Fromont and Risler

Alphonse Daudet

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BOOK 1

CHAPTER I. A WEDDING-PARTY ATTHE CAFE VEFOUR

"Madame Chebe!"

"My boy—"

"I am so happy!"

This was the twentieth time that day that thegood Risler had said that he was happy, andalways with the same emotional and contentedmanner, in the same low, deep voice-the voicethat is held in check by emotion and does not

speak too loud for fear of suddenly breakinginto violent tears.

Not for the world would Risler have wept atthat moment—imagine a newly-made husbandgiving way to tears in the midst of the wed-ding-festival! And yet he had a strong inclina-tion to do so. His happiness stifled him, heldhim by the throat, prevented the words fromcoming forth. All that he could do was to mur-mur from time to time, with a slight tremblingof the lips, "I am happy; I am happy!"

Indeed, he had reason to be happy.

Since early morning the poor man had fanciedthat he was being whirled along in one of thosemagnificent dreams from which one fears lesthe may awake suddenly with blinded eyes; butit seemed to him as if this dream would neverend. It had begun at five o'clock in the morning,and at ten o'clock at night, exactly ten o'clockby Vefour's clock, he was still dreaming.

How many things had happened during thatday, and how vividly he remembered the mosttrivial details.

He saw himself, at daybreak, striding up anddown his bachelor quarters, delight mingledwith impatience, clean-shaven, his coat on, andtwo pairs of white gloves in his pocket. Thenthere were the wedding-coaches, and in theforemost one—the one with white horses,white reins, and a yellow damask lining—thebride, in her finery, floated by like a cloud.Then the procession into the church, two bytwo, the white veil in advance, ethereal, anddazzling to behold. The organ, the verger, thecure's sermon, the tapers casting their lightupon jewels and spring gowns, and the throngof people in the sacristy, the tiny white cloudswallowed up, surrounded, embraced, whilethe bridegroom distributed hand-shakesamong all the leading tradesmen of Paris, whohad assembled to do him honor. And the grand

crash from the organ at the close, made moresolemn by the fact that the church door wasthrown wide open, so that the whole street tookpart in the family ceremony—the music pass-ing through the vestibule at the same time withthe procession—the exclamations of the crowd,and a burnisher in an ample lute-string apronremarking in a loud voice, "The groom isn'thandsome, but the bride's as pretty as a pic-ture." That is the kind of thing that makes youproud when you happen to be the bridegroom.

And then the breakfast at the factory, in aworkroom adorned with hangings and flowers;the drive in the Bois—a concession to thewishes of his mother-in-law, Madame Chebe,who, being the petty Parisian bourgeoise thatshe was, would not have deemed her daughterlegally married without a drive around the lakeand a visit to the Cascade. Then the return fordinner, as the lamps were being lighted alongthe boulevard, where people turned to look

after the wedding-party, a typical well-to-dobourgeois wedding-party, as it drove up to thegrand entrance at Vefour's with all the style thelivery horses could command.

Risler had reached that point in his dream.

And now the worthy man, dazed with fatigueand well-being, glanced vaguely about thathuge table of twenty-four covers, curved in theshape of a horseshoe at the ends, and sur-rounded by smiling, familiar faces, wherein heseemed to see his happiness reflected in everyeye. The dinner was drawing near its close. Thewave of private conversation flowed aroundthe table. Faces were turned toward one an-other, black sleeves stole behind waistsadorned with bunches of asclepias, a childishface laughed over a fruit ice, and the dessert atthe level of the guests' lips encompassed thecloth with animation, bright colors, and light.

Ah, yes! Risler was very happy.

Except his brother Frantz, everybody he lovedwas there. First of all, sitting opposite him, wasSidonie—yesterday little Sidonie, to-day hiswife. For the ceremony of dinner she had laidaside her veil; she had emerged from her cloud.Now, above the smooth, white silk gown, ap-peared a pretty face of a less lustrous and softerwhite, and the crown of hair-beneath that othercrown so carefully bestowed—would have toldyou of a tendency to rebel against life, of littlefeathers fluttering for an opportunity to flyaway. But husbands do not see such things asthose.

Next to Sidonie and Frantz, the person whomRisler loved best in the world was MadameGeorges Fromont, whom he called "MadameChorche," the wife of his partner and thedaughter of the late Fromont, his former em-ployer and his god. He had placed her besidehim, and in his manner of speaking to her onecould read affection and deference. She was a

very young woman, of about the same age asSidonie, but of a more regular, quiet and placidtype of beauty. She talked little, being out ofher element in that conglomerate assemblage;but she tried to appear affable.

On Risler's other side sat Madame Chebe, thebride's mother, radiant and gorgeous in hergreen satin gown, which gleamed like a shield.Ever since the morning the good woman'severy thought had been as brilliant as that robeof emblematic hue. At every moment she saidto herself: "My daughter is marrying FromontJeune and Risler Aine, of Rue des VieillesHaudriettes!" For, in her mind, it was not Risleralone whom her daughter took for her hus-band, but the whole sign of the establishment,illustrious in the commercial annals of Paris;and whenever she mentally announced thatglorious event, Madame Chebe sat more erectthan ever, stretching the silk of the bodice untilit almost cracked.

What a contrast to the attitude of MonsieurChebe, who was seated at a short distance. Indifferent households, as a general rule, thesame causes produce altogether different re-sults. That little man, with the high forehead ofa visionary, as inflated and hollow as a ball,was as fierce in appearance as his wife was ra-diant. That was nothing unusual, by the way,for Monsieur Chebe was in a frenzy the wholeyear long. On this particular evening, however,he did not wear his customary woe-begone,lack-lustre expression, nor the full-skirted coat,with the pockets sticking out behind, filled torepletion with samples of oil, wine, truffles, orvinegar, according as he happened to be deal-ing in one or the other of those articles. Hisblack coat, new and magnificent, made a fittingpendant to the green gown; but unfortunatelyhis thoughts were of the color of his coat. Whyhad they not seated him beside the bride, aswas his right? Why had they given his seat toyoung Fromont? And there was old Gardinois,

the Fromonts' grandfather, what business hadhe by Sidonie's side? Ah! that was how it wasto be! Everything for the Fromonts and nothingfor the Chebes! And yet people are amazed thatthere are such things as revolutions!

Luckily the little man had by his side, to venthis anger upon, his friend Delobelle, an old,retired actor, who listened to him with his se-rene and majestic holiday countenance.

Strangely enough, the bride herself had some-thing of that same expression. On that prettyand youthful face, which happiness enlivenedwithout making glad, appeared indications ofsome secret preoccupation; and, at times, thecorners of her lips quivered with a smile, as ifshe were talking to herself.

With that same little smile she replied to thesomewhat pronounced pleasantries of Grandfa-ther Gardinois, who sat by her side.

"This Sidonie, on my word!" said the good man,with a laugh. "When I think that not twomonths ago she was talking about going into aconvent. We all know what sort of conventssuch minxes as she go to! As the saying is inour province: The Convent of Saint Joseph, fourshoes under the bed!"

And everybody at the table laughed heartily atthe rustic jests of the old Berrichon peasant,whose colossal fortune filled the place ofmanliness, of education, of kindness of heart,but not of wit; for he had plenty of that, therascal—more than all his bourgeois fellow-guests together. Among the very rare personswho inspired a sympathetic feeling in hisbreast, little Chebe, whom he had known as anurchin, appealed particularly to him; and she,for her part, having become rich too recentlynot to venerate wealth, talked to her right-handneighbor with a very perceptible air of respectand coquetry.

With her left-hand-neighbor, on the contrary,Georges Fromont, her husband's partner, sheexhibited the utmost reserve. Their conversa-tion was restricted to the ordinary courtesies ofthe table; indeed there was a sort of affectationof indifference between them.

Suddenly there was that little commotionamong the guests which indicates that they areabout to rise: the rustling of silk, the moving ofchairs, the last words of conversations, thecompletion of a laugh, and in that half-silenceMadame Chebe, who had become communica-tive, observed in a very loud tone to a provin-cial cousin, who was gazing in an ecstasy ofadmiration at the newly made bride's reservedand tranquil demeanor, as she stood with herarm in Monsieur Gardinois's:

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

Thereupon the whole party rose and repairedto the grand salon.

While the guests invited for the ball were arriv-ing and mingling with the dinner-guests, whilethe orchestra was tuning up, while the cava-liers, eyeglass in position, strutted before theimpatient, white-gowned damsels, the bride-groom, awed by so great a throng, had takenrefuge with his friend Planus—SigismondPlanus, cashier of the house of Fromont forthirty years—in that little gallery decoratedwith flowers and hung with a paper represent-ing shrubbery and clambering vines, whichforms a sort of background of artificial verdureto Vefour's gilded salons.

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

And Sigismond too was happy; but Risler didnot give him time to say so. Now that he wasno longer in dread of weeping before hisguests, all the joy in his heart overflowed.

"Just think of it, my friend!—It's so extraordi-nary that a young girl like Sidonie would con-sent to marry me. For you know I'm not hand-some. I didn't need to have that impudent crea-ture tell me so this morning to know it. Andthen I'm forty-two—and she such a dear littlething! There were so many others she mighthave chosen, among the youngest and the rich-est, to say nothing of my poor Frantz, wholoved her so. But, no, she preferred her oldRisler. And it came about so strangely. For along time I noticed that she was sad, greatlychanged. I felt sure there was some disap-pointment in love at the bottom of it. Hermother and I looked about, and we cudgelledour brains to find out what it could be. Onemorning Madame Chebe came into my roomweeping, and said, 'You are the man she loves,my dear friend!'—And I was the man—I wasthe man! Bless my soul! Whoever would havesuspected such a thing? And to think that in thesame year I had those two great pieces of good

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

At that moment, to the strains of a giddy, lan-guishing waltz, a couple whirled into the smallsalon. They were Risler's bride and his partner,Georges Fromont. Equally young and attrac-tive, they were talking in undertones, confiningtheir words within the narrow circle of thewaltz.

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

And the other, paler than she, replied:

"I do not lie. It was my uncle who insisted uponthis marriage. He was dying—you had goneaway. I dared not say no."

Risler, at a distance, gazed at them in admira-tion.

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

But, when they spied him, the dancers sepa-rated, and Sidonie walked quickly to him.

"What! You here? What are you doing? Theyare looking everywhere for you. Why aren'tyou in there?"

As she spoke she retied his cravat with a pretty,impatient gesture. That enchanted Risler, whosmiled at Sigismond from the corner of his eye,too overjoyed at feeling the touch of that littlegloved hand on his neck, to notice that she wastrembling to the ends of her slender fingers.

"Give me your arm," she said to him, and theyreturned together to the salons. The white bri-dal gown with its long train made the badlycut, awkwardly worn black coat appear evenmore uncouth; but a coat can not be retied likea cravat; she must needs take it as it was. Asthey passed along, returning the salutations ofall the guests who were so eager to smile uponthem, Sidonie had a momentary thrill of pride,

of satisfied vanity. Unhappily it did not last. Ina corner of the room sat a young and attractivewoman whom nobody invited to dance, butwho looked on at the dances with a placid eye,illumined by all the joy of a first maternity. Assoon as he saw her, Risler walked straight tothe corner where she sat and compelled Sidonieto sit beside her. Needless to say that it wasMadame "Chorche." To whom else would hehave spoken with such affectionate respect? Inwhat other hand than hers could he haveplaced his little Sidonie's, saying: "You will loveher dearly, won't you? You are so good. Sheneeds your advice, your knowledge of theworld."

"Why, my dear Risler," Madame Georges re-plied, "Sidonie and I are old friends. We havereason to be fond of each other still."

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

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

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

Sidonie, with her eyes cast down, bowed with-out replying, while an imperceptible shudderran from the tip of her satin shoe to the topmostbit of orange-blossom in her crown. But honestRisler saw nothing. The excitement, the danc-ing, the music, the flowers, the lights made himdrunk, made him mad. He believed that everyone breathed the same atmosphere of bliss be-yond compare which enveloped him. He hadno perception of the rivalries, the petty hatredsthat met and passed one another above allthose bejewelled foreheads.

He did not notice Delobelle, standing with hiselbow on the mantel, one hand in the armholeof his waistcoat and his hat upon his hip, wearyof his eternal attitudinizing, while the hoursslipped by and no one thought of utilizing histalents. He did not notice M. Chebe, who wasprowling darkly between the two doors, moreincensed than ever against the Fromonts. Oh!those Fromonts!—How large a place they filledat that wedding! They were all there with theirwives, their children, their friends, their friends'friends. One would have said that one of them-selves was being married. Who had a word tosay of the Rislers or the Chebes? Why, he—he,the father, had not even been presented!—Andthe little man's rage was redoubled by the atti-tude of Madame Chebe, smiling maternallyupon one and all in her scarab-hued dress.

Furthermore, there were at this, as at almost allwedding-parties, two distinct currents whichcame together but without mingling. One of the

two soon gave place to the other. TheFromonts, who irritated Monsieur Chebe somuch and who formed the aristocracy of theball, the president of the Chamber of Com-merce, the syndic of the solicitors, a famouschocolate-manufacturer and member of theCorps Legislatif, and the old millionaire Gardi-nois, all retired shortly after midnight. GeorgesFromont and his wife entered their carriagebehind them. Only the Risler and Chebe partyremained, and the festivity at once changed itsaspect, becoming more uproarious.

The illustrious Delobelle, disgusted to see thatno one called upon him for anything, decidedto call upon himself for something, and beganin a voice as resonant as a gong the monologuefrom Ruy Blas: "Good appetite, Messieurs!"while the guests thronged to the buffet, spreadwith chocolate and glasses of punch. Inexpen-sive little costumes were displayed upon thebenches, overjoyed to produce their due effect

at last; and here and there divers young shop-clerks, consumed with conceit, amused them-selves by venturing upon a quadrille.

The bride had long wished to take her leave. Atlast she disappeared with Risler and MadameChebe. As for Monsieur Chebe, who had recov-ered all his importance, it was impossible toinduce him to go. Some one must be there to dothe honors, deuce take it! And I assure you thatthe little man assumed the responsibility! Hewas flushed, lively, frolicsome, noisy, almostseditious. On the floor below he could be heardtalking politics with Vefour's headwaiter, andmaking most audacious statements.

Through the deserted streets the wedding-carriage, the tired coachman holding the whitereins somewhat loosely, rolled heavily towardthe Marais.

Madame Chebe talked continuously, enumerat-ing all the splendors of that memorable day,

rhapsodizing especially over the dinner, thecommonplace menu of which had been to herthe highest display of magnificence. Sidoniemused in the darkness of the carriage, and Ris-ler, sitting opposite her, even though he no lon-ger said, "I am very happy," continued to thinkit with all his heart. Once he tried to take pos-session of a little white hand that rested againstthe closed window, but it was hastily with-drawn, and he sat there without moving, lost inmute admiration.

They drove through the Halles and the Rue deRambuteau, thronged with kitchen-gardeners'wagons; and, near the end of the Rue desFrancs-Bourgeois, they turned the corner of theArchives into the Rue de Braque. There theystopped first, and Madame Chebe alighted ather door, which was too narrow for the mag-nificent green silk frock, so that it vanished inthe hall with rustlings of revolt and with all itsfolds muttering. A few minutes later, a tall,

massive portal on the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, bearing on the escutcheon thatbetrayed the former family mansion, beneathhalf-effaced armorial bearings, a sign in blueletters, Wall Papers, was thrown wide open toallow the wedding-carriage to pass through.

Thereupon the bride, hitherto motionless andlike one asleep, seemed to wake suddenly, andif all the lights in the vast buildings, workshopsor storehouses, which surrounded the court-yard, had not been extinguished, Risler mighthave seen that pretty, enigmatical face sud-denly lighted by a smile of triumph. Thewheels revolved less noisily on the fine gravelof a garden, and soon stopped before the stoopof a small house of two floors. It was there thatthe young Fromonts lived, and Risler and hiswife were to take up their abode on the floorabove. The house had an aristocratic air. Flour-ishing commerce avenged itself therein for thedismal street and the out-of-the-way quarter.

There was a carpet on the stairway leading totheir apartment, and on all sides shone thegleaming whiteness of marble, the reflection ofmirrors and of polished copper.

While Risler was parading his delight throughall the rooms of the new apartment, Sidonieremained alone in her bedroom. By the light ofthe little blue lamp hanging from the ceiling,she glanced first of all at the mirror, which gaveback her reflection from head to foot, at all herluxurious surroundings, so unfamiliar to her;then, instead of going to bed, she opened thewindow and stood leaning against the sill, mo-tionless as a statue.

The night was clear and warm. She could seedistinctly the whole factory, its innumerableunshaded windows, its glistening panes, its tallchimney losing itself in the depths of the sky,and nearer at hand the lovely little gardenagainst the ancient wall of the former mansion.All about were gloomy, miserable roofs and

squalid streets. Suddenly she started. Yonder,in the darkest, the ugliest of all those atticscrowding so closely together, leaning againstone another, as if overweighted with misery, afifth-floor window stood wide open, showingonly darkness within. She recognized it at once.It was the window of the landing on which herparents lived.

The window on the landing!

How many things the mere name recalled!How many hours, how many days she hadpassed there, leaning on that damp sill, withoutrail or balcony, looking toward the factory. Atthat moment she fancied that she could see upyonder little Chebe's ragged person, and in theframe made by that poor window, her wholechild life, her deplorable youth as a Parisianstreet arab, passed before her eyes.

CHAPTER II. LITTLE CHEBE'S STORY

In Paris the common landing is like an addi-tional room, an enlargement of their abodes, topoor families confined in their too small apart-ments. They go there to get a breath of air insummer, and there the women talk and thechildren play.

When little Chebe made too much noise in thehouse, her mother would say to her: "Therethere! 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 housein which space had not been spared, formed asort of large lobby, with a high ceiling, guardedon the staircase side by a wrought-iron rail,

lighted by a large window which looked outupon roofs, courtyards, and other windows,and, farther away, upon the garden of theFromont factory, which was like a green oasisamong the huge old walls.

There was nothing very cheerful about it, butthe child liked it much better than her ownhome. Their rooms were dismal, especiallywhen it rained and Ferdinand did not go out.

With his brain always smoking with new ideas,which unfortunately never came to anything,Ferdinand Chebe was one of those slothful,project-devising bourgeois of when there are somany in Paris. His wife, whom he had dazzledat first, had soon detected his utter insignifi-cance, and had ended by enduring patientlyand with unchanged demeanor his continualdreams of wealth and the disasters that imme-diately followed them.

Of the dot of eighty thousand francs which shehad brought him, and which he had squan-dered in his absurd schemes, only a small an-nuity remained, which still gave them a posi-tion of some importance in the eyes of theirneighbors, as did Madame Chebe's cashmere,which had been rescued from every wreck, herwedding laces and two diamond studs, verytiny and very modest, which Sidonie some-times begged her mother to show her, as theylay in the drawer of the bureau, in an old-fashioned white velvet case, on which the jew-eller's name, in gilt letters, thirty years old, wasgradually fading. That was the only bit of lux-ury in that poor annuitant's abode.

For a very long time M. Chebe had sought aplace which would enable him to eke out theirslender income. But he sought it only in whathe called standing business, his health forbid-ding any occupation that required him to beseated.

It seemed that, soon after his marriage, whenhe was in a flourishing business and had ahorse and tilbury of his own, the little man hadhad one day a serious fall. That fall, to which hereferred upon every occasion, served as an ex-cuse for his indolence.

One could not be with M. Chebe five minutesbefore he would say in a confidential tone:

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

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

Since that famous fall any sort of office workmade him dizzy, and he had found himselfinexorably confined to standing business. Thus,he had been in turn a broker in wines, in books,in truffles, in clocks, and in many other thingsbeside. Unluckily, he tired of everything, never

considered his position sufficiently exalted fora former business man with a tilbury, and, bygradual degrees, by dint of deeming every sortof occupation beneath him, he had grown oldand incapable, a genuine idler with low tastes,a good-for-nothing.

Artists are often rebuked for their oddities, forthe liberties they take with nature, for that hor-ror of the conventional which impels them tofollow by-paths; but who can ever describe allthe absurd fancies, all the idiotic eccentricitieswith which a bourgeois without occupation cansucceed in filling the emptiness of his life? M.Chebe imposed upon himself certain rules con-cerning his goings and comings, and his walksabroad. While the Boulevard Sebastopol wasbeing built, he went twice a day "to see how itwas getting on."

No one knew better than he the fashionableshops and the bargains; and very often Ma-dame Chebe, annoyed to see her husband's

idiotic face at the window while she was ener-getically mending the family linen, would ridherself of him by giving him an errand to do."You know that place, on the corner of such astreet, where they sell such nice cakes. Theywould be nice for our dessert."

And the husband would go out, saunter alongthe boulevard by the shops, wait for the omni-bus, and pass half the day in procuring twocakes, worth three sous, which he would bringhome in triumph, wiping his forehead.

M. Chebe adored the summer, the Sundays, thegreat footraces in the dust at Clamart or Ro-mainville, the excitement of holidays and thecrowd. He was one of those who went aboutfor a whole week before the fifteenth of August,gazing at the black lamps and their frames, andthe scaffoldings. Nor did his wife complain. Atall events, she no longer had that chronic grum-bler prowling around her chair for whole days,with schemes for gigantic enterprises, combina-

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

She no longer earned anything herself, poorwoman; but she knew so well how to save, herwonderful economy made up so completely foreverything else, that absolute want, although anear neighbor of such impecuniosity as theirs,never succeeded in making its way into thosethree rooms, which were always neat andclean, or in destroying the carefully mendedgarments or the old furniture so well concealedbeneath its coverings.

Opposite the Chebes' door, whose copper knobgleamed in bourgeois fashion upon the land-ing, were two other and smaller ones.

On the first, a visiting-card, held in place byfour nails, according to the custom in vogueamong industrial artists, bore the name of

RISLER

DESIGNER OF PATTERNS.

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

MESDAMES DELOBELLE BIRDS AND INSECTS FOR ORNA-MENT.

The Delobelles' door was often open, disclosinga large room with a brick floor, where twowomen, mother and daughter, the latter almosta child, each as weary and as pale as the other,worked at one of the thousand fanciful littletrades which go to make up what is called the'Articles de Paris'.

It was then the fashion to ornament hats andballgowns with the lovely little insects fromSouth America that have the brilliant coloringof jewels and reflect the light like diamonds.The Delobelles had adopted that specialty.

A wholesale house, to which consignmentswere made directly from the Antilles, sent to

them, unopened, long, light boxes from which,when the lid was removed, arose a faint odor, adust of arsenic through which gleamed thepiles of insects, impaled before being shipped,the birds packed closely together, their wingsheld in place by a strip of thin paper. Theymust all be mounted—the insects quiveringupon brass wire, the humming-birds with theirfeathers ruffled; they must be cleansed andpolished, the beak in a bright red, claw repairedwith a silk thread, dead eyes replaced withsparkling pearls, and the insect or the bird re-stored to an appearance of life and grace. Themother prepared the work under her daugh-ter's direction; for Desiree, though she was stilla mere girl, was endowed with exquisite taste,with a fairy-like power of invention, and noone could, insert two pearl eyes in those tinyheads or spread their lifeless wings so deftly asshe. Happy or unhappy, Desiree alwaysworked with the same energy. From dawn untilwell into the night the table was covered with

work. At the last ray of daylight, when the fac-tory bells were ringing in all the neighboringyards, Madame Delobelle lighted the lamp, andafter a more than frugal repast they returned totheir work. Those two indefatigable womenhad one object, one fixed idea, which preventedthem from feeling the burden of enforced vig-ils. That idea was the dramatic renown of theillustrious Delobelle. After he had left the pro-vincial theatres to pursue his profession inParis, Delobelle waited for an intelligent man-ager, the ideal and providential manager whodiscovers geniuses, to seek him out and offerhim a role suited to his talents. He might, per-haps, especially at the beginning, have obtaineda passably good engagement at a theatre of thethird order, but Delobelle did not choose tolower himself.

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

In the morning in his bedroom, often in his bed,he rehearsed roles in his former repertory; andthe Delobelle ladies trembled with emotionwhen they heard behind the partition tiradesfrom 'Antony' or the 'Medecin des Enfants',declaimed in a sonorous voice that blendedwith the thousand-and-one noises of the greatParisian bee-hive. Then, after breakfast, theactor would sally forth for the day; would go to"do his boulevard," that is to say, to saunter toand fro between the Chateau d'Eau and theMadeline, with a toothpick in the corner of hismouth, his hat a little on one side-alwaysgloved, and brushed, and glossy.

That question of dress was of great importancein his eyes. It was one of the greatest elementsof success, a bait for the manager—the famous,intelligent manager—who never would dreamof engaging a threadbare, shabbily dressedman.

So the Delobelle ladies took good care that helacked nothing; and you can imagine howmany birds and insects it required to fit out ablade of that temper! The actor thought it themost natural thing in the world.

In his view, the labors, the privations of hiswife and daughter were not, strictly speaking,for his benefit, but for the benefit of that myste-rious and unknown genius, whose trustee heconsidered himself to be.

There was a certain analogy between the posi-tion of the Chebe family and that of the Delobe-lles. But the latter household was less depress-ing. The Chebes felt that their petty annuitantexistence was fastened upon them forever, withno prospect of amelioration, always the same;whereas, in the actor's family, hope and illusionoften opened magnificent vistas.

The Chebes were like people living in a blindalley; the Delobelles on a foul little street, whe-

re there was no light or air, but where a greatboulevard might some day be laid out. Andthen, too, Madame Chebe no longer believed inher husband, whereas, by virtue of that singlemagic word, "Art!" her neighbor never haddoubted hers.

And yet for years and years MonsieurDelobelle had been unavailingly drinking ver-mouth with dramatic agents, absinthe withleaders of claques, bitters with vaudevillists,dramatists, and the famous what's-his-name,author of several great dramas. Engagementsdid not always follow. So that, without onceappearing on the boards, the poor man hadprogressed from jeune premier to grand pre-mier roles, then to the financiers, then to thenoble 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 as

manager of a club or a cafe as an inspector ingreat warehouses, at the 'Phares de la Bastille'or the 'Colosse de Rhodes.' All that was neces-sary was to have good manners. Delobelle wasnot lacking in that respect, God knows! And yetevery suggestion that was made to him thegreat man met with a heroic refusal.

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

In the mouth of that poor devil, who had notset foot on the boards for years, it was irresisti-bly comical. But one lost the inclination tolaugh when one saw his wife and his daughterswallowing particles of arsenic day and night,and heard them repeat emphatically as theybroke their needles against the brass wire withwhich the little birds were mounted:

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

Happy man, whose bulging eyes, always smil-ing condescendingly, and whose habit of reign-ing on the stage had procured for him for lifethat exceptional position of a spoiled and ad-mired child-king! When he left the house, theshopkeepers on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois,with the predilection of the Parisian for every-thing and everybody connected with the thea-tre, saluted him respectfully. He was always sowell dressed! And then he was so kind, soobliging! When you think that every Saturdaynight, he, Ruy Blas, Antony, Raphael in the'Filles de Maybre,' Andres in the 'Pirates de laSavane,' sallied forth, with a bandbox under hisarm, to carry the week's work of his wife anddaughter to a flower establishment on the RueSt.-Denis!

Why, even when performing such a commis-sion as that, this devil of a fellow had such no-bility of bearing, such native dignity, that theyoung woman whose duty it was to make up

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

On those evenings, by the way, the actor didnot return home to dinner. The women wereforewarned.

He always met some old comrade on the boule-vard, some unlucky devil like himself—thereare so many of them in that sacred profes-sion!—whom he entertained at a restaurant orcafe. Then, with scrupulous fidelity—and verygrateful they were to him—he would carry therest of the money home, sometimes with a bou-quet for his wife or a little present for Desiree, anothing, a mere trifle. What would you have?Those are the customs of the stage. It is such asimple matter in a melodrama to toss a handfulof louis through the window!

"Ho! varlet, take this purse and hie thee henceto tell thy mistress I await her coming."

And so, notwithstanding their marvellous cou-rage, and although their trade was quite lucra-tive, the Delobelles often found themselves instraitened circumstances, especially in the dullseason of the 'Articles de Paris.'

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

Guillaume Risler, the third tenant on the land-ing, lived with his brother Frantz, who wasfifteen years his junior. The two young Swiss,tall and fair, strong and ruddy, brought into thedismal, hard-working house glimpses of thecountry and of health. The elder was adraughtsman at the Fromont factory and waspaying for the education of his brother, whoattended Chaptal's lectures, pending his admis-sion to the Ecole Centrale.

On his arrival at Paris, being sadly perplexed asto the installation of his little household, Guil-laume had derived from his neighbors, Mes-

dames Chebe and Delobelle, advice and infor-mation which were an indispensable aid to thatingenuous, timid, somewhat heavy youth, em-barrassed by his foreign accent and manner.After a brief period of neighborhood and mu-tual services, the Risler brothers formed a partof both families.

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

The wages of the designer, who was very cleverat his trade, enabled him to be of service to theDelobelles on rent-day, and to make his ap-pearance at the Chebes' in the guise of the richuncle, always laden with surprises and pre-sents, so that the little girl, as soon as she sawhim, would explore his pockets and climb onhis knees.

On Sunday he would take them all to the thea-tre; and almost every evening he would gowith Messieurs Chebe and Delobelle to a brew-ery on the Rue Blondel, where he regaled themwith beer and pretzels. Beer and pretzels werehis only vice.

For his own part, he knew no greater bliss thanto sit before a foaming tankard, between histwo friends, listening to their talk, and takingpart only by a loud laugh or a shake of the headin their conversation, which was usually a longsuccession of grievances against society.

A childlike shyness, and the Germanisms ofspeech which he never had laid aside in his lifeof absorbing toil, embarrassed him much ingiving expression to his ideas. Moreover, hisfriends overawed him. They had in respect tohim the tremendous superiority of the manwho does nothing over the man who works;and M. Chebe, less generous than Delobelle,did not hesitate to make him feel it. He was

very lofty with him, was M. Chebe! In his opin-ion, a man who worked, as Risler did, tenhours a day, was incapable, when he left hiswork, of expressing an intelligent idea. Some-times the designer, coming home worried fromthe factory, would prepare to spend the nightover some pressing work. You should haveseen M. Chebe's scandalized expression then!

"Nobody could make me follow such a busi-ness!" he would say, expanding his chest, andhe would add, looking at Risler with the air of aphysician making a professional call, "Just waittill you've had one severe attack."

Delobelle was not so fierce, but he adopted astill loftier tone. The cedar does not see a rose atits foot. Delobelle did not see Risler at his feet.

When, by chance, the great man deigned tonotice his presence, he had a certain air of stoo-ping down to him to listen, and to smile at hiswords as at a child's; or else he would amuse

himself by dazzling him with stories of ac-tresses, would give him lessons in deportmentand the addresses of outfitters, unable to un-derstand why a man who earned so muchmoney should always be dressed like an usherat a primary school. Honest Risler, convincedof his inferiority, would try to earn forgivenessby a multitude of little attentions, obliged tofurnish all the delicacy, of course, as he was theconstant benefactor.

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

At all times of day she would slip into the wor-kroom of the Delobelles, amuse herself by wat-ching their work and looking at all the insects,and, being already more coquettish than play-ful, if an insect had lost a wing in its travels, ora humming-bird its necklace of down, shewould try to make herself a headdress of theremains, to fix that brilliant shaft of color

among the ripples of her silky hair. It madeDesiree and her mother smile to see her standon tiptoe in front of the old tarnished mirror,with affected little shrugs and grimaces. Then,when she had had enough of admiring herself,the child would open the door with all thestrength of her little fingers, and would go de-murely, holding her head perfectly straight forfear of disarranging her headdress, and knockat the Rislers' door.

No one was there in the daytime but Frantz thestudent, leaning over his books, doing his dutyfaithfully. But when Sidonie enters, farewell tostudy! Everything must be put aside to receivethat lovely creature with the humming-bird inher hair, pretending to be a princess who hadcome to Chaptal's school to ask his hand in ma-rriage from the director.

It was really a strange sight to see that tall,overgrown boy playing with that little girl ofeight, humoring her caprices, adoring her as he

yielded to her, so that later, when he fell genu-inely in love with her, no one could have saidat what time the change began.

Petted as she was in those two homes, littleChebe was very fond of running to the windowon the landing. There it was that she found hergreatest source of entertainment, a horizon al-ways open, a sort of vision of the future towardwhich she leaned with eager curiosity and wit-hout fear, for children are not subject to vertigo.

Between the slated roofs sloping toward oneanother, the high wall of the factory, the tops ofthe plane-trees in the garden, the many-windowed workshops appeared to her like apromised land, the country of her dreams.

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

The place it occupied in that part of the Marais,which was at certain hours enveloped by its

smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, hisfabulous tales concerning his employer'swealth and goodness and cleverness, hadaroused that childish curiosity; and such por-tions as she could see of the dwelling-houses,the carved wooden blinds, the circular frontsteps, with the garden-seats before them, agreat white bird-house with gilt stripes glisten-ing in the sun, the blue-lined coupe standing inthe courtyard, were to her objects of continualadmiration.

She knew all the habits of the family: At whathour the bell was rung, when the workmenwent away, the Saturday payday which keptthe cashier's little lamp lighted late in the eve-ning, and the long Sunday afternoon, the closedworkshops, the smokeless chimney, the pro-found silence which enabled her to hearMademoiselle Claire at play in the garden,running about with her cousin Georges. FromRisler she obtained details.

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

Risler, delighted by this extraordinary interestin his beloved factory, would explain to thechild from their lofty position the arrangementof the buildings, point out the print-shop, thegilding-shop, the designing-room where heworked, the engine-room, above which tow-ered that enormous chimney blackening all theneighboring walls with its corrosive smoke,and which never suspected that a young life,concealed beneath a neighboring roof, mingledits inmost thoughts with its loud, indefatigablepanting.

At last one day Sidonie entered that paradise ofwhich she had heretofore caught only aglimpse.

Madame Fromont, to whom Risler often spokeof her little neighbor's beauty and intelligence,asked him to bring her to the children's ball she

intended to give at Christmas. At first Mon-sieur Chebe replied by a curt refusal. Even inthose days, the Fromonts, whose name wasalways on Rider's lips, irritated and humiliatedhim by their wealth. Moreover, it was to be afancy ball, and M. Chebe—who did not sellwallpapers, not he!—could not afford to dresshis daughter as a circus-dancer. But Risler in-sisted, declared that he would get everythinghimself, and at once set about designing a cos-tume.

It was a memorable evening.

In Madame Chebe's bedroom, littered withpieces of cloth and pins and small toilet articles,Desiree Delobelle superintended Sidonie's toi-let. The child, appearing taller because of hershort skirt of red flannel with black stripes,stood before the mirror, erect and motionless,in the glittering splendor of her costume. Shewas charming. The waist, with bands of velvetlaced over the white stomacher, the lovely, long

tresses of chestnut hair escaping from a hat ofplaited straw, all the trivial details of herSavoyard's costume were heightened by theintelligent features of the child, who was quiteat her ease in the brilliant colors of that theatri-cal garb.

The whole assembled neighborhood utteredcries of admiration. While some one went insearch of Delobelle, the lame girl arranged thefolds of the skirt, the bows on the shoes, andcast a final glance over her work, without lay-ing aside her needle; she, too, was excited, poorchild! by the intoxication of that festivity towhich she was not invited. The great man ar-rived. He made Sidonie rehearse two or threestately curtseys which he had taught her, theproper way to walk, to stand, to smile with hermouth slightly open, and the exact position ofthe little finger. It was truly amusing to see theprecision with which the child went throughthe drill.

"She has dramatic blood in her veins!" ex-claimed the old actor enthusiastically, unable tounderstand why that stupid Frantz wasstrongly inclined to weep.

A year after that happy evening Sidonie couldhave told you what flowers there were in thereception rooms, the color of the furniture, andthe music they were playing as she entered theballroom, so deep an impression did her en-joyment make upon her. She forgot nothing,neither the costumes that made an eddyingwhirl about her, nor the childish laughter, norall the tiny steps that glided over the polishedfloors. For a moment, as she sat on the edge of agreat red-silk couch, taking from the plate pre-sented to her the first sherbet of her life, shesuddenly thought of the dark stairway, of herparents' stuffy little rooms, and it producedupon her mind the effect of a distant countrywhich she had left forever.

However, she was considered a fascinatinglittle creature, and was much admired and pet-ted. Claire Fromont, a miniature Cauchoisedressed in lace, presented her to her cousinGeorges, a magnificent hussar who turned atevery step to observe the effect of his sabre.

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

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

But the time came to go. For a long time, in thefilthy street where the snow was melting, in thedark hall, in the silent room where her motherawaited her, the brilliant light of the salons con-tinued to shine before her dazzled eyes.

"Was it very fine? Did you have a charmingtime?" queried Madame Chebe in a low tone,

unfastening the buckles of the gorgeous cos-tume, one by one.

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

Claire Fromont kept her word. Sidonie oftenwent to play in the beautiful gravelled garden,and was able to see at close range the carvedblinds and the dovecot with its threads of gold.She came to know all the corners and hiding-places in the great factory, and took part in ma-ny glorious games of hide-and-seek behind theprinting-tables in the solitude of Sunday after-noon. On holidays a plate was laid for her atthe children's table.

