. We are arme

against want and can fight it face to face. No,was weeping for our departed happiness, foyou, for the madness that led you to throwaway your only, your true friend."

She was lovely, lovelier than Sidonie had evebeen, as she spoke thus, enveloped by a purlight which seemed to fall upon her from great height, like the radiance of a fathomlescloudless sky; whereas the other's irregulafeatures had always seemed to owe their brlliancy, their saucy, insolent charm to the falsglamour of the footlights in some cheap theatrThe touch of statuesque immobility formerl

noticeable in Claire's face was vivified by anxiety, by doubt, by all the torture of passion; anlike those gold ingots which have their full value only when the Mint has placed its stamupon them, those beautiful features stampe



with the effigy of sorrow had acquired since thpreceding day an ineffaceable expression whicperfected their beauty.

Georges gazed at her in admiration. She seemed to him more alive, more womanly, anworthy of adoration because of their separatioand all the obstacles that he now knew to stan

between them. Remorse, despair, shame entred his heart simultaneously with this new love, and he would have fallen on his knees before her.

"No, no, do not kneel," said Claire; "if you knewof what you remind me, if you knew what lying face, distorted with hatred, I saw at mfeet last night!"

"Ah! but I am not lying," replied Georges withshudder. "Claire, I implore you, in the name oour child—"

At that moment some one knocked at the door



"Rise, I beg of you! You see that life has claimupon us," she said in a low voice and with bitter smile; then she asked what was wanted.

Monsieur Risler had sent for Monsieur to comdown to the office.

"Very well," she said; "say that he will come."

Georges approached the door, but she stoppehim.

"No, let me go. He must not see you yet."

"But—"

"I wish you to stay here. You have no idea othe indignation and wrath of that poor manwhom you have deceived. If you had seen himlast night, crushing his wife's wrists!"

As she said it she looked him in the face with curiosity most cruel to herself; but Georges di

not wince, and replied simply:



"My life belongs to him."

"It belongs to me, too; and I do not wish you tgo down. There has been scandal enough in mfather's house. Remember that the whole factory is aware of what is going on. Every one watching us, spying upon us. It required all thauthority of the foremen to keep the men bus

to-day, to compel them to keep their inquisitivlooks on their work."

"But I shall seem to be hiding."

"And suppose it were so! That is just like man. They do not recoil from the worst crimebetraying a wife, betraying a friend; but ththought that they may be accused of beinafraid touches them more keenly than any

hing. Moreover, listen to what I say. Sidonhas gone; she has gone forever; and if you leavthis house I shall think that you have gone tjoin her."



"Very well, I will stay," said Georges. "I will dwhatever you wish."

Claire descended into Planus' office.

To see Risler striding to and fro, with his handbehind his back, as calm as usual, no onwould ever have suspected all that had take

place in his life since the night before. As foSigismond, he was fairly beaming, for he sawnothing in it all beyond the fact that the notehad been paid at maturity and that the honor othe firm was safe.

When Madame Fromont appeared, Risler smled sadly and shook his head.

"I thought that you would prefer to come dow

in his place; but you are not the one with whomI have to deal. It is absolutely necessary thatshould see Georges and talk with him. We havpaid the notes that fell due this morning; th



crisis has passed; but we must come to an understanding about many matters."

"Risler, my friend, I beg you to wait a little longer."

"Why, Madame Chorche, there's not a minutto lose. Oh! I suspect that you fear I may giv

way to an outbreak of anger. Have no fear—lhim have no fear. You know what I told youthat the honor of the house of Fromont is to bassured before my own. I have endangered by my fault. First of all, I must repair the evil

have done or allowed to be done."

"Your conduct toward us is worthy of all admration, my good Risler; I know it well."

"Oh! Madame, if you could see him! he's saint," said poor Sigismond, who, not daring tspeak to his friend, was determined at aevents to express his remorse.



"But aren't you afraid?" continued Clair"Human endurance has its limits. It may be thin presence of the man who has injured yo

so—"

Risler took her hands, gazed into her eyes witgrave admiration, and said:

"You dear creature, who speak of nothing buthe injury done to me! Do you not know thathate him as bitterly for his falseness to you? Bunothing of that sort has any existence for me athis moment. You see in me simply a busines

man who wishes to have an understandinwith his partner for the good of the firm. So lhim come down without the slightest fear, anif you dread any outbreak on my part, stay her

with us. I shall need only to look at my olmaster's daughter to be reminded of my promse and my duty."

"I trust you, my friend," said Claire; and sh

went up to bring her husband.



The first minute of the interview was terriblGeorges was deeply moved, humiliated, pale adeath. He would have preferred a hundre

times over to be looking into the barrel of thaman's pistol at twenty paces, awaiting his firinstead of appearing before him as an unpunihed culprit and being compelled to confine hfeelings within the commonplace limits of

business conversation.

Risler pretended not to look at him, and contnued to pace the floor as he talked:

"Our house is passing through a terrible crisiWe have averted the disaster for to-day; buthis is not the last of our obligations. That cused invention has kept my mind away from th

business for a long while. Luckily, I am frenow, and able to attend to it. But you must givyour attention to it as well. The workmen anclerks have followed the example of their employers to some extent. Indeed, they have be

come extremely negligent and indifferent. Th



morning, for the first time in a year, they begawork at the proper time. I expect that you wimake it your business to change all that. As fo

me, I shall work at my drawings again. Oupatterns are old-fashioned. We must have newones for the new machines. I have great confdence in our presses. The experiments havsucceeded beyond my hopes. We unquestiona

bly have in them a means of building up oubusiness. I didn't tell you sooner because I wihed to surprise you; but we have no more suprises for each other, have we, Georges?"

There was such a stinging note of irony in hvoice that Claire shuddered, fearing an oubreak; but he continued, in his natural tone.

"Yes, I think I can promise that in six monththe Risler Press will begin to show magnificenresults. But those six months will be very harto live through. We must limit ourselves, cudown our expenses, save in every way that w

can. We have five draughtsmen now; hereafte



we will have but two. I will undertake to makthe absence of the others of no consequence bworking at night myself. Furthermore, begin

ning with this month, I abandon my interest ithe firm. I will take my salary as foreman astook it before, and nothing more."

Fromont attempted to speak, but a gestur

from his wife restrained him, and Risler contnued:

"I am no longer your partner, Georges. I amonce more the clerk that I never should hav

ceased to be. From this day our partnershiarticles are cancelled. I insist upon it, you understand; I insist upon it. We will remain ithat relation to each other until the house is ou

of difficulty and I can—But what I shall do theconcerns me alone. This is what I wanted to sato you, Georges. You must give your attentioto the factory diligently; you must show youself, make it felt that you are master now, and



believe there will turn out to be, among all oumisfortunes, some that can be retrieved."

During the silence that followed, they heard thsound of wheels in the garden, and two greafurniture vans stopped at the door.

"I beg your pardon," said Risler, "but I mu

leave you a moment. Those are the vans fromthe public auction rooms; they have come ttake away my furniture from upstairs."