Everybody loved her, although she never ex-hibited much affection for any one. So long asshe was in the midst of that luxury, she wasconscious of softer impulses, she was happy

and felt that she was embellished by her sur-roundings; but when she returned to her par-ents, when she saw the factory through thedirty panes of the window on the landing, shehad 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 Tui-leries, in the famous blue-lined carriage, or intothe country, to pass a whole week at Grandfa-ther Gardinois's chateau, at Savigny-sur-Orge.Thanks to the munificence of Risler, who wasvery proud of his little one's success, she wasalways presentable and well dressed. MadameChebe made it a point of honor, and the pretty,lame girl was always at hand to place her trea-sures of unused coquetry at her little friend'sservice.

But M. Chebe, who was always hostile to theFromonts, looked frowningly upon this grow-ing intimacy. The true reason was that he him-

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

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

But poor Madame Chebe, who had been sounhappy ever since her marriage, had becomereckless. She declared that one should make themost of the present for fear of the future,should seize happiness as it passes, as one oftenhas no other support and consolation in lifethan 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 withClaire, of sharing her amusements, years dur-ing which Sidonie acquired the familiarity withluxury and the graceful manners of the childrenof the wealthy, the friendship was suddenlybroken.

Cousin Georges, whose guardian M. Fromontwas, had entered college some time before.Claire in her turn took her departure for theconvent with the outfit of a little queen; and atthat very time the Chebes were discussing thequestion of apprenticing Sidonie to some trade.They promised to love each other as before andto meet twice a month, on the Sundays thatClaire was permitted to go home.

Indeed, little Chebe did still go down some-times to play with her friends; but as she grewolder she realized more fully the distance that

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

When the three were alone, the childish friend-ship which made them equals prevented anyfeeling of embarrassment; but visitors came,girl friends from the convent, among others atall girl, always richly dressed, whom hermother's maid used to bring to play with thelittle Fromonts on Sunday.

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

As she listened to their talk of the convent andtheir friends, Sidonie felt that they lived in adifferent world, a thousand miles from herown; and a deathly sadness seized her, espe-cially when, on her return home, her mother

spoke of sending her as an apprentice toMademoiselle Le Mire, a friend of theDelobelles, who conducted a large false-pearlestablishment on the Rue du Roi-Dore.

Risler insisted upon the plan of having the littleone serve an apprenticeship. "Let her learn atrade," said the honest fellow. "Later I will un-dertake to set her up in business."

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

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

On the ground floor, at the entrance to the hall,hung a number of signs with gilt letters: Depotfor Travelling-Bags, Plated Chains, Children'sToys, Mathematical Instruments in Glass, Bou-

quets for Brides and Maids of Honor, WildFlowers a Specialty; and above was a little dus-ty show-case, wherein pearls, yellow with age,glass grapes and cherries surrounded the pre-tentious name of Angelina Le Mire.

What a horrible house!

It had not even a broad landing like that of theChebes, grimy with old age, but brightened byits window and the beautiful prospect pre-sented by the factory. A narrow staircase, anarrow door, a succession of rooms with brickfloors, all small and cold, and in the last an oldmaid with a false front and black thread mitts,reading a soiled copy of the 'Journal pourTous,' and apparently very much annoyed to bedisturbed in her reading.

Mademoiselle Le Mire (written in two words)received the father and daughter without ris-ing, discoursed at great length of the rank shehad lost, of her father, an old nobleman of Le

Rouergue—it is most extraordinary how manyold noblemen Le Rouergue has produced!—and of an unfaithful steward who had carriedoff their whole fortune. She instantly arousedthe sympathies of M. Chebe, for whom decayedgentlefolk had an irresistible charm, and hewent away overjoyed, promising his daughterto call for her at seven o'clock at night in accor-dance with the terms agreed upon.

The apprentice was at once ushered into thestill empty workroom. Mademoiselle Le Mireseated her in front of a great drawer filled withpearls, needles, and bodkins, with instalmentsof four-sou novels thrown in at random amongthem.

It was Sidonie's business to sort the pearls andstring them in necklaces of equal length, whichwere tied together to be sold to the small deal-ers. Then the young women would soon bethere and they would show her exactly whatshe would have to do, for Mademoiselle Le

Mire (always written in two words!) did notinterfere at all, but overlooked her businessfrom a considerable distance, from that darkroom where she passed her life reading news-paper novels.

At nine o'clock the work-women arrived, fivetall, pale-faced, faded girls, wretchedly dressed,but with their hair becomingly arranged, afterthe fashion of poor working-girls who go aboutbare-headed through the streets of Paris.

Two or three were yawning and rubbing theireyes, saying that they were dead with sleep.

At last they went to work beside a long tablewhere each had her own drawer and her owntools. An order had been received for mourningjewels, and haste was essential. Sidonie, whomthe forewoman instructed in her task in a toneof infinite superiority, began dismally to sort amultitude of black pearls, bits of glass, andwisps of crape.

The others, paying no attention to the little girl,chatted together as they worked. They talked ofa wedding that was to take place that very dayat St. Gervais.

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

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

Sidonie had brought her luncheon in a littlebasket, like a school-girl; with a heavy heart shesat at a corner of the table and ate alone for thefirst time in her life. Great God! what a sad andwretched thing life seemed to be; what a terri-ble revenge she would take hereafter for hersufferings there!

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

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

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

These small Parisian industries, which have todo with the most trivial details of the toilet,keep the work-girls informed as to the fashionsand fill their minds with thoughts of luxuryand elegance. To the poor girls who worked onMademoiselle Le Mire's fourth floor, the black-ened walls, the narrow street did not exist.They were always thinking of something elseand passed their lives asking one another:

"Malvina, if you were rich what would you do?For my part, I'd live on the Champs-Elysees."And the great trees in the square, the carriages

that wheeled about there, coquettishly slacken-ing their pace, appeared momentarily beforetheir minds, a delicious, refreshing vision.

Little Chebe, in her corner, listened withoutspeaking, industriously stringing her black gra-pes with the precocious dexterity and taste shehad acquired in Desiree's neighborhood. Sothat in the evening, when M. Chebe came tofetch his daughter, they praised her in thehighest terms.

Thereafter all her days were alike. The nextday, instead of black pearls, she strung whitepearls and bits of false coral; for at Mademoi-selle Le Mire's they worked only in what wasfalse, in tinsel, and that was where little Chebewas to serve her apprenticeship to life.

For some time the new apprentice-being youn-ger and better bred than the others—found thatthey held aloof from her. Later, as she grewolder, she was admitted to their friendship and

their confidence, but without ever sharing theirpleasures. She was too proud to go to see wed-dings at midday; and when she heard themtalking of a ball at Vauxhall or the 'Delices duMarais,' or of a nice little supper at Bonvalet'sor at the 'Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle,' shewas always very disdainful.

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

Moreover, her father called for her every eve-ning. Sometimes, however, about the NewYear, she was obliged to work late with theothers, in order to complete pressing orders. Inthe gaslight those pale-faced Parisians, sortingpearls as white as themselves, of a dead, un-wholesome whiteness, were a painful spectacle.There was the same fictitious glitter, the samefragility of spurious jewels. They talked of not-hing but masked balls and theatres.

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

The actors' doublets, the embroidered costumesof the queens of melodrama, appeared beforethem in the white light of the necklaces formingbeneath their fingers.

In summer the work was less pressing. It wasthe dull season. In the intense heat, whenthrough the drawn blinds fruit-sellers could beheard in the street, crying their mirabelles andQueen Claudes, the workgirls slept heavily,their heads on the table. Or perhaps Malvinawould go and ask Mademoiselle Le Mire for acopy of the 'Journal pour Tous,' and read aloudto the others.

But little Chebe did not care for the novels. Shecarried one in her head much more interestingthan all that trash.

The fact is, nothing could make her forget thefactory. When she set forth in the morning onher father's arm, she always cast a glance inthat direction. At that hour the works were juststirring, the chimney emitted its first puff ofblack smoke. Sidonie, as she passed, could hearthe shouts of the workmen, the dull, heavyblows of the bars of the printing-press, themighty, rhythmical hum of the machinery; andall those sounds of toil, blended in her memorywith recollections of fetes and blue-lined car-riages, haunted her persistently.

They spoke louder than the rattle of the omni-buses, the street cries, the cascades in the gut-ters; and even in the workroom, when she wassorting the false pearls even at night, in herown home, when she went, after dinner, tobreathe the fresh air at the window on the land-ing and to gaze at the dark, deserted factory,that murmur still buzzed in her ears, forming,

as it were, a continual accompaniment to herthoughts.

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

These Sunday excursions, which honest Rislerorganized to amuse Sidonie, served only tosadden her still more.

On those days she must rise at four o'clock inthe morning; for the poor must pay for all theirenjoyments, and there was always a ribbon tobe ironed at the last moment, or a bit of trim-ming to be sewn on in an attempt to rejuvenatethe everlasting little lilac frock with whitestripes which Madame Chebe conscientiouslylengthened every year.

They would all set off together, the Chebes, theRislers, and the illustrious Delobelle. Only De-siree and her mother never were of the party.

The poor, crippled child, ashamed of her de-formity, never would stir from her chair, andMamma Delobelle stayed behind to keep hercompany. Moreover, neither possessed a suit-able gown in which to show herself out-of-doors in their great man's company; it wouldhave destroyed the whole effect of his appear-ance.

When they left the house, Sidonie would brigh-ten up a little. Paris in the pink haze of a Julymorning, the railway stations filled with lightdresses, the country flying past the car win-dows, and the healthful exercise, the bath in thepure air saturated with the water of the Seine,vivified by a bit of forest, perfumed by flower-ing meadows, by ripening grain, all combinedto make her giddy for a moment. But that sen-sation was soon succeeded by disgust at such acommonplace way of passing her Sunday.

It was always the same thing.

They stopped at a refreshment booth, in closeproximity to a very noisy and numerously at-tended rustic festival, for there must be an au-dience for Delobelle, who would saunter along,absorbed by his chimera, dressed in gray, withgray gaiters, a little hat over his ear, a light topcoat on his arm, imagining that the stage repre-sented a country scene in the suburbs of Paris,and that he was playing the part of a Parisiansojourning in the country.

As for M. Chebe, who prided himself on beingas fond of nature as the late Jean Jacques Rous-seau, he did not appreciate it without the ac-companiments of shooting-matches, woodenhorses, sack races, and a profusion of dust andpenny-whistles, which constituted also Ma-dame Chebe's ideal of a country life.

But Sidonie had a different ideal; and thoseParisian Sundays passed in strolling throughnoisy village streets depressed her beyondmeasure. Her only pleasure in those throngs

was the consciousness of being stared at. Theveriest boor's admiration, frankly expressedaloud at her side, made her smile all day; forshe was of those who disdain no compliment.

Sometimes, leaving the Chebes and Delobellein the midst of the fete, Risler would go into thefields with his brother and the "little one" insearch of flowers for patterns for his wall-papers. Frantz, with his long arms, would pulldown the highest branches of a hawthorn, orwould climb a park wall to pick a leaf of grace-ful shape he had spied on the other side. Butthey reaped their richest harvests on the banksof the stream.

There they found those flexible plants, withlong swaying stalks, which made such a lovelyeffect on hangings, tall, straight reeds, and thevolubilis, whose flower, opening suddenly as ifin obedience to a caprice, resembles a livingface, some one looking at you amid the lovely,quivering foliage. Risler arranged his bouquets

artistically, drawing his inspiration from thevery nature of the plants, trying to understandthoroughly their manner of life, which can notbe divined after the withering of one day.

Then, when the bouquet was completed, tiedwith a broad blade of grass as with a ribbon,and slung over Frantz's back, away they went.Risler, always engrossed in his art, lookedabout for subjects, for possible combinations, asthey walked along.

"Look there, little one—see that bunch of lily ofthe valley, with its white bells, among thoseeglantines. What do you think? Wouldn't thatbe pretty against a sea-green or pearl-graybackground?"

But Sidonie cared no more for lilies of the val-ley than for eglantine. Wild flowers alwaysseemed to her like the flowers of the poor, so-mething like her lilac dress.

She remembered that she had seen flowers of adifferent sort at the house of M. Gardinois, atthe Chateau de Savigny, in the hothouses, onthe balconies, and all about the gravelled court-yard bordered with tall urns. Those were theflowers she loved; that was her idea of thecountry!

The little stations in the outskirts of Paris are soterribly crowded and stuffy on those Sundayevenings in summer! Such artificial enjoyment,such idiotic laughter, such doleful ballads, sungin whispers by voices that no longer have thestrength to roar! That was the time when M.Chebe was in his element.

He would elbow his way to the gate, scoldabout the delay of the train, declaim against thestation-agent, the company, the government;say to Delobelle in a loud voice, so as to beoverheard by his neighbors:

"I say—suppose such a thing as this shouldhappen in America!" Which remark, thanks tothe expressive by-play of the illustrious actor,and to the superior air with which he replied, "Ibelieve you!" gave those who stood near to un-derstand that these gentlemen knew exactlywhat would happen in America in such a case.Now, they were equally and entirely ignoranton that subject; but upon the crowd their wordsmade an impression.

Sitting beside Frantz, with half of his bundle offlowers on her knees, Sidonie would seem to beblotted out, as it were, amid the uproar, duringthe long wait for the evening trains. From thestation, lighted by a single lamp, she could seethe black clumps of trees outside, lighted hereand there by the last illuminations of the fete, adark village street, people continually comingin, and a lantern hanging on a deserted pier.

From time to time, on the other side of the glassdoors, a train would rush by without stopping,

with a shower of hot cinders and the roar ofescaping steam. Thereupon a tempest of shoutsand stamping would arise in the station, and,soaring above all the rest, the shrill treble of M.Chebe, shrieking in his sea-gull's voice: "Breakdown the doors! break down the doors!"—athing that the little man would have taken goodcare not to do himself, as he had an abject fearof gendarmes. In a moment the storm wouldabate. The tired women, their hair disarrangedby the wind, would fall asleep on the benches.There were torn and ragged dresses, low-necked white gowns, covered with dust.

The air they breathed consisted mainly of dust.It lay upon their clothes, rose at every step, ob-scured the light of the lamp, vexed one's eyes,and raised a sort of cloud before the tired faces.The cars which they entered at last, after hoursof waiting, were saturated with it also. Sidoniewould open the window, and look out at thedark fields, an endless line of shadow. Then,

like innumerable stars, the first lanterns of theouter boulevards appeared near the fortifica-tions.

So ended the ghastly day of rest of all thosepoor creatures. The sight of Paris brought backto each one's mind the thought of the morrow'stoil. Dismal as her Sunday had been, Sidoniebegan to regret that it had passed. She thoughtof the rich, to whom all the days of their liveswere days of rest; and vaguely, as in a dream,the long park avenues of which she had caughtglimpses during the day appeared to her thron-ged with those happy ones of earth, strolling onthe fine gravel, while outside the gate, in thedust of the highroad, the poor man's Sundayhurried swiftly by, having hardly time to pausea moment to look and envy.

Such was little Chebe's life from thirteen to sev-enteen.

The years passed, but did not bring with themthe slightest change. Madame Chebe's cash-mere was a little more threadbare, the little lilacfrock had undergone a few additional repairs,and that was all. But, as Sidonie grew older,Frantz, now become a young man, acquired ahabit of gazing at her silently with a meltingexpression, of paying her loving attentions thatwere visible to everybody, and were unnoticedby none save the girl herself.

Indeed, nothing aroused the interest of littleChebe. In the work-room she performed hertask regularly, silently, without the slightestthought of the future or of saving. All that shedid seemed to be done as if she were waitingfor something.

Frantz, on the other hand, had been workingfor some time with extraordinary energy, theardor of those who see something at the end oftheir efforts; so that, at the age of twenty-four,

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

On that evening Risler had taken the Chebefamily to the Gymnase, and throughout theevening he and Madame Chebe had been mak-ing signs and winking at each other behind thechildren's backs. And when they left the theatreMadame Chebe solemnly placed Sidonie's armin Frantz's, as if she would say to the lovelornyouth, "Now settle matters—here is your chan-ce."

Thereupon the poor lover tried to settle mat-ters.

It is a long walk from the Gymnase to the Ma-rais. After a very few steps the brilliancy of theboulevard is left behind, the streets becomedarker and darker, the passers more and morerare. Frantz began by talking of the play. Hewas very fond of comedies of that sort, inwhich there was plenty of sentiment.

"And you, Sidonie?"

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

In truth she thought of nothing else at the thea-tre. She was not one of those sentimental crea-tures; a la Madame Bovary, who return fromthe play with love-phrases ready-made, a con-ventional ideal. No! the theatre simply madeher long madly for luxury and fine raiment; shebrought away from it nothing but new methodsof arranging the hair, and patterns of gowns.The new, exaggerated toilettes of the actresses,their gait, even the spurious elegance of theirspeech, which seemed to her of the highest dis-tinction, and with it all the tawdry magnifi-cence of the gilding and the lights, the gaudyplacard at the door, the long line of carriages,and all the somewhat unwholesome excitementthat springs up about a popular play; that waswhat she loved, that was what absorbed herthoughts.

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

And, as he uttered that suggestive phrase, hebent fondly toward a little face surrounded bya white woollen hood, from which the hair es-caped in rebellious curls.

Sidonie sighed:

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

There was a moment's silence. Poor Frantz hadmuch difficulty in explaining himself. Thewords he sought would not come, and then,too, he was afraid. He fixed the time mentallywhen he would speak:

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

But when the time arrived, Sidonie began totalk of such indifferent matters that his declara-

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

At last, in the Marais, he suddenly took cour-age:

"Listen to me, Sidonie—I love you!"

That night the Delobelles had sat up very late.

It was the habit of those brave-hearted womento make their working-day as long as possible,to prolong it so far into the night that theirlamp was among the last to be extinguished onthe quiet Rue de Braque. They always sat upuntil the great man returned home, and kept adainty little supper warm for him in the asheson the hearth.

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

terrible gnawing at their vitals when they leavethe theatre, and usually eat when they gohome. Delobelle had not acted for a long time;but having, as he said, no right to abandon thestage, he kept his mania alive by clinging to anumber of the strolling player's habits, and thesupper on returning home was one of them, aswas his habit of delaying his return until thelast footlight in the boulevard theatres was ex-tinguished. To retire without supping, at thehour when all other artists supped, would havebeen to abdicate, to abandon the struggle, andhe would not abandon it, sacre bleu!

On the evening in question the actor had notyet come in and the women were waiting forhim, talking as they worked, and with greatanimation, notwithstanding the lateness of thehour. During the whole evening they had donenothing but talk of Frantz, of his success, of thefuture that lay before him.

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

That was Desiree's opinion, too. That was allthat was lacking now to Frantz's happiness, agood little wife, active and brave and accus-tomed to work, who would forget everythingfor him. And if Desiree spoke with great confi-dence, it was because she was intimately ac-quainted with the woman who was so welladapted to Frantz Risler's needs. She was only ayear younger than he, just enough to make heryounger 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 waslame, poor child! And then she was clever andbright, and so loving! No one but Desiree knewhow fondly that little woman loved Frantz, andhow she had thought of him night and day for

years. He had not noticed it himself, but see-med to have eyes for nobody but Sidonie, agamine. But no matter! Silent love is so elo-quent, such a mighty power lies hid in re-strained feelings. Who knows? Perhaps someday or other:

And the little cripple, leaning over her work,started upon one of those long journeys to theland of chimeras of which she had made somany in her invalid's easychair, with her feetresting on the stool; one of those wonderfuljourneys from which she always returned hap-py and smiling, leaning on Frantz's arm withall the confidence of a beloved wife. As herfingers followed her thought, the little bird shehad in her hand at the moment, smoothing hisruffled wings, looked as if he too were of theparty and were about to fly far, far away, asjoyous 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, sud-denly raised her head.

"Ah! it's Monsieur Frantz. Pray come in, Mon-sieur Frantz. We're waiting for father, as yousee. These brigands of artists always stay out solate! Take a seat—you shall have supper withhim."

"Oh! no, thank you," replied Frantz, whose lipswere still pale from the emotion he had under-gone, "I can't stop. I saw a light and I just step-ped in to tell you—to tell you some great newsthat will make you very happy, because I knowthat you love me—"

"Great heavens, what is it?"

"Monsieur Frantz Risler and Mademoiselle Si-donie are engaged to be married."

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

Desiree had not the strength to utter a word.She bent still lower over her work, and asFrantz's eyes were fixed exclusively upon hishappiness, as Mamma Delobelle did nothingbut look at the clock to see whether her greatman would return soon, no one noticed thelame girl's emotion, nor her pallor, nor the con-vulsive trembling of the little bird that lay inher hands with its head thrown back, like abird with its death-wound.

CHAPTER IV. THE GLOW-WORMS OFSAVIGNY

"SAVIGNY-SUR-ORGE.

"DEAR SMONIE:—We were sitting at tableyesterday in the great dining-room which youremember, with the door wide open leading tothe terrace, where the flowers are all in bloom. Iwas a little bored. Dear grandpapa had beencross all the morning, and poor mamma darednot say a word, being afraid of those frowningeyebrows which have always laid down thelaw for her. I was thinking what a pity it was tobe so entirely alone, in the middle of the sum-mer, in such a lovely spot, and that I should bevery glad, now that I have left the convent, andam destined to pass whole seasons in the coun-try, to have as in the old day, some one to runabout the woods and paths with me.

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

"I had reached that point in my reflectionswhen suddenly dear grandpapa turned abrup-tly 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 happinessto meet again, to renew the pleasant friendshipthat was broken off by the fault of the events oflife rather than by our own! How many thingswe shall have to tell each other! You, who alonehad the knack of driving the frowns from myterrible grandpapa's brow, will bring us gayety,and I assure you we need it.

"This lovely Savigny is so lonely! For instance,sometimes in the morning I choose to be a littlecoquettish. I dress myself, I make myself beau-tiful with my hair in curls and put on a prettygown; I walk through all the paths, and sud-denly I realize that I have taken all this troublefor the swans and ducks, my dog Kiss, and thecows, who do not even turn to look at me whenI pass. Thereupon, in my wrath, I hurry home,put on a thick gown and busy myself on thefarm, in the servants' quarters, everywhere.And really, I am beginning to believe that en-nui has perfected me, and that I shall make anexcellent housekeeper.

"Luckily the hunting season will soon be here,and I rely upon that for a little amusement. Inthe first place, Georges and father, both enthu-siastic sportsmen, will come oftener. And thenyou will be here, you know. For you will replyat once that you will come, won't you? Mon-sieur Risler said not long ago that you were not

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

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

"CLAIRE."

Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned alarge straw hat for the first days of August we-re warm and glorious—and went herself todrop it in the little box from which the postmancollected the mail from the chateau everymorning.

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in theroad. She paused a moment to look at the treesby the roadside, at the neighboring meadowssleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder thereapers were gathering the last sheaves. Fartheron they were ploughing. But all the melancholyof the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girlwas concerned, so delighted was she at thethought of seeing her friend once more.

No breeze came from the hills in the distance,no voice from the trees, to warn her by a pre-sentiment, to prevent her from sending thatfatal letter. And immediately upon her returnshe gave her attention to the preparation of apretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her own.

The letter did its errand faithfully. From thelittle green, vine-embowered gate of the cha-teau it found its way to Paris, and arrived thatsame evening, with its Savigny postmark andimpregnated with the odor of the country, atthe fifth-floor apartment on the Rue de Braque.

What an event that was! They read it again andagain; and for a whole week, until Sidonie'sdeparture, it lay on the mantel-shelf besideMadame Chebe's treasures, the clock under aglass globe and the Empire cups. To Sidonie itwas like a wonderful romance filled with talesof enchantment and promises, which she readwithout opening it, merely by gazing at the

white envelope whereon Claire Fromont's mo-nogram was engraved in relief.

Little she thought of marriage now. The impor-tant question was, What clothes should shewear at the chateau? She must give her wholemind to that, to cutting and planning, trying ondresses, devising new ways of arranging herhair. Poor Frantz! How heavy his heart wasmade by these preparations! That visit to Savi-gny, which he had tried vainly to oppose,would cause a still further postponement oftheir wedding, which Sidonie-why, he did notknow—persisted in putting off from day today. He could not go to see her; and when shewas once there, in the midst of festivities andpleasures, who could say how long she wouldremain?

The lover in his despair always went to theDelobelles to confide his sorrows, but he nevernoticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as heentered, to make room for him by her side at

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

For some days past they had ceased to work atbirds and insects for ornament. The mother anddaughter were hemming pink flounces des-tined for Sidonie's frock, and the little cripplenever had plied her needle with such goodheart.

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

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

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

gether waiting for "father," and that, perhaps,some evening, as he sat looking at her, hewould discover the difference between thewoman who loves you and the one who simplyallows herself to be loved.

Thereupon the thought that every stitch takenin the frock tended to hasten the departurewhich she anticipated with such impatienceimparted extraordinary activity to her needle,and the unhappy lover ruefully watched theflounces and ruffles piling up about her, likelittle pink, white-capped waves.

When the pink frock was finished, Mademoi-selle Chebe started for Savigny.

The chateau of M. Gardinois was built in thevalley of the Orge, on the bank of that capri-ciously lovely stream, with its windmills, itslittle islands, its dams, and its broad lawns thatend at its shores.

The chateau, an old Louis-Quinze structure,low in reality, although made to appear high bya pointed roof, had a most depressing aspect,suggestive of aristocratic antiquity; broad steps,balconies with rusty balustrades, old urns ma-rred by time, wherein the flowers stood outvividly against the reddish stone. As far as theeye could see, the walls stretched away, de-cayed and crumbling, descending graduallytoward the stream. The chateau overlookedthem, with its high, slated roofs, the farmhouse,with its red tiles, and the superb park, with itslindens, ash-trees, poplars and chestnuts grow-ing confusedly together in a dense black mass,cut here and there by the arched openings ofthe paths.

But the charm of the old place was the water,which enlivened its silence and gave characterto its beautiful views. There were at Savigny, tosay nothing of the river, many springs, foun-tains, and ponds, in which the sun sank to rest

in all his glory; and they formed a suitable set-ting for that venerable mansion, green andmossy as it was, and slightly worn away, like astone on the edge of a brook.

Unluckily, at Savigny, as in most of those gor-geous Parisian summer palaces, which the par-venus in commerce and speculation have madetheir prey, the chatelains were not in harmonywith the chateau.

Since he had purchased his chateau, old Gardi-nois had done nothing but injure the beauty ofthe beautiful property chance had placed in hishands; cut down trees "for the view," filled hispark with rough obstructions to keep out tres-passers, and reserved all his solicitude for amagnificent kitchen-garden, which, as it pro-duced fruit and vegetables in abundance,seemed to him more like his own part of thecountry—the land of the peasant.

As for the great salons, where the panels withpaintings of famous subjects were fading in theautumn fogs, as for the ponds overrun withwater-lilies, the grottoes, the stone bridges, hecared for them only because of the admirationof visitors, and because of such elements wascomposed that thing which so flattered his van-ity as an ex-dealer in cattle—a chateau!

Being already old, unable to hunt or fish, hepassed his time superintending the most trivialdetails of that large property. The grain for thehens, the price of the last load of the secondcrop of hay, the number of bales of straw storedin a magnificent circular granary, furnishedhim with matter for scolding for a whole day;and certain it is that, when one gazed from adistance at that lovely estate of Savigny, thechateau on the hillside, the river, like a mirror,flowing at its feet, the high terraces shaded byivy, the supporting wall of the park followingthe majestic slope of the ground, one never

would have suspected the proprietor's niggard-liness and meanness of spirit.

In the idleness consequent upon his wealth, M.Gardinois, being greatly bored in Paris, lived atSavigny throughout the year, and the Fromontslived with him during the summer.

Madame Fromont was a mild, dull woman,whom her father's brutal despotism had earlymolded to passive obedience for life. She main-tained the same attitude with her husband,whose constant kindness and indulgence neverhad succeeded in triumphing over that humili-ated, taciturn nature, indifferent to everything,and, in some sense, irresponsible. Havingpassed her life with no knowledge of business,she had become rich without knowing it andwithout the slightest desire to take advantageof it. Her fine apartments in Paris, her father'smagnificent chateau, made her uncomfortable.She occupied as small a place as possible inboth, filling her life with a single passion, or-

der—a fantastic, abnormal sort of order, whichconsisted in brushing, wiping, dusting, andpolishing the mirrors, the gilding and the door-knobs, with her own hands, from morning tillnight.

When she had nothing else to clean, the strangewoman would attack her rings, her watch-chain, her brooches, scrubbing the cameos andpearls, and, by dint of polishing the combina-tion of her own name and her husband's, shehad effaced all the letters of both. Her fixedidea followed her to Savigny. She picked updead branches in the paths, scratched the mossfrom the benches with the end of her umbrella,and would have liked to dust the leaves andsweep down the old trees; and often, when inthe train, she looked with envy at the little vil-las standing in a line along the track, white andclean, with their gleaming utensils, the pewterball, and the little oblong gardens, which re-

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

M. Fromont, who came only occasionally andwas always absorbed by his business affairs,enjoyed Savigny little more than she. Clairealone felt really at home in that lovely park. Shewas familiar with its smallest shrub. Being obli-ged to provide her own amusements, like allonly children, she had become attached to cer-tain walks, watched the flowers bloom, had herfavorite path, her favorite tree, her favoritebench for reading. The dinner-bell always sur-prised her far away in the park. She would co-me to the table, out of breath but happy, flus-hed with the fresh air. The shadow of the horn-beams, stealing over that youthful brow, hadimprinted a sort of gentle melancholy there,and the deep, dark green of the ponds, crossedby vague rays, was reflected in her eyes.

Those lovely surroundings had in very truthshielded her from the vulgarity and the abject-

ness of the persons about her. M. Gardinoismight deplore in her presence, for hours at atime, the perversity of tradesmen and servants,or make an estimate of what was being stolenfrom him each month, each week, every day,every minute; Madame Fromont might enu-merate her grievances against the mice, themaggots, dust and dampness, all desperatelybent upon destroying her property, and en-gaged in a conspiracy against her wardrobes;not a word of their foolish talk remained inClaire's mind. A run around the lawn, anhour's reading on the river-bank, restored thetranquillity of that noble and intensely activemind.

Her grandfather looked upon her as a strangebeing, altogether out of place in his family. As achild she annoyed him with her great, honesteyes, her straightforwardness on all occasions,and also because he did not find in her a sec-

ond edition of his own passive and submissivedaughter.

"That child will be a proud chit and an original,like her father," he would say in his uglymoods.

How much better he liked that little Chebe girlwho used to come now and then and play inthe avenues at Savigny! In her, at least, he de-tected the strain of the common people likehimself, with a sprinkling of ambition and en-vy, suggested even in those early days by acertain little smile at the corner of the mouth.Moreover, the child exhibited an ingenuousamazement and admiration in presence of hiswealth, which flattered his parvenu pride; andsometimes, when he teased her, she wouldbreak out with the droll phrases of a Paris ga-mine, slang redolent of the faubourgs, seasonedby her pretty, piquant face, inclined to pallor,which not even superficiality could deprive ofits distinction. So he never had forgotten her.

On this occasion above all, when Sidonie ar-rived at Savigny after her long absence, withher fluffy hair, her graceful figure, her bright,mobile face, the whole effect emphasized bymannerisms suggestive of the shop-girl, sheproduced a decided sensation. Old Gardinois,wondering greatly to see a tall young womanin place of the child he was expecting to see,considered her prettier and, above all, betterdressed than Claire.

It was a fact that, when Mademoiselle Chebehad left the train and was seated in the greatwagonette from the chateau, her appearancewas not bad; but she lacked those details thatconstituted her friend's chief beauty andcharm—a distinguished carriage, a contemptfor poses, and, more than all else, mental tran-quillity. Her prettiness was not unlike hergowns, of inexpensive materials, but cut ac-cording to the style of the day-rags, if you will,but rags of which fashion, that ridiculous but

charming fairy, had regulated the color, thetrimming, and the shape. Paris has pretty facesmade expressly for costumes of that sort, veryeasy to dress becomingly, for the very reasonthat they belong to no type, and MademoiselleSidonie's face was one of these.

What bliss was hers when the carriage enteredthe long avenue, bordered with velvety grassand primeval elms, and at the end Savignyawaiting her with its great gate wide open!

And how thoroughly at ease she felt amid allthose refinements of wealth! How perfectly thatsort of life suited her! It seemed to her that shenever had known any other.

Suddenly, in the midst of her intoxication, ar-rived a letter from Frantz, which brought herback to the realities of her life, to her wretchedfate as the future wife of a government clerk,which transported her, whether she would orno, to the mean little apartment they would

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

Should she break her betrothal promise?

She certainly could do it, as she had given noother pledge than her word. But when he hadleft her, who could say that she would not wishhim back?

In that little brain, turned by ambition, thestrangest ideas chased one another. Sometimes,while Grandfather Gardinois, who had laidaside in her honor his old-fashioned hunting-jackets and swanskin waistcoats, was jestingwith her, amusing himself by contradicting herin order to draw out a sharp reply, she wouldgaze steadily, coldly into his eyes, without re-plying. Ah! if only he were ten years younger!But the thought of becoming Madame Gardi-nois did not long occupy her. A new personage,a new hope came into her life.

After Sidonie's arrival, Georges Fromont, whowas seldom seen at Savigny except on Sundays,adopted the habit of coming to dinner almostevery day.

He was a tall, slender, pale youth, of refinedappearance. Having no father or mother, hehad been brought up by his uncle, M. Fromont,and was looked upon by him to succeed him inbusiness, and probably to become Claire's hus-band. That ready-made future did not arouseany enthusiasm in Georges. In the first placebusiness bored him. As for his cousin, the inti-mate good-fellowship of an education in com-mon and mutual confidence existed betweenthem, but nothing more, at least on his side.

With Sidonie, on the contrary, he was exceed-ingly embarrassed and shy, and at the sametime desirous of producing an effect—a totallydifferent man, in short. She had just the spuri-ous charm, a little free, which was calculated toattract a superficial nature, and it was not long

before she discovered the impression that sheproduced upon him.

When the two girls were walking together inthe park, it was always Sidonie who remem-bered that it was time for the train from Paris toarrive. They would go together to the gate tomeet the travellers, and Georges's first glancewas always for Mademoiselle Chebe, who re-mained a little behind her friend, but with theposes and airs that go halfway to meet the eyes.That manoeuvring between them lasted sometime. They did not mention love, but all thewords, all the smiles they exchanged were fullof silent avowals.

One cloudy and threatening summer evening,when the two friends had left the table as soonas dinner was at an end and were walking inthe long, shady avenue, Georges joined them.They were talking upon indifferent subjects,crunching the gravel beneath their idling foot-steps, when Madame Fromont's voice, from the

chateau, called Claire away. Georges and Sido-nie were left alone. They continued to walkalong the avenue, guided by the uncertain whi-teness of the path, without speaking of drawingnearer to each other.

A warm wind rustled among the leaves. Theruffled surface of the pond lapped softlyagainst the arches of the little bridge; and theblossoms of the acacias and lindens, detachedby the breeze, whirled about in circles, perfum-ing the electricity-laden air. They felt them-selves surrounded by an atmosphere of storm,vibrant and penetrating. Dazzling flashes ofheat passed before their troubled eyes, like tho-se that played along the horizon.

"Oh! what lovely glow-worms!" exclaimed Si-donie, embarrassed by the oppressive silencebroken by so many mysterious sounds.

On the edge of the greensward a blade of grasshere and there was illuminated by a tiny, green,

flickering light. She stooped to lift one on herglove. Georges knelt close beside her; and asthey leaned down, their hair and cheeks touch-ing, they gazed at each other for a moment bythe light of the glow-worms. How weird andfascinating she seemed to him in that greenlight, which shone upon her face and diedaway in the fine network of her waving hair!He put his arm around her waist, and sud-denly, feeling that she abandoned herself tohim, he clasped her in a long, passionate em-brace.

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

Taken by surprise, and with a choking sensa-tion in his throat, Georges trembled so that hecould not reply. Sidonie, on the other hand,rose with the utmost coolness, and said as sheshook out her skirt:

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

Her eyes also sparkled with extraordinary bril-liancy.

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

The storm was indeed near. At brief intervalsgreat clouds of leaves and dust whirled fromone end of the avenue to the other. They wal-ked a few steps farther, then all three returnedto the house. The young women took theirwork, Georges tried to read a newspaper, whileMadame Fromont polished her rings and M.Gardinois and his son-in-law played billiards inthe adjoining room.

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

But, in the silence of her little bedroom, whenshe had put out her light, which interferes withdreams by casting too bright an illuminationupon reality, what schemes, what transports ofdelight! Georges loved her, Georges Fromont,the heir of the factory! They would marry; shewould be rich. For in that mercenary little heartthe first kiss of love had awakened no ideassave those of ambition and a life of luxury.

To assure herself that her lover was sincere, shetried to recall the scene under the trees to itsmost trifling details, the expression of his eyes,the warmth of his embrace, the vows utteredbrokenly, lips to lips, it that weird light shed bythe glow-worms, which one solemn momenthad fixed forever in her heart.

Oh! the glow-worms of Savigny!

All night long they twinkled like stars beforeher closed eyes. The park was full of them, tothe farthest limits of its darkest paths. There

were clusters of them all along the lawns, onthe trees, in the shrubbery. The fine gravel ofthe avenues, the waves of the river, seemed toemit green sparks, and all those microscopicflashes formed a sort of holiday illumination inwhich Savigny seemed to be enveloped in herhonor, to celebrate the betrothal of Georges andSidonie.

When she rose the next day, her plan was for-med. Georges loved her; that was certain. Didhe contemplate marrying her? She had a suspi-cion that he did not, the clever minx! But thatdid not frighten her. She felt strong enough totriumph over that childish nature, at once weakand passionate. She had only to resist him, andthat is exactly what she did.

For some days she was cold and indifferent,wilfully blind and devoid of memory. He triedto speak to her, to renew the blissful moment,but she avoided him, always placing some onebetween them.

Then he wrote to her.

He carried his notes himself to a hollow in arock near a clear spring called "The Phantom,"which was in the outskirts of the park, shel-tered by a thatched roof. Sidonie thought that acharming episode. In the evening she must in-vent some story, a pretext of some sort for go-ing to "The Phantom" alone. The shadow of thetrees across the path, the mystery of the night,the rapid walk, the excitement, made her heartbeat deliciously. She would find the letter satu-rated with dew, with the intense cold of thespring, and so white in the moonlight that shewould hide it quickly for fear of being sur-prised.

And then, when she was alone, what joy toopen it, to decipher those magic characters,those words of love which swam before hereyes, surrounded by dazzling blue and yellowcircles, as if she were reading her letter in thebright sunlight.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V. HOW LITTLE CHEBE'SSTORY ENDED

Meanwhile September arrived. The huntingseason brought together a large, noisy, vulgarparty at the chateau. There were long dinners atwhich the wealthy bourgeois lingered sloth-

fully and wearily, prone to fall asleep like peas-ants. They went in carriages to meet the return-ing hunters in the cool air of the autumn eve-ning. The mist arose from the fields, fromwhich the crops had been gathered; and whilethe frightened game flew along the stubblewith plaintive cries, the darkness seemed toemerge from the forests whose dark massesincreased in size, spreading out over the fields.

The carriage lamps were lighted, the hoodsraised, and they drove quickly homeward withthe fresh air blowing in their faces. The dining-hall, brilliantly illuminated, was filled withgayety and laughter.

Claire Fromont, embarrassed by the vulgarityof those about her, hardly spoke at all. Sidoniewas at her brightest. The drive had given ani-mation to her pale complexion and Parisianeyes. She knew how to laugh, understood alittle too much, perhaps, and seemed to themale guests the only woman in the party. Her

success completed Georges's intoxication; butas his advances became more pronounced, sheshowed more and more reserve. Thereupon hedetermined that she should be his wife. Heswore it to himself, with the exaggerated em-phasis of weak characters, who seem always tocombat beforehand the difficulties to whichthey know that they must yield some day.

It was the happiest moment of little Chebe'slife. Even aside from any ambitious project, hercoquettish, false nature found a strange fascina-tion in this intrigue, carried on mysteriouslyamid banquets and merry-makings.

No one about them suspected anything. Clairewas at that healthy and delightful period ofyouth when the mind, only partly open, clingsto the things it knows with blind confidence, incomplete ignorance of treachery and falsehood.M. Fromont thought of nothing but his busi-ness. His wife polished her jewels with frenziedenergy. Only old Gardinois and his little, gim-

let-like eyes were to be feared; but Sidonie en-tertained him, and even if he had discoveredanything, he was not the man to interfere withher future.

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

One Sunday morning M. Fromont was broughtback fatally wounded from a hunting expedi-tion. A bullet intended for a deer had piercedhis temple. The chateau was turned upside-down.

All the hunters, among them the unknownbungler that had fired the fatal shot, started inhaste for Paris. Claire, frantic with grief, en-tered the room where her father lay on hisdeathbed, there to remain; and Risler, beingadvised of the catastrophe, came to takeSidonie home.On the night before her departure she had afinal meeting with Georges at The Phantom,—a

farewell meeting, painful and stealthy, andmade solemn by the proximity of death. Theyvowed, however, to love each other always;they agreed upon a method of writing to eachother. Then they parted.

It was a sad journey home.

Sidonie returned abruptly to her every-day life,escorted by the despairing grief of Risler, towhom his dear master's death was an irrepara-ble loss. On her arrival, she was compelled todescribe her visit to the smallest detail; discussthe inmates of the chateau, the guests, the en-tertainments, the dinners, and the final catas-trophe. What torture for her, when, absorbed asshe was by a single, unchanging thought, shehad so much need of silence and solitude! Butthere was something even more terrible thanthat.

On the first day after her return Frantz re-sumed his former place; and the glances with

which he followed her, the words he addressedto her alone, seemed to her exasperating be-yond endurance.

Despite all his shyness and distrust of himself,the poor fellow believed that he had somerights as an accepted and impatient lover, andlittle Chebe was obliged to emerge from herdreams to reply to that creditor, and to post-pone once more the maturity of his claim.

A day came, however, when indecision ceasedto be possible. She had promised to marryFrantz when he had obtained a good situation;and now an engineer's berth in the South, at thesmelting-furnaces of Grand Combe, was of-fered to him. That was sufficient for thesupport of a modest establishment.

There was no way of avoiding the question. Shemust either keep her promise or invent an ex-cuse for breaking it. But what excuse could sheinvent?

In that pressing emergency, she thought of De-siree. Although the lame little girl had neverconfided in her, she knew of her great love forFrantz. Long ago she had detected it, with hercoquette's eyes, bright and changing mirrors,which reflected all the thoughts of others with-out betraying any of her own. It may be that thethought that another woman loved her be-trothed had made Frantz's love more endurableto her at first; and, just as we place statues ontombstones to make them appear less sad, De-siree's pretty, little, pale face at the threshold ofthat uninviting future had made it seem lessforbidding to her.

Now it provided—her with a simple and hon-orable pretext for freeing herself from herpromise.

"No! I tell you, mamma," she said to MadameChebe one day, "I never will consent to make afriend like her unhappy. I should suffer toomuch from remorse,—poor Desiree! Haven't

you noticed how badly she looks since I camehome; what a beseeching way she has of look-ing at me? No, I won't cause her that sorrow; Iwon't take away her Frantz."

Even while she admired her daughter's gener-ous spirit, Madame Chebe looked upon that asa rather exaggerated sacrifice, and remon-strated with her.

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

"Very well! then I won't marry at all," declaredSidonie flatly, and, deeming her pretext an ex-cellent one, she clung persistently to it. Nothingcould shake her determination, neither the tearsshed by Frantz, who was exasperated by herrefusal to fulfil her promise, enveloped as itwas in vague reasons which she would noteven explain to him, nor the entreaties of Risler,in whose ear Madame Chebe had mysteriouslymumbled her daughter's reasons, and who in

spite of everything could not but admire such asacrifice.

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

"Ah! yes, she is an angel," assented MadameChebe with a sigh, so that the poor betrayedlover had not even the right to complain. Dri-ven to despair, he determined to leave Paris,and as Grand Combe seemed too near in hisfrenzied longing for flight, he asked and ob-tained an appointment as overseer on the SuezCanal at Ismailia. He went away withoutknowing, or caring to know aught of, Desiree'slove; and yet, when he went to bid her farewell,the dear little cripple looked up into his facewith her shy, pretty eyes, in which were plainlywritten the words:

"I love you, if she does not."

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

Fortunately, hearts that are accustomed to suf-fer have an infinite store of patience. When herfriend had gone, the lame girl, with her charm-ing morsel of illusion, inherited from her fatherand refined by her feminine nature, returnedbravely to her work, saying to herself:

"I will wait for him."

And thereafter she spread the wings of herbirds to their fullest extent, as if they were allgoing, one after another, to Ismailia in Egypt.And that was a long distance!

Before sailing from Marseilles, young Rislerwrote Sidonie a farewell letter, at once laugh-able and touching, wherein, mingling the mosttechnical details with the most heartrendingadieux, the unhappy engineer declared that hewas about to set sail, with a broken heart, on

the transport Sahib, "a sailing-ship and steam-ship combined, with engines of fifteen-hundred-horse power," as if he hoped that soconsiderable a capacity would make an impres-sion on his ungrateful betrothed, and cause herceaseless remorse. But Sidonie had very differ-ent matters on her mind.

She was beginning to be disturbed by Georges'ssilence. Since she left Savigny she had heardfrom him only once. All her letters were leftunanswered. To be sure, she knew throughRisler that Georges was very busy, and that hisuncle's death had thrown the management ofthe factory upon him, imposing upon him aresponsibility that was beyond his strength. Butto abandon her without a word!

From the window on the landing, where shehad resumed her silent observations—for shehad so arranged matters as not to return toMademoiselle Le Mire—little Chebe tried todistinguish her lover, watched him as he went

to and fro across the yards and among thebuildings; and in the afternoon, when it wastime for the train to start for Savigny, she sawhim enter his carriage to go to his aunt andcousin, who were passing the early months oftheir period of mourning at the grandfather'schateau in the country.

All this excited and alarmed her; and the prox-imity of the factory rendered Georges's avoid-ance of her even more apparent. To think thatby raising her voice a little she could make himturn toward the place where she stood! Tothink that they were separated only by a wall!And yet, at that moment they were very farapart.

Do you remember, little Chebe, that unhappywinter evening when the excellent Risler rus-hed into your parents' room with an extraordi-nary expression of countenance, exclaiming,"Great news!"?

Great news, indeed! Georges Fromont had justinformed him that, in accordance with his un-cle's last wishes, he was to marry his cousinClaire, and that, as he was certainly unequal tothe task of carrying on the business alone, hehad resolved to take him, Risler, for a partner,under the firm name of FROMONT JEUNEAND RISLER AINE.

How did you succeed, little Chebe, in maintain-ing your self-possession when you learned thatthe factory had eluded your grasp and thatanother woman had taken your place? What aterrible evening!—Madame Chebe sat by thetable mending; M. Chebe before the fire dryinghis clothes, which were wet through by his hav-ing walked a long distance in the rain. Oh! thatmiserable room, overflowing with gloom andennui! The lamp gave a dim light. The supper,hastily prepared, had left in the room the odorof the poor man's kitchen. And Risler, intoxi-

cated with joy, talking with increasing anima-tion, laid great plans!

All these things tore your heart, and made thetreachery still more horrible by the contrastbetween the riches that eluded your out-stretched hand and the ignoble mediocrity inwhich you were doomed to pass your life.

Sidonie was seriously ill for a long while. Asshe lay in bed, whenever the window-panesrattled behind the curtains, the unhappy crea-ture fancied that Georges's wedding-coacheswere driving through the street; and she hadparoxysms of nervous excitement, withoutwords and inexplicable, as if a fever of wrathwere consuming her.

At last, time and youthful strength, her mot-her's care, and, more than all, the attentions ofDesiree, who now knew of the sacrifice herfriend had made for her, triumphed over thedisease. But for a long while Sidonie was very

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

Sometimes she talked of travelling, of leavingParis. At other times she insisted that she mustenter a convent. Her friends were sorely per-plexed, and strove to discover the cause of thatsingular state of mind, which was even morealarming than her illness; when she suddenlyconfessed to her mother the secret of her mel-ancholy.

She loved the elder Risler! She never had daredto whisper it; but it was he whom she had al-ways loved and not Frantz.

This news was a surprise to everybody, to Ris-ler most of all; but little Chebe was so pretty,her eyes were so soft when she glanced at him,that the honest fellow instantly became as fondof her as a fool! Indeed, it may be that love had

lain in his heart for a long time without his real-izing it.

And that is how it happened that, on the eve-ning of her wedding-day, young Madame Ris-ler, in her white wedding-dress, gazed with asmile of triumph at the window on the landingwhich had been the narrow setting of ten yearsof her life. That haughty smile, in which therewas a touch of profound pity and of scorn aswell, such scorn as a parvenu feels for his poorbeginnings, was evidently addressed to thepoor sickly child whom she fancied she saw upat that window, in the depths of the past andthe darkness. It seemed to say to Claire, point-ing at the factory:

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

CHAPTER VI. NOON—THE MARAIS ISBREAKFASTING.

Sitting near the door, on a stone which onceserved as a horse-block for equestrians, Rislerwatches with a smile the exit from the factory.He never loses his enjoyment of the outspokenesteem of all these good people whom he knewwhen he was insignificant and humble likethemselves. The "Good-day, Monsieur Risler,"uttered by so many different voices, all in thesame affectionate tone, warms his heart. Thechildren accost him without fear, the long-bearded designers, half-workmen, half-artists,shake hands with him as they pass, and ad-dress him familiarly as "thou." Perhaps there isa little too much familiarity in all this, for theworthy man has not yet begun to realize theprestige and authority of his new station; andthere was some one who considered this free-and-easy manner very humiliating. But that

some one can not see him at this moment, andthe master takes advantage of the fact to be-stow a hearty greeting upon the old book-keeper, Sigismond, who comes out last of all,erect and red-faced, imprisoned in a high collarand bareheaded—whatever the weather—forfear of apoplexy.

He and Risler are fellow-countrymen. Theyhave for each other a profound esteem, datingfrom their first employment at the factory, fromthat time, long, long ago, when they break-fasted together at the little creamery on thecorner, to which Sigismond Planus goes alonenow and selects his refreshment for the dayfrom the slate hanging on the wall.

But stand aside! The carriage of Fromont Jeunedrives through the gateway. He has been outon business all the morning; and the partners,as they walk toward the pretty little house inwhich they both live at the end of the garden,discuss matters of business in a friendly way.

"I have been at Prochasson's," says Fromont."They showed me some new patterns, prettyones too, I assure you. We must be on ourguard. They are dangerous rivals."

But Risler is not at all anxious. He is strong inhis talent, his experience; and then—but this isstrictly confidential—he is on the track of awonderful invention, an improved printing-press, something that—but we shall see. Stilltalking, they enter the garden, which is as care-fully kept as a public park, with round-toppedacacias almost as old as the buildings, and mag-nificent ivies that hide the high, black walls.

Beside Fromont jeune, Risler Aine has the ap-pearance of a clerk making his report to hisemployer. At every step he stops to speak, forhis gait is heavy, his mind works slowly, andwords have much difficulty in finding theirway to his lips. Oh, if he could see the littleflushed face up yonder, behind the window on

the second floor, watching everything so atten-tively!

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

"Come, come!" but Risler does not notice it. Hisattention is engrossed by the little Fromont,daughter of Claire and Georges, who is taking asun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her lacein her nurse's arms. How pretty she is! "She isyour very picture, Madame Chorche."

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

"Yes, a little. But—"

And there they all stand, the father and mother,Risler and the nurse, gravely seeking resem-blances in that miniature model of a human

being, who stares at them out of her little eyes,blinking with the noise and glare. Sidonie, ather open window, leans out to see what theyare doing, and why her husband does not comeup.

At that moment Risler has taken the tiny crea-ture in his arms, the whole fascinating bundleof white draperies and light ribbons, and istrying to make it laugh and crow with baby-talk and gestures worthy of a grandfather. Howold he looks, poor man! His tall body, which hecontorts for the child's amusement, his hoarsevoice, which becomes a low growl when hetries to soften it, are absurd and ridiculous.

Above, the wife taps the floor with her foot andmutters between her teeth:

"The idiot!"

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

game is so far advanced that Monsieur does notsee how he can go away, how he can interruptthese explosions of laughter and little bird-likecries. He succeeds at last, however, in givingthe child back to its nurse, and enters the hall,laughing heartily. He is laughing still when heenters the dining-room; but a glance from hiswife stops him short.

Sidonie is seated at table before the chafing-dish, already filled. Her martyr-like attitudesuggests 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 isso—"

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

"What, not when we're alone?"

"Bah! you will never learn to adapt yourself toour new fortune. And what is the result? Noone in this place treats me with any respect.Pere Achille hardly touches his hat to me whenI pass his lodge. To be sure, I'm not a Fromont,and I haven't a carriage."

"Come, come, little one, you know perfectlywell that you can use Madame Chorche's co-upe. She always says it is at our disposal."

"How many times must I tell you that I don'tchoose to be under any obligation to that wo-man?"

"O Sidonie"

"Oh! yes, I know, it's all understood. MadameFromont is the good Lord himself. Every one isforbidden to touch her. And I must make upmy mind to be a nobody in my own house, toallow myself to be humiliated, trampled underfoot."

"Come, come, little one—"

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

"I tell you that that woman, with all her calmairs, is proud and spiteful. In the first place, shedetests me, I know that. So long as I was poorlittle Sidonie and she could toss me her brokendolls and old clothes, it was all right, but nowthat I am my own mistress as well as she, itvexes her and humiliates her. Madame givesme advice with a lofty air, and criticises what Ido. I did wrong to have a maid. Of course!Wasn't I in the habit of waiting on myself? Shenever loses a chance to wound me. When I callon her on Wednesdays, you should hear thetone in which she asks me, before everybody,how 'dear Madame Chebe' is. Oh! yes. I'm aChebe and she's a Fromont. One's as good as

the other, in my opinion. My grandfather was adruggist. What was hers? A peasant who gotrich by money-lending. I'll tell her so one ofthese days, if she shows me too much of herpride; and I'll tell her, too, that their little imp,although they don't suspect it, looks just likethat old Pere Gardinois, and heaven knows heisn't handsome."

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

"Oh! yes, of course! I advise you to admire theirchild. She's always ill. She cries all night like alittle cat. It keeps me awake. And afterward,through the day, I have mamma's piano andher scales—tra, la la la! If the music were onlyworth listening to!"

Risler has taken the wise course. He does notsay a word until he sees that she is beginning tocalm down a little, when he completes the soot-hing process with compliments.

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

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

"No, I am not going to make calls," Sidonie re-plies with a certain pride. "On the contrary, Iexpect to receive them. This is my day."

In response to her husband's astounded, bewil-dered expression she continues:

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

"Of course, of course," said honest Risler, look-ing about with some little uneasiness. "So that'swhy I saw so many flowers everywhere, on thelanding and in the drawing-room."

"Yes, my maid went down to the garden thismorning. Did I do wrong? Oh! you don't say so,

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

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

"To ask leave? That's it-to humble myself againfor a few paltry chrysanthemums and two orthree bits of green. Besides, I didn't make anysecret of taking the flowers; and when she co-mes 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, ifshe doesn't come, it would be the last straw.When I go every Wednesday to be bored todeath in her salon with a crowd of affected,simpering women!"

She did not say that those same Wednesdays ofMadame Fromont's were very useful to her,that they were like a weekly journal of fashion,one of those composite little publications inwhich you are told how to enter and to leave aroom, how to bow, how to place flowers in ajardiniere and cigars in a case, to say nothing ofthe engravings, the procession of graceful, faul-tlessly attired men and women, and the namesof the best modistes. Nor did Sidonie add thatshe had entreated all those friends of Claire's,of whom she spoke so scornfully, to come tosee her on her own day, and that the day wasselected by them.

Will they come? Will Madame Fromont Jeuneinsult Madame Risler Aine by absenting herselfon her first Friday? The thought makes her al-most feverish with anxiety.

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she says again andagain. "Good heavens! how long you are atyour, breakfast!"

It is a fact that it is one of honest Risler's waysto eat slowly, and to light his pipe at the tablewhile he sips his coffee. To-day he must re-nounce these cherished habits, must leave thepipe in its case because of the smoke, and, assoon as he has swallowed the last mouthful,run hastily and dress, for his wife insists that hemust come up during the afternoon and pay hisrespects to the ladies.

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

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

And Risler, not without a feeling of pride, re-plies:

"This is my wife's reception day!"

Soon everybody in the place knows that it isSidonie's day; and Pere Achille, who takes careof the garden, is not very well pleased to findthat the branches of the winter laurels by thegate are broken.

Before taking his seat at the table upon whichhe draws, in the bright light from the tall win-dows, Risler has taken off his fine frock-coat,which embarrasses him, and has turned up hisclean shirt-sleeves; but the idea that his wife isexpecting company preoccupies and disturbshim; and from time to time he puts on his coatand goes up to her.

"Has no one come?" he asks timidly.

"No, Monsieur, no one."

In the beautiful red drawing-room—for theyhave a drawing-room in red damask, with aconsole between the windows and a pretty ta-ble in the centre of the light-flowered carpet—

Sidonie has established herself in the attitude ofa woman holding a reception, a circle of chairsof many shapes around her. Here and there arebooks, reviews, a little work-basket in the sha-pe of a gamebag, with silk tassels, a bunch ofviolets in a glass vase, and green plants in thejardinieres. Everything is arranged exactly as inthe Fromonts' apartments on the floor below;but the taste, that invisible line which separatesthe distinguished from the vulgar, is not yetrefined. You would say it was a passable copyof a pretty genre picture. The hostess's attire,even, is too new; she looks more as if she weremaking a call than as if she were at home. InRisler's eyes everything is superb, beyond re-proach; he is preparing to say so as he entersthe salon, but, in face of his wife's wrathfulglance, he checks himself in terror.

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

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

Indeed, ever since noon, Sidonie has listenedintently to the slightest sounds on the floor be-low, the child's crying, the closing of doors.Risler attempts to go down again in order toavoid a renewal of the conversation at break-fast; but his wife will not allow him to do so.The very least he can do is to stay with herwhen everybody else abandons her, and so heremains there, at a loss what to say, rooted tothe spot, like those people who dare not moveduring a storm for fear of attracting the light-ning. Sidonie moves excitedly about, going inand out of the salon, changing the position of achair, putting it back again, looking at herselfas she passes the mirror, and ringing for hermaid to send her to ask Pere Achille if no onehas inquired for her. That Pere Achille is such aspiteful creature! Perhaps when people havecome, he has said that she was out.

But no, the concierge has not seen any one.

Silence and consternation. Sidonie is standingat the window on the left, Risler at the one onthe right. From there they can see the little gar-den, where the darkness is gathering, and theblack smoke which the chimney emits beneaththe lowering clouds. Sigismond's window is thefirst to show a light on the ground floor; thecashier trims his lamp himself with painstakingcare, and his tall shadow passes in front of theflame and bends double behind the grating.Sidonie's wrath is diverted a moment by thesefamiliar details.

Suddenly a small coupe drives into the gardenand stops in front of the door. At last some oneis coming. In that pretty whirl of silk and flow-ers and jet and flounces and furs, as it runsquickly up the step, Sidonie has recognized oneof the most fashionable frequenters of the Fro-mont salon, the wife of a wealthy dealer inbronzes. What an honor to receive a call from

such an one! Quick, quick! the family takes itsposition, Monsieur in front of the hearth, Ma-dame in an easychair, carelessly turning theleaves of a magazine. Wasted pose! The faircaller did not come to see Sidonie; she has stop-ped at the floor below.

Ah! if Madame Georges could hear what herneighbor says of her and her friends!

At that moment the door opens and "Mademoi-selle Planus" is announced. She is the cashier'ssister, a poor old maid, humble and modest,who has made it her duty to make this callupon the wife of her brother's employer, andwho is amazed at the warm welcome she re-ceives. She is surrounded and made much of."How kind of you to come! Draw up to the fi-re." They overwhelm her with attentions andshow great interest in her slightest word. Hon-est Risler's smiles are as warm as his thanks.Sidonie herself displays all her fascinations,overjoyed to exhibit herself in her glory to one

who was her equal in the old days, and to re-flect that the other, in the room below, musthear that she has had callers. So she makes asmuch noise as possible, moving chairs, pushingthe table around; and when the lady takes herleave, dazzled, enchanted, bewildered, she es-corts her to the landing with a great rustling offlounces, and calls to her in a very loud voice,leaning over the rail, that she is at home everyFriday. "You understand, every Friday."

Now it is dark. The two great lamps in the sa-lon are lighted. In the adjoining room they hearthe servant laying the table. It is all over. Ma-dame Fromont Jeune will not come.

Sidonie is pale with rage.

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

As she pours forth her wrath in unjust words,her voice becomes coarse, takes on the intona-tions of the faubourg, an accent of the commonpeople which betrays the ex-apprentice of Ma-demoiselle 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 wouldlike to bite him.

"Will you hold your tongue about that brat?After all, it's your fault that this has happenedto me. You don't know how to make peopletreat me with respect."

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

consternation at his white cuffs, his broad pat-ent-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 toher?" Claire Fromont very often wonderedwhen she thought of Sidonie.

She was entirely ignorant of what had formerlytaken place between her friend and Georges atSavigny. Her own life was so upright, her mindso pure, that it was impossible for her to divinethe jealous, mean-spirited ambition that hadgrown up by her side within the past fifteenyears. And yet the enigmatical expression inthat pretty face as it smiled upon her gave her avague feeling of uneasiness which she couldnot understand. An affectation of politeness,strange enough between friends, was suddenlysucceeded by an ill-dissembled anger, a cold,stinging tone, in presence of which Claire wasas perplexed as by a difficult problem. Some-times, too, a singular presentiment, the ill-defined intuition of a great misfortune, wasmingled with her uneasiness; for all womenhave in some degree a kind of second sight,and, even in the most innocent, ignorance ofevil is suddenly illumined by visions of ex-traordinary lucidity.

From time to time, as the result of a conversa-tion somewhat longer than usual, or of one ofthose unexpected meetings when faces takenby surprise allow their real thoughts to be seen,Madame Fromont reflected seriously concern-ing this strange little Sidonie; but the active,urgent duties of life, with its accompaniment ofaffections and preoccupations, left her no timefor dwelling upon such trifles.

To all women comes a time when they encoun-ter such sudden windings in the road that theirwhole horizon changes and all their points ofview become transformed.

Had Claire been a young girl, the falling awayof that friendship bit by bit, as if torn from herby an unkindly hand, would have been a sour-ce of great regret to her. But she had lost herfather, the object of her greatest, her onlyyouthful affection; then she had married. Thechild had come, with its thrice welcome de-mands upon her every moment. Moreover, she

had with her her mother, almost in her dotage,still stupefied by her husband's tragic death. Ina life so fully occupied, Sidonie's caprices re-ceived but little attention; and it had hardlyoccurred to Claire Fromont to be surprised ather marriage to Risler. He was clearly too oldfor her; but, after all, what difference did itmake, if they loved each other?

As for being vexed because little Chebe hadattained that lofty position, had become almosther equal, her superior nature was incapable ofsuch pettiness. On the contrary, she wouldhave been glad with all her heart to know thatthat young wife, whose home was so near herown, who lived the same life, so to speak, andhad been her playmate in childhood, was hap-py and highly esteemed. Being most kindlydisposed toward her, she tried to teach her, toinstruct her in the ways of society, as one mightinstruct an attractive provincial, who fell butlittle short of being altogether charming.

Advice is not readily accepted by one prettyyoung woman from another. When MadameFromont gave a grand dinner-party, she tookMadame Risler to her bedroom, and said to her,smiling frankly in order not to vex her: "Youhave put on too many jewels, my dear. Andthen, you know, with a high dress one doesn'twear flowers in the hair." Sidonie blushed, andthanked her friend, but wrote down an addi-tional grievance against her in the bottom ofher heart.

In Claire's circle her welcome was decidedlycold. The Faubourg Saint-Germain has its pre-tensions; but do not imagine that the Maraishas none! Those wives and daughters of me-chanics, of wealthy manufacturers, knew littleChebe's story; indeed, they would have gues-sed it simply by her manner of making her ap-pearance and by her demeanor among them.

Sidonie's efforts were unavailing. She retainedthe manners of a shop-girl. Her slightly artifi-

cial amiability, sometimes too humble, was asunpleasant as the spurious elegance of theshop; and her disdainful attitudes recalled thesuperb airs of the head saleswomen in the greatdry-goods establishments, arrayed in black silkgowns, which they take off in the dressing-room when they go away at night—who starewith an imposing air, from the vantage-point oftheir mountains of curls, at the poor creatureswho venture to discuss prices.

She felt that she was being examined and criti-cised, and her modesty was compelled to placeitself upon a war footing. Of the names men-tioned in her presence, the amusements, theentertainments, the books of which they talkedto her, she knew nothing. Claire did her best tohelp her, to keep her on the surface, with afriendly hand always outstretched; but many ofthese ladies thought Sidonie pretty; that wasenough to make them bear her a grudge forseeking admission to their circle. Others, proud

of their husbands' standing and of their wealth,could not invent enough unspoken affronts andpatronizing phrases to humiliate the little par-venue.

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

The two partners had no suspicion of what wastaking place between their wives. Risler, con-tinually engrossed in his press, sometimes re-mained at his draughting-table until midnight.Fromont passed his days abroad, lunched at hisclub, was almost never at the factory. He hadhis reasons for that.

Sidonie's proximity disturbed him. His capri-cious passion for her, that passion that he hadsacrificed to his uncle's last wishes, recurredtoo often to his memory with all the regret onefeels for the irreparable; and, conscious that hewas weak, he fled. His was a pliable nature,

without sustaining purpose, intelligent enoughto appreciate his failings, too weak to guideitself. On the evening of Risler's wedding—hehad been married but a few months himself—he had experienced anew, in that woman's pre-sence, all the emotion of the stormy evening atSavigny. Thereafter, without self-examination,he avoided seeing her again or speaking withher. Unfortunately, as they lived in the samehouse, as their wives saw each other ten times aday, chance sometimes brought them together;and this strange thing happened—that the hus-band, wishing to remain virtuous, deserted hishome altogether and sought distraction else-where.

Claire was not astonished that it was so. Shehad become accustomed, during her father'slifetime, to the constant comings and goings ofa business life; and during her husband's ab-sences, zealously performing her duties as wifeand mother, she invented long tasks, occupa-

tions of all sorts, walks for the child, prolonged,peaceful tarryings in the sunlight, from whichshe would return home, overjoyed with thelittle one's progress, deeply impressed with thegleeful enjoyment of all infants in the fresh air,but with a touch of their radiance in the depthsof her serious eyes.

Sidonie also went out a great deal. It often hap-pened, toward night, that Georges's carriage,driving through the gateway, would compelMadame Risler to step hastily aside as she wasreturning in a gorgeous costume from a trium-phal promenade. The boulevard, the shop-windows, the purchases, made after long delib-eration as if to enjoy to the full the pleasure ofpurchasing, detained her very late. They wouldexchange a bow, a cold glance at the foot of thestaircase; and Georges would hurry into hisapartments, as into a place of refuge, conceal-ing beneath a flood of caresses, bestowed upon

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

Sidonie, for her part, seemed to have forgotteneverything, and to have retained no other feel-ing but contempt for that weak, cowardly crea-ture. Moreover, she had many other things tothink about.

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

After long hesitation she had decided to learnto sing, thinking that it was rather late to beginto play the piano; and twice a week MadameDobson, a pretty, sentimental blonde, came togive her lessons from twelve o'clock to one. Inthe silence of the neighborhood the a-a-a and o-oo, persistently prolonged, repeated again andagain, with windows open, gave the factory theatmosphere of a boarding-school.

And it was in reality a schoolgirl who was prac-tising these exercises, an inexperienced, waver-ing little soul, full of unconfessed longings,with everything to learn and to find out in or-der to become a real woman. But her ambitionconfined itself to a superficial aspect of things.

"Claire Fromont plays the piano; I will sing. Sheis considered a refined and distinguished wo-man, and I intend that people shall say the sa-me of me."

Without a thought of improving her education,Sidonie passed her life running about amongmilliners and dressmakers. "What are peoplegoing to wear this winter?" was her cry. Shewas attracted by the gorgeous displays in theshop-windows, by everything that caught theeye of the passers-by.

The one thing that Sidonie envied Claire morethan all else was the child, the luxurious play-thing, beribboned from the curtains of its cradle

to its nurse's cap. She did not think of thesweet, maternal duties, demanding patienceand self-abnegation, of the long rockings whensleep would not come, of the laughing awaken-ings sparkling with fresh water. No! she saw inthe child naught but the daily walk. It is such apretty sight, the little bundle of finery, withfloating ribbons and long feathers, that followsyoung mothers through the crowded streets.

When she wanted company she had only herparents or her husband. She preferred to go outalone. The excellent Risler had such an absurdway of showing his love for her, playing withher as if she were a doll, pinching her chin andher cheek, capering about her, crying, "Hou!hou!" or staring at her with his great, soft eyeslike an affectionate and grateful dog. That sen-seless love, which made of her a toy, a mantelornament, made her ashamed. As for her par-ents, they were an embarrassment to her inpresence of the people she wished to know, and

immediately after her marriage she almost gotrid of them by hiring a little house for them atMontrouge. That step had cut short the fre-quent invasions of Monsieur Chebe and hislong frock-coat, and the endless visits of goodMadame Chebe, in whom the return of com-fortable circumstances had revived former hab-its of gossip and of indolence.

Sidonie would have been very glad to rid her-self of the Delobelles in the same way, for theirproximity annoyed her. But the Marais was acentral location for the old actor, because theboulevard theatres were so near; then, too, De-siree, like all sedentary persons, clung to thefamiliar outlook, and her gloomy courtyard,dark at four o'clock in winter, seemed to herlike a friend, like a familiar face which the sunlighted up at times as if it were smiling at her.As she was unable to get rid of them, Sidoniehad adopted the course of ceasing to visit them.

In truth, her life would have been lonely anddepressing enough, had it not been for the dis-tractions which Claire Fromont procured forher. Each time added fuel to her wrath. Shewould say to herself:

"Must everything come to me through her?"

And when, just at dinner-time, a box at thetheatre or an invitation for the evening was sentto her from the floor below, while she was dres-sing, overjoyed at the opportunity to exhibitherself, she thought of nothing but crushing herrival. But such opportunities became more rareas Claire's time was more and more engrossedby her child. When Grandfather Gardinois ca-me to Paris, however, he never failed to bringthe two families together. The old peasant'sgayety, for its freer expansion, needed littleSidonie, who did not take alarm at his jests. Hewould take them all four to dine at Philippe's,his favorite restaurant, where he knew all thepatrons, the waiters and the steward, would

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

At the theatre he laughed uproariously, talkedfamiliarly with the box-openers, as he did withthe waiters at Philippe's, loudly demandedfootstools for the ladies, and when the per-formance was over insisted on having thetopcoats and fur wraps of his party first of all,as if he were the only three-million parvenu inthe audience.

For these somewhat vulgar entertainments,from which her husband usually excused him-self, Claire, with her usual tact, dressed veryplainly and attracted no attention. Sidonie, onthe contrary, in all her finery, in full view of theboxes, laughed with all her heart at the grand-father's anecdotes, happy to have descendedfrom the second or third gallery, her usual pla-ce in the old days, to that lovely prosceniumbox, adorned with mirrors, with a velvet rail

that seemed made expressly for her light glo-ves, her ivory opera-glass, and her spangledfan. The tawdry glitter of the theatre, the redand gold of the hangings, were genuine splen-dor to her. She bloomed among them like apretty paper flower in a filigree jardiniere.

One evening, at the performance of a successfulplay at the Palais-Royal, among all the notedwomen who were present, painted celebritieswearing microscopic hats and armed with hugefans, their rouge-besmeared faces standing outfrom the shadow of the boxes in the gaudy set-ting of their gowns, Sidonie's behavior, her toi-lette, the peculiarities of her laugh and her ex-pression attracted much attention. All the op-era-glasses in the hall, guided by the magneticcurrent that is so powerful under the greatchandeliers, were turned one by one upon thebox in which she sat. Claire soon became em-barrassed, and modestly insisted upon chang-

ing places with her husband, who, unluckily,had accompanied them that evening.

Georges, youthful and elegant, sitting besideSidonie, seemed her natural companion, whileRisler Allie, always so placid and self-effacing,seemed in his proper place beside Claire Fro-mont, who in her dark clothes suggested therespectable woman incog. at the Bal de l'Opera.

Upon leaving the theatre each of the partnersoffered his arm to his neighbor. A box-opener,speaking to Sidonie, referred to Georges as"your husband," and the little woman beamedwith delight.

"Your husband!"

That simple phrase was enough to upset herand set in motion a multitude of evil currents inthe depths of her heart. As they passed throughthe corridors and the foyer, she watched Rislerand Madame "Chorche" walking in front of

them. Claire's refinement of manner seemed toher to be vulgarized and annihilated by Risler'sshuffling gait. "How ugly he must make melook when we are walking together!" she saidto herself. And her heart beat fast as shethought what a charming, happy, admiredcouple they would have made, she and thisGeorges Fromont, whose arm was tremblingbeneath her own.

Thereupon, when the blue-lined carriage droveup to the door of the theatre, she began to re-flect, for the first time, that, when all was said,Claire had stolen her place and that she wouldbe justified in trying to recover it.

CHAPTER VIII. THE BREWERY ON THERUE BLONDEL

After his marriage Risler had given up the bre-wery. Sidonie would have been glad to havehim leave the house in the evening for a fash-ionable club, a resort of wealthy, well-dressedmen; but the idea of his returning, amid cloudsof pipe-smoke, to his friends of earlier days,Sigismond, Delobelle, and her own father, hu-miliated her and made her unhappy. So heceased to frequent the place; and that was so-mething of a sacrifice. It was almost a glimpseof his native country, that brewery situated in aremote corner of Paris. The infrequent car-riages, the high, barred windows of the groundfloors, the odor of fresh drugs, of pharmaceuti-cal preparations, imparted to that narrow littleRue Blondel a vague resemblance to certainstreets in Basle or Zurich.

The brewery was managed by a Swiss andcrowded with men of that nationality. Whenthe door was opened, through the smoke-ladenatmosphere, dense with the accents of theNorth, one had a vision of a vast, low roomwith hams hanging from the rafters, casks ofbeer standing in a row, the floor ankle-deepwith sawdust, and on the counter great salad-bowls filled with potatoes as red as chestnuts,and baskets of pretzels fresh from the oven,their golden knots sprinkled with white salt.

For twenty years Risler had had his pipe there,a long pipe marked with his name in the rackreserved for the regular customers. He had alsohis table, at which he was always joined byseveral discreet, quiet compatriots, who lis-tened admiringly, but without comprehendingthem, to the endless harangues of Chebe andDelobelle. When Risler ceased his visits to thebrewery, the two last-named worthies likewiseturned their backs upon it, for several excellent

reasons. In the first place, M. Chebe now liveda considerable distance away. Thanks to thegenerosity of his children, the dream of hiswhole life was realized at last.