"What! you are going to sell your furnitur

too?" asked Madame Fromont.

"Certainly—to the last piece. I am simply gving it back to the firm. It belongs to it."

"But that is impossible," said Georges. "I can noallow that."

Risler turned upon him indignantly.

"What's that? What is it that you can't allow?"



Claire checked him with an imploring gesture.

"True—true!" he muttered; and he hurried fromthe room to escape the sudden temptation tgive vent to all that was in his heart.

The second floor was deserted. The servantwho had been paid and dismissed in the mo

ning, had abandoned the apartments to thdisorder of the day following a ball; and thewore the aspect peculiar to places where drama has been enacted, and which are left isuspense, as it were, between the events tha

have happened and those that are still to happen. The open doors, the rugs lying in heaps ithe corners, the salvers laden with glasses, thpreparations for the supper, the table still se

and untouched, the dust from the dancing oall the furniture, its odor mingled with the fumes of punch, of withered flowers, of ricepowder—all these details attracted Risler's notice as he entered.



In the disordered salon the piano was open, thbacchanal from 'Orphee aux Enfers' on the music-shelf, and the gaudy hangings surroundin

that scene of desolation, the chairs overturnedas if in fear, reminded one of the saloon of wrecked packet-boat, of one of those ghostlnights of watching when one is suddenly informed, in the midst of a fete at sea, that th

ship has sprung a leak, that she is taking iwater in every part.

The men began to remove the furniture. Rislewatched them at work with an indifferent aias if he were in a stranger's house. That magnficence which had once made him so happand proud inspired in him now an insurmountable disgust. But, when he entered his wife

bedroom, he was conscious of a vague emotion

It was a large room, hung with blue satin undewhite lace. A veritable cocotte's nest. There were torn and rumpled tulle ruffles lying abou

bows, and artificial flowers. The wax candle



around the mirror had burned down to the enand cracked the candlesticks; and the bed, witits lace flounces and valances, its great curtain

raised and drawn back, untouched in the genral confusion, seemed like the bed of a corpse,state bed on which no one would ever sleeagain.

Risler's first feeling upon entering the roomwas one of mad indignation, a longing to faupon the things before him, to tear and renand shatter everything. Nothing, you see, resembles a woman so much as her bedroomEven when she is absent, her image still smilein the mirrors that have reflected it. A little something of her, of her favorite perfume, rmains in everything she has touched. Her att

tudes are reproduced in the cushions of hecouch, and one can follow her goings and comings between the mirror and the toilette tabin the pattern of the carpet. The one thing above all others in that room that recalled Sidon



was an 'etagere' covered with childish toypetty, trivial knickknacks, microscopic fandolls' tea-sets, gilded shoes, little shepherd

and shepherdesses facing one another, exchanging cold, gleaming, porcelain glances. Tha'etagere' was Sidonie's very soul, and hethoughts, always commonplace, petty, vainand empty, resembled those gewgaws. Yes, i

very truth, if Risler, while he held her in hgrasp last night, had in his frenzy broken thafragile little head, a whole world of 'etagerornaments would have come from it in place o

a brain.

The poor man was thinking sadly of all thesthings amid the ringing of hammers and thheavy footsteps of the furniture-movers, whe

he heard an interloping, authoritative stebehind him, and Monsieur Chebe appearedlittle Monsieur Chebe, flushed and breathleswith flames darting from his eyes. He assumedas always, a very high tone with his son-in-law



"What does this mean? What is this I hear? Ahso you're moving, are you?"

"I am not moving, Monsieur Chebe—I am slling out."

The little man gave a leap like a scalded fish.

"You are selling out? What are you sellingpray?"

"I am selling everything," said Risler in hollow voice, without even looking at him.

"Come, come, son-in-law, be reasonable. Goknows I don't say that Sidonie's conduct—Bufor my part, I know nothing about it. I nevewanted to know anything. Only I must remin

you of your dignity. People wash their dirtlinen in private, deuce take it! They don't makspectacles of themselves as you've been doinever since morning. Just see everybody at thworkshop windows; and on the porch, too



Why, you're the talk of the quarter, my deafellow."

"So much the better. The dishonor was publithe reparation must be public, too."

This apparent coolness, this indifference to ahis observations, exasperated Monsieur Cheb

He suddenly changed his tactics, and adoptedin addressing his son-in-law, the serious, premptory tone which one uses with children olunatics.

"Well, I say that you haven't any right to takanything away from here. I remonstrate formally, with all my strength as a man, with all mauthority as a father. Do you suppose I amgoing to let you drive my child into the stree

No, indeed! Oh! no, indeed! Enough of sucnonsense as that! Nothing more shall go out othese rooms."



And Monsieur Chebe, having closed the dooplanted himself in front of it with a heroic geture. Deuce take it! his own interest was at sta

ke in the matter. The fact was that when hchild was once in the gutter he ran great risk onot having a feather bed to sleep on himself. Hwas superb in that attitude of an indignant faher, but he did not keep it long. Two hand

two vises, seized his wrists, and he found himself in the middle of the room, leaving thdoorway clear for the workmen.

"Chebe, my boy, just listen," said Risler, leaninover him. "I am at the end of my forbearancSince this morning I have been making supehuman efforts to restrain myself, but it woultake very little now to make my anger burst a

bonds, and woe to the man on whom it falls!am quite capable of killing some one. Come! Boff at once!—"

There was such an intonation in his son-in

law's voice, and the way that son-in-law shoo



him as he spoke was so eloquent, that Monsieur Chebe was fully convinced. He evestammered an apology. Certainly Risler ha

good reason for acting as he had. All honorabpeople would be on his side. And he backetoward the door as he spoke. When he reacheit, he inquired timidly if Madame Chebe's littlallowance would be continued.

"Yes," was Risler's reply, "but never go beyonit, for my position here is not what it was. I amno longer a partner in the house."

Monsieur Chebe stared at him in amazemenand assumed the idiotic expression which lemany people to believe that the accident thahad happened to him—exactly like that of th

Duc d'Orleans, you know—was not a fable ohis own invention; but he dared not make thslightest observation. Surely some one hachanged his son-in-law. Was this really Rislethis tiger-cat, who bristled up at the slighte



word and talked of nothing less than killinpeople?

He took to his heels, recovered his selpossession at the foot of the stairs, and walkeacross the courtyard with the air of a conqueror.

When all the rooms were cleared and emptyRisler walked through them for the last timthen took the key and went down to Planusoffice to hand it to Madame Georges.

"You can let the apartment," he said, "it will bso much added to the income of the factory."

"But you, my friend?"

"Oh! I don't need much. An iron bed up undethe eaves. That's all a clerk needs. For, I repeaI am nothing but a clerk from this time on. useful clerk, by the way, faithful and coura



geous, of whom you will have no occasion tcomplain, I promise you."

Georges, who was going over the books witPlanus, was so affected at hearing the poor fellow talk in that strain that he left his seat precipitately. He was suffocated by his sobs. Clare, too, was deeply moved; she went to the new

clerk of the house of Fromont and said to him:

"Risler, I thank you in my father's name."