"When I am rich," the little man used to say inhis cheerless rooms in the Marais, "I will have ahouse of my own, at the gates of Paris, almostin the country, a little garden which I will plantand water myself. That will be better for myhealth 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 theroad that runs around the city. "A small chalet,with garden," said the advertisement, printedon a placard which gave an almost exact idea ofthe dimensions of the property. The paperswere new and of rustic design, the paint per-fectly fresh; a water-butt planted beside a vine-clad arbor played the part of a pond. In addi-tion to all these advantages, only a hedge sepa-rated this paradise from another "chalet with

garden" of precisely the same description, oc-cupied by Sigismond Planus the cashier, andhis sister. To Madame Chebe that was a mostprecious circumstance. When the good womanwas bored, she would take a stock of knittingand darning and go and sit in the old maid'sarbor, dazzling her with the tale of her pastsplendors. Unluckily, her husband had not thesame source of distraction.

However, everything went well at first. It wasmidsummer, and M. Chebe, always in his shirt-sleeves, was busily employed in getting settled.Each nail to be driven in the house was the sub-ject of leisurely reflections, of endless discus-sions. It was the same with the garden. He haddetermined at first to make an English gardenof it, lawns always green, winding paths sha-ded by shrubbery. But the trouble of it was thatit took so long for the shrubbery to grow.

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

And thenceforth he dreamed of nothing butvegetables, long lines of beans, and peach-treesagainst the wall. He dug for whole mornings,knitting his brows in a preoccupied way andwiping his forehead ostentatiously before hiswife, so that she would say:

"For heaven's sake, do rest a bit—you're killingyourself."

The result was that the garden was a mixture:flowers and fruit, park and kitchen garden; andwhenever he went into Paris M. Chebe wascareful to decorate his buttonhole with a rosefrom his rose-bushes.

While the fine weather lasted, the good peopledid not weary of admiring the sunsets behindthe fortifications, the long days, the bracingcountry air. Sometimes, in the evening, whenthe windows were open, they sang duets; andin presence of the stars in heaven, which beganto twinkle simultaneously with the lanterns on

the railway around the city, Ferdinand wouldbecome poetical. But when the rain came andhe could not go out, what misery! MadameChebe, a thorough Parisian, sighed for the nar-row streets of the Marais, her expeditions to themarket of Blancs-Manteaux, and to the shops ofthe quarter.

As she sat by the window, her usual place forsewing and observation, she would gaze at thedamp little garden, where the volubilis and thenasturtiums, stripped of their blossoms, weredropping away from the lattices with an air ofexhaustion, at the long, straight line of the gras-sy slope of the fortifications, still fresh andgreen, and, a little farther on, at the corner of astreet, the office of the Paris omnibuses, with allthe points of their route inscribed in enticingletters on the green walls. Whenever one of theomnibuses lumbered away on its journey, shefollowed it with her eyes, as a governmentclerk at Cayenne or Noumea gazes after the

steamer about to return to France; she made thetrip with it, knew just where it would stop, atwhat point it would lurch around a corner, gra-zing the shop-windows with its wheels.

As a prisoner, M. Chebe became a terrible trial.He could not work in the garden. On Sundaysthe fortifications were deserted; he could nolonger strut about among the workingmen'sfamilies dining on the grass, and pass fromgroup to group in a neighborly way, his feetencased in embroidered slippers, with the au-thoritative demeanor of a wealthy landownerof the vicinity. This he missed more thananything else, consumed as he was by thedesire to make people think about him. So that,having nothing to do, having no one to posebefore, no one to listen to his schemes, hisstories, the anecdote of the accident to the Ducd'Orleans—a similar accident had happened tohim in his youth, you remember—theunfortunate Ferdinand overwhelmed his wifewith reproaches.

"Your daughter banishes us—your daughter isashamed of us!"

She heard nothing but that "Your daughter—your daughter—your daughter!" For, in hisanger with Sidonie, he denied her, throwingupon his wife the whole responsibility for thatmonstrous and unnatural child. It was a genu-ine relief for poor Madame Chebe when herhusband took an omnibus at the office to goand hunt up Delobelle—whose hours for loun-ging were always at his disposal—and pourinto his bosom all his rancor against his son-in-law and his daughter.

The illustrious Delobelle also bore Risler agrudge, and freely said of him: "He is a das-tard."

The great man had hoped to form an integralpart of the new household, to be the organizerof festivities, the 'arbiter elegantiarum'. Insteadof which, Sidonie received him very coldly, and

Risler no longer even took him to the brewery.However, the actor did not complain too loud,and whenever he met his friend he over-whelmed him with attentions and flattery; forhe had need of him.

Weary of awaiting the discerning manager,seeing that the engagement he had longed forso many years did not come, it had occurred toDelobelle to purchase a theatre and manage ithimself. He counted upon Risler for the funds.Opportunely enough, a small theatre on theboulevard happened to be for sale, as a result ofthe failure of its manager. Delobelle mentionedit to Risler, at first very vaguely, in a whollyhypothetical form—"There would be a goodchance to make a fine stroke." Risler listenedwith his usual phlegm, saying, "Indeed, itwould be a good thing for you." And to a moredirect suggestion, not daring to answer, "No,"he took refuge behind such phrases as "I willsee"—"Perhaps later"—"I don't say no"—and

finally uttered the unlucky words "I must seethe estimates."

For a whole week the actor had delved away atplans and figures, seated between his wife anddaughter, who watched him in admiration, andintoxicated themselves with this latest dream.The people in the house said, "Monsieur Delo-belle is going to buy a theatre." On the boule-vard, in the actors' cafes, nothing was talked ofbut this transaction. Delobelle did not concealthe fact that he had found some one to advancethe funds; the result being that he was sur-rounded by a crowd of unemployed actors, oldcomrades who tapped him familiarly on theshoulder and recalled themselves to his recol-lection—"You know, old boy." He promisedengagements, breakfasted at the cafe, wroteletters there, greeted those who entered withthe tips of his fingers, held very animated con-versations in corners; and already two thread-bare authors had read to him a drama in seven

tableaux, which was "exactly what he wanted"for his opening piece. He talked about "mytheatre!" and his letters were addressed, "Mon-sieur Delobelle, Manager."

When he had composed his prospectus andmade his estimates, he went to the factory tosee Risler, who, being very busy, made an ap-pointment to meet him in the Rue Blondel; andthat same evening, Delobelle, being the first toarrive at the brewery, established himself attheir old table, ordered a pitcher of beer andtwo glasses, and waited. He waited a long whi-le, with his eye on the door, trembling withimpatience. Whenever any one entered, theactor turned his head. He had spread his pa-pers on the table, and pretended to be readingthem, with animated gestures and movementsof the head and lips.

It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in itsway. He already fancied himself acting—forthat was the main point—acting, in a theatre of

his own, roles written expressly for him, to suithis talents, in which he would produce all theeffect of—

Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe ma-de his appearance amid the pipe-smoke. Hewas as surprised and annoyed to find Delobellethere as Delobelle himself was by his coming.He had written to his son-in-law that morningthat he wished to speak with him on a matter ofvery serious importance, and that he wouldmeet him at the brewery. It was an affair ofhonor, entirely between themselves, from manto man. The real fact concerning this affair ofhonor was that M. Chebe had given notice ofhis intention to leave the little house at Mon-trouge, and had hired a shop with an entresolin the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a businessdistrict. A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he wasa little alarmed regarding his hasty step, anx-ious to know how his son-in-law would take it,especially as the shop cost much more than the

Montrouge house, and there were some repairsto be made at the outset. As he had long beenacquainted with his son-in-law's kindness ofheart, M. Chebe had determined to appeal tohim at once, hoping to lead him into his gameand throw upon him the responsibility for thisdomestic change. Instead of Risler he foundDelobelle.

They looked askance at each other, with anunfriendly eye, like two dogs meeting besidethe same dish. Each divined for whom the ot-her was waiting, and they did not try to de-ceive each other.

"Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebe,eying the documents spread over the table, andemphasizing the words "my son-in-law," toindicate that Risler belonged to him and to no-body else.

"I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, gath-ering up his papers.

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

"It is a matter of very great importance."

"So is mine," declared M. Chebe, his three hairsstanding erect like a porcupine's quills.

As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench be-side Delobelle, ordered a pitcher and twoglasses as the former had done, then sat erectwith his hands in his pockets and his backagainst the wall, waiting in his turn. The twoempty glasses in front of them, intended for thesame absentee, seemed to be hurling defianceat each other.

But Risler did not come.

The two men, drinking in silence, lost their pa-tience and fidgeted about on the bench, eachhoping that the other would tire of waiting.

At last their ill-humor overflowed, and natu-rally poor Risler received the whole flood.

"What an outrage to keep a man of my yearswaiting so long!" began M. Chebe, who nevermentioned his great age except upon such oc-casions.

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

And the other:

"No doubt Monsieur had company to dinner."

"And such company!" scornfully exclaimed theillustrious actor, in whose mind bitter memo-ries were awakened.

"The fact is—" continued M. Chebe.

They drew closer to each other and talked. Thehearts of both were full in respect to Sidonieand Risler. They opened the flood-gates. That

Risler, with all his good-nature, was an egotistpure and simple, a parvenu. They laughed athis accent and his bearing, they mimicked cer-tain of his peculiarities. Then they talked abouthis household, and, lowering their voices, theybecame confidential, laughed familiarly to-gether, were friends once more.

M. Chebe went very far: "Let him beware! hehas been foolish enough to send the father andmother away from their daughter; if anythinghappens to her, he can't blame us. A girl whohasn't her parents' example before her eyes,you understand—"

"Certainly—certainly," said Delobelle; "espe-cially as Sidonie has become a great flirt. How-ever, what can you expect? He will get no morethan he deserves. No man of his age ought to—Hush! here he is!"

Risler had entered the room, and was walkingtoward them, distributing hand-shakes allalong the benches.

There was a moment of embarrassment be-tween the three friends. Risler excused himselfas well as he could. He had been detained athome; Sidonie had company—Delobelle tou-ched M. Chebe's foot under the table—and, ashe spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexedby the two empty glasses that awaited him,wondered in front of which of the two he oughtto take his seat.

Delobelle was generous.

"You have business together, Messieurs; do notlet me disturb you."

He added in a low tone, winking at Risler:

"I have the papers."

"The papers?" echoed Risler, in a bewilderedtone.

"The estimates," whispered the actor.

Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, hewithdrew within himself, and resumed the rea-ding of his documents, his head in his handsand his fingers in his ears.

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

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

"Why a shop?—why a shop?" repeated M. Che-be, red as an Easter egg, and raising his voice toits highest pitch. "Why, because I'm a merchant,Monsieur Risler, a merchant and son of a mer-chant. Oh! I see what you're coming at. I haveno business. But whose fault is it? If the peoplewho shut me up at Montrouge, at the gates ofBicetre, like a paralytic, had had the good senseto furnish me with the money to start in busi-ness—"

At that point Risler succeeded in silencing him,and thereafter only snatches of the conversationcould be heard: "a more convenient shop—highceilings—better air—future plans—enormousbusiness—I will speak when the time comes—many people will be astonished."

As he caught these fragments of sentences, De-lobelle became more and more absorbed in hisestimates, presenting the eloquent back of theman who is not listening. Risler, sorely per-

plexed, slowly sipped his beer from time totime to keep himself, in countenance.

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

"Ah! Mon Dieu!—that is true," thought the poorfellow.

Changing at once his chair and his glass, hetook his seat opposite the actor. But M. Chebehad not Delobelle's courtesy. Instead of dis-creetly moving away, he took his glass andjoined the others, so that the great man,unwilling to speak before him, solemnlyreplaced his documents in his pocket a secondtime, saying to Risler:

"We will talk this over later."

Very much later, in truth, for M. Chebe hadreflected:

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

And he remained on guard. The actor was furi-ous. It was impossible to postpone the matter tosome other day, for Risler told them that hewas going the next day to spend the nextmonth at Savigny.

"A month at Savigny!" exclaimed M. Chebe,incensed at the thought of his son-in-law escap-ing him. "How about business?"

"Oh! I shall come to Paris every day with Geor-ges. Monsieur Gardinois is very anxious to seehis little Sidonie."

M. Chebe shook his head. He considered it veryimprudent. Business is business. A man ought

to be on the spot, always on the spot, in thebreach. Who could say?—the factory mighttake fire in the night. And he repeated senten-tiously: "The eye of the master, my dear fellow,the eye of the master," while the actor—whowas little better pleased by this intended depar-ture—opened his great eyes; giving them anexpression at once cunning and authoritative,the veritable expression of the eye of the mas-ter.

At last, about midnight, the last Montrougeomnibus bore away the tyrannical father-in-law, and Delobelle was able to speak.

"Let us first look at the prospectus," he said,preferring not to attack the question of figuresat once; and with his eyeglasses on his nose, hebegan, in a declamatory tone, always upon thestage: "When one considers coolly the decrepi-tude which dramatic art has reached in France,when one measures the distance that separatesthe stage of Moliere—"

There were several pages like that. Risler lis-tened, puffing at his pipe, afraid to stir, for thereader looked at him every moment over hiseyeglasses, to watch the effect of his phrases.Unfortunately, right in the middle of the pro-spectus, the cafe closed. The lights were extin-guished; they must go.—And the estimates?—Itwas agreed that they should read them as theywalked along. They stopped at every gaslight.The actor displayed his figures. So much for thehall, so much for the lighting, so much forpoor-rates, so much for the actors. On thatquestion of the actors he was firm.

"The best point about the affair," he said, "isthat we shall have no leading man to pay. Ourleading man will be Bibi." (When Delobellementioned himself, he commonly called him-self Bibi.) "A leading man is paid twenty thou-sand francs, and as we have none to pay, it'sjust as if you put twenty thousand francs inyour pocket. Tell me, isn't that true?"

Risler did not reply. He had the constrainedmanner, the wandering eyes of the man whosethoughts are elsewhere. The reading of the es-timates being concluded, Delobelle, dismayedto find that they were drawing near the cornerof the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, put thequestion squarely. Would Risler advance themoney, yes or no?

"Well!—no," said Risler, inspired by heroic cou-rage, which he owed principally to the prox-imity of the factory and to the thought that thewelfare of his family was at stake.

Delobelle was astounded. He had believed thatthe business was as good as done, and he sta-red at his companion, intensely agitated, hiseyes as big as saucers, and rolling his papers inhis hand.

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

Thereupon the worthy man, slowly, with hisusual heaviness of speech, explained that hewas not rich. Although a partner in a wealthyhouse, he had no available funds. Georges andhe drew a certain sum from the concern eachmonth; then, when they struck a balance at theend of the year they divided the profits. It hadcost him a good deal to begin housekeeping: allhis savings. It was still four months before theinventory. Where was he to obtain the 30,000francs to be paid down at once for the theatre?And then, beyond all that, the affair could notbe successful.

"Why, it must succeed. Bibi will be there!" Ashe spoke, poor Bibi drew himself up to his fullheight; but Risler was determined, and all Bibi'sarguments met the same refusal—"Later, in twoor three years, I don't say something may notbe done."

The actor fought for a long time, yielding hisground inch by inch. He proposed revising his

estimates. The thing might be done cheaper. "Itwould still be too dear for me," Risler inter-rupted. "My name doesn't belong to me. It is apart of the firm. I have no right to pledge it.Imagine my going into bankruptcy!" His voicetrembled as he uttered the word.

"But if everything is in my name," said Delobe-lle, who had no superstition. He tried every-thing, invoked the sacred interests of art, wentso far as to mention the fascinating actresseswhose alluring glances—Risler laughed aloud.

"Come, come, you rascal! What's that you'resaying? You forget that we're both marriedmen, and that it is very late and our wives areexpecting us. No ill-will, eh?—This is not a re-fusal, you understand.—By the way, come andsee me after the inventory. We will talk it overagain. Ah! there's Pere Achille putting out hisgas.—I must go in. Good-night."

It was after one o'clock when the actor returnedhome. The two women were waiting for him,working as usual, but with a sort of feverishactivity which was strange to them. Every mo-ment the great scissors that Mamma Delobelleused to cut the brass wire were seized withstrange fits of trembling, and Desiree's littlefingers, as she mounted an insect, moved sofast that it made one dizzy to watch them. Eventhe long feathers of the little birds scatteredabout on the table before her seemed more bril-liant, more richly colored, than on other days. Itwas because a lovely visitor named Hope hadcalled upon them that evening. She had madethe tremendous effort required to climb fivedark flights of stairs, and had opened the doorof the little room to cast a luminous glance the-rein. However much you may have been de-ceived in life, those magic gleams alwaysdazzle you.

"Oh! if your father could only succeed!" saidMamma Delobelle from time to time, as if tosum up a whole world of happy thoughts towhich her reverie abandoned itself.

"He will succeed, mamma, never fear. Mon-sieur Risler is so kind, I will answer for him.And Sidonie is very fond of us, too, althoughsince she was married she does seem to neglecther old friends a little. But we must make al-lowance for the difference in our positions. Be-sides, I never shall forget what she did for me."

And, at the thought of what Sidonie had donefor her, the little cripple applied herself witheven more feverish energy to her work. Herelectrified fingers moved with redoubled swift-ness. You would have said that they were run-ning after some fleeing, elusive thing, like hap-piness, for example, or the love of some onewho loves you not.

"What was it that she did for you?" her motherwould naturally have asked her; but at thatmoment she was only slightly interested inwhat her daughter said. She was thinking ex-clusively of her great man.

"No! do you think so, my dear? Just supposeyour father should have a theatre of his ownand act again as in former days. You don't re-member; you were too small then. But he hadtremendous success, no end of recalls. Onenight, at Alencon, the subscribers to the theatregave him a gold wreath. Ah! he was a brilliantman in those days, so lighthearted, so glad tobe alive. Those who see him now don't knowhim, poor man, misfortune has changed him so.Oh, well! I feel sure that all that's necessary is alittle success to make him young and happyagain. And then there's money to be made ma-naging theatres. The manager at Nantes had acarriage. Can you imagine us with a carriage?Can you imagine it, I say? That's what would

be good for you. You could go out, leave yourarmchair once in a while. Your father wouldtake us into the country. You would see thewater and the trees you have had such a long-ing to see."

"Oh! the trees," murmured the pale little re-cluse, trembling from head to foot.

At that moment the street door of the housewas closed violently, and M. Delobelle's meas-ured step echoed in the vestibule. There was amoment of speechless, breathless anguish. Thewomen dared not look at each other, and mam-ma's great scissors trembled so that they cut thewire crooked.

The poor devil had unquestionably received aterrible blow. His illusions crushed, the hu-miliation of a refusal, the jests of his comrades,the bill at the cafe where he had breakfasted oncredit during the whole period of his manager-ship, a bill which must be paid—all these

things occurred to him in the silence and gloomof the five flights he had to climb. His heart wastorn. Even so, the actor's nature was so strongin him that he deemed it his duty to envelophis distress, genuine as it was, in a conventionaltragic mask.

As he entered, he paused, cast an ominousglance around the work-room, at the table cov-ered with work, his little supper waiting forhim in a corner, and the two dear, anxious faceslooking up at him with glistening eyes. Hestood a full minute without speaking—and youknow how long a minute's silence seems on thestage; then he took three steps forward, sankupon a low chair beside the table, and ex-claimed in a hissing voice:

"Ah! I am accursed!"

At the same time he dealt the table such a terri-ble blow with his fist that the "birds and insectsfor ornament" flew to the four corners of the

room. His terrified wife rose and timidly ap-proached him, while Desiree half rose in herarmchair with an expression of nervous agonythat distorted all her features.

Lolling in his chair, his arms hanging despon-dently by his sides, his head on his chest, theactor soliloquized—a fragmentary soliloquy,interrupted by sighs and dramatic hiccoughs,overflowing with imprecations against the piti-less, selfish bourgeois, those monsters to whomthe artist gives his flesh and blood for food anddrink.

Then he reviewed his whole theatrical life, hisearly triumphs, the golden wreath from thesubscribers at Alencon, his marriage to this"sainted woman," and he pointed to the poorcreature who stood by his side, with tearsstreaming from her eyes, and trembling lips,nodding her head dotingly at every word herhusband said.

In very truth, a person who never had heard ofthe illustrious Delobelle could have told hishistory in detail after that long monologue. Herecalled his arrival in Paris, his humiliations,his privations. Alas! he was not the one whohad known privation. One had but to look athis full, rotund face beside the thin, drawn fa-ces of the two women. But the actor did notlook so closely.

"Oh!" he said, continuing to intoxicate himselfwith declamatory phrases, "oh! to have strug-gled so long. For ten years, fifteen years, have Istruggled on, supported by these devoted crea-tures, fed by them."

"Papa, papa, hush," cried Desiree, clasping herhands.

"Yes, fed by them, I say—and I do not blush forit. For I accept all this devotion in the name ofsacred art. But this is too much. Too much hasbeen put upon me. I renounce the stage!"

"Oh! my dear, what is that you say?" criedMamma Delobelle, rushing to his side.

"No, leave me. I have reached the end of mystrength. They have slain the artist in me. It isall over. I renounce the stage."

If you had seen the two women throw theirarms about him then, implore him to struggleon, prove to him that he had no right to giveup, you could not have restrained your tears.But Delobelle resisted.

He yielded at last, however, and promised tocontinue the fight a little while, since it wastheir wish; but it required many an entreatyand caress to carry the point.

CHAPTER IX. AT SAVIGNY

It was a great misfortune, that sojourn of thetwo families at Savigny for a month.

After an interval of two years Georges and Si-donie found themselves side by side once moreon the old estate, too old not to be always likeitself, where the stones, the ponds, the trees,always the same, seemed to cast derision uponall that changes and passes away. A renewal ofintercourse under such circumstances musthave been disastrous to two natures that werenot of a very different stamp, and far more vir-tuous than those two.

As for Claire, she never had been so happy;Savigny never had seemed so lovely to her.What joy to walk with her child over the green-sward where she herself had walked as a child;to sit, a young mother, upon the shaded seatsfrom which her own mother had looked on at

her childish games years before; to go, leaningon Georges's arm, to seek out the nooks wherethey had played together. She felt a tranquilcontentment, the overflowing happiness ofplacid lives which enjoy their bliss in silence;and all day long her skirts swept along thepaths, guided by the tiny footsteps of the child,her cries and her demands upon her mother'scare.

Sidonie seldom took part in these maternalpromenades. She said that the chatter of chil-dren tired her, and therein she agreed with oldGardinois, who seized upon any pretext to an-noy his granddaughter. He believed that heaccomplished that object by devoting himselfexclusively to Sidonie, and arranging even mo-re entertainments for her than on her formervisit. The carriages that had been shut up in thecarriage-house for two years, and were dustedonce a week because the spiders spun theirwebs on the silk cushions, were placed at her

disposal. The horses were harnessed three ti-mes a day, and the gate was continually turn-ing on its hinges. Everybody in the house fol-lowed this impulse of worldliness. The gar-dener paid more attention to his flowers be-cause Madame Risler selected the finest ones towear in her hair at dinner. And then there werecalls to be made. Luncheon parties were given,gatherings at which Madame Fromont Jeunepresided, but at which Sidonie, with her livelymanners, shone supreme. Indeed, Claire oftenleft her a clear field. The child had its hours forsleeping and riding out, with which no amu-sements could interfere. The mother was com-pelled to remain away, and it often happenedthat she was unable to go with Sidonie to meetthe partners when they came from Paris atnight.

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

Madame Risler was triumphant. A picture ofelegant indolence, she would drive away be-hind the galloping horses, unconscious of theswiftness of their pace, without a thought inher mind.

Other carriages were always waiting at the sta-tion. Two or three times she heard some onenear her whisper, "That is Madame FromontJeune," and, indeed, it was a simple matter forpeople to make the mistake, seeing the threereturn together from the station, Sidonie sittingbeside Georges on the back seat, laughing andtalking with him, and Risler facing them, smil-ing contentedly with his broad hands spreadflat upon his knees, but evidently feeling a littleout of place in that fine carriage. The thoughtthat she was taken for Madame Fromont madeher very proud, and she became a little moreaccustomed to it every day. On their arrival atthe chateau, the two families separated untildinner; but, in the presence of his wife sitting

tranquilly beside the sleeping child, GeorgesFromont, too young to be absorbed by the joysof domesticity, was continually thinking of thebrilliant Sidonie, whose voice he could hearpouring forth triumphant roulades under thetrees in the garden.

While the whole chateau was thus transformedin obedience to the whims of a young woman,old Gardinois continued to lead the narrow lifeof a discontented, idle, impotent 'parvenu'. Themost successful means of distraction he haddiscovered was espionage. The goings and co-mings of his servants, the remarks that weremade about him in the kitchen, the basket offruit and vegetables brought every morningfrom the kitchen-garden to the pantry, wereobjects of continual investigation.

For the purposes of this constant spying uponhis household, he made use of a stone bench setin the gravel behind an enormous Paulownia.He would sit there whole days at a time, nei-

ther reading nor thinking, simply watching tosee who went in or out. For the night he hadinvented something different. In the great ves-tibule at the main entrance, which opened uponthe front steps with their array of bright flow-ers, he had caused an opening to be made lead-ing to his bedroom on the floor above. Anacoustic tube of an improved type was sup-posed to convey to his ears every sound on theground floor, even to the conversation of theservants taking the air on the steps.

Unluckily, the instrument was so powerful thatit exaggerated all the noises, confused themand prolonged them, and the powerful, regularticking of a great clock, the cries of a paroquetkept in one of the lower rooms, the clucking ofa hen in search of a lost kernel of corn, were allMonsieur Gardinois could hear when he ap-plied his ear to the tube. As for voices, theyreached him in the form of a confused buzzing,like the muttering of a crowd, in which it was

impossible to distinguish anything. He hadnothing to show for the expense of the appara-tus, and he concealed his wonderful tube in afold of his bed-curtains.

One night Gardinois, who had fallen asleep,was awakened suddenly by the creaking of adoor. It was an extraordinary thing at thathour. The whole house hold was asleep. Noth-ing could be heard save the footsteps of thewatch-dogs on the sand, or their scratching atthe foot of a tree in which an owl was screech-ing. An excellent opportunity to use his listen-ing-tube! Upon putting it to his ear, M. Gardi-nois was assured that he had made no mistake.The sounds continued. One door was opened,then another. The bolt of the front door wasthrown back with an effort. But neither Pyra-mus nor Thisbe, not even Kiss, the formidableNewfoundland, had made a sign. He rose sof-tly to see who those strange burglars could be,who were leaving the house instead of entering

it; and this is what he saw through the slats ofhis blind:

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

It was a superb moonlight night. The moon,silvering the treetops, made numberless flakesof light amid the dense foliage. The terraces,white with moonbeams, where the Newfound-lands in their curly coats went to and fro, wat-ching the night butterflies, the smooth, deepwaters of the ponds, all shone with a mute,calm brilliance, as if reflected in a silver mirror.Here and there glow-worms twinkled on theedges of the greensward.

The two promenaders remained for a momentbeneath the shade of the Paulownia, sittingsilent on the bench, lost in the dense darknesswhich the moon makes where its rays do not

reach. Suddenly they appeared in the brightlight, wrapped in a languishing embrace; thenwalked slowly across the main avenue, anddisappeared among the trees.

"I was sure of it!" said old Gardinois, recogniz-ing them. Indeed, what need had he to recog-nize them? Did not the silence of the dogs, theaspect of the sleeping house, tell him moreclearly than anything else could, what speciesof impudent crime, unknown and unpunished,haunted the avenues in his park by night? Bethat as it may, the old peasant was overjoyedby his discovery. He returned to bed without alight, chuckling to himself, and in the little ca-binet filled with hunting-implements, whencehe had watched them, thinking at first that hehad to do with burglars, the moon's rays shoneupon naught save the fowling-pieces hangingon the wall and the boxes of cartridges of allsizes.

Sidonie and Georges had taken up the thread oftheir love at the corner of the same avenue. Theyear that had passed, marked by hesitation, byvague struggles, by fruitless resistance, seemedto have been only a preparation for their meet-ing. And it must be said that, when once thefatal step was taken, they were surprised atnothing so much as the fact that they had post-poned it so long. Georges Fromont especiallywas seized by a mad passion. He was false tohis wife, his best friend; he was false to Risler,his partner, the faithful companion of his everyhour.

He felt a constant renewal, a sort of overflow ofremorse, wherein his passion was intensifiedby the magnitude of his sin. Sidonie became hisone engrossing thought, and he discovered thatuntil then he had not lived. As for her, her lovewas made up of vanity and spite. The thingthat she relished above all else was Claire's de-gradation in her eyes. Ah! if she could only

have said to her, "Your husband loves me—heis false to you with me," her pleasure wouldhave been even greater. As for Risler, in herview he richly deserved what had happened tohim. In her old apprentice's jargon, in whichshe still thought, even if she did not speak it,the poor man was only "an old fool," whom shehad taken as a stepping-stone to fortune. "Anold fool" is made to be deceived!

During the day Savigny belonged to Claire, tothe child who ran about upon the gravel,laughing at the birds and the clouds, and whogrew apace. The mother and child had for theirown the daylight, the paths filled with sun-beams. But the blue nights were given over tosin, to that sin firmly installed in the chateau,which spoke in undertones, crept noiselesslybehind the closed blinds, and in face of whichthe sleeping house became dumb and blind,and resumed its stony impassibility, as if itwere ashamed to see and hear.

CHAPTER X. SIGISMOND PLANUSTREMBLES FOR HIS CASH-BOX.

"Carriage, my dear Chorche?—I—have a car-riage? What for?"

"I assure you, my dear Risler, that it is quiteessential for you. Our business, our relations,are extending every day; the coupe is no longerenough for us. Besides, it doesn't look well tosee one of the partners always in his carriageand the other on foot. Believe me, it is a neces-sary outlay, and of course it will go into thegeneral expenses of the firm. Come, resignyourself to the inevitable."

It was genuine resignation. It seemed to Risleras if he were stealing something in taking the

money for such an unheard-of luxury as a car-riage; however, he ended by yielding to Geor-ges's persistent representations, thinking as hedid so:

"This will make Sidonie very happy!"

The poor fellow had no suspicion that Sidonieherself, a month before, had selected at Binder'sthe coupe which Georges insisted upon givingher, and which was to be charged to expenseaccount in order not to alarm the husband.

Honest Risler was so plainly created to be de-ceived. His inborn uprightness, the implicitconfidence in men and things, which was thefoundation of his transparent nature, had beenintensified of late by preoccupation resultingfrom his pursuit of the Risler Press, an inven-tion destined to revolutionize the wall-paperindustry and representing in his eyes his con-tribution to the partnership assets. When helaid aside his drawings and left his little work-

room on the first floor, his face invariably worethe absorbed look of the man who has his lifeon one side, his anxieties on another. What adelight it was to him, therefore, to find hishome always tranquil, his wife always in goodhumor, becomingly dressed and smiling.

Without undertaking to explain the change tohimself, he recognized that for some time pastthe "little one" had not been as before in hertreatment of him. She allowed him to resumehis old habits: the pipe at dessert, the little napafter dinner, the appointments at the brewerywith Chebe and Delobelle. Their apartmentsalso were transformed, embellished.

A grand piano by a famous maker made itsappearance in the salon in place of the old one,and Madame Dobson, the singing-teacher, ca-me no longer twice a week, but every day, mu-sic-roll in hand.

Of a curious type was that young woman ofAmerican extraction, with hair of an acidblond, like lemon-pulp, over a bold foreheadand metallic blue eyes. As her husband wouldnot allow her to go on the stage, she gave les-sons, and sang in some bourgeois salons. As aresult of living in the artificial world of compo-sitions for voice and piano, she had contracteda species of sentimental frenzy.

She was romance itself. In her mouth the words"love" and "passion" seemed to have eightysyllables, she uttered them with so much ex-pression. Oh, expression! That was what Mis-tress Dobson placed before everything, andwhat she tried, and tried in vain, to impart toher pupil.

'Ay Chiquita,' upon which Paris fed for severalseasons, was then at the height of its popular-ity. Sidonie studied it conscientiously, and allthe morning she could be heard singing:

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

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

"Mouri-i-i-i-i-r!" the expressive Madame Dob-son would interpose, while her hands wan-dered feebly over the piano-keys; and die shewould, raising her light blue eyes to the ceilingand wildly throwing back her head. Sidonienever could accomplish it. Her mischievouseyes, her lips, crimson with fulness of life, werenot made for such AEolian-harp sentimentali-ties. The refrains of Offenbach or Herve, inter-spersed with unexpected notes, in which oneresorts to expressive gestures for aid, to a mo-tion of the head or the body, would have suitedher better; but she dared not admit it to hersentimental instructress. By the way, althoughshe had been made to sing a great deal at Ma-demoiselle Le Mire's, her voice was still freshand not unpleasing.

Having no social connections, she came gradu-ally to make a friend of her singing-mistress.She would keep her to breakfast, take her todrive in the new coupe and to assist in her pur-chases of gowns and jewels. Madame Dobson'ssentimental and sympathetic tone led one torepose confidence in her. Her continual repin-ings seemed too long to attract other repinings.Sidonie told her of Georges, of their relations,attempting to palliate her offence by blamingthe cruelty of her parents in marrying her byforce to a man much older than herself. Ma-dame Dobson at once showed a disposition toassist them; not that the little woman was ve-nal, but she had a passion for passion, a tastefor romantic intrigue. As she was unhappy inher own home, married to a dentist who beather, all husbands were monsters in her eyes,and poor Risler especially seemed to her a hor-rible tyrant whom his wife was quite justifiedin hating and deceiving.

She was an active confidant and a very usefulone. Two or three times a week she wouldbring tickets for a box at the Opera or the Ita-liens, or some one of the little theatres whichenjoy a temporary vogue, and cause all Paris togo from one end of Paris to the other for a sea-son. In Risler's eyes the tickets came from Ma-dame Dobson; she had as many as she chose tothe theatres where operas were given. The poorwretch had no suspicion that one of those boxesfor an important "first night" had often cost hispartner ten or fifteen Louis.

In the evening, when his wife went away, al-ways splendidly attired, he would gaze admir-ingly at her, having no suspicion of the cost ofher costumes, certainly none of the man whopaid for them, and would await her return athis table by the fire, busy with his drawings,free from care, and happy to be able to say tohimself, "What a good time she is having!"

On the floor below, at the Fromonts', the samecomedy was being played, but with a transpo-sition of parts. There it was the young wife whosat by the fire. Every evening, half an hour afterSidonie's departure, the great gate swung opento give passage to the Fromont coupe convey-ing Monsieur to his club. What would youhave? Business has its demands. All the greatdeals are arranged at the club, around the boui-llotte table, and a man must go there or sufferthe penalty of seeing his business fall off. Claireinnocently believed it all. When her husbandhad gone, she felt sad for a moment. She wouldhave liked so much to keep him with her or togo out leaning on his arm, to seek enjoymentwith him. But the sight of the child, cooing infront of the fire and kicking her little pink feetwhile she was being undressed, speedily soot-hed the mother. Then the eloquent word "busi-ness," the merchant's reason of state, was al-ways at hand to help her to resign herself.

Georges and Sidonie met at the theatre. Theirfeeling at first when they were together wasone of satisfied vanity. People stared at them agreat deal. She was really pretty now, and herirregular but attractive features, which requiredthe aid of all the eccentricities of the prevailingstyle in order to produce their full effect, adap-ted themselves to them so perfectly that youwould have said they were invented expresslyfor her. In a few moments they went away, andMadame Dobson was left alone in the box.They had hired a small suite on the AvenueGabriel, near the 'rond-point' of the ChampsElysees—the dream of the young women at theLe Mire establishment—two luxuriously fur-nished, quiet rooms, where the silence of thewealthy quarter, disturbed only by passingcarriages, formed a blissful surrounding fortheir love.

Little by little, when she had become accus-tomed to her sin, she conceived the most auda-

cious whims. From her old working-days shehad retained in the depths of her memory thenames of public balls, of famous restaurants,where she was eager to go now, just as she tookpleasure in causing the doors to be thrownopen for her at the establishments of the greatdressmakers, whose signs only she had knownin her earlier days. For what she sought aboveall else in this liaison was revenge for the sor-rows and humiliations of her youth. Nothingdelighted her so much, for example, when re-turning from an evening drive in the Bois, as asupper at the Cafe Anglais with the sounds ofluxurious vice around her. From these repeatedexcursions she brought back peculiarities ofspeech and behavior, equivocal songs, and astyle of dress that imported into the bourgeoisatmosphere of the old commercial house anaccurate reproduction of the most advancedtype of the Paris cocotte of that period.

At the factory they began to suspect something.The women of the people, even the poorest, areso quick at picking a costume to pieces! WhenMadame Risler went out, about three o'clock,fifty pairs of sharp, envious eyes, lying in am-bush at the windows of the polishing-shop,watched her pass, penetrating to the lowestdepths of her guilty conscience through herblack velvet dolman and her cuirass of spar-kling jet.

Although she did not suspect it, all the secretsof that mad brain were flying about her like theribbons that played upon her bare neck; andher daintily-shod feet, in their bronzed bootswith ten buttons, told the story of all sorts ofclandestine expeditions, of the carpeted stair-ways they ascended at night on their way tosupper, and the warm fur robes in which theywere wrapped when the coupe made the circuitof the lake in the darkness dotted with lanterns.