At that moment Pere Achille appeared with th

mail.

Risler took the pile of letters, opened them tranquilly one by one, and passed them over tSigismond.

"Here's an order for Lyon. Why wasn't it anwered at Saint-Etienne?"

He plunged with all his energy into these de

tails, and he brought to them a keen intelligen



ce, due to the constant straining of the mintoward peace and forgetfulness.

Suddenly, among those huge envelopes, stamped with the names of business houses, thpaper of which and the manner of folding suggested the office and hasty despatch, he discovered one smaller one, carefully sealed, an

hidden so cunningly between the others that afirst he did not notice it. He recognized instantly that long, fine, firm writing,—To MonsieuRisler—Personal. It was Sidonie's writingWhen he saw it he felt the same sensation hhad felt in the bedroom upstairs.

All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayehusband poured back into his heart with th

frantic force that makes assassins. What washe writing to him? What lie had she inventenow? He was about to open the letter; then hpaused. He realized that, if he should read thait would be all over with his courage; so he lea



ned over to the old cashier, and said in an undertone:

"Sigismond, old friend, will you do me a favor?"

"I should think so!" said the worthy man enhusiastically. He was so delighted to hear h

friend speak to him in the kindly voice of thold days.

"Here's a letter someone has written me whichdon't wish to read now. I am sure it would in

terfere with my thinking and living. You mukeep it for me, and this with it."

He took from his pocket a little package carefully tied, and handed it to him through the gra

ting.

"That is all I have left of the past, all I have leof that woman. I have determined not to seher, nor anything that reminds me of her, unt



my task here is concluded, and concluded satifactorily,—I need all my intelligence, you understand. You will pay the Chebes' allowanc

If she herself should ask for anything, you wigive her what she needs. But you will nevemention my name. And you will keep this pakage safe for me until I ask you for it."

Sigismond locked the letter and the package ia secret drawer of his desk with other valuabpapers. Risler returned at once to his correpondence; but all the time he had before heyes the slender English letters traced by a litthand which he had so often and so ardentlpressed to his heart.



CHAPTER XXIII. CAFE CHANTANT

What a rare, what a conscientious clerk did thanew employe of the house of Fromont provhimself!

Every day his lamp was the first to appear a

and the last to disappear from, the windows othe factory. A little room had been arranged fohim under the eaves, exactly like the one hhad formerly occupied with Frantz, a veritabTrappist's cell, furnished with an iron cot and white wooden table, that stood under his broher's portrait. He led the same busy, regulaquiet life as in those old days.

He worked constantly, and had his meabrought from the same little creamery. Bualas! the disappearance forever of youth anhope deprived those memories of all thecharm. Luckily he still had Frantz and Madam

"Chorche," the only two human beings o



whom he could think without a feeling of sadness. Madame "Chorche" was always at handalways trying to minister to his comfort, to con

sole him; and Frantz wrote to him often, wihout mentioning Sidonie, by the way. Rislesupposed that some one had told Frantz of thdisaster that had befallen him, and he too avoded all allusion to the subject in his letters. "Oh

when I can send for him to come home!" Thawas his dream, his sole ambition: to restore thfactory and recall his brother.

Meanwhile the days succeeded one anothealways the same to him in the restless activitof business and the heartrending loneliness ohis grief. Every morning he walked through thworkshops, where the profound respect he in

pired and his stern, silent countenance hareestablished the orderly conditions that habeen temporarily disturbed. In the beginninthere had been much gossip, and various explanations of Sidonie's departure had been ma



de. Some said that she had eloped with a loveothers that Risler had turned her out. The onfact that upset all conjectures was the attitud

of the two partners toward each other, apparently as unconstrained as before. Sometimehowever, when they were talking together ithe office, with no one by, Risler would suddenly start convulsively, as a vision of the cr

me passed before his eyes.

Then he would feel a mad longing to sprinupon the villain, seize him by the throat, strangle him without mercy; but the thought of Madame "Chorche" was always there to restraihim. Should he be less courageous, less masteof himself than that young wife? Neither Clairnor Fromont, nor anybody else suspected wha

was in his mind. They could barely detect severity, an inflexibility in his conduct, whicwere not habitual with him. Risler awed thworkmen now; and those of them upon whomhis white hair, blanched in one night, h



drawn, prematurely old features did not impose respect, quailed before his strange glance-glance from eyes of a bluish-black like the colo

of a gun-barrel. Whereas he had always beevery kind and affable with the workmen, hhad become pitilessly severe in regard to thslightest infraction of the rules. It seemed as he were taking vengeance upon himself fo

some indulgence in the past, blind, culpabindulgence, for which he blamed himself.

Surely he was a marvellous employe, was thnew officer in the house of Fromont.

Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstanding the quavering of its old, cracked voichad very soon resumed its authority; and th

man who guided the whole establishment dnied himself the slightest recreation. Sober aan apprentice, he left three-fourths of his salarwith Planus for the Chebes' allowance, but hnever asked any questions about them. Pun

tually on the last day of the month the littl



man appeared to collect his little income, stiand formal in his dealings with Sigismond, abecame an annuitant on duty. Madame Cheb

had tried to obtain an interview with her sonin-law, whom she pitied and loved; but thmere appearance of her palm-leaf shawl on thsteps put Sidonie's husband to flight.

In truth, the courage with which he armed himself was more apparent than real. The memorof his wife never left him. What had become oher? What was she doing? He was almost angry with Planus for never mentioning her. Thaletter, above all things, that letter which he hahad the courage not to open, disturbed him. Hthought of it continually. Ah! had he daredhow he would have liked to ask Sigismond fo

it!

One day the temptation was too strong. He waalone in the office. The old cashier had gone outo luncheon, leaving the key in his drawer,

most extraordinary thing. Risler could not re



sist. He opened the drawer, moved the paperand searched for his letter. It was not therSigismond must have put it away even mor

carefully, perhaps with a foreboding of whaactually happened. In his heart Risler was nosorry for his disappointment; for he well knewthat, had he found the letter, it would havbeen the end of the resigned and busy lif

which he imposed upon himself with so mucdifficulty.

Through the week it was all very well. Life waendurable, absorbed by the innumerable dutieof the factory, and so fatiguing that, when nighcame, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless masBut Sunday was long and sad. The silence othe deserted yards and workshops opened a fa

wider field to his thoughts. He tried to bushimself, but he missed the encouragement othe others' work. He alone was busy in thagreat, empty factory whose very breath waarrested. The locked doors, the closed blind



the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing withis dog in the deserted courtyard, all spoke osolitude. And the whole neighborhood als

produced the same effect. In the streets, whicseemed wider because of their emptiness, anwhere the passers-by were few and silent, thbells ringing for vespers had a melancholsound, and sometimes an echo of the din o

Paris, rumbling wheels, a belated hand-organthe click of a toy-peddler's clappers, broke thsilence, as if to make it even more noticeable.