The work-women laughed sneeringly andwhispered:

"Just look at that Tata Bebelle! A fine way todress to go out. She don't rig herself up like thatto go to mass, that's sure! To think that it ain'tthree years since she used to start for the shopevery morning in an old waterproof, and twosous' worth of roasted chestnuts in her pocketsto keep her fingers warm. Now she rides in hercarriage."

And amid the talc dust and the roaring of thestoves, red-hot in winter and summer alike,more than one poor girl reflected on the capriceof chance in absolutely transforming a woman'sexistence, and began to dream vaguely of amagnificent future which might perhaps be instore for herself without her suspecting it.

In everybody's opinion Risler was a dishonoredhusband. Two assistants in the printing-room—faithful patrons of the Folies Dramatiques—

declared that they had seen Madame Rislerseveral times at their theatre, accompanied bysome escort who kept out of sight at the rear ofthe box. Pere Achille, too, told of amazingthings. That Sidonie had a lover, that she hadseveral lovers, in fact, no one entertained adoubt. But no one had as yet thought of Fro-mont jeune.

And yet she showed no prudence whatever inher relations with him. On the contrary, sheseemed to make a parade of them; it may bethat that was what saved them. How manytimes she accosted him boldly on the steps toagree upon a rendezvous for the evening! Howmany times she had amused herself in makinghim shudder by looking into his eyes beforeevery one! When the first confusion had pas-sed, Georges was grateful to her for these exhi-bitions of audacity, which he attributed to theintensity of her passion. He was mistaken.

What she would have liked, although she didnot admit it to herself, would have been to haveClaire see them, to have her draw aside thecurtain at her window, to have her conceive asuspicion of what was passing. She needed thatin order to be perfectly happy: that her rivalshould be unhappy. But her wish was ungrati-fied; Claire Fromont noticed nothing and lived,as did Risler, in imperturbable serenity.

Only Sigismond, the old cashier, was really illat ease. And yet he was not thinking of Sidoniewhen, with his pen behind his ear, he paused amoment in his work and gazed fixedly throughhis grating at the drenched soil of the little gar-den. He was thinking solely of his master, ofMonsieur "Chorche," who was drawing a greatdeal of money now for his current expensesand sowing confusion in all his books. Everytime it was some new excuse. He would cometo the little wicket with an unconcerned air:

"Have you a little money, my good Planus? Iwas worsted again at bouillotte last night, and Idon't want to send to the bank for such a trifle."

Sigismond Planus would open his cash-box,with an air of regret, to get the sum requested,and he would remember with terror a certainday when Monsieur Georges, then only twentyyears old, had confessed to his uncle that heowed several thousand francs in gamblingdebts. The elder man thereupon conceived aviolent antipathy for the club and contempt forall its members. A rich tradesman who was amember happened to come to the factory oneday, and Sigismond said to him with brutalfrankness:

"The devil take your 'Cercle du Chateau d'Eau!'Monsieur Georges has left more than thirtythousand 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 seenyour master."

The cashier did not pursue the conversation;but a terrible thought took up its abode in hismind, and he turned it over and over all daylong.

If Georges did not go to the club, where did hepass his evenings? Where did he spend somuch money?

There was evidently a woman at the bottom ofthe affair.

As soon as that idea occurred to him, Sigis-mond Planus began to tremble seriously for hiscash-box. That old bear from the canton of Ber-ne, a confirmed bachelor, had a terrible dreadof women in general and Parisian women inparticular. He deemed it his duty, first of all, in

order to set his conscience at rest, to warn Ris-ler. He did it at first in rather a vague way.

"Monsieur Georges is spending a great deal ofmoney," he said to him one day.

Risler exhibited no surprise.

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

And the honest fellow meant what he said. Inhis eyes Fromont jeune was the absolute masterof the establishment. It would have been a finething, and no mistake, for him, an ex-draughtsman, to venture to make any com-ments. The cashier dared say no more until theday when a messenger came from a greatshawl-house with a bill for six thousand francsfor a cashmere shawl.

He went to Georges in his office.

"Shall I pay it, Monsieur?"

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

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

That evening, as Sigismond was lighting hislittle lamp, he saw Risler crossing the garden,and tapped on the window to call him.

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

As he uttered the awful words "a woman" hisvoice shook with alarm and was drowned inthe great uproar of the factory. The sounds ofthe work in progress had a sinister meaning tothe unhappy cashier at that moment. It seemedto him as if all the whirring machinery, thegreat chimney pouring forth its clouds of smo-

ke, the noise of the workmen at their differenttasks—as if all this tumult and bustle and fa-tigue were for the benefit of a mysterious littlebeing, dressed in velvet and adorned with jew-els.

Risler laughed at him and refused to believehim. He had long been acquainted with hiscompatriot's mania for detecting in everythingthe pernicious influence of woman. And yetPlanus's words sometimes recurred to histhoughts, especially in the evening when Sido-nie, after all the commotion attendant upon thecompletion of her toilette, went away to thetheatre with Madame Dobson, leaving theapartment empty as soon as her long train hadswept across the threshold. Candles burning infront of the mirrors, divers little toilette articlesscattered about and thrown aside, told of ex-travagant caprices and a reckless expenditureof money. Risler thought nothing of all that;but, when he heard Georges's carriage rolling

through the courtyard, he had a feeling of dis-comfort at the thought of Madame Fromontpassing her evenings entirely alone. Poor wo-man! Suppose what Planus said were true!

Suppose Georges really had a second estab-lishment! Oh, it would be frightful!

Thereupon, instead of beginning to work, hewould go softly downstairs and ask if Madamewere visible, deeming it his duty to keep hercompany.

The little girl was always in bed, but the littlecap, the blue shoes, were still lying in front ofthe fire. Claire was either reading or working,with her silent mother beside her, always rub-bing or dusting with feverish energy, exhaust-ing herself by blowing on the case of her watch,and nervously taking the same thing up andputting it down again ten times in succession,with the obstinate persistence of mania. Norwas honest Risler a very entertaining compan-

ion; but that did not prevent the young womanfrom welcoming him kindly. She knew all thatwas said about Sidonie in the factory; and al-though she did not believe half of it, the sight ofthe poor man, whom his wife left alone so of-ten, moved her heart to pity. Mutual compas-sion formed the basis of that placid friendship,and nothing could be more touching than thesetwo deserted ones, one pitying the other andeach trying to divert the other's thoughts.

Seated at the small, brightly lighted table in thecentre of the salon, Risler would graduallyyield to the influence of the warmth of the fireand the harmony of his surroundings. Hefound there articles of furniture with which hehad been familiar for twenty years, the portraitof his former employer; and his dear MadameChorche, bending over some little piece of nee-dle work at his side, seemed to him evenyounger and more lovable among all those oldsouvenirs. From time to time she would rise to

go and look at the child sleeping in the adjoin-ing room, whose soft breathing they could hearin the intervals of silence. Without fully realiz-ing it, Risler felt more comfortable and warmerthere than in his own apartment; for on certaindays those attractive rooms, where the doorswere forever being thrown open for hurriedexits or returns, gave him the impression of ahall without doors or windows, open to thefour winds. His rooms were a camping-ground;this was a home. A care-taking hand causedorder and refinement to reign everywhere. Thechairs seemed to be talking together in under-tones, the fire burned with a delightful sound,and Mademoiselle Fromont's little cap retainedin every bow of its blue ribbons suggestions ofsweet smiles and baby glances.

And while Claire was thinking that such anexcellent man deserved a better companion inlife, Risler, watching the calm and lovely faceturned toward him, the intelligent, kindly eyes,

asked himself who the hussy could be forwhom Georges Fromont neglected such anadorable woman.

CHAPTER XI. THE INVENTORY

The house in which old Planus lived at Mon-trouge adjoined the one which the Chebes hadoccupied for some time. There was the sameground floor with three windows, and a singlefloor above, the same garden with its lattice-work fence, the same borders of green box.There the old cashier lived with his sister. Hetook the first omnibus that left the office in themorning, returned at dinner-time, and on Sun-days remained at home, tending his flowersand his poultry. The old maid was his house-

keeper and did all the cooking and sewing. Ahappier couple never lived.

Celibates both, they were bound together by anequal hatred of marriage. The sister abhorredall men, the brother looked upon all womenwith suspicion; but they adored each other,each considering the other an exception to thegeneral perversity of the sex.

In speaking of him she always said: "MonsieurPlanus, my brother!"—and he, with the sameaffectionate solemnity, interspersed all his sen-tences with "Mademoiselle Planus, my sister!"To those two retiring and innocent creatures,Paris, of which they knew nothing, althoughthey visited it every day, was a den of monstersof two varieties, bent upon doing one anotherthe utmost possible injury; and whenever, amidthe gossip of the quarter, a conjugal drama ca-me to their ears, each of them, beset by his orher own idea, blamed a different culprit.

"It is the husband's fault," would be the verdictof "Mademoiselle Planus, my sister."

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

"Oh! the men—"

"Oh! the women—"

That was their one never-failing subject of dis-cussion in those rare hours of idleness whichold Sigismond set aside in his busy day, whichwas as carefully ruled off as his account-books.For some time past the discussions between thebrother and sister had been marked by extraor-dinary animation. They were deeply interestedin what was taking place at the factory. Thesister was full of pity for Madame Fromont andconsidered her husband's conduct altogetheroutrageous; as for Sigismond, he could find nowords bitter enough for the unknown trollopwho sent bills for six-thousand-franc shawls to

be paid from his cashbox. In his eyes, the honorand fair fame of the old house he had servedsince his youth were at stake.

"What will become of us?" he repeated againand again. "Oh! these women—"

One day Mademoiselle Planus sat by the firewith her knitting, waiting for her brother.

The table had been laid for half an hour, andthe old lady was beginning to be worried bysuch unheard-of tardiness, when Sigismondentered with a most distressed face, and with-out a word, which was contrary to all his hab-its.

He waited until the door was shut tight, thensaid in a low voice, in response to his sister'sdisturbed and questioning expression:

"I have some news. I know who the woman iswho is doing her best to ruin us."

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

"Is it possible?"

"It is the truth."

And, despite his grief, he had almost a trium-phant air.

His old sister could not believe it. Such a re-fined, polite person, who had received her withso much cordiality!—How could any one imag-ine such a thing?

"I have proofs," said Sigismond Planus.

Thereupon he told her how Pere Achille hadmet Sidonie and Georges one night at eleveno'clock, just as they entered a small furnishedlodging-house in the Montmartre quarter; andhe was a man who never lied. They had known

him for a long while. Besides, others had metthem. Nothing else was talked about at the fac-tory. Risler alone suspected nothing.

"But it is your duty to tell him," declared Ma-demoiselle Planus.

The cashier's face assumed a grave expression.

"It is a very delicate matter. In the first place,who knows whether he would believe me?There are blind men so blind that—And then,by interfering between the two partners, I riskthe loss of my place. Oh! the women—the wo-men! When I think how happy Risler mighthave been. When I sent for him to come to Pariswith his brother, he hadn't a sou; and to-day heis at the head of one of the first houses in Paris.Do you suppose that he would be content withthat? Oh! no, of course not! Monsieur must ma-rry. As if any one needed to marry! And, worseyet, he marries a Parisian woman, one of thosefrowsy-haired chits that are the ruin of an hon-

est house, when he had at his hand a fine girl,of almost his own age, a countrywoman, usedto work, and well put together, as you mightsay!"

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister," to whosephysical structure he alluded, had a magnifi-cent opportunity to exclaim, "Oh! the men, themen!" but she was silent. It was a very delicatequestion, and perhaps, if Risler had chosen intime, he might have been the only one.

Old Sigismond continued:

"And this is what we have come to. For threemonths the leading wall-paper factory in Parishas been tied to the petticoats of that good-for-nothing. You should see how the money flies.All day long I do nothing but open my wicketto meet Monsieur Georges's calls. He alwaysapplies to me, because at his banker's too muchnotice would be taken of it, whereas in our of-fice money comes and goes, comes in and goes

out. But look out for the inventory! We shallhave some pretty figures to show at the end ofthe year. The worst part of the whole businessis that Risler won't listen to anything. I havewarned him several times: 'Look out, MonsieurGeorges is making a fool of himself for somewoman.' He either turns away with a shrug, orelse he tells me that it is none of his businessand that Fromont Jeune is the master. Upon myword, one would almost think—one wouldalmost think—"

The cashier did not finish his sentence; but hissilence was pregnant with unspoken thoughts.

The old maid was appalled; but, like most wo-men under such circumstances, instead of seek-ing a remedy for the evil, she wandered off intoa maze of regrets, conjectures, and retrospec-tive lamentations. What a misfortune that theyhad not known it sooner when they had theChebes for neighbors. Madame Chebe wassuch an honorable woman. They might have

put the matter before her so that she wouldkeep an eye on Sidonie and talk seriously toher.

"Indeed, that's a good idea," Sigismond inter-rupted. "You must go to the Rue du Mail andtell her parents. I thought at first of writing tolittle Frantz. He always had a great deal of in-fluence over his brother, and he's the only per-son on earth who could say certain things tohim. But Frantz is so far away. And then itwould be such a terrible thing to do. I can't helppitying that unlucky Risler, though. No! thebest way is to tell Madame Chebe. Will youundertake to do it, sister?"

It was a dangerous commission. MademoisellePlanus made some objections, but she neverhad been able to resist her brother's wishes, andthe desire to be of service to their old friendRisler assisted materially in persuading her.

Thanks to his son-in-law's kindness, M. Chebehad succeeded in gratifying his latest whim.For three months past he had been living at hisfamous warehouse on the Rue du Mail, and agreat sensation was created in the quarter bythat shop without merchandise, the shutters ofwhich were taken down in the morning andput up again at night, as in wholesale houses.Shelves had been placed all around the walls,there was a new counter, a safe, a huge pair ofscales. In a word, M. Chebe possessed all therequisites of a business of some sort, but didnot know as yet just what business he wouldchoose.

He pondered the subject all day as he walkedto and fro across the shop, encumbered withseveral large pieces of bedroom furniturewhich they had been unable to get into the backroom; he pondered it, too, as he stood on hisdoorstep, with his pen behind his ear, and feas-ted his eyes delightedly on the hurly-burly of

Parisian commerce. The clerks who passed withtheir packages of samples under their arms, thevans of the express companies, the omnibuses,the porters, the wheelbarrows, the great balesof merchandise at the neighboring doors, thepackages of rich stuffs and trimmings whichwere dragged in the mud before being con-signed to those underground regions, thosedark holes stuffed with treasures, where thefortune of business lies in embryo—all thesethings delighted M. Chebe.

He amused himself guessing at the contents ofthe bales and was first at the fray when somepasser-by received a heavy package upon hisfeet, or the horses attached to a dray, spiritedand restive, made the long vehicle standingacross the street an obstacle to circulation. Hehad, moreover, the thousand-and-one distrac-tions of the petty tradesman without custom-ers, the heavy showers, the accidents, the thefts,the disputes.

At the end of the day M. Chebe, dazed, bewil-dered, worn out by the labor of other people,would stretch himself out in his easy-chair andsay to his wife, as he wiped his forehead:

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

Madame Chebe would smile softly withoutreplying. Accustomed as she was to all her hus-band's whims, she had made herself as com-fortable as possible in a back room with an out-look upon a dark yard, consoling herself withreflections on the former prosperity of her par-ents and her daughter's wealth; and, being al-ways neatly dressed, she had succeeded al-ready in acquiring the respect of neighbors andtradesmen.

She asked nothing more than not to be con-founded with the wives of workingmen, oftenless poor than herself, and to be allowed to re-tain, in spite of everything, a petty bourgeoissuperiority. That was her constant thought; and

so the back room in which she lived, and whereit was dark at three in the afternoon, was re-splendent with order and cleanliness. Duringthe day the bed became a couch, an old shawldid duty as a tablecloth, the fireplace, hiddenby a screen, served as a pantry, and the mealswere cooked in modest retirement on a stoveno larger than a foot-warmer. A tranquil life—that was the dream of the poor woman, whowas continually tormented by the whims of anuncongenial companion.

In the early days of his tenancy, M. Chebe hadcaused these words to be inscribed in letters afoot long on the fresh paint of his shop-front:

COMMISSION—EXPORTATION

No specifications. His neighbors sold tulle,broadcloth, linen; he was inclined to sell every-thing, but could not make up his mind justwhat. With what arguments did his indecisionlead him to favor Madame Chebe as they sattogether in the evening!

"I don't know anything about linen; but whenyou come to broadcloth, I understand that. On-ly, if I go into broadcloths I must have a man totravel; for the best kinds come from Sedan andElbeuf. I say nothing about calicoes; summer isthe time for them. As for tulle, that's out of thequestion; the season is too far advanced."

He usually brought his discourse to a closewith the words:

"The night will bring counsel—let us go tobed."

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

After three or four months of this life, M. Chebebegan to tire of it. The pains in the head, thedizzy fits gradually returned. The quarter wasnoisy and unhealthy: besides, business was at astandstill. Nothing was to be done in any line,broadcloths, tissues, or anything else.

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

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

It was a stunning blow. When she heard theaccusation made against her daughter, Ma-dame Chebe rose in indignation. No one couldever make her believe such a thing. Her poorSidonie was the victim of an infamous slander.

M. Chebe, for his part, adopted a very loftytone, with significant phrases and motions ofthe head, taking everything to himself as washis custom. How could any one suppose thathis child, a Chebe, the daughter of an honor-able business man known for thirty years onthe street, was capable of Nonsense!

Mademoiselle Planus insisted. It was a painfulthing to her to be considered a gossip, a hawkerof unsavory stories. But they had incontestableproofs. It was no longer a secret to anybody.

"And even suppose it were true," cried M. Che-be, furious at her persistence. "Is it for us toworry about it? Our daughter is married. Shelives a long way from her parents. It is for herhusband, who is much older than she, to adviseand guide her. Does he so much as think ofdoing it?"

Upon that the little man began to inveighagainst his son-in-law, that cold-blooded Swiss,who passed his life in his office devising ma-chines, refused to accompany his wife into so-ciety, and preferred his old-bachelor habits, hispipe and his brewery, to everything else.

You should have seen the air of aristocraticdisdain with which M. Chebe pronounced theword "brewery!" And yet almost every evening

he went there to meet Risler, and overwhelmedhim with reproaches if he once failed to appearat the rendezvous.

Behind all this verbiage the merchant of theRue du Mail—"Commission-Exportation"—hada very definite idea. He wished to give up hisshop, to retire from business, and for some timehe had been thinking of going to see Sidonie, inorder to interest her in his new schemes. Thatwas not the time, therefore, to make disagree-able scenes, to prate about paternal authorityand conjugal honor. As for Madame Chebe,being somewhat less confident than before ofher daughter's virtue, she took refuge in themost profound silence. The poor woman wis-hed that she were deaf and blind—that she ne-ver had known Mademoiselle Planus.

Like all persons who have been very unhappy,she loved a benumbed existence with a sem-blance of tranquillity, and ignorance seemed toher preferable to everything. As if life were not

sad enough, good heavens! And then, after all,Sidonie had always been a good girl; whyshould she not be a good woman?

Night was falling. M. Chebe rose gravely toclose the shutters of the shop and light a gas-jetwhich illumined the bare walls, the empty, pol-ished shelves, and the whole extraordinaryplace, which reminded one strongly of the dayfollowing a failure. With his lips closed dis-dainfully, in his determination to remain silent,he seemed to say to the old lady, "Night hascome—it is time for you to go home." And allthe while they could hear Madame Chebe sob-bing in the back room, as she went to and fropreparing supper.

Mademoiselle Planus got no further satisfactionfrom her visit.

"Well?" queried old Sigismond, who was impa-tiently awaiting her return.

"They wouldn't believe me, and politely sho-wed me the door."

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

The old man's face flushed, and he said in agrave voice, taking his sister's hand:

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, I ask yourpardon for having made you take this step; butthe honor of the house of Fromont was at sta-ke."

From that moment Sigismond became moreand more depressed. His cash-box no longerseemed to him safe or secure. Even when Fro-mont Jeune did not ask him for money, he wasafraid, and he summed up all his apprehen-sions in four words which came continually tohis lips when talking with his sister:

"I ha no gonfidence," he would say, in his hoar-se Swiss patois.

Thinking always of his cash-box, he dreamedsometimes that it had broken apart at all thejoints, and insisted on remaining open, no mat-ter how much he turned the key; or else that ahigh wind had scattered all the papers, notes,cheques, and bills, and that he ran after themall over the factory, tiring himself out in theattempt to pick them up.

In the daytime, as he sat behind his grating inthe silence of his office, he imagined that a littlewhite mouse had eaten its way through thebottom of the box and was gnawing and de-stroying all its contents, growing plumper andprettier as the work of destruction went on.

So that, when Sidonie appeared on the stepsabout the middle of the afternoon, in her prettyParisian plumage, old Sigismond shudderedwith rage. In his eyes it was the ruin of the hou-

se that stood there, ruin in a magnificent cos-tume, with its little coupe at the door, and theplacid bearing of a happy coquette.

Madame Risler had no suspicion that, at thatwindow on the ground floor, sat an untiring foewho watched her slightest movements, themost trivial details of her life, the going andcoming of her music-teacher, the arrival of thefashionable dressmaker in the morning, all theboxes that were brought to the house, and thelaced cap of the employe of the Magasin duLouvre, whose heavy wagon stopped at thegate with a jingling of bells, like a diligencedrawn by stout horses which were draggingthe house of Fromont to bankruptcy at break-neck speed.

Sigismond counted the packages, weighedthem with his eye as they passed, and gazedinquisitively into Risler's apartments throughthe open windows. The carpets that were sha-ken with a great noise, the jardinieres that were

brought into the sunlight filled with fragile,unseasonable flowers, rare and expensive, thegorgeous hangings—none of these things es-caped his notice.

The new acquisitions of the household staredhim in the face, reminding him of some requestfor a large amount.

But the one thing that he studied more care-fully than all else was Risler's countenance.

In his view that woman was in a fair way tochange his friend, the best, the most upright ofmen, into a shameless villain. There was nopossibility of doubt that Risler knew of his dis-honor, and submitted to it. He was paid to keepquiet.

Certainly there was something monstrous insuch a supposition. But it is the tendency ofinnocent natures, when they are made ac-quainted with evil for the first time, to go at

once too far, beyond reason. When he was onceconvinced of the treachery of Georges and Si-donie, Risler's degradation seemed to the cash-ier less impossible of comprehension. On whatother theory could his indifference, in the faceof his partner's heavy expenditures, be ex-plained?

The excellent Sigismond, in his narrow, stereo-typed honesty, could not understand the deli-cacy of Risler's heart. At the same time, the me-thodical bookkeeper's habit of thought and hisclear-sightedness in business were a thousandleagues from that absent-minded, flighty char-acter, half-artist, half-inventor. He judged himby himself, having no conception of the condi-tion of a man with the disease of invention,absorbed by a fixed idea. Such men are som-nambulists. They look, but do not see, theireyes being turned within.

It was Sigismond's belief that Risler did see.That belief made the old cashier very unhappy.

He began by staring at his friend whenever heentered the counting-room; then, discouragedby his immovable indifference, which he be-lieved to be wilful and premeditated, coveringhis face like a mask, he adopted the plan ofturning away and fumbling among his papersto avoid those false glances, and keeping hiseyes fixed on the garden paths or the interlacedwires of the grating when he spoke to him.Even his words were confused and distorted,like his glances. No one could say positively towhom he was talking.

No more friendly smiles, no more reminis-cences as they turned over the leaves of thecash-book together.

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

At last Risler noticed the strange coolness thathad sprung up between Sigismond and him-self. He mentioned it to his wife.

For some time past she had felt that antipathyprowling about her. Sometimes, as she crossedthe courtyard, she was oppressed, as it were, bymalevolent glances which caused her to turnnervously toward the old cashier's corner. Thisestrangement between the friends alarmed her,and she very quickly determined to put herhusband on his guard against Planus's un-pleasant remarks.

"Don't you see that he is jealous of you, of yourposition? A man who was once his equal, nowhis superior, he can't stand that. But why bot-her one's head about all these spiteful crea-tures? 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 thesepeople detest me. They bear little Chebe agrudge because she has become Madame RislerAine. Heaven only knows all the outrageousthings that are said about me! And your cashierdoesn't keep his tongue in his pocket, I assureyou. What a spiteful fellow he is!"

These few words had their effect. Risler, indig-nant, but too proud to complain, met coldnesswith coldness. Those two honest men, eachintensely distrustful of the other, could no lon-ger meet without a painful sensation, so that,after a while, Risler ceased to go to the count-ing-room at all. It was not difficult for him, asFromont Jeune had charge of all financial mat-ters. His month's allowance was carried to himon the thirtieth of each month. This arrange-ment afforded Sidonie and Georges additionalfacilities, and opportunity for all sorts of un-derhand dealing.

She thereupon turned her attention to the com-pletion of her programme of a life of luxury.She lacked a country house. In her heart shedetested the trees, the fields, the country roadsthat cover you with dust. "The most dismalthings on earth," she used to say. But ClaireFromont passed the summer at Savigny. Assoon as the first fine days arrived, the trunkswere packed and the curtains taken down onthe floor below; and a great furniture van, withthe little girl's blue bassinet rocking on top, setoff for the grandfather's chateau. Then, onemorning, the mother, grandmother, child, andnurse, a medley of white gowns and light veils,would drive away behind two fast horses to-ward the sunny lawns and the pleasant shadeof the avenues.

At that season Paris was ugly, depopulated;and although Sidonie loved it even in thesummer, which heats it like a furnace, it trou-bled her to think that all the fashion and wealth

of Paris were driving by the seashore undertheir light umbrellas, and would make theirouting an excuse for a thousand new inven-tions, for original styles of the most risque sort,which would permit one to show that one has apretty ankle and long, curly chestnut hair ofone's own.

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

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

To pave the way, she talked to him incessantlyabout a little nook in the country, not too ex-pensive, very near Paris. Risler listened with a

smile. He thought of the high grass, of the or-chard filled with fine fruit-trees, being alreadytormented by the longing to possess which co-mes with wealth; but, as he was prudent, hesaid:

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

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

The balance-sheet! That is the magic word. Allthrough the year we go on and on in the eddy-ing whirl of business. Money comes and goes,circulates, attracts other money, vanishes; andthe fortune of the firm, like a slippery, gleam-ing snake, always in motion, expands, con-tracts, diminishes, or increases, and it is impos-sible to know our condition until there comes amoment of rest. Not until the inventory shallwe know the truth, and whether the year,

which seems to have been prosperous, has rea-lly been so.

The account of stock is usually taken late inDecember, between Christmas and New Year'sDay. As it requires much extra labor to prepareit, everybody works far into the night. Thewhole establishment is alert. The lamps remainlighted in the offices long after the doors areclosed, and seem to share in the festal atmos-phere peculiar to that last week of the year,when so many windows are illuminated forfamily gatherings. Every one, even to the leastimportant 'employe' of the firm, is interested inthe results of the inventory. The increases ofsalary, the New Year's presents, depend uponthose blessed figures. And so, while the vastinterests of a wealthy house are trembling inthe balance, the wives and children and agedparents of the clerks, in their fifth-floor tene-ments or poor apartments in the suburbs, talkof nothing but the inventory, the results of

which will make themselves felt either by agreatly increased need of economy or by somepurchase, long postponed, which the NewYear's gift will make possible at last.

On the premises of Fromont Jeune and RislerAine, Sigismond Planus is the god of the estab-lishment at that season, and his little office asanctuary where all the clerks perform theirdevotions. In the silence of the sleeping factory,the heavy pages of the great books rustle asthey are turned, and names called aloud causesearch to be made in other books. Pens scratch.The old cashier, surrounded by his lieutenants,has a businesslike, awe-inspiring air. From timeto time Fromont Jeune, on the point of goingout in his carriage, looks in for a moment, witha cigar in his mouth, neatly gloved and readyfor the street. He walks slowly, on tiptoe, putshis face to the grating:

"Well!—are you getting on all right?"

Sigismond gives a grunt, and the young mastertakes his leave, afraid to ask any further ques-tions. He knows from the cashier's expressionthat the showing will be a bad one.

In truth, since the days of the Revolution, whenthere was fighting in the very courtyard of thefactory, so pitiable an inventory never had beenseen in the Fromont establishment. Receiptsand expenditures balanced each other. The ge-neral expense account had eaten up everything,and, furthermore, Fromont Jeune was indebtedto the firm in a large sum. You should haveseen old Planus's air of consternation when, onthe 31st of December, he went up to Georges'soffice to make report of his labors.

Georges took a very cheerful view of the mat-ter. Everything would go better next year. Andto restore the cashier's good humor he gavehim an extraordinary bonus of a thousandfrancs, instead of the five hundred his uncleused always to give. Everybody felt the effects

of that generous impulse, and, in the universalsatisfaction, the deplorable results of the yearlyaccounting were very soon forgotten. As forRisler, Georges chose to take it upon himself toinform him as to the situation.

When he entered his partner's little closet,which was lighted from above by a window inthe ceiling, so that the light fell directly uponthe subject of the inventor's meditations, Fro-mont hesitated a moment, filled with shameand remorse for what he was about to do.

The other, when he heard the door, turned joy-fully toward his partner.

"Chorche, Chorche, my dear fellow—I have gotit, our press. There are still a few little things tothink out. But no matter! I am sure now of myinvention: you will see—you will see! Ah! theProchassons can experiment all they choose.With the Risler Press we will crush all rivalry."

"Bravo, my comrade!" replied Fromont Jeune."So much for the future; but you don't seem tothink about the present. What about this inven-tory?"

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

He said that because of the somewhat dis-turbed and embarrassed expression onGeorges's face.

"Why, yes, on the contrary, it is very satisfac-tory indeed," was the reply. "We have everyreason to be satisfied, especially as this is ourfirst year together. We have forty thousandfrancs each for our share of the profits; and as Ithought you might need a little money to giveyour wife a New Year's present—"

Ashamed to meet the eyes of the honest manwhose confidence he was betraying, Fromont

jeune placed a bundle of cheques and notes onthe table.

Risler was deeply moved for a moment. Somuch money at one time for him! His minddwelt upon the generosity of these Fromonts,who had made him what he was; then hethought of his little Sidonie, of the longingwhich she had so often expressed and which hewould now be able to gratify.

With tears in his eyes and a happy smile on hislips, he held out both hands to his partner.

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

That was his favorite phrase on great occasions.Then he pointed to the bundles of bank notesspread out before him in the narrow bandswhich are used to confine those fugitive docu-ments, always ready to fly away.

"Do you know what that is?" he said to Geor-ges, with an air of triumph. "That is Sidonie'shouse 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 iswriting to you. If I knew better how to put my ideas on paper, Ishould have a very long story to tell you. But this infernal French istoo hard, and

Sigismond Planus is good for nothing awayfrom his figures. So I will come to the point at once.

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

"I know that you have your bread to earn outthere, and your future to assure; but a man of honor should thinkmore of the name his

parents gave him than of anything else. And Itell you that if you do not come at once, a time will come whenthe name of Risler will be so overwhelmed with shame that you willnot 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 thewindow, take a deep interest in the people whopass, just as they make for themselves a hori-zon of the neighboring walls, roofs, and win-dows.

Nailed to their place, they live in the life of thestreets; and the busy men and women whopass within their range of vision, sometimesevery day at the same hour, do not suspect thatthey serve as the mainspring of other lives, thatinterested eyes watch for their coming and missthem if they happen to go to their destinationby another road.

The Delobelles, left to themselves all day, in-dulged in this sort of silent observation. Theirwindow was narrow, and the mother, whoseeyes were beginning to weaken as the result ofhard usage, sat near the light against the drawnmuslin curtain; her daughter's large armchairwas a little farther away. She announced theapproach of their daily passers-by. It was a di-version, a subject of conversation; and the longhours of toil seemed shorter, marked off by theregular appearance of people who were as busyas they. There were two little sisters, a gentle-man in a gray overcoat, a child who was taken

to school and taken home again, and an oldgovernment clerk with a wooden leg, whosestep on the sidewalk had a sinister sound.

They hardly ever saw him; he passed afterdark, but they heard him, and the sound al-ways struck the little cripple's ears like a harshecho of her own mournful thoughts. All thesestreet friends unconsciously occupied a largeplace in the lives of the two women. If it rained,they would say:

"They will get wet. I wonder whether the childgot home before the shower." And when theseason changed, when the March sun inun-dated the sidewalks or the December snowcovered them with its white mantle and itspatches of black mud, the appearance of a newgarment on one of their friends caused the tworecluses to say to themselves, "It is summer," or,"winter has come."

Now, on a certain evening in May, one of thosesoft, luminous evenings when life flows forthfrom the houses into the street through theopen windows, Desiree and her mother werebusily at work with needles and fingers, ex-hausting the daylight to its last ray, before ligh-ting the lamp. They could hear the shouts ofchildren playing in the yards, the muffled notesof pianos, and the voice of a street peddler,drawing his half-empty wagon. One couldsmell the springtime in the air, a vague odor ofhyacinth and lilac.

Mamma Delobelle had laid aside her work,and, before closing the window, leaned uponthe sill listening to all these noises of a greattoiling city, taking delight in walking throughthe streets when its day's work was ended.From time to time she spoke to her daughter,without turning her head.

"Ah! there's Monsieur Sigismond. How early heleaves the factory to-night! It may be because

the days are lengthening so fast, but I don'tthink it can be seven o'clock. Who can that manbe with the old cashier?—What a funnything!—One would say—Why, yes!—Onewould say it was Monsieur Frantz. But thatisn't possible. Monsieur Frantz is a long wayfrom here at this moment; and then he had nobeard. That man looks like him all the same!Just look, my dear."

But "my dear" does not leave her chair; shedoes not even stir. With her eyes staring intovacancy, her needle in the air, arrested in itspretty, industrious movement, she has goneaway to the blue country, that wonderful coun-try whither one may go at will, withoutthought of any infirmity. The name "Frantz,"uttered mechanically by her mother, because ofa chance resemblance, represented to her awhole lifetime of illusions, of fervent hopes,ephemeral as the flush that rose to her cheekswhen, on returning home at night, he used to

come and chat with her a moment. How faraway that was already! To think that he used tolive in the little room near hers, that they usedto hear his step on the stairs and the noise ma-de by his table when he dragged it to the win-dow to draw! What sorrow and what happi-ness she used to feel when he talked to her ofSidonie, sitting on the low chair at her knees,while she mounted her birds and her insects.

As she worked, she used to cheer and comforthim, for Sidonie had caused poor Frantz manylittle griefs before the last great one. His tonewhen he spoke of Sidonie, the sparkle in hiseyes when he thought of her, fascinated Desireein spite of everything, so that when he wentaway in despair, he left behind him a love evengreater than that he carried with him—a lovewhich the unchanging room, the sedentary,stagnant life, kept intact with all its bitter per-fume, whereas his would gradually fade awayand vanish in the fresh air of the outer world.

It grows darker and darker. A great wave ofmelancholy envelops the poor girl with thefalling darkness of that balmy evening. Theblissful gleam from the past dies away as thelast glimmer of daylight vanishes in the narrowrecess of the window, where her mother stillstands leaning on the sill.

Suddenly the door opens. Some one is therewhose features can not be distinguished. Whocan it be? The Delobelles never receive calls.The mother, who has turned her head, thinks atfirst that some one has come from the shop toget the week's work.

"My husband has just gone to your place, Mon-sieur. We have nothing here. Monsieur Delobe-lle has taken everything."

The man comes forward without speaking, andas he approaches the window his features canbe distinguished. He is a tall, solidly built fel-

low with a bronzed face, a thick, red beard, anda deep voice, and is a little slow of speech.

"Ah! so you don't know me, Mamma Delobe-lle?"

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

"Merciful heavens! it's Monsieur Frantz."

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

"What! it is you, is it, my dear Frantz?" Howcoolly she says it, the little rascal! "I knew youat once." Ah, the little iceberg! She will alwaysbe the same.

A veritable little iceberg, in very truth. She isvery pale, and her hand as it lies in Frantz's iswhite and cold.

She seems to him improved, even more refinedthan before. He seems to her superb, as always,with a melancholy, weary expression in thedepths of his eyes, which makes him more of aman than when he went away.

His weariness is due to his hurried journey,undertaken immediately on his receipt of Sig-ismond's letter. Spurred on by the word dis-honor, he had started instantly, without await-ing his leave of absence, risking his place andhis future prospects; and, hurrying from steam-ships to railways, he had not stopped until hereached Paris. Reason enough for being weary,especially when one has travelled in eagerhaste to reach one's destination, and whenone's mind has been continually beset by impa-tient thoughts, making the journey ten timesover in incessant doubt and fear and perplexity.

His melancholy began further back. It began onthe day when the woman he loved refused tomarry him, to become, six months later, the

wife of his brother; two terrible blows in closesuccession, the second even more painful thanthe first. It is true that, before entering into thatmarriage, Risler had written to him to ask hispermission to be happy, and had written insuch touching, affectionate terms that the vio-lence of the blow was somewhat diminished;and then, in due time, life in a strange country,hard work, and long journeys had softened hisgrief. Now only a vast background of melan-choly remains; unless, indeed, the hatred andwrath by which he is animated at this momentagainst the woman who is dishonoring hisbrother may be a remnant of his former love.

But no! Frantz Risler thinks only of avengingthe honor of the Rislers. He comes not as a lo-ver, but as a judge; and Sidonie may well lookto herself.

The judge had gone straight to the factory onleaving the train, relying upon the surprise, the

unexpectedness, of his arrival to disclose to himat a glance what was taking place.

Unluckily he had found no one. The blinds ofthe little house at the foot of the garden hadbeen closed for two weeks. Pere Achille in-formed him that the ladies were at theirrespective country seats where the partnersjoined them every evening.

Fromont Jeune had left the factory very early;Risler Aine had just gone. Frantz decided tospeak to old Sigismond. But it was Saturday,the regular pay-day, and he must needs waituntil the long line of workmen, extending fromAchille's lodge to the cashier's grated window,had gradually dispersed.

Although very impatient and very depressed,the excellent youth, who had lived the life of aParis workingman from his childhood, felt athrill of pleasure at finding himself once morein the midst of the animated scenes peculiar to

that time and place. Upon all those faces, hon-est or vicious, was an expression of satisfactionthat the week was at an end. You felt that, sofar as they were concerned, Sunday began atseven o'clock Saturday evening, in front of thecashier's little lamp.

One must have lived among workingmen torealize the full charm of that one day's rest andits solemnity. Many of these poor creatures,bound fast to unhealthful trades, await the co-ming of the blessed Sunday like a puff of re-freshing air, essential to their health and theirlife. What an overflow of spirits, therefore,what a pressing need of noisy mirth! It seemsas if the oppression of the week's labor van-ishes with the steam from the machinery, as itescapes in a hissing cloud of vapor over thegutters.

One by one the workmen moved away fromthe grating, counting the money that glistenedin their black hands. There were disappoint-

ments, mutterings, remonstrances, hours mis-sed, money drawn in advance; and above thetinkling of coins, Sigismond's voice could beheard, calm and relentless, defending the inter-ests of his employers with a zeal amounting toferocity.

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 hisfamily, to pay the baker and the druggist, or forhis children's schooling.

Another wanted his money for the wine-shopor for something even worse. And the melan-choly, downcast shadows passing to and fro infront of the factory gateway—he knew whatthey were waiting for—that they were all onthe watch for a father or a husband, to hurryhim home with complaining or coaxing words.

Oh! the barefooted children, the tiny creatureswrapped in old shawls, the shabby women,

whose tear-stained faces were as white as thelinen caps that surmounted them.

Oh! the lurking vice that prowls about on pay-day, the candles that are lighted in the depthsof dark alleys, the dirty windows of the wine-shops where the thousand-and-one poisonousconcoctions of alcohol display their alluringcolors.

Frantz was familiar with all these forms of mis-ery; but never had they seemed to him so de-pressing, so harrowing as on that evening.

When the last man was paid, Sigismond cameout of his office. The two friends recognizedeach other and embraced; and in the silence ofthe factory, at rest for twenty-four hours anddeathly still in all its empty buildings, the cash-ier explained to Frantz the state of affairs. Hedescribed Sidonie's conduct, her mad extrava-gance, the total wreck of the family honor. TheRislers had bought a country house at Asnieres,

formerly the property of an actress, and had setup a sumptuous establishment there. They hadhorses and carriages, and led a luxurious, gaylife. The thing that especially disturbed honestSigismond was the self restraint of Fromontjeune. For some time he had drawn almost nomoney from the strong-box, and yet Sidoniewas spending more than ever.

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

Lowering his voice he added:

"But your brother, my little Frantz, your brot-her? Who can explain his actions? He goesabout through it all with his eyes in the air, hishands in his pockets, his mind on his famousinvention, which unfortunately doesn't movefast. Look here! do you want me to give you myopinion?—He's either a knave or a fool."

They were walking up and down the little gar-den as they talked, stopping for a moment, thenresuming their walk. Frantz felt as if he wereliving in a horrible dream. The rapid journey,the sudden change of scene and climate, theceaseless flow of Sigismond's words, the newidea that he had to form of Risler and Sidonie—the same Sidonie he had loved so dearly—allthese things bewildered him and almost drovehim mad.

It was late. Night was falling. Sigismond pro-posed to him to go to Montrouge for the night;he declined on the plea of fatigue, and when hewas left alone in the Marais, at that dismal anduncertain hour when the daylight has fadedand the gas is still unlighted, he walked instinc-tively toward his old quarters on the Rue deBraque.

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

It was the same room in which he had lived solong with his brother. He recognized the mapfastened to the wall by four pins, the windowon the landing, and the Delobelles' little sign:'Birds and Insects for Ornament.'

Their door was ajar; he had only to push it alittle in order to enter the room.

Certainly there was not in all Paris a surer ref-uge for him, a spot better fitted to welcome andconsole his perturbed spirit, than that hard-working familiar fireside. In his present agita-tion and perplexity it was like the harbor withits smooth, deep water, the sunny, peacefulquay, where the women work while awaitingtheir husbands and fathers, though the windhowls and the sea rages. More than all else,although he did not realize that it was so, it wasa network of steadfast affection, that miracu-lous love-kindness which makes another's loveprecious to us even when we do not love thatother.

That dear little iceberg of a Desiree loved himso dearly. Her eyes sparkled so even when talk-ing of the most indifferent things with him. Asobjects dipped in phosphorus shine with equalsplendor, so the most trivial words she saidilluminated her pretty, radiant face. What ablissful rest it was for him after Sigismond'sbrutal disclosures!

They talked together with great animation whi-le Mamma Delobelle was setting the table.

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

He will surely come home to dinner!

The good woman said it with a certain pride.

In fact, since the failure of his managerialscheme, the illustrious Delobelle no longer tookhis meals abroad, even on the evenings when

he went to collect the weekly earnings. Theunlucky manager had eaten so many meals oncredit at his restaurant that he dared not gothere again. By way of compensation, he neverfailed, on Saturday, to bring home with himtwo or three unexpected, famished guests—"old comrades"—"unlucky devils." So it hap-pened that, on the evening in question, he ap-peared upon the stage escorting a financierfrom the Metz theatre and a comique from thetheatre at Angers, both waiting for an engage-ment.

The comique, closely shaven, wrinkled, shriv-elled by the heat from the footlights, lookedlike an old street-arab; the financier wore clothshoes, and no linen, so far as could be seen.

"Frantz!—my Frantz!" cried the old strollingplayer in a melodramatic voice, clutching theair convulsively with his hands. After a longand energetic embrace he presented his gueststo one another.

"Monsieur Robricart, of the theatre at Metz.

"Monsieur Chaudezon, of the theatre at Angers.

"Frantz Risler, engineer."

In Delobelle's mouth that word "engineer" as-sumed vast proportions!

Desiree pouted prettily when she saw her fa-ther's friends. It would have been so nice to beby themselves on a day like to-day. But thegreat man snapped his fingers at the thought.He had enough to do to unload his pockets.First of all, he produced a superb pie "for theladies," he said, forgetting that he adored pie. Alobster next made its appearance, then an Arlessausage, marrons glaces and cherries, the firstof the season!

While the financier enthusiastically pulled upthe collar of his invisible shirt, while the comi-que exclaimed "gnouf! gnouf!" with a gesture

forgotten by Parisians for ten years, Desireethought with dismay of the enormous hole thatimpromptu banquet would make in the paltryearnings of the week, and Mamma Delobelle,full of business, upset the whole buffet in orderto find a sufficient number of plates.

It was a very lively meal. The two actors atevoraciously, to the great delight of Delobelle,who talked over with them old memories oftheir days of strolling. Fancy a collection ofodds and ends of scenery, extinct lanterns, andmouldy, crumbling stage properties.

In a sort of vulgar, meaningless, familiar slang,they recalled their innumerable triumphs; forall three of them, according to their own stories,had been applauded, laden with laurel-wreaths, and carried in triumph by whole cit-ies.

While they talked they ate as actors usually eat,sitting with their faces turned three-fourths

toward the audience, with the unnatural hasteof stage guests at a pasteboard supper, alternat-ing words and mouthfuls, seeking to producean effect by their manner of putting down aglass or moving a chair, and expressing inter-est, amazement, joy, terror, surprise, with theaid of a skilfully handled knife and fork. Ma-dame Delobelle listened to them with a smilingface.

One can not be an actor's wife for thirty yearswithout becoming somewhat accustomed tothese peculiar mannerisms.

But one little corner of the table was separatedfrom the rest of the party as by a cloud whichintercepted the absurd remarks, the hoarselaughter, the boasting. Frantz and Desiree tal-ked together in undertones, hearing naught ofwhat was said around them. Things that hap-pened in their childhood, anecdotes of theneighborhood, a whole ill-defined past whichderived its only value from the mutual memo-

ries evoked, from the spark that glowed in theeyes of both-those were the themes of theirpleasant chat.

Suddenly the cloud was torn aside, and Delo-belle's terrible voice interrupted the dialogue.

"Have you not seen your brother?" he asked, inorder to avoid the appearance of neglectinghim too much. "And you have not seen his wi-fe, either? Ah! you will find her a Madame.Such toilettes, my dear fellow, and such chic! Iassure you. They have a genuine chateau atAsnieres. The Chebes are there also. Ah! my oldfriend, they have all left us behind. They arerich, they look down on old friends. Never aword, never a call. For my part, you under-stand, I snap my fingers at them, but it reallywounds these ladies."

"Oh, papa!" said Desiree hastily, "you knowvery well that we are too fond of Sidonie to beoffended with her."

The actor smote the table a violent blow withhis fist.

"Why, then, you do wrong. You ought to beoffended with people who seek always towound and humiliate you."

He still had upon his mind the refusal to fur-nish funds for his theatrical project, and he ma-de no secret of his wrath.

"If you knew," he said to Frantz, "if you knewhow money is being squandered over yonder!It is a great pity. And nothing substantial, noth-ing sensible. I who speak to you, asked yourbrother for a paltry sum to assure my futureand himself a handsome profit. He flatly re-fused. Parbleu! Madame requires too much.She rides, goes to the races in her carriage, anddrives her husband at the same rate as her littlephaeton on the quay at Asnieres. Between youand me, I don't think that our good friend Ris-

ler is very happy. That woman makes him be-lieve black is white."

The ex-actor concluded his harangue with awink at the comique and the financier, and fora moment the three exchanged glances, conven-tional grimaces, 'ha-has!' and 'hum-hums!' andall the usual pantomime expressive of thoughtstoo deep for words.

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

Fortunately the dinner was drawing near itsclose. The three actors left the table and betookthemselves to the brewery on the Rue Blondel.Frantz remained with the two women.

As he sat beside her, gentle and affectionate inmanner, Desiree was suddenly conscious of a

great outflow of gratitude to Sidonie. She saidto herself that, after all, it was to her generositythat she owed this semblance of happiness, andthat thought gave her courage to defend herformer friend.

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

Oh! how pretty she was in his eyes, while shetalked in that strain. He never had taken somuch notice of the refined features, the aristo-cratic pallor of her complexion; and when heleft her that evening, deeply touched by thewarmth she had displayed in defending Sido-

nie, by all the charming feminine excuses sheput forward for her friend's silence and neglect,Frantz Risler reflected, with a feeling of selfishand ingenuous pleasure, that the child had lo-ved him once, and that perhaps she loved himstill, and kept for him in the bottom of her heartthat warm, sheltered spot to which we turn asto the sanctuary when life has wounded us.

All night long in his old room, lulled by theimaginary movement of the vessel, by the mur-mur of the waves and the howling of the windwhich follow long sea voyages, he dreamed ofhis youthful days, of little Chebe and DesireeDelobelle, of their games, their labors, and ofthe Ecole Centrale, whose great, gloomy build-ings were sleeping near at hand, in the darkstreets of the Marais.

And when daylight came, and the sun shiningin at his bare window vexed his eyes andbrought him back to a realization of the dutythat lay before him and to the anxieties of the

day, he dreamed that it was time to go to theSchool, and that his brother, before going downto the factory, opened the door and called tohim:

"Come, lazybones! Come!"

That dear, loving voice, too natural, too real fora dream, made him open his eyes without moreado.

Risler was standing by his bed, watching hisawakening with a charming smile, not untin-ged by emotion; that it was Risler himself wasevident from the fact that, in his joy at seeinghis brother Frantz once more, he could findnothing better to say than, "I am very happy, Iam very happy!"

Although it was Sunday, Risler, as was his cus-tom, had come to the factory to avail himself ofthe silence and solitude to work at his press.Immediately on his arrival, Pere Achille had

informed him that his brother was in Paris andhad gone to the old house on the Rue de Bra-que, and he had hastened thither in joyful sur-prise, a little vexed that he had not been fore-warned, and especially that Frantz had de-frauded him of the first evening. His regret onthat account came to the surface every momentin his spasmodic attempts at conversation, inwhich everything that he wanted to say wasleft unfinished, interrupted by innumerablequestions on all sorts of subjects and explosionsof affection and joy. Frantz excused himself onthe plea of fatigue, and the pleasure it had gi-ven him to be in their old room once more.

"All right, all right," said Risler, "but I sha'n't letyou alone now—you are coming to Asnieres atonce. I give myself leave of absence today. Allthought of work is out of the question now thatyou have come, you understand. Ah! won't thelittle one be surprised and glad! We talk aboutyou so often! What joy! what joy!"

The poor fellow fairly beamed with happiness;he, the silent man, chattered like a magpie, ga-zed admiringly at his Frantz and remarkedupon his growth. The pupil of the Ecole Cen-trale had had a fine physique when he wentaway, but his features had acquired greaterfirmness, his shoulders were broader, and itwas a far cry from the tall, studious-lookingboy who had left Paris two years before, forIsmailia, to this handsome, bronzed corsair,with his serious yet winning face.

While Risler was gazing at him, Frantz, on hisside, was closely scrutinizing his brother, and,finding him the same as always, as ingenuous,as loving, and as absent-minded as times, hesaid to himself:

"No! it is not possible—he has not ceased to bean honest man."

Thereupon, as he reflected upon what peoplehad dared to imagine, all his wrath turned

against that hypocritical, vicious woman, whodeceived her husband so impudently and withsuch absolute impunity that she succeeded incausing him to be considered her confederate.Oh! what a terrible reckoning he proposed tohave with her; how pitilessly he would talk toher!

"I forbid you, Madame—understand what Isay—I forbid you to dishonor my brother!"

He was thinking of that all the way, as he wat-ched the still leafless trees glide along the em-bankment of the Saint-Germain railway. Sittingopposite him, Risler chattered, chattered with-out pause. He talked about the factory, abouttheir business. They had gained forty thousandfrancs each the last year; but it would be a dif-ferent matter when the Press was at work. "Arotary press, my little Frantz, rotary and dode-cagonal, capable of printing a pattern in twelveto fifteen colors at a single turn of the wheel—red on pink, dark green on light green, without

the least running together or absorption, with-out a line lapping over its neighbor, withoutany danger of one shade destroying or over-shadowing another. Do you understand that,little brother? A machine that is an artist like aman. It means a revolution in the wallpapertrade."

"But," queried Frantz with some anxiety, "haveyou invented this Press of yours yet, or are youstill hunting for it?"

"Invented!—perfected! To-morrow I will showyou all my plans. I have also invented an au-tomatic crane for hanging the paper on the rodsin the drying-room. Next week I intend to takeup my quarters in the factory, up in the garret,and have my first machine made there secretly,under my own eyes. In three months the pat-ents must be taken out and the Press must be atwork. You'll see, my little Frantz, it will makeus all rich-you can imagine how glad I shall beto be able to make up to these Fromonts for a

little of what they have done for me. Ah! uponmy word, the Lord has been too good to me."

Thereupon he began to enumerate all his bless-ings. Sidonie was the best of women, a littlelove of a wife, who conferred much honor uponhim. They had a charming home. They wentinto society, very select society. The little onesang like a nightingale, thanks to Madame Dob-son's expressive method. By the way, this Ma-dame Dobson was another most excellent crea-ture. There was just one thing that disturbedpoor Risler, that was his incomprehensible mi-sunderstanding with Sigismond. PerhapsFrantz could help him to clear up that mystery.

"Oh! yes, I will help you, brother," repliedFrantz through his clenched teeth; and an an-gry flush rose to his brow at the idea that anyone could have suspected the open-heartedness, the loyalty, that were displayedbefore him in all their artless spontaneity. Luck-

ily he, the judge, had arrived; and he proposedto restore everything to its proper place.

Meanwhile, they were drawing near the houseat Asnieres. Frantz had noticed at a distance afanciful little turreted affair, glistening with anew blue slate roof. It seemed to him to havebeen built expressly for Sidonie, a fitting cagefor that capricious, gaudy-plumaged bird.

It was a chalet with two stories, whose brightmirrors and pink-lined curtains could be seenfrom the railway, shining resplendent at the farend of a green lawn, where an enormous pew-ter ball was suspended.

The river was near at hand, still wearing itsParisian aspect, filled with chains, bathing es-tablishments, great barges, and multitudes oflittle, skiffs, with a layer of coal dust on theirpretentious, freshly-painted names, tied to thepier and rocking to the slightest motion of thewater. From her windows Sidonie could see the

restaurants on the beach, silent through theweek, but filled to overflowing on Sunday witha motley, noisy crowd, whose shouts of laugh-ter, mingled with the dull splash of oars, camefrom both banks to meet in midstream in thatcurrent of vague murmurs, shouts, calls, laugh-ter, and singing that floats without ceasing upand down the Seine on holidays for a distanceof ten miles.

During the week she saw shabbily-dressed id-lers sauntering along the shore, men in broad-brimmed straw hats and flannel shirts, womenwho sat on the worn grass of the sloping bank,doing nothing, with the dreamy eyes of a cowat pasture. All the peddlers, hand-organs, harp-ists; travelling jugglers, stopped there as at aquarantine station. The quay was crowded withthem, and as they approached, the windows inthe little houses near by were always thrownopen, disclosing white dressing-jackets, half-buttoned, heads of dishevelled hair, and an

occasional pipe, all watching these paltry stroll-ing shows, as if with a sigh of regret for Paris,so near at hand. It was a hideous and depress-ing sight.

The grass, which had hardly begun to grow,was already turning yellow beneath the feet ofthe crowd. The dust was black; and yet, everyThursday, the cocotte aristocracy passedthrough on the way to the Casino, with a greatshow of rickety carriages and borrowed postil-ions. All these things gave pleasure to that fa-natical Parisian, Sidonie; and then, too, in herchildhood, she had heard a great deal aboutAsnieres from the illustrious Delobelle, whowould have liked to have, like so many of hisprofession, a little villa in those latitudes, a co-zy nook in the country to which to return bythe midnight train, after the play is done.

All these dreams of little Chebe, Sidonie Rislerhad realized.

The brothers went to the gate opening on thequay, in which the key was usually left. Theyentered, making their way among trees andshrubs of recent growth. Here and there thebilliard-room, the gardener's lodge, a littlegreenhouse, made their appearance, like thepieces of one of the Swiss chalets we give tochildren to play with; all very light and fragile,hardly more than resting on the ground, as ifready to fly away at the slightest breath of ban-kruptcy or caprice: the villa of a cocotte or apawnbroker.

Frantz looked about in some bewilderment. Inthe distance, opening on a porch surroundedby vases of flowers, was the salon with its longblinds raised. An American easy-chair, folding-chairs, a small table from which the coffee hadnot been removed, could be seen near the door.Within they heard a succession of loud chordson the piano and the murmur of low voices.

"I tell you Sidonie will be surprised," said hon-est Risler, walking softly on the gravel; "shedoesn't expect me until tonight. She and Ma-dame Dobson are practising together at thismoment."

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 thepiano, jumped up from her stool, and at thefarther end of the grand salon Georges andSidonie rose hastily behind the exotic plantsthat reared their heads above a table, of whosedelicate, slender lines they seemed a prolonga-tion.

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

The flounces of her white peignoir, throughwhich blue ribbons were drawn, like little pat-ches of blue sky among the clouds, rolled inbillows over the carpet, and, having alreadyrecovered from her embarrassment, she stoodvery straight, with an affable expression andher everlasting little smile, as she kissed herhusband and offered her forehead to Frantz,saying:

"Good morning, brother."

Risler left them confronting each other, andwent up to Fromont Jeune, whom he was grea-tly surprised to find there.

"What, Chorche, you here? I supposed you we-re at Savigny."

"Yes, to be sure, but—I came—I thought youstayed at Asnieres Sundays. I wanted to speakto you on a matter of business."

Thereupon, entangling himself in his words, hebegan to talk hurriedly of an important order.Sidonie had disappeared after exchanging afew unmeaning words with the impassiveFrantz. Madame Dobson continued her tremo-los on the soft pedal, like those which accom-pany critical situations at the theatre.

In very truth, the situation at that moment wasdecidedly strained. But Risler's good-humorbanished all constraint. He apologized to hispartner for not being at home, and insistedupon showing Frantz the house. They wentfrom the salon to the stable, from the stable tothe carriage-house, the servants' quarters, andthe conservatory. Everything was new, bril-liant, gleaming, too small, and inconvenient.

"But," said Risler, with a certain pride, "it cost aheap 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 everyfloor, the improved system of bells, the gardenseats, the English billiard-table, the hydropathicarrangements, and accompanied his expositionwith outbursts of gratitude to Fromont Jeune,who, by taking him into partnership, had liter-ally placed a fortune in his hands.

At each new effusion on Risler's part, GeorgesFromont shrank visibly, ashamed and embar-rassed by the strange expression on Frantz'sface.

The breakfast was lacking in gayety.

Madame Dobson talked almost without inter-ruption, overjoyed to be swimming in the shal-lows of a romantic love-affair. Knowing, orrather believing that she knew her friend's sto-ry from beginning to end, she understood thelowering wrath of Frantz, a former lover furi-ous at finding his place filled, and the anxietyof Georges, due to the appearance of a rival;

and she encouraged one with a glance, con-soled the other with a smile, admired Sidonie'stranquil demeanor, and reserved all her con-tempt for that abominable Risler, the vulgar,uncivilized tyrant. She made an effort to pre-vent any of those horrible periods of silence,when the clashing knives and forks mark timein such an absurd and embarrassing way.

As soon as breakfast was at an end FromontJeune announced that he must return to Savi-gny. Risler did not venture to detain him,thinking that his dear Madame Chorche wouldpass her Sunday all alone; and so, without anopportunity to say a word to his mistress, thelover went away in the bright sunlight to takean afternoon train, still attended by the hus-band, who insisted upon escorting him to thestation.Madame Dobson sat for a moment with Frantzand Sidonie under a little arbor which a climb-ing vine studded with pink buds; then, realiz-ing that she was in the way, she returned to the

salon, and as before, while Georges was there,began to play and sing softly and with expres-sion. In the silent garden, that muffled music,gliding between the branches, seemed like thecooing of birds before the storm.

At last they were alone. Under the lattice of thearbor, still bare and leafless, the May sun shonetoo bright. Sidonie shaded her eyes with herhand as she watched the people passing on thequay. Frantz likewise looked out, but in an-other direction; and both of them, affecting tobe entirely independent of each other, turned atthe same instant with the same gesture andmoved by the same thought.

"I have something to say to you," he said, justas she opened her mouth.

"And I to you," she replied gravely; "but comein here; we shall be more comfortable."

And they entered together a little summer-house at the foot of the garden.

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XIV. EXPLANATION

By slow degrees Sidonie sank to her formerlevel, yes, even lower. From the rich, well-considered bourgeoise to which her marriagehad raised her, she descended the ladder to therank of a mere toy. By dint of travelling in rail-way carriages with fantastically dressed courte-

sans, with their hair worn over their eyes like aterrier's, or falling over the back 'a la Genevievede Brabant', she came at last to resemble them.She transformed herself into a blonde for twomonths, to the unbounded amazement of Rizer,who could not understand how his doll was sochanged. As for Georges, all these eccentricitiesamused him; it seemed to him that he had tenwomen in one. He was the real husband, themaster of the house.

To divert Sidonie's thoughts, he had provided asimulacrum of society for her—his bachelorfriends, a few fast tradesmen, almost no wo-men, women have too sharp eyes. MadameDobson was the only friend of Sidonie's sex.

They organized grand dinner-parties, excur-sions on the water, fireworks. From day to dayRisler's position became more absurd, moredistressing. When he came home in the eve-ning, tired out, shabbily dressed, he must hurryup to his room to dress.

"We have some people to dinner," his wifewould say. "Make haste."

And he would be the last to take his place at thetable, after shaking hands all around with hisguests, friends of Fromont Jeune, whom hehardly knew by name. Strange to say, the af-fairs of the factory were often discussed at thattable, to which Georges brought his acquaint-ances from the club with the tranquil self-assurance of the gentleman who pays.

"Business breakfasts and dinners!" To Risler'smind that phrase explained everything: hispartner's constant presence, his choice ofguests, and the marvellous gowns worn bySidonie, who beautified herself in the interestsof the firm. This coquetry on his mistress's partdrove Fromont Jeune to despair. Day after dayhe came unexpectedly to take her by surprise,uneasy, suspicious, afraid to leave that perverseand deceitful character to its own devices forlong.

"What in the deuce has become of your hus-band?"

Pere Gardinois would ask his grand-daughterwith a cunning leer. "Why doesn't he come hereoftener?"

Claire apologized for Georges, but his contin-ual neglect began to disturb her. She wept nowwhen she received the little notes, the des-patches which arrived daily at the dinner-hour:"Don't expect me to-night, dear love. I shall notbe able to come to Savigny until to-morrow orthe day after by the night-train."

She ate her dinner sadly, opposite an emptychair, and although she did not know that shewas betrayed, she felt that her husband wasbecoming accustomed to living away from her.He was so absent-minded when a family gath-ering or some other unavoidable duty detainedhim at the chateau, so silent concerning whatwas in his mind. Claire, having now only the

most distant relations with Sidonie, knew noth-ing of what was taking place at Asnieres: butwhen Georges left her, apparently eager to begone, and with smiling face, she tormented herloneliness with unavowed suspicions, and, likeall those who anticipate a great sorrow, shesuddenly became conscious of a great void inher heart, a place made ready for disasters tocome.

Her husband was hardly happier than she.That cruel Sidonie seemed to take pleasure intormenting him. She allowed everybody to paycourt to her. At that moment a certain Cazabon,alias Cazaboni, an Italian tenor from Toulouse,introduced by Madame Dobson, came everyday to sing disturbing duets. Georges, jealousbeyond words, hurried to Asnieres in the after-noon, neglecting everything, and was alreadybeginning to think that Risler did not watch hiswife 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 tightrein he would have kept on her! But he had nopower over her and she was not at all back-ward about telling him so. Sometimes, too,with the invincible logic that often occurs to thegreatest fools, he reflected that, as he was de-ceiving his friend, perhaps he deserved to bedeceived. In short, his was a wretched life. Hepassed his time running about to jewellers anddry-goods dealers, inventing gifts and sur-prises. Ah! he knew her well. He knew that hecould pacify her with trinkets, yet not retain hishold upon her, and that, when the day camethat she was bored—

But Sidonie was not bored as yet. She was liv-ing the life that she longed to live; she had allthe happiness she could hope to attain. Therewas nothing passionate or romantic about herfeeling for Georges. He was like a second hus-band to her, younger and, above all, richer thanthe other. To complete the vulgarization of

their liaison, she had summoned her parents toAsnieres, lodged them in a little house in thecountry, and made of that vain and wilfullyblind father and that affectionate, still bewil-dered mother a halo of respectability of whichshe felt the necessity as she sank lower andlower.

Everything was shrewdly planned in that per-verse little brain, which reflected coolly uponvice; and it seemed to her as if she might con-tinue to live thus in peace, when Frantz Rislersuddenly arrived.

Simply from seeing him enter the room, shehad realized that her repose was threatened,that an interview of the gravest importance wasto take place between them.

Her plan was formed on the instant. She mustat once put it into execution.

The summer-house that they entered containedone large, circular room with four windows,each looking out upon a different landscape; itwas furnished for the purposes of summer sies-tas, for the hot hours when one seeks shelterfrom the sunlight and the noises of the garden.A broad, very low divan ran all around thewall. A small lacquered table, also very low,stood in the middle of the room, covered withodd numbers of society journals.

The hangings were new, and the Persian pat-tern-birds flying among bluish reeds—produced the effect of a dream in summer, et-hereal figures floating before one's languideyes. The lowered blinds, the matting on thefloor, the Virginia jasmine clinging to the trel-lis-work outside, produced a refreshing cool-ness which was enhanced by the splashing inthe river near by, and the lapping of its wave-lets on the shore.

Sidonie sat down as soon as she entered theroom, pushing aside her long white skirt,which sank like a mass of snow at the foot ofthe divan; and with sparkling eyes and a smileplaying about her lips, bending her little headslightly, its saucy coquettishness heightened bythe bow of ribbon on the side, she waited.

Frantz, pale as death, remained standing, look-ing about the room. After a moment he began:

"I congratulate you, Madame; you understandhow to make yourself comfortable."

And in the next breath, as if he were afraid thatthe conversation, beginning at such a distance,would not arrive quickly enough at the point towhich he intended to lead it, he added brutally:

"To whom do you owe this magnificence, toyour lover or your husband?"

Without moving from the divan, without evenraising her eyes to his, she answered:

"To both."

He was a little disconcerted by such self-possession.

"Then you confess that that man is your lover?"

"Confess it!—yes!"

Frantz gazed at her a moment without speak-ing. She, too, had turned pale, notwithstandingher calmness, and the eternal little smile nolonger quivered at the corners of her mouth.

He continued:

"Listen to me, Sidonie! My brother's name, thename he gave his wife, is mine as well. SinceRisler is so foolish, so blind as to allow the na-me to be dishonored by you, it is my place todefend it against your attacks. I beg you, there-

fore, to inform Monsieur Georges Fromont thathe must change mistresses as soon as possible,and go elsewhere to ruin himself. If not—"

"If not?" queried Sidonie, who had not ceasedto play with her rings while he was speaking.

"If not, I shall tell my brother what is going onin his house, and you will be surprised at theRisler whose acquaintance you will makethen—a man as violent and ungovernable as heusually is inoffensive. My disclosure will killhim perhaps, but you can be sure that he willkill you first."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Very well! let him kill me. What do I care forthat?"

This was said with such a heartbroken, de-spondent air that Frantz, in spite of himself, felta little pity for that beautiful, fortunate young

creature, who talked of dying with such self-abandonment.

"Do you love him so dearly?" he said, in an in-definably milder tone. "Do you love this Fro-mont so dearly that you prefer to die ratherthan renounce him?"

She drew herself up hastily.

"I? Love that fop, that doll, that silly girl inmen's clothes? Nonsense!—I took him as Iwould have taken any other man."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't help it, because I was mad,because I had and still have in my heart a cri-minal love, which I am determined to tear out,no matter at what cost."

She had risen and was speaking with her eyesin his, her lips near his, trembling from head tofoot.

A criminal love?—Whom did she love, in God'sname?

Frantz was afraid to question her.

Although suspecting nothing as yet, he had afeeling that that glance, that breath, leaningtoward him, were about to make some horribledisclosure.

But his office of judge made it necessary forhim 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 exceptas a sister. In his eyes his brother's wife in noway resembled his former fiancee, and it would

have been a crime to recognize in a single fea-ture of her face the woman to whom he hadformerly so often said, "I love you."

And now it was she who said that she lovedhim.

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 andlight, to which the moisture of recent rains im-parts a strange softness and melancholy. Theair was warm, perfumed by fresh flowerswhich, on that first day of heat, gave forth theirfragrance eagerly, like violets hidden in a muff.Through its long, open windows the room inwhich they were inhaled all those intoxicatingodors. Outside, they could hear the Sundayorgans, distant shouts on the river, and nearer

at hand, in the garden, Madame Dobson's amo-rous, 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," saidSidonie. "That love which I renounced long agobecause I was a young girl—and young girls donot know what they are doing—that love noth-ing has ever succeeded in destroying or lessen-ing. When I learned that Desiree also lovedyou, the unfortunate, penniless child, in a greatoutburst of generosity I determined to assureher happiness for life by sacrificing my own,and I at once turned you away, so that youshould go to her. Ah! as soon as you had gone,I realized that the sacrifice was beyond mystrength. Poor little Desiree! How I cursed herin the bottom of my heart! Will you believe it?Since that time I have avoided seeing her, meet-ing her. The sight of her caused me too muchpain."

"But if you loved me," asked Frantz, in a lowvoice, "if you loved me, why did you marry mybrother?"

She did not waver.

"To marry Risler was to bring myself nearer toyou. I said to myself: 'I could not be his wife.Very well, I will be his sister. At all events, inthat way it will still be allowable for me to lovehim, and we shall not pass our whole lives asstrangers.' Alas! those are the innocent dreamsa girl has at twenty, dreams of which she verysoon learns the impossibility. I could not loveyou as a sister, Frantz; I could not forget you,either; my marriage prevented that. With an-other husband I might perhaps have suc-ceeded, but with Risler it was terrible. He wasforever talking about you and your success andyour future—Frantz said this; Frantz did that—He loves you so well, poor fellow! And then themost cruel thing to me is that your brotherlooks like you. There is a sort of family resem-

blance in your features, in your gait, in yourvoices especially, for I have often closed myeyes under his caresses, saying to myself, 'It ishe, it is Frantz.' When I saw that that wickedthought was becoming a source of torment tome, something that I could not escape, I tried tofind distraction, I consented to listen to thisGeorges, who had been pestering me for a longtime, to transform my life to one of noise andexcitement. But I swear to you, Frantz, that inthat whirlpool of pleasure into which I thenplunged, I never have ceased to think of you,and if any one had a right to come here and callme to account for my conduct, you certainly arenot the one, for you, unintentionally, have ma-de me what I am."

She paused. Frantz dared not raise his eyes toher face. For a moment past she had seemed tohim too lovely, too alluring. She was his brot-her's wife!

Nor did he dare speak. The unfortunate youthfelt that the old passion was despotically takingpossession of his heart once more, and that atthat moment glances, words, everything thatburst forth from it would be love.

And she was his brother's wife!

"Ah! wretched, wretched creatures that we are!"exclaimed the poor judge, dropping upon thedivan beside her.

Those few words were in themselves an act ofcowardice, a beginning of surrender, as if des-tiny, by showing itself so pitiless, had deprivedhim of the strength to defend himself. Sidoniehad placed her hand on his. "Frantz—Frantz!"she said; and they remained there side by side,silent and burning with emotion, soothed byMadame Dobson's romance, which reachedtheir 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 thedoorway.

"This way, Chebe, this way. They are in thesummerhouse."

As he spoke the husband entered, escorting hisfather-in-law and mother-in-law, whom he hadgone to fetch.

There was a moment of effusive greetings andinnumerable embraces. You should have seenthe patronizing air with which M. Chebe scru-tinized the young man, who was head andshoulders taller than he.

"Well, my boy, does the Suez Canal progress asyou would wish?"

Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz hadnever ceased to be her future son-in-law, threwher arms around him, while Risler, tactless asusual in his gayety and his enthusiasm, waved

his arms, talked of killing several fatted calvesto celebrate the return of the prodigal son, androared to the singing-mistress in a voice thatechoed through the neighboring gardens:

"Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson—if you'llallow me, it's a pity for you to be singing there.To the devil with sadness for to-day! Play ussomething lively, a good waltz, so that I cantake 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 anautomatic six-step waltz-a genuine valse deVaucanson—he dragged his breathless mam-ma-in-law, who stopped at every step to restoreto their usual orderliness the dangling ribbonsof her hat and the lace trimming of her shawl,her lovely shawl bought for Sidonie's wedding.

Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy.

To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day ofagony. Driving, rowing on the river, lunch onthe grass on the Ile des Ravageurs—he wasspared none of the charms of Asnieres; and allthe time, in the dazzling sunlight of the roads,in the glare reflected by the water, he mustlaugh and chatter, describe his journey, talk ofthe Isthmus of Suez and the great work under-taken there, listen to the whispered complaintsof M. Chebe, who was still incensed with hischildren, and to his brother's description of thePress. "Rotary, my dear Frantz, rotary and do-decagonal!" Sidonie left the gentlemen to theirconversation and seemed absorbed in deepthought. From time to time she said a word ortwo to Madame Dobson, or smiled sadly at her,and Frantz, not daring to look at her, followedthe motions of her blue-lined parasol and of thewhite flounces of her skirt.

How she had changed in two years! How love-ly she had grown!

Then horrible thoughts came to his mind. Therewere races at Longchamps that day. Carriagespassed theirs, rubbed against it, driven by wo-men with painted faces, closely veiled. Sittingmotionless on the box, they held their longwhips straight in the air, with doll-like ges-tures, and nothing about them seemed aliveexcept their blackened eyes, fixed on the horses'heads. As they passed, people turned to look.Every eye followed them, as if drawn by thewind caused by their rapid motion.

Sidonie resembled those creatures. She mightherself have driven Georges' carriage; forFrantz was in Georges' carriage. He had drunkGeorges' wine. All the luxurious enjoyment ofthat family party came from Georges.

It was shameful, revolting! He would have li-ked to shout the whole story to his brother.

Indeed, it was his duty, as he had come therefor that express purpose. But he no longer feltthe courage to do it. Ah! the unhappy judge!

That evening after dinner, in the salon open tothe fresh breeze from the river, Risler beggedhis wife to sing. He wished her to exhibit all hernewly acquired accomplishments to Frantz.

Sidonie, leaning on the piano, objected with amelancholy air, while Madame Dobson ran herfingers over the keys, shaking her long curls.

"But I don't know anything. What do you wishme to sing?"