Risler would try to invent new combinations oflowers and leaves, and, while he handled hpencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient foothere, would escape him, would fly back to hpast happiness, to his hopeless misfortune

would suffer martyrdom, and then, on retuning, would ask the poor somnambulist, stiseated at his table: "What have you done in mabsence?" Alas! he had done nothing.



Oh! the long, heartbreaking, cruel SundayConsider that, mingled with all these perplexties in his mind, was the superstitious reveren

ce of the common people for holy days, for thtwenty-four hours of rest, wherein one recoverstrength and courage. If he had gone out, thsight of a workingman with his wife and chilwould have made him weep, but his monast

seclusion gave him other forms of suffering, thdespair of recluses, their terrible outbreaks orebellion when the god to whom they havconsecrated themselves does not respond t

their sacrifices. Now, Risler's god was worand as he no longer found comfort or serenittherein, he no longer believed in it, but curseit.

Often in those hours of mental struggle thdoor of the draughting-room would open gently and Claire Fromont would appear. The pooman's loneliness throughout those long Sundaafternoons filled her with compassion, and sh



would come with her little girl to keep himcompany, knowing by experience how contagious is the sweet joyousness of children. Th

little one, who could now walk alone, woulslip from her mother's arms to run to hefriend. Risler would hear the little, hurryinsteps. He would feel the light breath behinhim, and instantly he would be conscious of

soothing, rejuvenating influence. She woulthrow her plump little arms around his necwith affectionate warmth, with her artless, causeless laugh, and a kiss from that little mout

which never had lied. Claire Fromont, standinin the doorway, would smile as she looked athem.

"Risler, my friend," she would say, "you mu

come down into the garden a while,—yowork too hard. You will be ill."

"No, no, Madame,—on the contrary, work what saves me. It keeps me from thinking."



Then, after a long pause, she would continue:

"Come, my dear Risler, you must try to forget.

Risler would shake his head.

"Forget? Is that possible? There are some thingbeyond one's strength. A man may forgive, buhe never forgets."

The child almost always succeeded in dragginhim down to the garden. He must play ball, oin the sand, with her; but her playfellow's awk

wardness and lack of enthusiasm soon impresed the little girl. Then she would become versedate, contenting herself with walking gravelbetween the hedges of box, with her hand iher friend's. After a moment Risler would ent

rely forget that she was there; but, although hdid not realize it, the warmth of that little hanin his had a magnetic, softening effect upon hdiseased mind.



A man may forgive, but he never forgets!

Poor Claire herself knew something about ifor she had never forgotten, notwithstandinher great courage and the conception she haformed of her duty. To her, as to Risler; hesurroundings were a constant reminder of hesufferings. The objects amid which she live

pitilessly reopened the wound that was readto close. The staircase, the garden, the couryard, all those dumb witnesses of her huband's sin, assumed on certain days an implacable expression. Even the careful precautioher husband took to spare her painful reminders, the way in which he called attention tthe fact that he no longer went out in the evning, and took pains to tell her where he ha

been during the day, served only to remind hethe more forcibly of his wrong-doing. Sometmes she longed to ask him to forbear,—to sato him: "Do not protest too much." Faith washattered within her, and the horrible agony o



the priest who doubts, and seeks at the samtime to remain faithful to his vows, betrayeitself in her bitter smile, her cold, uncompla

ning gentleness.

Georges was wofully unhappy. He loved hwife now. The nobility of her character haconquered him. There was admiration in h

love, and—why not say it?—Claire's sorrowfilled the place of the coquetry which was contrary to her nature, the lack of which had aways been a defect in her husband's eyes. Hwas one of that strange type of men who lovto make conquests. Sidonie, capricious and colas she was, responded to that whim of hheart. After parting from her with a tender farewell, he found her indifferent and forgetfu

the next day, and that continual need of wooinher back to him took the place of genuine pasion. Serenity in love bored him as a voyagwithout storms wearies a sailor. On this occasion he had been very near shipwreck with h



wife, and the danger had not passed even yeHe knew that Claire was alienated from himand devoted entirely to the child, the only lin

between them thenceforth. Their separatiomade her seem lovelier, more desirable, and hexercised all his powers of fascination to recapture her. He knew how hard a task it would band that he had no ordinary, frivolous nature t

deal with. But he did not despair. Sometimes vague gleam in the depths of the mild and apparently impassive glance with which she wached his efforts, bade him hope.

As for Sidonie, he no longer thought of her. Lno one be astonished at that abrupt mental rupture. Those two superficial beings had nothinto attach them securely to each other. George

was incapable of receiving lasting impressionunless they were continually renewed; Sidonifor her part, had no power to inspire any nobor durable sentiment. It was one of those intrgues between a cocotte and a coxcomb, com



pounded of vanity and of wounded self-lovwhich inspire neither devotion nor constancybut tragic adventures, duels, suicides which ar

rarely fatal, and which end in a radical curPerhaps, had he seen her again, he might havhad a relapse of his disease; but the impetus oflight had carried Sidonie away so swiftly anso far that her return was impossible. At a

events, it was a relief for him to be able to livwithout lying; and the new life he was leadina life of hard work and self-denial, with thgoal of success in the distance, was not distast

ful to him. Luckily; for the courage and detemination of both partners were none too mucto put the house on its feet once more.

The poor house of Fromont had sprung leak

on all sides. So Pere Planus still had wretchenights, haunted by the nightmare of notes maturing and the ominous vision of the little bluman. But, by strict economy, they always succeeded in paying.



Soon four Risler Presses were definitively sup and used in the work of the factory. Peopbegan to take a deep interest in them and in th

wall-paper trade. Lyons, Caen, Rixbeim, thgreat centres of the industry, were much diturbed concerning that marvellous "rotary andodecagonal" machine. One fine day the Prochassons appeared, and offered three hundre

thousand francs simply for an interest in thpatent rights.

"What shall we do?" Fromont Jeune asked Riler Aine.

The latter shrugged his shoulders indifferently

"Decide for yourself. It doesn't concern me. am only an employe."

The words, spoken coldly, without anger, feheavily upon Fromont's bewildered joy, anreminded him of the gravity of a situatiowhich he was always on the point of forgetting



But when he was alone with his dear Madam"Chorche," Risler advised her not to accept thProchassons' offer.

"Wait,—don't be in a hurry. Later you will hava better offer."

He spoke only of them in that affair in whic

his own share was so glorious. She felt that hwas preparing to cut himself adrift from thefuture.

Meanwhile orders came pouring in and accu

mulated on their hands. The quality of the paper, the reduced price because of the improvemethods of manufacture, made competitioimpossible. There was no doubt that a colossfortune was in store for the house of Fromon

The factory had resumed its former flourishinaspect and its loud, business-like hum. Intensly alive were all the great buildings and thhundreds of workmen who filled them. Per

Planus never raised his nose from his desk; on



could see him from the little garden, leaninover his great ledgers, jotting down in magnifcently molded figures the profits of the Risle

press.