She ended, however, by being persuaded. Pale,disenchanted, with her mind upon otherthings, in the flickering light of the candleswhich seemed to be burning incense, the airwas so heavy with the odor of the hyacinthsand lilacs in the garden, she began a Creoleballad very popular in Louisiana, which Ma-

dame Dobson herself had arranged for the voi-ce 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 littleZizi, who was driven mad by passion, Sidoniehad the appearance of a love-sick woman. Withwhat heartrending expression, with the cry of awounded dove, did she repeat that refrain, somelancholy and so sweet, in the childlike patoisof the colonies:

"C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne la tete...."

It was enough to drive the unlucky judge madas well.

But no! The siren had been unfortunate in herchoice of a ballad. For, at the mere name ofMam'zelle Zizi, Frantz was suddenly trans-

ported to a gloomy chamber in the Marais, along way from Sidonie's salon, and his compas-sionate heart evoked the image of little DesireeDelobelle, who had loved him so long. Untilshe was fifteen, she never had been called any-thing but Ziree or Zizi, and she was the pauv'pitit of the Creole ballad to the life, the ever-neglected, ever-faithful lover. In vain now didthe other sing. Frantz no longer heard her orsaw her. He was in that poor room, beside thegreat armchair, on the little low chair on whichhe had sat so often awaiting the father's return.Yes, there, and there only, was his salvation. Hemust take refuge in that child's love, throwhimself at her feet, say to her, "Take me, saveme!" And who knows? She loved him so dear-ly. Perhaps she would save him, would curehim of his guilty passion.

"Where are you going?" asked Risler, seeingthat his brother rose hurriedly as soon as thelast flourish was at an end.

"I am going back. It is late."

"What? You are not going to sleep here? Whyyour room is ready for you."

"It is all ready," added Sidonie, with a meaningglance.

He refused resolutely. His presence in Pariswas necessary for the fulfilment of certain veryimportant commissions intrusted to him by theCompany. They continued their efforts to de-tain him when he was in the vestibule, when hewas crossing the garden in the moonlight andrunning to the station, amid all the divers noi-ses of Asnieres.

When he had gone, Risler went up to his room,leaving Sidonie and Madame Dobson at thewindows of the salon. The music from theneighboring Casino reached their ears, with the"Yo-ho!" of the boatmen and the footsteps of the

dancers like a rhythmical, muffled drummingon the tambourine.

"There's a kill-joy for you!" observed MadameDobson.

"Oh, I have checkmated him," replied Sidonie;"only I must be careful. I shall be closely wat-ched now. He is so jealous. I am going to writeto Cazaboni not to come again for some time,and you must tell Georges to-morrow morningto 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 thelittle low chair, as in the good old days, and heno longer came to talk of Sidonie.

As soon as she began to work in the morning,she would see the door open softly. "Good mor-ning, Mam'zelle Zizi." He always called hernow by the name she had borne as a child; andif you could know how prettily he said it:"Good morning, Mam'zelle Zizi."

In the evening they waited for "the father" to-gether, and while she worked he made hershudder with the story of his adventures.

"What is the matter with you? You're not thesame as you used to be," Mamma Delobellewould say, surprised to see her in such highspirits and above all so active. For instead ofremaining always buried in her easy-chair,with the self-renunciation of a young grand-mother, the little creature was continually jum-ping up and running to the window as lightly

as if she were putting out wings; and she prac-tised standing erect, asking her mother in awhisper:

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

From her graceful little head, upon which shehad previously concentrated all her energies inthe arrangement of her hair, her coquetry ex-tended over her whole person, as did her fine,waving tresses when she unloosed them. Yes,she was very, very coquettish now; and every-body noticed it. Even the "birds and insects forornament" assumed a knowing little air.

Ah, yes! Desiree Delobelle was happy. For so-me days M. Frantz had been talking of their allgoing into the country together; and as the fa-ther, kind and generous as always, graciouslyconsented to allow the ladies to take a day'srest, all four set out one Sunday morning.

Oh! the lovely drive, the lovely country, thelovely river, the lovely trees!

Do not ask her where they went; Desiree neverknew. But she will tell you that the sun wasbrighter there than anywhere else, the birdsmore joyous, the woods denser; and she willnot lie.

The bouquet that the little cripple brought backfrom that beautiful excursion made her roomfragrant for a week. Among the hyacinths, theviolets, the white-thorn, was a multitude ofnameless little flowers, those flowers of thelowly which grow from nomadic seed scatteredeverywhere along the roads.

Gazing at the slender, pale blue and bright pinkblossoms, with all the delicate shades that flo-wers invented before colorists, many and manya time during that week Desiree took her ex-cursion again. The violets reminded her of thelittle moss-covered mound on which she had

picked them, seeking them under the leaves,her fingers touching Frantz's. They had foundthese great water-lilies on the edge of a ditch,still damp from the winter rains, and, in orderto reach them, she had leaned very heavily onFrantz's arm. All these memories occurred toher as she worked. Meanwhile the sun, shiningin at the open window, made the feathers of thehummingbirds glisten. The springtime, youth,the songs of the birds, the fragrance of the flo-wers, transfigured that dismal fifth-floor work-room, and Desiree said in all seriousness toMamma Delobelle, putting her nose to herfriend's bouquet:

"Have you noticed how sweet the flowers smellthis year, mamma?"

And Frantz, too, began to fall under the charm.Little by little Mam'zelle Zizi took possession ofhis heart and banished from it even the mem-ory of Sidonie. To be sure, the poor judge didall that he could to accomplish that result. At

every hour in the day he was by Desiree's side,and clung to her like a child. Not once did heventure to return to Asnieres. He feared theother too much.

"Pray come and see us once in a while; Sidoniekeeps asking for you," Risler said to him fromtime to time, when his brother came to the fac-tory to see him. But Frantz held firm, allegingall sorts of business engagements as pretextsfor postponing his visit to the next day. It waseasy to satisfy Risler, who was more engrossedthan ever with his press, which they had justbegun to build.

Whenever Frantz came down from his brother'scloset, old Sigismond was sure to be watchingfor him, and would walk a few steps with himin his long, lute-string sleeves, quill and knifein hand. He kept the young man informed con-cerning matters at the factory. For some timepast, things seemed to have changed for thebetter. Monsieur Georges came to his office

regularly, and returned to Savigny every night.No more bills were presented at the counting-room. It seemed, too, that Madame over yonderwas keeping more within bounds.

The cashier was triumphant.

"You see, my boy, whether I did well to write toyou. Your arrival was all that was needed tostraighten everything out. And yet," the goodman would add by force of habit, "and yet I hafno gonfidence."

"Never fear, Monsieur Sigismond, I am here,"the judge would reply.

"You're not going away yet, are you, my dearFrantz?"

"No, no—not yet. I have an important matter tofinish up first."

"Ah! so much the better."

The important matter to which Frantz referredwas his marriage to Desiree Delobelle. He hadnot yet mentioned it to any one, not even toher; but Mam'zelle Zizi must have suspectedsomething, for she became prettier and morelighthearted from day to day, as if she foresawthat the day would soon come when she wouldneed all her gayety and all her beauty.

They were alone in the workroom one Sundayafternoon. Mamma Delobelle had gone out,proud enough to show herself for once in pub-lic with her great man, and leaving friendFrantz with her daughter to keep her company.Carefully dressed, his whole person denoting aholiday air, Frantz had a singular expression onhis face that day, an expression at once timidand resolute, emotional and solemn, and sim-ply from the way in which the little low chairtook its place beside the great easy-chair, theeasy-chair understood that a very seriouscommunication was about to be made to it in

confidence, and it had some little suspicion asto what it might be.

The conversation began with divers unimpor-tant remarks, interspersed with long and fre-quent pauses, just as, on a journey, we stop atevery baiting-place to take breath, to enable usto 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 sen-tences, their voices trembled at the thought ofwhat was about to be said.

At last the little low chair moved a little nearerthe great easy-chair; their eyes met, their fin-

gers were intertwined, and the two, in low to-nes, 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 glovedhand which fears to soil itself by the slightesttouch.

"Come in!" said Desiree, with a slight gesture ofimpatience; and Sidonie appeared, lovely, co-quettish, and affable. She had come to see herlittle Zizi, to embrace her as she was passingby. She had been meaning to come for so long.

Frantz's presence seemed to surprise her grea-tly, and, being engrossed by her delight in talk-ing with her former friend, she hardly looked athim. After the effusive greetings and caresses,after a pleasant chat over old times, she ex-

pressed a wish to see the window on the land-ing and the room formerly occupied by theRislers. It pleased her thus to live all her youthover again.

"Do you remember, Frantz, when the PrincessHummingbird entered your room, holding herlittle head very straight under a diadem ofbirds' feathers?"

Frantz did not reply. He was too deeply movedto reply. Something warned him that it was onhis account, solely on his account, that the wo-man had come, that she was determined to seehim again, to prevent him from giving himselfto another, and the poor wretch realized withdismay that she would not have to exert herselfovermuch to accomplish her object. When hesaw her enter the room, his whole heart hadbeen caught in her net once more.

Desiree suspected nothing, not she! Sidonie'smanner was so frank and friendly. And then,

they were brother and sister now. Love was nolonger possible between them.

But the little cripple had a vague presentimentof woe when Sidonie, standing in the doorwayand ready to go, turned carelessly to her brot-her-in-law and said:

"By the way, Frantz, Risler told me to be sure tobring you back to dine with us to-night. Thecarriage is below. We will pick him up as wepass the factory."

Then she added, with the prettiest smile imag-inable:

"You will let us have him, won't you, Ziree?Don't be afraid; we will send him back."

And he had the courage to go, the ungratefulwretch!

He went without hesitation, without once turn-ing back, whirled away by his passion as by a

raging sea, and neither on that day nor the nextnor ever after could Mam'zelle Zizi's great ea-sy-chair learn what the interesting communica-tion was that the little low chair had to make toit.

CHAPTER XVI. THE WAITING-ROOM

"Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more thanever and for ever! What is the use of struggling and fightingagainst fate? Our sin is stronger than we. But, after all, is it a crimefor us to love? We were destined for each other. Have wenot the right to come together, although life has parted us? So, co-me! It is all over;

we will go away. Meet me to-morrow eve-ning, Lyon station, at ten o'clock. The tickets are secured and I shall bethere awaiting you.

"FRANTZ."

For a month past Sidonie had been hoping forthat letter, a month during which she hadbrought all her coaxing and cunning into playto lure her brother-in-law on to that writtenrevelation of passion. She had difficulty in ac-complishing it. It was no easy matter to pervertan honest young heart like Frantz's to the pointof committing a crime; and in that strange con-test, in which the one who really loved foughtagainst his own cause, she had often felt thatshe was at the end of her strength and was al-most discouraged. When she was most confi-dent that he was conquered, his sense of rightwould suddenly rebel, and he would be allready to flee, to escape her once more.

What a triumph it was for her, therefore, whenthat letter was handed to her one morning.Madame Dobson happened to be there. Shehad just arrived, laden with complaints fromGeorges, who was horribly bored away fromhis mistress, and was beginning to be alarmedconcerning this brother-in-law, who was moreattentive, more jealous, more exacting than ahusband.

"Oh! the poor, dear fellow, the poor, dear, fel-low," said the sentimental American, "if youcould see how unhappy he is!"

And, shaking her curls, she unrolled her music-roll and took from it the poor, dear fellow'sletters, which she had carefully hidden betweenthe leaves of her songs, delighted to be in-volved in this love-story, to give vent to heremotion in an atmosphere of intrigue andmystery which melted her cold eyes andsuffused her dry, pale complexion.

Strange to say, while lending her aid most will-ingly to this constant going and coming of love-letters, the youthful and attractive Dobson hadnever written or received a single one on herown account.

Always on the road between Asnieres and Pa-ris with an amorous message under her wing,that odd carrier-pigeon remained true to herown dovecot and cooed for none but unselfishmotives.

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 hemay go and wait for me at the station. That isall. The least I can do is to give him a quarter ofan hour of agony. He has made me miserableenough for the last month. Just consider that Ihave changed my whole life for my gentleman!I have had to close my doors and give up see-ing my friends and everybody I know who isyoung and agreeable, beginning with Georgesand ending with you. For you know, my dear,you weren't agreeable to him, and he wouldhave liked to dismiss you with the rest."

The one thing that Sidonie did not mention—and it was the deepest cause of her angeragainst Frantz—was that he had frightened herterribly by threatening to tell her husband herguilty secret. From that moment she had feltdecidedly ill at ease, and her life, her dear life,which she so petted and coddled, had seemedto her to be exposed to serious danger. Yes, the

thought that her husband might some day beapprized of her conduct positively terrified her.

That blessed letter put an end to all her fears. Itwas impossible now for Frantz to expose her,even in the frenzy of his disappointment, kno-wing that she had such a weapon in her hands;and if he did speak, she would show the letter,and all his accusations would become in Ris-ler's eyes calumny pure and simple. Ah, masterjudge, we have you now!

"I am born again—I am born again!" she criedto Madame Dobson. She ran out into the gar-den, gathered great bouquets for her salon,threw the windows wide open to the sunlight,gave orders to the cook, the coachman, the gar-dener. The house must be made to look beauti-ful, for Georges was coming back, and for abeginning she organized a grand dinner-partyfor the end of the week.

The next evening Sidonie, Risler, and MadameDobson were together in the salon. While hon-est Risler turned the leaves of an old handbookof mechanics, Sidonie sang to Madame Dob-son's accompaniment. Suddenly she stopped inthe middle of her aria and burst into a peal oflaughter. 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 andpointing at the clock.

It was the hour appointed for the meeting, andshe was thinking of her lover's torture as hewaited for her to come.

Since the return of the messenger bringing fromSidonie the "yes" he had so feverishly awaited,a great calm had come over his troubled mind,

like the sudden removal of a heavy burden. Nomore uncertainty, no more clashing betweenpassion and duty.

Not once did it occur to him that on the otherside of the landing some one was weeping andsighing because of him. Not once did he thinkof his brother's despair, of the ghastly dramathey were to leave behind them. He saw asweet little pale face resting beside his in therailway train, a blooming lip within reach of hislip, and two fathomless eyes looking at him bythe soft light of the lamp, to the soothing ac-companiment of the wheels and the steam.

Two hours before the opening of the gate forthe designated train, Frantz was already at theLyon station, that gloomy station which, in thedistant quarter of Paris in which it is situated,seems like a first halting-place in the provinces.He sat down in the darkest corner and re-mained there without stirring, as if dazed.

Instinctively, although the appointed hour wasstill distant, he looked among the people whowere hurrying along, calling to one another, tosee if he could not discern that graceful figuresuddenly emerging from the crowd and thrust-ing it aside at every step with the radiance ofher beauty.

After many departures and arrivals and shrillwhistles, the station suddenly became empty,as deserted as a church on weekdays. The timefor the ten o'clock train was drawing near. The-re was no other train before that. Frantz rose. Ina quarter of an hour, half an hour at the least,she would be there.

Frantz went hither and thither, watching thecarriages that arrived. Each new arrival madehim start. He fancied that he saw her enter,closely veiled, hesitating, a little embarrassed.How quickly he would be by her side, to com-fort her, to protect her!

The hour for the departure of the train was ap-proaching. He looked at the clock. There wasbut a quarter of an hour more. It alarmed him;but the bell at the wicket, which had now beenopened, summoned him. He ran thither andtook his place in the long line.

"Two first-class for Marseilles," he said. It see-med to him as if that were equivalent to takingpossession.

He made his way back to his post of observa-tion through the luggage-laden wagons and thelate-comers who jostled him as they ran. Thedrivers shouted, "Take care!" He stood thereamong the wheels of the cabs, under the horses'feet, with deaf ears and staring eyes. Only fiveminutes more. It was almost impossible for herto arrive in time.

At last she appeared.

Yes, there she is, it is certainly she—a woman inblack, slender and graceful, accompanied byanother shorter woman—Madame Dobson, nodoubt.

But a second glance undeceived him. It was ayoung woman who resembled her, a woman offashion like her, with a happy face. A man, alsoyoung, joined them. It was evidently a wed-ding-party; the mother accompanied them, tosee them safely on board the train.

Now there is the confusion of departure, thelast stroke of the bell, the steam escaping with ahissing sound, mingled with the hurried foot-steps of belated passengers, the slamming ofdoors and the rumbling of the heavy omni-buses. Sidonie comes not. And Frantz stillwaits.At that moment a hand is placed on his shoul-der.

Great God!

He turns. The coarse face of M. Gardinois, sur-rounded by a travelling-cap with ear-pieces, isbefore him.

"I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler. Areyou going to Marseilles by the express? I amnot going far."

He explains to Frantz that he has missed theOrleans train, and is going to try to connectwith Savigny by the Lyon line; then he talksabout Risler Aine and the factory.

"It seems that business hasn't been prosperingfor some time. They were caught in the Bon-nardel failure. Ah! our young men need to becareful. At the rate they're sailing their ship, thesame thing is likely to happen to them thathappened to Bonnardel. But excuse me, I be-lieve they're about to close the gate. Au revoir."

Frantz has hardly heard what he has been say-ing. His brother's ruin, the destruction of the

whole world, nothing is of any further conse-quence to him. He is waiting, waiting.

But now the gate is abruptly closed like a lastbarrier between him and his persistent hope.Once more the station is empty. The uproar hasbeen transferred to the line of the railway, andsuddenly a shrill whistle falls upon the lover'sear like an ironical farewell, then dies away inthe darkness.

The ten o'clock train has gone!

He tries to be calm and to reason. Evidently shemissed the train from Asmeres; but, knowingthat he is waiting for her, she will come, nomatter how late it may be. He will wait longer.The waiting-room was made for that.

The unhappy man sits down on a bench. Theprospect of a long vigil brings to his mind awell-known room in which at that hour thelamp burns low on a table laden with hum-

ming-birds and insects, but that vision passesswiftly through his mind in the chaos of con-fused thoughts to which the delirium of sus-pense gives birth.

And while he thus lost himself in thought, thehours passed. The roofs of the buildings of Ma-zas, buried in darkness, were already begin-ning to stand out distinctly against the bright-ening sky. What was he to do? He must go toAsnieres at once and try to find out what hadhappened. He wished he were there already.

Having made up his mind, he descended thesteps of the station at a rapid pace, passing sol-diers with their knapsacks on their backs, andpoor people who rise early coming to take themorning train, the train of poverty and want.

In front of one of the stations he saw a crowdcollected, rag-pickers and countrywomen.Doubtless some drama of the night about toreach its denouement before the Commissioner

of Police. Ah! if Frantz had known what thatdrama was! but he could have no suspicion,and he glanced at the crowd indifferently froma distance.

When he reached Asnieres, after a walk of twoor three hours, it was like an awakening. Thesun, rising in all its glory, set field and river onfire. The bridge, the houses, the quay, all stoodforth with that matutinal sharpness of outlinewhich gives the impression of a new day emer-ging, luminous and smiling, from the densemists of the night. From a distance he descriedhis brother's house, already awake, the openblinds and the flowers on the window-sills. Hewandered about some time before he couldsummon courage to enter.

Suddenly some one hailed him from the shore:

"Ah! Monsieur Frantz. How early you are to-day!"

It was Sidonie's coachman taking his horses tobathe in the river.

"Has anything happened at the house?" in-quired 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 Iknow."

Thereupon Frantz made up his mind to ring atthe small gate. The gardener was raking thepaths. The house was astir; and, early as it was,he heard Sidonie's voice as clear and vibratingas the song of a bird among the rose-bushes ofthe facade.

She was talking with animation. Frantz, deeplymoved, drew near to listen.

"No, no cream. The 'cafe parfait' will beenough. Be sure that it's well frozen and readyat seven o'clock. Oh! about an entree—let ussee—"

She was holding council with her cook concern-ing the famous dinner-party for the next day.Her brother-in-law's sudden appearance didnot disconcert her.

"Ah! good-morning, Frantz," she said very coo-lly. "I am at your service directly. We're to havesome people to dinner to-morrow, customers ofthe firm, a grand business dinner. You'll excuseme, won't you?"

Fresh and smiling, in the white ruffles of hertrailing morning-gown and her little lace cap,she continued to discuss her menu, inhaling thecool air that rose from the fields and the river.

There was not the slightest trace of chagrin oranxiety upon that tranquil face, which was astriking contrast to the lover's features, dis-torted by a night of agony and fatigue.

For a long quarter of an hour Frantz, sitting in acorner of the salon, saw all the conventionaldishes of a bourgeois dinner pass before him intheir regular order, from the little hot pates, thesole Normande and the innumerable ingredi-ents of which that dish is composed, to theMontreuil peaches and Fontainebleau grapes.

At last, when they were alone and he was ableto 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 alittle curl or two entangled with her floating

ribbons, and continued, looking at herself allthe while:

"Yes, I received your letter. Indeed, I was char-med to receive it. Now, should you ever feelinclined to tell your brother any of the vile sto-ries about me that you have threatened mewith, I could easily satisfy him that the onlysource of your lying tale-bearing was angerwith me for repulsing a criminal passion as itdeserved. Consider yourself warned, my dearboy—and au revoir."

As pleased as an actress who has just delivereda telling speech with fine effect, she passed himand left the room smiling, with a little curl atthe corners of her mouth, triumphant and wit-hout anger. And he did not kill her!

CHAPTER XVII. AN ITEM OF NEWS

In the evening preceding that ill-omened day, afew moments after Frantz had stealthily left hisroom on Rue de Braque, the illustrious Delobe-lle returned home, with downcast face and thatair of lassitude and disillusionment with whichhe always met untoward events.

"Oh! mon Dieu, my poor man, what has hap-pened?" instantly inquired Madame Delobelle,whom twenty years of exaggerated dramaticpantomime had not yet surfeited.

Before replying, the ex-actor, who never failedto precede his most trivial words with somefacial play, learned long before for stage pur-poses, dropped his lower lip, in token ofdisgust and loathing, as if he had justswallowed something very bitter.

"The matter is that those Rislers are certainlyingrates or egotists, and, beyond all question,exceedingly ill-bred. Do you know what I justlearned downstairs from the concierge, whoglanced at me out of the corner of his eye, mak-ing sport of me? Well, Frantz Risler has gone!He left the house a short time ago, and has leftParis perhaps ere this, without so much as com-ing to shake my hand, to thank me for the wel-come he has received here. What do you thinkof that? For he didn't say good-by to you twoeither, did he? And yet, only a month ago, hewas always in our rooms, without any remon-strance from us."

Mamma Delobelle uttered an exclamation ofgenuine surprise and grief. Desiree, on the con-trary, did not say a word or make a motion. Shewas always the same little iceberg.

Oh! wretched mother, turn your eyes uponyour daughter. See that transparent pallor, tho-se tearless eyes which gleam unwaveringly, as

if their thoughts and their gaze were concen-trated on some object visible to them alone.Cause that poor suffering heart to open itself toyou. Question your child. Make her speak,above all things make her weep, to rid her ofthe burden that is stifling her, so that her tear-dimmed eyes can no longer distinguish inspace that horrible unknown thing upon whichthey are fixed in desperation now.

For nearly a month past, ever since the daywhen Sidonie came and took Frantz away inher coupe, Desiree had known that she was nolonger loved, and she knew her rival's name.She bore them no ill-will, she pitied them rat-her. But, why had he returned? Why had he soheedlessly given her false hopes? How manytears had she devoured in silence since thosehours! How many tales of woe had she told herlittle birds! For once more it was work that hadsustained her, desperate, incessant work,which, by its regularity and monotony, by the

constant recurrence of the same duties and thesame motions, served as a balance-wheel to herthoughts.

Lately Frantz was not altogether lost to her.Although he came but rarely to see her, sheknew that he was there, she could hear him goin and out, pace, the floor with restless step,and sometimes, through the half-open door, seehis loved shadow hurry across the landing. Hedid not seem happy. Indeed, what happinesscould be in store for him? He loved his brot-her's wife. And at the thought that Frantz wasnot happy, the fond creature almost forgot herown sorrow to think only of the sorrow of theman she loved.

She was well aware that it was impossible thathe could ever love her again. But she thoughtthat perhaps she would see him come in someday, wounded and dying, that he would sitdown on the little low chair, lay his head on her

knees, and with a great sob tell her of his suf-fering and say to her, "Comfort me."

That forlorn hope kept her alive for threeweeks. She needed so little as that.

But no. Even that was denied her. Frantz hadgone, gone without a glance for her, without aparting word. The lover's desertion was fol-lowed by the desertion of the friend. It washorrible!

At her father's first words, she felt as if she we-re hurled into a deep, ice-cold abyss, filled withdarkness, into which she plunged swiftly, help-lessly, well knowing that she would never re-turn to the light. She was suffocating. Shewould have liked to resist, to struggle, to callfor help.

Who was there who had the power to sustainher in that great disaster?

God? The thing that is called Heaven?

She did not even think of that. In Paris, espe-cially in the quarters where the working classlive, the houses are too high, the streets toonarrow, the air too murky for heaven to beseen.It was Death alone at which the little cripplewas gazing so earnestly. Her course was de-termined upon at once: she must die. But how?

Sitting motionless in her easy-chair, she consid-ered what manner of death she should choose.As she was almost never alone, she could notthink of the brazier of charcoal, to be lightedafter closing the doors and windows. As shenever went out she could not think either ofpoison to be purchased at the druggist's, a littlepackage of white powder to be buried in thedepths of the pocket, with the needle-case andthe thimble. There was the phosphorus on thematches, too, the verdigris on old sous, theopen window with the paved street below; but

the thought of forcing upon her parents theghastly spectacle of a self-inflicted death-agony,the thought that what would remain of her,picked up amid a crowd of people, would be sofrightful to look upon, made her reject thatmethod.

She still had the river. At all events, the watercarries you away somewhere, so that nobodyfinds you and your death is shrouded in mys-tery.

The river! She shuddered at the mere thought.But it was not the vision of the deep, black wa-ter that terrified her. The girls of Paris laugh atthat. You throw your apron over your head sothat you can't see, and pouf! But she must godownstairs, into the street, all alone, and thestreet frightened her.

Yes, it was a terrible thing to go out into thestreet alone. She must wait until the gas wasout, steal softly downstairs when her mother

had gone to bed, pull the cord of the gate, andmake her way across Paris, where you meetmen who stare impertinently into your face,and pass brilliantly lighted cafes. The river wasa long distance away. She would be very tired.However, there was no other way than that.

"I am going to bed, my child; are you going tosit up any longer?"

With her eyes on her work, "my child" repliedthat she was. She wished to finish her dozen.

"Good-night, then," said Mamma Delobelle, herenfeebled sight being unable to endure the lightlonger. "I have put father's supper by the fire.Just look at it before you go to bed."

Desire did not lie. She really intended to finishher dozen, so that her father could take them tothe shop in the morning; and really, to see thattranquil little head bending forward in the whi-te light of the lamp, one would never have

imagined all the sinister thoughts with which itwas thronged.

At last she takes up the last bird of the dozen, amarvellously lovely little bird whose wingsseem to have been dipped in sea-water, allgreen as they are with a tinge of sapphire.

Carefully, daintily, Desiree suspends it on apiece of brass wire, in the charming attitude ofa frightened creature about to fly away.

Ah! how true it is that the little blue bird isabout to fly away! What a desperate flight intospace! How certain one feels that this time it isthe great journey, the everlasting journey fromwhich there is no return!

By and by, very softly, Desiree opens the ward-robe and takes a thin shawl which she throwsover her shoulders; then she goes. What? Not aglance at her mother, not a silent farewell, not atear? No, nothing! With the terrible clearness of

vision of those who are about to die, she sud-denly realizes that her childhood and youthhave been sacrificed to a vast self-love. Shefeels very sure that a word from their greatman will comfort that sleeping mother, withwhom she is almost angry for not waking, forallowing her to go without a quiver of her clo-sed eyelids.

When one dies young, even by one's own act, itis never without a rebellious feeling, and poorDesiree bids adieu to life, indignant with des-tiny.

Now she is in the street. Where is she going?Everything seems deserted already. Desireewalks rapidly, wrapped in her little shawl,head erect, dry-eyed. Not knowing the way,she walks straight ahead.

The dark, narrow streets of the Marais, wheregas-jets twinkle at long intervals, cross and re-cross and wind about, and again and again in

her feverish course she goes over the sameground. There is always something betweenher and the river. And to think that, at that veryhour, almost in the same quarter, some one elseis wandering through the streets, waiting, wat-ching, desperate! Ah! if they could but meet.Suppose she should accost that feverish wat-cher, should ask him to direct her:

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur. How can I get tothe Seine?"

He would recognize her at once.

"What! Can it be you, Mam'zelle Zizi? What areyou doing out-of-doors at this time of night?"

"I am going to die, Frantz. You have takenaway all my pleasure in living."

Thereupon he, deeply moved, would seize her,press her to his heart and carry her away in hisarms, saying:

"Oh! no, do not die. I need you to comfort me,to cure all the wounds the other has inflicted onme."

But that is a mere poet's dream, one of the mee-tings that life can not bring about.

Streets, more streets, then a square and a bridgewhose lanterns make another luminous bridgein the black water. Here is the river at last. Themist of that damp, soft autumn evening causesall of this huge Paris, entirely strange to her asit is, to appear to her like an enormous confu-sed mass, which her ignorance of the land-marks magnifies still more. This is the placewhere she must die.

Poor little Desiree!

She recalls the country excursion which Frantzhad organized for her. That breath of nature,which she breathed that day for the first time,falls to her lot again at the moment of her

death. "Remember," it seems to say to her; andshe replies mentally, "Oh! yes, I remember."

She remembers only too well. When it arrivesat the end of the quay, which was bedecked asfor a holiday, the furtive little shadow pauses atthe steps leading down to the bank.

Almost immediately there are shouts and exci-tement all along the quay:

"Quick—a boat—grappling-irons!" Boatmenand policemen come running from all sides. Aboat puts off from the shore with a lantern inthe bow.

The flower-women awake, and, when one ofthem asks with a yawn what is happening, thewoman who keeps the cafe that crouches at thecorner of the bridge answers coolly:

"A woman just jumped into the river."

But no. The river has refused to take that child.It has been moved to pity by so great gentle-ness and charm. In the light of the lanternsswinging to and fro on the shore, a black groupforms and moves away. She is saved! It was asand-hauler who fished her out. Policemen arecarrying her, surrounded by boatmen and ligh-termen, and in the darkness a hoarse voice isheard saying with a sneer: "That water-hengave me a lot of trouble. You ought to see howshe slipped through my fingers! I believe shewanted to make me lose my reward." Gradua-lly the tumult subsides, the bystanders disper-se, and the black group moves away toward apolice-station.

Ah! poor girl, you thought that it was an easymatter to have done with life, to disappearabruptly. You did not know that, instead ofbearing you away swiftly to the oblivion yousought, the river would drive you back to allthe shame, to all the ignominy of unsuccessful

suicide. First of all, the station, the hideous sta-tion, with its filthy benches, its floor where thesodden dust seems like mud from the street.There Desiree was doomed to pass the rest ofthe night.

At last day broke with the shuddering glare sodistressing to invalids. Suddenly aroused fromher torpor, Desiree sat up in her bed, threw offthe blanket in which they had wrapped her,and despite fatigue and fever tried to stand, inorder to regain full possession of her facultiesand her will. She had but one thought—to es-cape from all those eyes that were opening onall sides, to leave that frightful place where thebreath of sleep was so heavy and its attitudesso distorted.

"I implore you, messieurs," she said, tremblingfrom head to foot, "let me return to mamma."

Hardened as they were to Parisian dramas,even those good people realized that they were

face to face with something more worthy ofattention, more affecting than usual. But theycould not take her back to her mother as yet.She must go before the commissioner first. Thatwas absolutely necessary. They called a cabfrom compassion for her; but she must go fromthe station to the cab, and there was a crowd atthe door to stare at the little lame girl with thedamp hair glued to her temples, and her poli-ceman's blanket which did not prevent her shi-vering. At headquarters she was conducted upa dark, damp stairway where sinister figureswere passing to and fro.

When Desiree entered the room, a man rosefrom the shadow and came to meet her, hol-ding out his hand.

It was the man of the reward, her hideous res-cuer at twenty-five francs.

"Well, little-mother," he said, with his cynicallaugh, and in a voice that made one think of

foggy nights on the water, "how are we sinceour dive?"

The unhappy girl was burning red with feverand shame; so bewildered that it seemed to heras if the river had left a veil over her eyes, abuzzing in her ears. At last she was usheredinto a smaller room, into the presence of apompous individual, wearing the insignia ofthe Legion of Honor, Monsieur le Commissairein person, who was sipping his 'cafe au lait' andreading the 'Gazette des Tribunaux.'

"Ah! it's you, is it?" he said in a surly tone andwithout raising his eyes from his paper, as hedipped a piece of bread in his cup; and the offi-cer who had brought Desiree began at once toread his report:

"At quarter to twelve, on Quai de la Megisserie,in front of No. 17, the woman Delobelle, twen-ty-four years old, flower-maker, living with herparents on Rue de Braque, tried to commit sui-

cide by throwing herself into the Seine, andwas taken out safe and sound by Sieur Parche-minet, sand-hauler of Rue de la Butte-Chaumont."

Monsieur le Commissaire listened as he ate,with the listless, bored expression of a manwhom nothing can surprise; at the end he ga-zed sternly and with a pompous affectation ofvirtue at the woman Delobelle, and lectured herin the most approved fashion. It was very wic-ked, it was cowardly, this thing that she haddone. What could have driven her to such anevil act? Why did she seek to destroy herself?Come, woman Delobelle, answer, why was it?

But the woman Delobelle obstinately declinedto answer. It seemed to her that it would put astigma upon her love to avow it in such a place."I don't know—I don't know," she whispered,shivering.

Testy and impatient, the commissioner decidedthat she should be taken back to her parents,but only on one condition: she must promisenever 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 leCommissaire de Police shook his head, as if hedid not trust her oath.

Now she is outside once more, on the way toher home, to a place of refuge; but her martyr-dom was not yet at an end.

In the carriage, the officer who accompaniedher was too polite, too affable. She seemed notto understand, shrank from him, withdrew her

hand. What torture! But the most terrible mo-ment of all was the arrival in Rue de Braque,where the whole house was in a state of com-motion, and the inquisitive curiosity of theneighbors must be endured. Early in the mor-ning the whole quarter had been informed ofher disappearance. It was rumored that she hadgone away with Frantz Risler. The illustriousDelobelle had gone forth very early, intenselyagitated, with his hat awry and rumpled wrist-bands, a sure indication of extraordinary preoc-cupation; and the concierge, on taking up theprovisions, had found the poor mother halfmad, running from one room to another, loo-king for a note from the child, for any clew,however unimportant, that would enable her atleast to form some conjecture.

Suddenly a carriage stopped in front of thedoor. Voices and footsteps echoed through thehall.

"M'ame Delobelle, here she is! Your daughter'sbeen found."

It was really Desiree who came toiling up thestairs on the arm of a stranger, pale and fain-ting, without hat or shawl, and wrapped in agreat brown cape. When she saw her mothershe smiled at her with an almost foolish expres-sion.

"Do not be alarmed, it is nothing," she tried tosay, then sank to the floor. Mamma Delobellewould never have believed that she was sostrong. To lift her daughter, take her into theroom, and put her to bed was a matter of amoment; and she talked to her and kissed her.

"Here you are at last. Where have you comefrom, you bad child? Tell me, is it true that youtried to kill yourself? Were you suffering soterribly? Why did you conceal it from me?"

When she saw her mother in that condition,with tear-stained face, aged in a few shorthours, Desiree felt a terrible burden of remorse.She remembered that she had gone away wit-hout saying good-by to her, and that in thedepths of her heart she had accused her of notloving her.

Not loving her!

"Why, it would kill me if you should die," saidthe poor mother. "Oh! when I got up this mor-ning and saw that your bed hadn't been slept inand 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 again,will you—try to kill yourself?"

And she tucked in the bed-clothes, rubbed herfeet, and rocked her upon her breast.

As she lay in bed with her eyes closed, Desireesaw anew all the incidents of her suicide, all the

hideous scenes through which she had passedin returning from death to life. In the fever,which rapidly increased, in the intense drowsi-ness which began to overpower her, her madjourney across Paris continued to excite andtorment her. Myriads of dark streets stretchedaway before her, with the Seine at the end ofeach.

That ghastly river, which she could not find inthe night, haunted her now.

She felt that she was besmirched with its slime,its mud; and in the nightmare that oppressedher, the poor child, powerless to escape theobsession of her recollections, whispered to hermother: "Hide me—hide me—I am ashamed!"

CHAPTER XVIII. SHE PROMISED NOTTO TRY AGAIN

Oh! no, she will not try it again. Monsieur leCommissaire need have no fear. In the firstplace how could she go as far as the river, nowthat she can not stir from her bed? If Monsieurle Commissaire could see her now, he wouldnot doubt her word. Doubtless the wish, thelonging for death, so unmistakably written onher pale face the other morning, are still visiblethere; but they are softened, resigned. The wo-man Delobelle knows that by waiting a little,yes, a very little time, she will have nothingmore to wish for.

The doctors declare that she is dying of pneu-monia; she must have contracted it in her wetclothes. The doctors are mistaken; it is notpneumonia. Is it her love, then, that is killingher? No. Since that terrible night she no longer

thinks of Frantz, she no longer feels that she isworthy to love or to be loved. Thenceforth the-re is a stain upon her spotless life, and it is ofthe shame of that and of nothing else that she isdying.

Mamma Delobelle sits by Desiree's bed, wor-king by the light from the window, and nursingher daughter. From time to time she raises hereyes to contemplate that mute despair, thatmysterious disease, then hastily resumes herwork; for it is one of the hardest trials of thepoor that they can not suffer at their ease.