Risler still worked as before, without change orest. The return of prosperity brought no alteration in his secluded habits, and from the hig

hest window on the topmost floor of the houshe listened to the ceaseless roar of his machnes. He was no less gloomy, no less silent. Onday, however, it became known at the factorthat the press, a specimen of which had beesent to the great Exposition at Manchester, hareceived the gold medal, whereby its succeswas definitely established. Madame Georgecalled Risler into the garden at the luncheo

hour, wishing to be the first to tell him the goonews.

For the moment a proud smile relaxed his prmaturely old, gloomy features. His inventor

vanity, his pride in his renown, above all, th



idea of repairing thus magnificently the wrondone to the family by his wife, gave him a moment of true happiness. He pressed Claire

hands and murmured, as in the old days:

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

But what a difference in tone! He said it wi

hout enthusiasm, hopelessly, with the satisfation of a task accomplished, and nothing more

The bell rang for the workmen to return, anRisler went calmly upstairs to resume his wor

as on other days.

In a moment he came down again. In spite oall, that news had excited him more than hcared to show. He wandered about the garden

prowled around the counting-room, smilinsadly at Pere Planus through the window.

"What ails him?" the old cashier wondered"What does he want of me?"



At last, when night came and it was time tclose the office, Risler summoned courage to gand speak to him.

"Planus, my old friend, I should like—"

He hesitated a moment.

"I should like you to give me the—letter, yoknow, the little letter and the package."

Sigismond stared at him in amazement. In hinnocence, he had imagined that Risler neve

thought of Sidonie, that he had entirely forgoten her.

"What—you want—?"

"Ah! I have well earned it; I can think of mysea little now. I have thought enough of others."

"You are right," said Planus. "Well, this is whawe'll do. The letter and package are at my hou

se at Montrouge. If you choose, we will go an



dine together at the Palais-Royal, as in the gooold times. I will stand treat. We'll water youmedal with a bottle of wine; something choic

Then we'll go to the house together. You caget your trinkets, and if it's too late for you tgo home, Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, shamake up a bed for you, and you shall pass thnight with us. We are very comfortable there—

it's in the country. To-morrow morning at sven o'clock we'll come back to the factory bthe first omnibus. Come, old fellow, give mthis pleasure. If you don't, I shall think you sti

bear your old Sigismond a grudge."

Risler accepted. He cared little about celebrating the award of his medal, but he desired tgain a few hours before opening the little lette

he had at last earned the right to read.

He must dress. That was quite a serious mattefor he had lived in a workman's jacket durinthe past six months. And what an event in th



factory! Madame Fromont was informed aonce.

"Madame, Madame! Monsieur Risler is goinout!"

Claire looked at him from her window, anthat tall form, bowed by sorrow, leaning o

Sigismond's arm, aroused in her a profoundunusual emotion which she remembered eveafter.

In the street people bowed to Risler with grea

interest. Even their greetings warmed his hearHe was so much in need of kindness! But thnoise of vehicles made him a little dizzy.

"My head is spinning," he said to Planus:

"Lean hard on me, old fellow-don't be afraid."

And honest Planus drew himself up, escortinhis friend with the artless, unconventional pr



de of a peasant of the South bearing aloft hvillage saint.

At last they arrived at the Palais-Royal.

The garden was full of people. They had comto hear the music, and were trying to find seaamid clouds of dust and the scraping of chair

The two friends hurried into the restaurant tavoid all that turmoil. They established themselves in one of the large salons on the firfloor, whence they could see the green treethe promenaders, and the water spurting from

the fountain between the two melancholy flower-gardens. To Sigismond it was the ideal oluxury, that restaurant, with gilding everywhere, around the mirrors, in the chandelier an

even on the figured wallpaper. The white napkin, the roll, the menu of a table d'hote dinnefilled his soul with joy. "We are comfortabhere, aren't we?" he said to Risler.



And he exclaimed at each of the courses of thabanquet at two francs fifty, and insisted on flling his friend's plate.

"Eat that—it's good."

The other, notwithstanding his desire to dhonor to the fete, seemed preoccupied and ga

zed out-of-doors.

"Do you remember, Sigismond?" he said, afterpause.

The old cashier, engrossed in his memories olong ago, of Risler's first employment at thfactory, replied:

"I should think I do remember—listen! The fir

time we dined together at the Palais-Royal wain February, 'forty-six, the year we put in thplanches-plates at the factory."

Risler shook his head.



"Oh! no—I mean three years ago. It was in tharoom just opposite that we dined on that mmorable evening."

And he pointed to the great windows of thsalon of Cafe Vefour, gleaming in the rays othe setting sun like the chandeliers at a wedding feast.

"Ah! yes, true," murmured Sigismond, abashedWhat an unlucky idea of his to bring his friento a place that recalled such painful things!

Risler, not wishing to cast a gloom upon thebanquet, abruptly raised his glass.

"Come! here's your health, my old comrade."

He tried to change the subject. But a momenlater he himself led the conversation back to again, and asked Sigismond, in an undertonas if he were ashamed:

"Have you seen her?"



"Your wife? No, never."

"She hasn't written again?"

"No—never again."

"But you must have heard of her. What has shbeen doing these six months? Does she livwith her parents?"

"No."

Risler turned pale.

He hoped that Sidonie would have returned ther mother, that she would have worked, as hhad worked, to forget and atone. He had oftethought that he would arrange his life accoding to what he should learn of her when hshould have the right to speak of her; and ione of those far-off visions of the future, whichave the vagueness of a dream, he sometimefancied himself living in exile with the Chebe

in an unknown land, where nothing woul



remind him of his past shame. It was not a dfinite plan, to be sure; but the thought lived ithe depths of his mind like a hope, caused b

the need that all human creatures feel of finding their lost happiness.

"Is she in Paris?" he asked, after a few momentreflection.

"No. She went away three months ago. No onknows where she has gone."

Sigismond did not add that she had gone wit

her Cazaboni, whose name she now bore, thathey were making the circuit of the provincicities together, that her mother was in despainever saw her, and heard of her only througDelobelle. Sigismond did not deem it his dut

to mention all that, and after his last words hheld his peace.

Risler, for his part, dared ask no further quetions.



While they sat there, facing each other, botembarrassed by the long silence, the militarband began to play under the trees in the ga

den. They played one of those Italian operatovertures which seem to have been writteexpressly for public open-air resorts; the switly-flowing notes, as they rise into the air, blenwith the call of the swallows and the silver

plash of the fountain. The blaring brass bringout in bold relief the mild warmth of the closing hours of those summer days, so long anenervating in Paris; it seems as if one coul

hear nothing else. The distant rumbling owheels, the cries of children playing, the footteps of the promenaders are wafted away ithose resonant, gushing, refreshing waves omelody, as useful to the people of Paris as th

daily watering of their streets. On all sides thfaded flowers, the trees white with dust, thfaces made pale and wan by the heat, all thsorrows, all the miseries of a great city, sittindreamily, with bowed head, on the benches i



the garden, feel its comforting, refreshing influence. The air is stirred, renewed by thosstrains that traverse it, filling it with harmony.

Poor Risler felt as if the tension upon all hnerves were relaxed.

"A little music does one good," he said, wit

glistening eyes. "My heart is heavy, old fellowhe added, in a lower tone; "if you knew—"

They sat without speaking, their elbows restinon the window-sill, while their coffee was se

ved.

Then the music ceased, the garden became deserted. The light that had loitered in the cornercrept upward to the roofs, cast its last ray

upon the highest windowpanes, followed bthe birds, the swallows, which saluted the closof day with a farewell chirp from the guttewhere they were huddled together.



"Now, where shall we go?" said Planus, as theleft the restaurant.

"Wherever you wish."

On the first floor of a building on the RuMontpensier, close at hand, was a cafe chantant, where many people entered.

"Suppose we go in," said Planus, desirous obanishing his friend's melancholy at any cos"the beer is excellent."

Risler assented to the suggestion; he had notasted beer for six months.

It was a former restaurant transformed into concert-hall. There were three large rooms, se

parated by gilded pillars, the partitions havinbeen removed; the decoration was in the Moorish style, bright red, pale blue, with little crecents and turbans for ornament.



Although it was still early, the place was fuland even before entering one had a feeling osuffocation, simply from seeing the crowds o

people sitting around the tables, and at the farher end, half-hidden by the rows of pillars, group of white-robed women on a raised plaform, in the heat and glare of the gas.

Our two friends had much difficulty in findinseats, and had to be content with a place behina pillar whence they could see only half of thplatform, then occupied by a superb person iblack coat and yellow gloves, curled and waxeand oiled, who was singing in a vibrating voce—

Mes beaux lions aux crins dores,Du sang des troupeaux alteres,

Halte la!—Je fais sentinello!

[My proud lions with golden manesWho thirst for the blood of my flocks,

Stand back!—I am on guard!]



The audience—small tradesmen of the quartewith their wives and daughters-seemed highlenthusiastic: especially the women. He repr

sented so perfectly the ideal of the shopkeepeimagination, that magnificent shepherd of thdesert, who addressed lions with such an air oauthority and tended his flocks in full evenindress. And so, despite their bourgeois bearing

their modest costumes and their expressionlesshop-girl smiles, all those women, made utheir little mouths to be caught by the hook osentiment, and cast languishing glances upo

the singer. It was truly comical to see that glance at the platform suddenly change and becomcontemptuous and fierce as it fell upon the huband, the poor husband tranquilly drinking glass of beer opposite his wife: "You woul

never be capable of doing sentry duty in thvery teeth of lions, and in a black coat too, anwith yellow gloves!"

And the husband's eye seemed to reply:



"Ah! 'dame', yes, he's quite a dashing buck, thafellow."

Being decidedly indifferent to heroism of thastamp, Risler and Sigismond were drinkintheir beer without paying much attention to thmusic, when, at the end of the song, amid thapplause and cries and uproar that followed i

Pere Planus uttered an exclamation:

"Why, that is odd; one would say—but no, I'mnot mistaken. It is he, it's Delobelle!"

It was, in fact, the illustrious actor, whom hhad discovered in the front row near the plaform. His gray head was turned partly awafrom them. He was leaning carelessly against pillar, hat in hand, in his grand make-up a

leading man: dazzlingly white linen, hair culed with the tongs, black coat with a camellia ithe buttonhole, like the ribbon of an order. Hglanced at the crowd from time to time with

patronizing air: but his eyes were most fre



quently turned toward the platform, with encouraging little gestures and smiles and pretended applause, addressed to some one whom

Pere Planus could not see from his seat.

There was nothing very extraordinary in thpresence of the illustrious Delobelle at a cafconcert, as he spent all his evenings away from

home; and yet the old cashier felt vaguely diturbed, especially when he discovered in thsame row a blue cape and a pair of steely eyeIt was Madame Dobson, the sentimental singing-teacher. The conjunction of those two faces amid the pipe-smoke and the confusion othe crowd, produced upon Sigismond the effeof two ghosts evoked by a bad dream. He waafraid for his friend, without knowing exactl

why; and suddenly it occurred to him to takhim away.

"Let us go, Risler. The heat here is enough tkill one."



Just as they rose—for Risler was no more desrous to stay than to go—the orchestra, consiting of a piano and several violins, began a pe

culiar refrain. There was a flutter of curiositthroughout the room, and cries of "Hush! hushsit down!"

They were obliged to resume their seats. Risle

too, was beginning to be disturbed.

"I know that tune," he said to himself. "Wherhave I heard it?"

A thunder of applause and an exclamatiofrom Planus made him raise his eyes.

"Come, come, let us go," said the cashier, tryinto lead him away.

But it was too late.

Risler had already seen his wife come forwarto the front of the stage and curtsey to the au

dience with a ballet-dancer's smile.



She wore a white gown, as on the night of thball; but her whole costume was much less ricand shockingly immodest.

The dress was barely caught together at thshoulders; her hair floated in a blond mist lowover her eyes, and around her neck was a neklace of pearls too large to be real, alternate

with bits of tinsel. Delobelle was right: the Bohemian life was better suited to her. Her beauthad gained an indefinably reckless expressionwhich was its most characteristic feature, anmade her a perfect type of the woman who haescaped from all restraint, placed herself at thmercy of every accident, and is descending stage by stage to the lowest depths of the Parisiahell, from which nothing is powerful enough t

lift her and restore her to the pure air and thlight.

And how perfectly at ease she seemed in hestrolling life! With what self-possession sh

walked to the front of the stage! Ah! could sh



have seen the desperate, terrible glance fixeupon her down there in the hall, concealebehind a pillar, her smile would have lost tha

equivocal placidity, her voice would havsought in vain those wheedling, languoroutones in which she warbled the only song Madame Dobson had ever been able to teach her:

Pauv' pitit Mamz'elle Zizi,C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourneLa tete a li.

Risler had risen, in spite of Planus's efforts. "Sdown! sit down!" the people shouted. The wreched man heard nothing. He was staring at hwife.

C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourneLa tete a li,

Sidonie repeated affectedly.

For a moment he wondered whether he shoulnot leap on the platform and kill her. Red fla



mes shot before his eyes, and he was blindewith frenzy.

Then, suddenly, shame and disgust seizeupon him and he rushed from the hall, oveturning chairs and tables, pursued by the terroand imprecations of all those scandalized bougeois.

CHAPTER XXIV. SIDONIE'S VENGEANCE

Never had Sigismond Planus returned home s

late without giving his sister warning, durinthe twenty years and more that he had lived aMontrouge. Consequently Mademoiselle Planus was greatly worried. Living in communit

of ideas and of everything else with her bro



her, having but one mind for herself and fohim, the old maid had felt for several monththe rebound of all the cashier's anxiety and in

dignation; and the effect was still noticeable iher tendency to tremble and become agitateon slight provocation. At the slightest tardineson Sigismond's part, she would think:

"Ah! mon Dieu! If only nothing has happeneat the factory!"

That is the reason why on the evening in quetion, when the hens and chickens were all a

leep on their perches, and the dinner had beeremoved untouched, Mademoiselle Planus wasitting in the little ground-floor living-roomwaiting, in great agitation.

At last, about eleven o'clock, some one rang. timid, melancholy ring, in no wise resemblinSigismond's vigorous pull.



"Is it you, Monsieur Planus?" queried the ollady from behind the door.

It was he; but he was not alone. A tall, bent olman accompanied him, and, as they enteredbade her good-evening in a slow, hesitatinvoice. Not till then did Mademoiselle Planurecognize Risler Aine, whom she had not see

since the days of the New Year's calls, that is tsay, some time before the dramas at the factoryShe could hardly restrain an exclamation opity; but the grave taciturnity of the two metold her that she must be silent.

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, you will puclean sheets on my bed. Our friend Risler doeus the honor to pass the night with us."

The sister hastened away to prepare the bedroom with an almost affectionate zeal; for, awe know, beside "Monsieur Planus, my broher," Risler was the only man excepted from



the general reprobation in which she envelopethe whole male sex.

Upon leaving the cafe concert, Sidonie's huband had had a moment of frantic excitemenHe leaned on Planus's arm, every nerve in hbody strained to the utmost. At that moment hhad no thought of going to Montrouge to ge

the letter and the package.

"Leave me—go away," he said to Sigismond. must be alone."

But the other knew better than to abandon himthus to his despair. Unnoticed by Risler, he lehim away from the factory, and as his affectionate heart suggested to the old cashier what hhad best say to his friend, he talked to him a

the time of Frantz, his little Frantz whom hloved so dearly.



"That was genuine affection, genuine and trusworthy. No treachery to fear with such hearas that!"

While they talked they left behind them thnoisy streets of the centre of Paris. They walkealong the quays, skirted the Jardin des Planteplunged into Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Risle

followed where the other led. Sigismondwords did him so much good!

In due time they came to the Bievre, bordereat that point with tanneries whose tall drying

houses with open sides were outlined in bluagainst the sky; and then the ill-defined plainof Montsouris, vast tracts of land scorched anstripped of vegetation by the fiery breath tha

Paris exhales around its daily toil, like a montrous dragon, whose breath of flame and smoksuffers no vegetation within its range.

From Montsouris to the fortifications of Mon

trouge is but a step. When they had reache



that point, Planus had no great difficulty itaking his friend home with him. He thoughand justly, that his tranquil fireside, the specta

cle of a placid, fraternal, devoted affectionwould give the wretched man's heart a sort oforetaste of the happiness that was in store fohim with his brother Frantz. And, in truth, thcharm of the little household began to work a

soon as they arrived.

"Yes, yes, you are right, old fellow," said Rislepacing the floor of the living-room, "I mustnthink of that woman any more. She's like a dead woman to me now. I have nobody left in thworld but my little Frantz; I don't know yewhether I shall send for him to come home, ogo out and join him; the one thing that is ce

tain is that we are going to stay together. Ah!longed so to have a son! Now I have found onI want no other. When I think that for a moment I had an idea of killing myself! Nonsensit would make Madame What-d'ye-call-he



yonder, too happy. On the contrary, I mean tlive—to live with my Frantz, and for him, anfor nothing else."

"Bravo!" said Sigismond, "that's the way I likto hear you talk."

At that moment Mademoiselle Planus came t

say that the room was ready.

Risler apologized for the trouble he was causing them.

"You are so comfortable, so happy here. Reallyit's too bad to burden you with my melancholy."

"Ah! my old friend, you can arrange just suc

happiness as ours for yourself," said honeSigismond with beaming face. "I have my siter, you have your brother. What do we lack?"



Risler smiled vaguely. He fancied himself aready installed with Frantz in a quiet little quakerish house like that.

Decidedly, that was an excellent idea of PerPlanus.

"Come to bed," he said triumphantly. "We'll g

and show you your room."

Sigismond Planus's bedroom was on thground floor, a large room simply but neatlfurnished; with muslin curtains at the window

and the bed, and little squares of carpet on thpolished floor, in front of the chairs. The dowager Madame Fromont herself could have founnothing to say as to the orderly and cleanlaspect of the place. On a shelf or two again

the wall were a few books: Manual of FishinThe Perfect Country Housewife, BayemeBook-keeping. That was the whole of the intellectual equipment of the room.



Pere Planus glanced proudly around. The glasof water was in its place on the walnut tablthe box of razors on the dressing-case.

"You see, Risler. Here is everything you needAnd if you should want anything else, the keyare in all the drawers—you have only to turthem. Just see what a beautiful view you ge

from here. It's a little dark just now, but wheyou wake up in the morning you'll see; it magnificent."

He opened the widow. Great drops of rain we

re beginning to fall, and lightning flashes rending the darkness disclosed the long, silent linof the fortifications, with telegraph poles aintervals, or the frowning door of a casemat

Now and then the footsteps of a patrol makinthe rounds, the clash of muskets or swordreminded them that they were within the miltary zone.



That was the outlook so vaunted by Planus—melancholy outlook if ever there were one.

"And now good-night. Sleep well!"

But, as the old cashier was leaving the roomhis friend called him back:

"Sigismond."

"Here!" said Sigismond, and he waited.

Risler blushed slightly and moved his lips lika man who is about to speak; then, with

mighty effort, he said:

"No, no-nothing. Good-night, old man."

In the dining-room the brother and sister talke

together a long while in low tones. Planus decribed the terrible occurrence of the eveningthe meeting with Sidonie; and you can imaginthe—"Oh! these women!" and "Oh! these men

At last, when they had locked the little garden



door, Mademoiselle Planus went up to heroom, and Sigismond made himself as comfotable as possible in a small cabinet adjoining.

About midnight the cashier was aroused by hsister calling him in a terrified whisper:

"Monsieur Planus, my brother?"

"What is it?"

"Did you hear?"

"No. What?"

"Oh! it was awful. Something like a deep sighbut so loud and so sad! It came from the roombelow."

They listened. Without, the rain was falling itorrents, with the dreary rustling of leaves thamakes the country seem so lonely.

"That is only the wind," said Planus.



"I am sure not. Hush! Listen!"

Amid the tumult of the storm, they heard wailing sound, like a sob, in which a name wapronounced with difficulty:

"Frantz! Frantz!"

It was terrible and pitiful.

When Christ on the Cross sent up to heaveHis despairing cry: 'Eli, eli, lama sabachthanthey who heard him must have felt the sam

species of superstitious terror that suddenlseized upon Mademoiselle Planus.

"I am afraid!" she whispered; "suppose you gand look—"

"No, no, we will let him alone. He is thinking ohis brother. Poor fellow! It's the very thought oall others that will do him the most good."

And the old cashier went to sleep again.



The next morning he woke as usual when thdrums beat the reveille in the fortifications; fothe little family, surrounded by barracks, regu

lated its life by the military calls. The sister haalready risen and was feeding the poultryWhen she saw Sigismond she came to him iagitation.

"It is very strange," she said, "I hear nothinstirring in Monsieur Risler's room. But the window is wide open."

Sigismond, greatly surprised, went and kno

ked at his friend's door.

"Risler! Risler!"

He called in great anxiety:

"Risler, are you there? Are you asleep?"

There was no reply. He opened the door.



The room was cold. It was evident that thdamp air had been blowing in all night througthe open window. At the first glance at the bed

Sigismond thought: "He hasn't been in bed"—for the clothes were undisturbed and the condtion of the room, even in the most trivial details, revealed an agitated vigil: the still smoking lamp, which he had neglected to extin

guish, the carafe, drained to the last drop by thfever of sleeplessness; but the thing that fillethe cashier with dismay was to find the bureadrawer wide open in which he had carefull

bestowed the letter and package entrusted thim by his friend.

The letter was no longer there. The package laon the table, open, revealing a photograph o

Sidonie at fifteen. With her high-necked frockher rebellious hair parted over the foreheadand the embarrassed pose of an awkward girthe little Chebe of the old days, MademoiselLe Mire's apprentice, bore little resemblance t



the Sidonie of to-day. And that was the reasowhy Risler had kept that photograph, as a souvenir, not of his wife, but of the "little one."

Sigismond was in great dismay.

"This is my fault," he said to himself. "I ought thave taken away the keys. But who would hav

supposed that he was still thinking of her? Hhad sworn so many times that that woman nlonger existed for him."

At that moment Mademoiselle Planus entere

the room with consternation written on heface.

"Monsieur Risler has gone!" she exclaimed.

"Gone? Why, wasn't the garden-gate locked?"

"He must have climbed over the wall. You casee his footprints."



They looked at each other, terrified beyonmeasure.

"It was the letter!" thought Planus.

Evidently that letter from his wife must havmade some extraordinary revelation to Risleand, in order not to disturb his hosts, he ha

made his escape noiselessly through the window, like a burglar. Why? With what aim iview?

"You will see, sister," said poor Planus, as h

dressed with all haste, "you will see that thahussy has played him still another trick." Anwhen his sister tried to encourage him, he recurred to his favorite refrain:

"I haf no gonfidence!"

As soon as he was dressed, he darted out of thhouse.



Risler's footprints could be distinguished on thwet ground as far as the gate of the little gaden. He must have gone before daylight, for th

beds of vegetables and flowers were trampledown at random by deep footprints with lonspaces between; there were marks of heels othe garden-wall and the mortar was crumbleslightly on top. The brother and sister went ou

on the road skirting the fortifications. There was impossible to follow the footprints. Thecould tell nothing more than that Risler hagone in the direction of the Orleans road.

"After all," Mademoiselle Planus ventured tsay, "we are very foolish to torment ourselveabout him; perhaps he has simply gone back tthe factory."

Sigismond shook his head. Ah! if he had saiall that he thought!

"Return to the house, sister. I will go and see."



And with the old "I haf no gonfidence" he ruhed away like a hurricane, his white mane standing even more erect than usual.

At that hour, on the road near the fortificationwas an endless procession of soldiers and maket-gardeners, guard-mounting, officers' horseout for exercise, sutlers with their parapherna

lia, all the bustle and activity that is seen in thmorning in the neighborhood of forts. Planuwas striding along amid the tumult, when suddenly he stopped. At the foot of the bank, othe left, in front of a small, square buildingwith the inscription.

CITY OF PARIS,ENTRANCE TO THE QUARRIES,

On the rough plaster, he saw a crowd assembled, and soldiers' and custom-house officeruniforms, mingled with the shabby, dirty blouses of barracks-loafers. The old man instinctivly approached. A customs officer, seated on th

stone step below a round postern with iro



bars, was talking with many gestures, as if hwere acting out his narrative.

"He was where I am," he said. "He had hangehimself sitting, by pulling with all his strengton the rope! It's clear that he had made up hmind to die, for he had a razor in his pockthat he would have used in case the rope ha

broken."

A voice in the crowd exclaimed: "Poor devilThen another, a tremulous voice, choking witemotion, asked timidly:

"Is it quite certain that he's dead?"

Everybody looked at Planus and began tlaugh.

"Well, here's a greenhorn," said the office"Don't I tell you that he was all blue this morning, when we cut him down to take him to thchasseurs' barracks!"



The barracks were not far away; and yet Sigimond Planus had the greatest difficulty in thworld in dragging himself so far. In vain did h

say to himself that suicides are of frequent ocurrence in Paris, especially in those regionthat not a day passes that a dead body is nofound somewhere along that line of fortifications, as upon the shores of a tempestuou

sea,—he could not escape the terrible presentment that had oppressed his heart since earlmorning.

"Ah! you have come to see the man that hangehimself," said the quartermaster-sergeant at thdoor of the barracks. "See! there he is."

The body had been laid on a table supported b

trestles in a sort of shed. A cavalry cloak thahad been thrown over it covered it from heato foot, and fell in the shroud-like folds whicall draperies assume that come in contact witthe rigidity of death. A group of officers an

several soldiers in duck trousers were lookin



on at a distance, whispering as if in a churchand an assistant-surgeon was writing a repoof the death on a high window-ledge. To him

Sigismond spoke.

"I should like very much to see him," he saisoftly.

"Go and look."

He walked to the table, hesitated a minutthen, summoning courage, uncovered a swolen face, a tall, motionless body in its rain

soaked garments.

"She has killed you at last, my old comrademurmured Planus, and fell on his knees, sobbing bitterly.

The officers had come forward, gazing curously at the body, which was left uncovered.

"Look, surgeon," said one of them. "His hand

closed, as if he were holding something in it."



"That is true," the surgeon replied, drawinnearer. "That sometimes happens in the laconvulsions.

"You remember at Solferino, CommandanBordy held his little daughter's miniature in hhand like that? We had much difficulty in taking it from him."

As he spoke he tried to open the poor, tightlyclosed dead hand.

"Look!" said he, "it is a letter that he is holdin

so tight."

He was about to read it; but one of the officertook it from his hands and passed it to Sigimond, who was still kneeling.

"Here, Monsieur. Perhaps you will find in thsome last wish to be carried out."



Sigismond Planus rose. As the light in the roomwas dim, he walked with faltering step to thwindow, and read, his eyes filled with tears:

"Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more thaever and forever! What is the use of strugglinand fighting against fate? Our sin is strongethan we..."

It was the letter which Frantz had written to hsister-in-law a year before, and which Sidonhad sent to her husband on the day followintheir terrible scene, to revenge herself on him

and his brother at the same time.

Risler could have survived his wife's treacherybut that of his brother had killed him.

When Sigismond understood, he was petrifiewith horror. He stood there, with the letter ihis hand, gazing mechanically through thopen window.



The clock struck six.

Yonder, over Paris, whose dull roar they coulhear although they could not see the city,

fromont and risler

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