Mamma Delobelle had to work alone now, andher fingers had not the marvellous dexterity ofDesiree's little hands; medicines were dear, andshe would not for anything in the world haveinterfered with one of "the father's" cherishedhabits. And so, at whatever hour the invalidopened her eyes, she would see her mother, inthe pale light of early morning, or under hernight lamp, working, working without rest.

Between two stitches the mother would look upat her child, whose face grew paler and paler:

"How do you feel?"

"Very well," the sick girl would reply, with afaint, heartbroken smile, which illumined hersorrowful face and showed all the ravages thathad been wrought upon it, as a sunbeam, stea-ling into a poor man's lodging, instead of brigh-tening it, brings out more clearly its cheerless-ness and nudity.

The illustrious Delobelle was never there. Hehad not changed in any respect the habits of astrolling player out of an engagement. And yethe knew that his daughter was dying: the doc-tor had told him so. Moreover, it had been aterrible blow to him, for, at heart, he loved hischild dearly; but in that singular nature themost sincere and the most genuine feelingsadopted a false and unnatural mode of expres-sion, by the same law which ordains that, when

a shelf is placed awry, nothing that you placeupon it seems to stand straight.

Delobelle's natural tendency was, before eve-rything, to air his grief, to spread it abroad. Heplayed the role of the unhappy father from oneend of the boulevard to the other. He was al-ways to be found in the neighborhood of thetheatres or at the actors' restaurant, with redeyes and pale cheeks. He loved to invite thequestion, "Well, my poor old fellow, how arethings going at home?" Thereupon he wouldshake his head with a nervous gesture; his gri-mace held tears in check, his mouth impreca-tions, and he would stab heaven with a silentglance, overflowing with wrath, as when heplayed the 'Medecin des Enfants;' all of whichdid not prevent him, however, from bestowingthe most delicate and thoughtful attentionsupon his daughter.

He also maintained an unalterable confidencein himself, no matter what happened. And yet

his eyes came very near being opened to thetruth at last. A hot little hand laid upon thatpompous, illusion-ridden head came very nearexpelling the bee that had been buzzing thereso long. This is how it came to pass.

One night Desiree awoke with a start, in a verystrange state. It should be said that the doctor,when he came to see her on the preceding eve-ning, had been greatly surprised to find hersuddenly brighter and calmer, and entirely freefrom fever. Without attempting to explain thisunhoped-for resurrection, he had gone away,saying, "Let us wait and see"; he relied uponthe power of youth to throw off disease, uponthe resistless force of the life-giving sap, whichoften engrafts a new life upon the very symp-toms of death. If he had looked under Desiree'spillow, he would have found there a letter post-marked Cairo, wherein lay the secret of thathappy change. Four pages signed by Frantz, his

whole conduct confessed and explained to hisdear little Zizi.

It was the very letter of which the sick girl haddreamed. If she had dictated it herself, all thephrases likely to touch her heart, all the delica-tely worded excuses likely to pour balm intoher wounds, would have been less satisfactorilyexpressed. Frantz repented, asked forgiveness,and without making any promises, above allwithout asking anything from her, described tohis faithful friend his struggles, his remorse, hissufferings.

What a misfortune that that letter had not arri-ved a few days earlier. Now, all those kindwords were to Desiree like the dainty dishesthat are brought too late to a man dying of hun-ger.

Suddenly she awoke, and, as we said a momentsince, in an extraordinary state.

In her head, which seemed to her lighter thanusual, there suddenly began a grand processionof thoughts and memories. The most distantperiods of her past seemed to approach her.The most trivial incidents of her childhood,scenes that she had not then understood, wordsheard as in a dream, recurred to her mind.

From her bed she could see her father and mot-her, one by her side, the other in the workroom,the door of which had been left open. MammaDelobelle was lying back in her chair in thecareless attitude of long-continued fatigue, hee-ded at last; and all the scars, the ugly sabre cutswith which age and suffering brand the faces ofthe old, manifested themselves, ineffaceableand pitiful to see, in the relaxation of slumber.Desiree would have liked to be strong enoughto rise and kiss that lovely, placid brow, furro-wed by wrinkles which did not mar its beauty.

In striking contrast to that picture, the illus-trious Delobelle appeared to his daughter

through the open door in one of his favoriteattitudes. Seated before the little white cloththat bore his supper, with his body at an angleof sixty-seven and a half degrees, he was eatingand at the same time running through apamphlet which rested against the carafe infront of him.

For the first time in her life Desiree noticed thestriking lack of harmony between her emacia-ted mother, scantily clad in little black dresseswhich made her look even thinner and morehaggard than she really was, and her happy,well-fed, idle, placid, thoughtless father. At aglance she realized the difference between thetwo lives. What would become of them whenshe was no longer there? Either her motherwould work too hard and would kill herself; orelse the poor woman would be obliged to ceaseworking altogether, and that selfish husband,forever engrossed by his theatrical ambition,would allow them both to drift gradually into

abject poverty, that black hole which widensand deepens as one goes down into it.

Suppose that, before going away—somethingtold her that she would go very soon—beforegoing away, she should tear away the thickbandage that the poor man kept over his eyeswilfully and by force?

Only a hand as light and loving as hers couldattempt that operation. Only she had the rightto say to her father:

"Earn your living. Give up the stage."

Thereupon, as time was flying, Desire Delobellesummoned all her courage and called softly:

"Papa-papa"

At his daughter's first summons the great manhurried to her side. He entered Desiree's be-droom, radiant and superb, very erect, his lampin his hand and a camellia in his buttonhole.

"Good evening, Zizi. Aren't you asleep?"

His voice had a joyous intonation that produ-ced a strange effect amid the prevailing gloom.Desiree motioned to him not to speak, pointingto her sleeping mother.

"Put down your lamp—I have something to sayto you."

Her voice, broken by emotion, impressed him;and so did her eyes, for they seemed largerthan usual, and were lighted by a piercingglance that he had never seen in them.

He approached with something like awe.

"Why, what's the matter, Bichette? Do you feelany worse?"

Desiree replied with a movement of her littlepale face that she felt very ill and that she wan-ted to speak to him very close, very close.When the great man stood by her pillow, she

laid her burning hand on the great man's armand whispered in his ear. She was very ill,hopelessly ill. She realized fully that she hadnot long to live.

"Then, father, you will be left alone with mam-ma. Don't tremble like that. You knew that thisthing must come, yes, that it was very near. ButI want to tell you this. When I am gone, I amterribly afraid mamma won't be strong enoughto support the family just see how pale andexhausted she is."

The actor looked at his "sainted wife," and see-med greatly surprised to find that she did rea-lly look so badly. Then he consoled himselfwith the selfish remark:

"She never was very strong."

That remark and the tone in which it was madeangered Desiree and strengthened her deter-

mination. She continued, without pity for theactor's illusions:

"What will become of you two when I am nolonger here? Oh! I know that you have greathopes, but it takes them a long while to come toanything. The results you have waited for solong may not arrive for a long time to come;and until then what will you do? Listen! mydear father, I would not willingly hurt you; butit seems to me that at your age, as intelligent asyou are, it would be easy for you—I am sureMonsieur Risler Aine would ask nothing bet-ter."

She spoke slowly, with an effort, carefullychoosing her words, leaving long pauses bet-ween every two sentences, hoping always thatthey might be filled by a movement, an excla-mation from her father. But the actor did notunderstand.

"I think that you would do well," pursued Desi-ree, timidly, "I think that you would do well togive up—"

"Eh?—what?—what's that?"

She paused when she saw the effect of herwords. The old actor's mobile features weresuddenly contracted under the lash of violentdespair; and tears, genuine tears which he didnot even think of concealing behind his hand asthey do on the stage, filled his eyes but did notflow, so tightly did his agony clutch him by thethroat. 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 pillow,and 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 Sigis-mond Planus, cashier of the house of FromontJeune and Risler Aine, was awakened with astart in his little house at Montrouge by thesame teasing voice, the same rattling of chains,followed by that fatal cry:

"The notes!"

"That is true," thought the worthy man, sittingup in bed; "day after to-morrow will be the lastday of the month. And I have the courage tosleep!"

In truth, a considerable sum of money must beraised: a hundred thousand francs to be paidon two obligations, and at a moment when, forthe first time in thirty years, the strong-box ofthe house of Fromont was absolutely empty.What was to be done? Sigismond had tried se-veral times to speak to Fromont Jeune, but heseemed to shun the burdensome responsibilityof business, and when he walked through theoffices was always in a hurry, feverishly exci-ted, and seemed neither to see nor hear anyt-hing about him. He answered the old cashier'sanxious questions, gnawing his moustache:

"All right, all right, my old Planus. Don't dis-turb yourself; I will look into it." And as he saidit, he seemed to be thinking of something else,to be a thousand leagues away from his su-rroundings. It was rumored in the factory,where his liaison with Madame Risler was nolonger a secret to anybody, that Sidonie decei-ved him, made him very unhappy; and, indeed,

his mistress's whims worried him much morethan his cashier's anxiety. As for Risler, no oneever saw him; he passed his days shut up in aroom under the roof, overseeing the myste-rious, interminable manufacture of his machi-nes.

This indifference on the part of the employersto the affairs of the factory, this absolute lack ofoversight, had led by slow degrees to generaldemoralization. Some business was still done,because an established house will go on alonefor years by force of the first impetus; but whatruin, what chaos beneath that apparent prospe-rity?

Sigismond knew it better than any one, and asif to see his way more clearly amid the multitu-de of painful thoughts which whirled madlythrough his brain, the cashier lighted his cand-le, sat down on his bed, and thought, "Wherewere they to find that hundred thousandfrancs?"

"Take the notes back. I have no funds to meetthem."

No, no! That was not possible. Any sort ofhumiliation was preferable to that.

"Well, it's decided. I will go to-morrow," sighedthe poor cashier.

And he tossed about in torture, unable to closean eye until morning.

Notwithstanding the late hour, Georges Fro-mont had not yet retired. He was sitting by thefire, with his head in his hands, in the blind anddumb concentration due to irreparable misfor-tune, thinking of Sidonie, of that terrible Sido-nie who was asleep at that moment on the floorabove. She was positively driving him mad.She was false to him, he was sure of it,—shewas false to him with the Toulousan tenor, thatCazabon, alias Cazaboni, whom Madame Dob-son had brought to the house. For a long time

he had implored her not to receive that man;but Sidonie would not listen to him, and onthat very day, speaking of a grand ball she wasabout to give, she had declared explicitly thatnothing should prevent her inviting her tenor.

"Then he's your lover!" Georges had exclaimedangrily, his eyes gazing into hers.

She had not denied it; she had not even turnedher eyes away.

And to think that he had sacrificed everythingto that woman—his fortune, his honor, even hislovely Claire, who lay sleeping with her childin the adjoining room—a whole lifetime ofhappiness within reach of his hand, which hehad spurned for that vile creature! Now shehad admitted that she did not love him, thatshe loved another. And he, the coward, stilllonged for her. In heaven's name, what potionhad she given him?

Carried away by indignation that made theblood boil in his veins, Georges Fromont star-ted from his armchair and strode feverishly upand down the room, his footsteps echoing inthe silence of the sleeping house like living in-somnia. The other was asleep upstairs. Shecould sleep by favor of her heedless, remorse-less nature. Perhaps, too, she was thinking ofher Cazaboni.

When that thought passed through his mind,Georges had a mad longing to go up, to wakeRisler, to tell him everything and destroy him-self with her. Really that deluded husband wastoo idiotic! Why did he not watch her moreclosely? She was pretty enough, yes, and vi-cious enough, too, for every precaution to betaken with her.

And it was while he was struggling amid suchcruel and unfruitful reflections as these that thedevil of anxiety whispered in his ear:

"The notes! the notes!"

The miserable wretch! In his wrath he had enti-rely forgotten them. And yet he had long wat-ched the approach of that terrible last day ofJanuary. How many times, between two assig-nations, when his mind, free for a momentfrom thoughts of Sidonie, recurred to his busi-ness, to the realities of life-how many times hadhe said to himself, "That day will be the end ofeverything!" But, as with all those who live inthe delirium of intoxication, his cowardice con-vinced him that it was too late to mend matters,and he returned more quickly and more deter-minedly to his evil courses, in order to forget,to divert his thoughts.

But that was no longer possible. He saw theimpending disaster clearly, in its full meaning;and Sigismond Planus's wrinkled, solemn facerose before him with its sharply cut features,whose absence of expression softened theirharshness, and his light German-Swiss eyes,

which had haunted him for many weeks withtheir impassive stare.

Well, no, he had not the hundred thousandfrancs, nor did he know where to get them.

The crisis which, a few hours before, seemed tohim a chaos, an eddying whirl in which hecould see nothing distinctly and whose veryconfusion was a source of hope, appeared tohim at that moment with appalling distinct-ness. An empty cash-box, closed doors, notesprotested, ruin, are the phantoms he saw whi-chever way he turned. And when, on top of allthe rest, came the thought of Sidonie's treache-ry, the wretched, desperate man, finding not-hing to cling to in that shipwreck, suddenlyuttered a sob, a cry of agony, as if appealing forhelp 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 anxiouslyfor his return from the club, for she still belie-ved that he passed his evenings there. Thatnight she had heard him walking very late inhis room. At last her child fell asleep, and Clai-re, hearing the father sob, ran to him.

Oh! what boundless, though tardy remorseoverwhelmed him when he saw her beforehim, so deeply moved, so lovely and so loving!Yes, she was in very truth the true companion,the faithful friend. How could he have desertedher? For a long, long time he wept upon hershoulder, unable to speak. And it was fortunatethat he did not speak, for he would have toldher all, all. The unhappy man felt the need ofpouring out his heart—an irresistible longing toaccuse himself, to ask forgiveness, to lessen theweight of the remorse that was crushing him.

She spared him the pain of uttering a word:

"You have been gambling, have you not? Youhave lost—lost heavily?"

He moved his head affirmatively; then, whenhe was able to speak, he confessed that he musthave a hundred thousand francs for the dayafter the morrow, and that he did not knowhow to obtain them.

She did not reproach him. She was one of thosewomen who, when face to face with disaster,think only of repairing it, without a word ofrecrimination. Indeed, in the bottom of herheart she blessed this misfortune whichbrought him nearer to her and became a bondbetween their two lives, which had long lain sofar apart. She reflected a moment. Then, withan effort indicating a resolution which had costa bitter struggle, she said:

"Not all is lost as yet. I will go to Savigny tomo-rrow and ask my grandfather for the money."

He would never have dared to suggest that toher. Indeed, it would never have occurred tohim. She was so proud and old Gardinois sohard! Surely that was a great sacrifice for her tomake for him, and a striking proof of her love.

"Claire, Claire—how good your are!" he said.

Without replying, she led him to their child'scradle.

"Kiss her," she said softly; and as they stoodthere side by side, their heads leaning over thechild, Georges was afraid of waking her, and heembraced the mother passionately.

CHAPTER XX. REVELATIONS

"Ah! here's Sigismond. How goes the world,Pere Sigismond? How is business? Is it goodwith you?"

The old cashier smiled affably, shook handswith the master, his wife, and his brother, and,as they talked, looked curiously about. Theywere in a manufactory of wallpapers on Fau-bourg Saint-Antoine, the establishment of thelittle Prochassons, who were beginning to beformidable rivals. Those former employees ofthe house of Fromont had set up on their ownaccount, beginning in a very, small way, andhad gradually succeeded in making for them-selves a place on 'Change. Fromont the unclehad assisted them for a long while with his cre-dit and his money; the result being most friend-ly relations between the two firms, and a balan-ce—between ten or fifteen thousand francs—

which had never been definitely adjusted, be-cause they knew that money was in goodhands when the Prochassons had it.

Indeed, the appearance of the factory was mostreassuring. The chimneys proudly shook theirplumes of smoke. The dull roar of constant toilindicated that the workshops were full ofworkmen and activity. The buildings were ingood repair, the windows clean; everythinghad an aspect of enthusiasm, of good-humor, ofdiscipline; and behind the grating in the coun-ting-room sat the wife of one of the brothers,simply dressed, with her hair neatly arranged,and an air of authority on her youthful face,deeply intent upon a long column of figures.

Old Sigismond thought bitterly of the differen-ce between the house of Fromont, once sowealthy, now living entirely upon its formerreputation, and the ever-increasing prosperityof the establishment before his eyes. His stealt-hy glance penetrated to the darkest corners,

seeking some defect, something to criticise; andhis failure to find anything made his heart hea-vy and his smile forced and anxious.

What embarrassed him most of all was thequestion how he should approach the subject ofthe money due his employers without betra-ying the emptiness of the strongbox. The poorman assumed a jaunty, unconcerned air whichwas truly pitiful to see. Business was good—very good. He happened to be passing throughthe quarter and thought he would come in amoment—that was natural, was it not? Onelikes to see old friends.

But these preambles, these constantly expan-ding circumlocutions, did not bring him to thepoint he wished to reach; on the contrary, theyled him away from his goal, and imagining thathe detected surprise in the eyes of his auditors,he went completely astray, stammered, lost hishead, and, as a last resort, took his hat and pre-

tended to go. At the door he suddenly bet-hought himself:

"Ah! by the way, so long as I am here—"

He gave a little wink which he thought sly, butwhich was in reality heartrending.

"So long as I am here, suppose we settle thatold account."

The two brothers and the young woman in thecounting-room gazed at one another a second,unable to understand.

"Account? What account, pray?"

Then all three began to laugh at the same mo-ment, and heartily too, as if at a joke, a ratherbroad joke, on the part of the old cashier. "Goalong with you, you sly old Pere Planus!" Theold man laughed with them! He laughed wit-hout any desire to laugh, simply to do as theothers did.

At last they explained. Fromont Jeune had co-me in person, six months before, to collect thebalance in their hands.

Sigismond felt that his strength was going. Buthe summoned courage to say:

"Ah! yes; true. I had forgotten. Sigismond Pla-nus is growing old, that is plain. I am failing,my children, I am failing."

And the old man went away wiping his eyes, inwhich still glistened great tears caused by thehearty laugh he had just enjoyed. The youngpeople behind him exchanged glances andshook their heads. They understood.

The blow he had received was so crushing thatthe cashier, as soon as he was out-of-doors, wasobliged to sit down on a bench. So that was thereason why Georges did not come to the coun-ting-room for money. He made his collectionsin person. What had taken place at the Prochas-

sons' had probably been repeated everywhereelse. It was quite useless, therefore, for him tosubject himself to further humiliation. Yes, butthe notes, the notes!—that thought renewed hisstrength. He wiped the perspiration from hisforehead and started once more to try his luckwith a customer in the faubourg. But this timehe took his precautions and called to the cas-hier from the doorway, without entering:

"Good-morning, Pere So-and-So. I want to askyou a question."

He held the door half open, his hand upon theknob.

"When did we settle our last bill? I forgot toenter it."

Oh! it was a long while ago, a very long while,that their last bill was settled. Fromont Jeune'sreceipt was dated in September. It was fivemonths ago.

The door was hastily closed. Another! Eviden-tly it would be the same thing everywhere.

"Ah! Monsieur Chorche, Monsieur Chorche,"muttered poor Sigismond; and while he pur-sued his journey, with bowed head and trem-bling legs, Madame Fromont Jeune's carriagepassed him close, on its way to the Orleans sta-tion; but Claire did not see old Planus, any mo-re than she had seen, when she left her house afew moments earlier, Monsieur Chebe in hislong frock-coat and the illustrious Delobelle inhis stovepipe hat, turning into the Rue des Viei-lles-Haudriettes at opposite ends, each with thefactory and Risler's wallet for his objectivepoint. The young woman was much too deeplyengrossed by what she had before her to lookinto the street.

Think of it! It was horrible. To go and ask M.Gardinois for a hundred thousand francs—M.Gardinois, a man who boasted that he had ne-ver borrowed or loaned a sou in his life, who

never lost an opportunity to tell how, on oneoccasion, being driven to ask his father for fortyfrancs to buy a pair of trousers, he had repaidthe loan in small amounts. In his dealings witheverybody, even with his children, M. Gardi-nois followed those traditions of avarice whichthe earth, the cruel earth, often ungrateful tothose who till it, seems to inculcate in all pea-sants. The old man did not intend that any partof his colossal fortune should go to his childrenduring his lifetime.

"They'll find my property when I am dead," heoften said.

Acting upon that principle, he had married offhis daughter, the elder Madame Fromont, wit-hout one sou of dowry, and he never forgavehis son-in-law for having made a fortune wit-hout assistance from him. For it was one of thepeculiarities of that nature, made up of vanityand selfishness in equal parts, to wish that eve-ry one he knew should need his help, should

bow before his wealth. When the Fromontsexpressed in his presence their satisfaction atthe prosperous turn their business was begin-ning to take, his sharp, cunning, little blue eyewould smile ironically, and he would growl,"We shall see what it all comes to in the end," ina tone that made them tremble. Sometimes, too,at Savigny, in the evening, when the park, theavenues, the blue slates of the chateau, the redbrick of the stables, the ponds and brooks sho-ne resplendent, bathed in the golden glory of alovely sunset, this eccentric parvenu would sayaloud before his children, after looking abouthim:

"The one thing that consoles me for dying someday is that no one in the family will ever be richenough to keep a chateau that costs fifty thou-sand francs a year to maintain."

And yet, with that latter-day tenderness whicheven the sternest grandfathers find in thedepths of their hearts, old Gardinois would

gladly have made a pet of his granddaughter.But Claire, even as a child, had felt an invinci-ble repugnance for the former peasant's hard-ness of heart and vainglorious selfishness. Andwhen affection forms no bonds between thosewho are separated by difference in education,such repugnance is increased by innumerabletrifles. When Claire married Georges, thegrandfather said to Madame Fromont:

"If your daughter wishes, I will give her a royalpresent; but she must ask for it."

But Claire received nothing, because she wouldnot ask for anything.

What a bitter humiliation to come, three yearslater, to beg a hundred thousand francs fromthe generosity she had formerly spurned, tohumble herself, to face the endless sermons, thesneering raillery, the whole seasoned with Be-rrichon jests, with phrases smacking of the soil,with the taunts, often well-deserved, which

narrow, but logical, minds can utter on occa-sion, and which sting with their vulgar patoislike an insult from an inferior!

Poor Claire! Her husband and her father wereabout to be humiliated in her person. She mustnecessarily confess the failure of the one, thedownfall of the house which the other hadfounded and of which he had been so proudwhile he lived. The thought that she would becalled upon to defend all that she loved best inthe world made her strong and weak at thesame time.

It was eleven o'clock when she reached Savig-ny. As she had given no warning of her visit,the carriage from the chateau was not at thestation, and she had no choice but to walk.

It was a cold morning and the roads were dryand hard. The north wind blew freely acrossthe arid fields and the river, and swept unop-posed through the leafless trees and bushes.

The chateau appeared under the low-hangingclouds, with its long line of low walls and hed-ges separating it from the surrounding fields.The slates on the roof were as dark as the skythey reflected; and that magnificent summerresidence, completely transformed by the bitter,silent winter, without a leaf on its trees or apigeon on its roofs, showed no life save in itsrippling brooks and the murmuring of the tallpoplars as they bowed majestically to oneanother, shaking the magpies' nests hiddenamong their highest branches.

At a distance Claire fancied that the home ofher youth wore a surly, depressed air. It see-med to het that Savigny watched her approachwith the cold, aristocratic expression which itassumed for passengers on the highroad, whostopped at the iron bars of its gateways.

Oh! the cruel aspect of everything!

And yet not so cruel after all. For, with its tigh-tly closed exterior, Savigny seemed to say toher, "Begone—do not come in!" And if she hadchosen to listen, Claire, renouncing her plan ofspeaking to her grandfather, would have retur-ned at once to Paris to maintain the repose ofher life. But she did not understand, poor child!and already the great Newfoundland dog, whohad recognized her, came leaping through thedead leaves and sniffed at the gate.

"Good-morning, Francoise. Where is grandpa-pa?" the young woman asked the gardener'swife, who came to open the gate, fawning andfalse and trembling, like all the servants at thechateau when they felt that the master's eyewas upon them.

Grandpapa was in his office, a little buildingindependent of the main house, where he pas-sed his days fumbling among boxes and pi-geonholes and great books with green backs,with the rage for bureaucracy due to his early

ignorance and the strong impression madeupon him long before by the office of the nota-ry in his village.

At that moment he was closeted there with hiskeeper, a sort of country spy, a paid informerwho apprised him as to all that was said anddone in the neighborhood.

He was the master's favorite. His name wasFouinat (polecat), and he had the flat, crafty,blood-thirsty face appropriate to his name.

When Claire entered, pale and trembling underher furs, the old man understood that somet-hing serious and unusual had happened, andhe made a sign to Fouinat, who disappeared,gliding through the half-open door as if he we-re entering the very wall.

"What's the matter, little one? Why, you're all'perlute'," said the grandfather, seated behindhis huge desk.

Perlute, in the Berrichon dictionary, signifiestroubled, excited, upset, and applied perfectlyto Claire's condition. Her rapid walk in the coldcountry air, the effort she had made in order todo what she was doing, imparted an unwontedexpression to her face, which was much lessreserved than usual. Without the slightest en-couragement on his part, she kissed him andseated herself in front of the fire, where oldstumps, surrounded by dry moss and pineneedles picked up in the paths, were smoulde-ring with occasional outbursts of life and thehissing of sap. She did not even take time toshake off the frost that stood in beads on herveil, but began to speak at once, faithful to herresolution to state the object of her visit imme-diately upon entering the room, before sheallowed herself to be intimidated by the at-mosphere of fear and respect which encompas-sed the grandfather and made of him a sort ofawe-inspiring deity.

She required all her courage not to become con-fused, not to interrupt her narrative before thatpiercing gaze which transfixed her, enlivenedfrom her first words by a malicious joy, beforethat savage mouth whose corners seemed tigh-tly closed by premeditated reticence, obstinacy,a denial of any sort of sensibility. She went onto the end in one speech, respectful withouthumility, concealing her emotion, steadying hervoice by the consciousness of the truth of herstory. Really, seeing them thus face to face, hecold and calm, stretched out in his armchair,with his hands in the pockets of his grayswansdown waistcoat, she carefully choosingher words, as if each of them might condemn orabsolve her, you would never have said that itwas a child before her grandfather, but an ac-cused person before an examining magistrate.

His thoughts were entirely engrossed by thejoy, the pride of his triumph. So they were con-quered at last, those proud upstarts of Fro-

monts! So they needed old Gardinois at last,did they? Vanity, his dominating passion, over-flowed in his whole manner, do what hewould. When she had finished, he took thefloor in his turn, began naturally enough with"I was sure of it—I always said so—I knew weshould see what it would all come to"—andcontinued in the same vulgar, insulting tone,ending with the declaration that, in view of hisprinciples, which were well known in the fami-ly, he would not lend a sou.

Then Claire spoke of her child, of her husband'sname, which was also her father's, and whichwould be dishonored by the failure. The oldman was as cold, as implacable as ever, andtook advantage of her humiliation to humiliateher still more; for he belonged to the race ofworthy rustics who, when their enemy is down,never leave him without leaving on his face themarks of the nails in their sabots.

"All I can say to you, little one, is that Savignyis open to you. Let your husband come here. Ihappen to need a secretary. Very well, Georgescan do my writing for twelve hundred francs ayear and board for the whole family. Offer himthat from me, and come."

She rose indignantly. She had come as his childand he had received her as a beggar. They hadnot reached that point yet, thank God!

"Do you think so?" queried M. Gardinois, witha savage light in his eye.

Claire shuddered and walked toward the doorwithout replying. The old man detained herwith a gesture.

"Take care! you don't know what you're refu-sing. It is in your interest, you understand, thatI suggest bringing your husband here. Youdon't know the life he is leading up yonder. Ofcourse you don't know it, or you'd never come

and ask me for money to go where yours hasgone. Ah! I know all about your man's affairs. Ihave my police at Paris, yes, and at Asnieres, aswell as at Savigny. I know what the fellow doeswith his days and his nights; and I don't choosethat my crowns shall go to the places where hegoes. They're not clean enough for moneyhonestly earned."

Claire's eyes opened wide in amazement andhorror, for she felt that a terrible drama hadentered her life at that moment through thelittle low door of denunciation. The old mancontinued with a sneer:

"That little Sidonie has fine, sharp teeth."

"Sidonie!"

"Faith, yes, to be sure. I have told you the name.At all events, you'd have found it out some dayor other. In fact, it's an astonishing thing that,since the time—But you women are so vain!

The idea that a man can deceive you is the lastidea to come into your head. Well, yes, Sido-nie'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 thesource of the money for the house at Asnieres,the horses, the carriages, and how the prettylittle nest in the Avenue Gabriel had been fur-nished. He explained everything in detail. Itwas clear that, having found a new opportunityto exercise his mania for espionage, he hadavailed himself of it to the utmost; perhaps, too,there was at the bottom of it all a vague, carefu-lly concealed rage against his little Chebe, theanger of a senile passion never declared.

Claire listened to him without speaking, with asmile of incredulity. That smile irritated the oldman, spurred on his malice. "Ah! you don'tbelieve me. Ah! you want proofs, do you?" Andhe gave her proofs, heaped them upon her,overpowered her with knife-thrusts in the

heart. She had only to go to Darches, the jewe-ller in the Rue de la Paix. A fortnight before,Georges had bought a diamond necklace therefor thirty thousand francs. It was his NewYear's gift to Sidonie. Thirty thousand francsfor diamonds at the moment of becoming ban-krupt!

He might have talked the entire day and Clairewould not have interrupted him. She felt thatthe slightest effort would cause the tears thatfilled her eyes to overflow, and she was deter-mined to smile to the end, the sweet, bravewoman. From time to time she cast a sidelongglance at the road. She was in haste to go, to flyfrom the sound of that spiteful voice, whichpursued her pitilessly.

At last he ceased; he had told the whole story.She bowed and walked toward the door.

"Are you going? What a hurry you're in!" saidthe grandfather, following her outside.

At heart he was a little ashamed of his savage-ry.

"Won't you breakfast with me?"

She shook her head, not having strength tospeak.

"At least wait till the carriage is ready—someone will drive you to the station."

No, still no.

And she walked on, with the old man closebehind her. Proudly, and with head erect, shecrossed the courtyard, filled with souvenirs ofher childhood, without once looking behind.And yet what echoes of hearty laughter, whatsunbeams of her younger days were imprintedin the tiniest grain of gravel in that courtyard!

Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were stillin the same place. She had not a glance forthem, nor for the pheasants in the aviary, nor

even for the great dog Kiss, who followed herdocilely, awaiting the caress which she did notgive him. She had come as a child of the house,she went away as a stranger, her mind filledwith horrible thoughts which the slightest re-minder of her peaceful and happy past couldnot have failed to aggravate.

"Good-by, grandfather."

"Good-by, then."

And the gate closed upon her harshly. As soonas she was alone, she began to walk swiftly,swiftly, almost to run. She was not merelygoing away, she was escaping. Suddenly, whenshe reached the end of the wall of the estate,she found herself in front of the little green ga-te, surrounded by nasturtiums and honeysuc-kle, where the chateau mail-box was. She stop-ped instinctively, struck by one of those suddenawakenings of the memory which take placewithin us at critical moments and place before

our eyes with wonderful clearness of outlinethe most trivial acts of our lives bearing anyrelation to present disasters or joys. Was it thered sun that suddenly broke forth from theclouds, flooding the level expanse with its obli-que rays in that winter afternoon as at the sun-set hour in August? Was it the silence that su-rrounded her, broken only by the harmonioussounds of nature, which are almost alike at allseasons?

Whatever the cause she saw herself once moreas she was, at that same spot, three years befo-re, on a certain day when she placed in the posta letter inviting Sidonie to come and pass amonth with her in the country. Something toldher that all her misfortunes dated from thatmoment. "Ah! had I known—had I onlyknown!" And she fancied that she could stillfeel between her fingers the smooth envelope,ready to drop into the box.

Thereupon, as she reflected what an innocent,hopeful, happy child she was at that moment,she cried out indignantly, gentle creature thatshe was, against the injustice of life. She askedherself: "Why is it? What have I done?"

Then she suddenly exclaimed: "No! it isn't true.It can not be possible. Grandfather lied to me."And as she went on toward the station, the un-happy girl tried to convince herself, to makeherself believe what she said. But she did notsucceed.

The truth dimly seen is like the veiled sun,which tires the eyes far more than its most bri-lliant rays. In the semi-obscurity which stillenveloped her misfortune, the poor woman'ssight was keener than she could have wished.Now she understood and accounted for certainpeculiar circumstances in her husband's life, hisfrequent absences, his restlessness, his emba-rrassed behavior on certain days, and the abun-dant details which he sometimes volunteered,

upon returning home, concerning his move-ments, mentioning names as proofs which shedid not ask. From all these conjectures the evi-dence of his sin was made up. And still sherefused to believe it, and looked forward to herarrival in Paris to set her doubts at rest.

No one was at the station, a lonely, cheerlesslittle place, where no traveller ever showed hisface in winter. As Claire sat there awaiting thetrain, gazing vaguely at the station-master'smelancholy little garden, and the debris ofclimbing plants running along the fences by thetrack, she felt a moist, warm breath on her glo-ve. It was her friend Kiss, who had followedher and was reminding her of their happyromps together in the old days, with little sha-kes of the head, short leaps, capers of joy tem-pered by humility, concluding by stretching hisbeautiful white coat at full length at his mis-tress's feet, on the cold floor of the waiting-room. Those humble caresses which sought her

out, like a hesitating offer of devotion andsympathy, caused the sobs she had so long res-trained to break forth as last. But suddenly shefelt ashamed of her weakness. She rose andsent the dog away, sent him away pitilesslywith voice and gesture, pointing to the house inthe distance, with a stern face which poor Kisshad never seen. Then she hastily wiped hereyes and her moist hands; for the train for Pariswas approaching and she knew that in a mo-ment she should need all her courage.

Claire's first thought on leaving the train was totake a cab and drive to the jeweller in the Ruede la Paix, who had, as her grandfather alleged,supplied Georges with a diamond necklace. Ifthat should prove to be true, then all the restwas true. Her dread of learning the truth wasso great that, when she reached her destinationand alighted in front of that magnificent esta-blishment, she stopped, afraid to enter. To giveherself countenance, she pretended to be dee-

ply interested in the jewels displayed in velvetcases; and one who had seen her, quietly butfashionably dressed, leaning forward to look atthat gleaming and attractive display, wouldhave taken her for a happy wife engaged inselecting a bracelet, rather than an anxious,sorrow-stricken soul who had come thither todiscover the secret of her life.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. At thattime of day, in winter, the Rue de la Paix pre-sents a truly dazzling aspect. In that luxuriousneighborhood, life moves quickly between theshort morning and the early evening. There arecarriages moving swiftly in all directions, aceaseless rumbling, and on the sidewalks a co-quettish haste, a rustling of silks and furs. Win-ter is the real Parisian season. To see that devil'sown Paris in all its beauty and wealth and hap-piness one must watch the current of its lifebeneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow. Na-ture is absent from the picture, so to speak. No

wind, no sunlight. Just enough light for thedullest colors, the faintest reflections to produ-ce an admirable effect, from the reddish-graytone of the monuments to the gleams of jetwhich bespangle a woman's dress. Theatre andconcert posters shine resplendent, as if illumi-ned by the effulgence of the footlights. Theshops are crowded. It seems that all those peo-ple must be preparing for perpetual festivities.And at such times, if any sorrow is mingledwith that bustle and tumult, it seems the moreterrible for that reason. For five minutes Clairesuffered martyrdom worse than death. Yonder,on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse ofthe deserted fields, her despair spread out as itwere in the sharp air and seemed to enfold herless closely. Here she was stifling. The voicesbeside her, the footsteps, the heedless jostlingof people who passed, all added to her torture.

At last she entered the shop.

"Ah! yes, Madame, certainly—Monsieur Fro-mont. A necklace of diamonds and roses. Wecould make you one like it for twenty-fivethousand francs."

That was five thousand less than for him.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Claire, "I will think itover."

A mirror in front of her, in which she saw herdark-ringed eyes and her deathly pallor, frigh-tened her. She went out quickly, walking stifflyin order not to fall.

She had but one idea, to escape from the street,from the noise; to be alone, quite alone, so thatshe might plunge headlong into that abyss ofheartrending thoughts, of black things dancingmadly in the depths of her mind. Oh! the co-ward, the infamous villain! And to think thatonly last night she was speaking comfortingwords to him, with her arms about him!

Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happe-ned, she found herself in the courtyard of thefactory. Through what streets had she come?Had she come in a carriage or on foot? She hadno remembrance. She had acted unconsciously,as in a dream. The sentiment of reality retur-ned, pitiless and poignant, when she reachedthe steps of her little house. Risler was there,superintending several men who were carryingpotted plants up to his wife's apartments, inpreparation for the magnificent party she wasto give that very evening. With his usual tran-quillity he directed the work, protected the tallbranches which the workmen might have bro-ken: "Not like that. Bend it over. Take care ofthe carpet."

The atmosphere of pleasure and merry-makingwhich had so revolted her a moment beforepursued her to her own house. It was toomuch, after all the rest! She rebelled; and asRisler saluted her, affectionately and with deep

respect as always, her face assumed an expres-sion of intense disgust, and she passed withoutspeaking to him, without seeing the amaze-ment that opened his great, honest eyes.

From that moment her course was determined.Wrath, a wrath born of uprightness and senseof justice, guided her actions. She barely tooktime to kiss her child's rosy cheeks before run-ning to her mother's room.

"Come, mamma, dress yourself quickly. We aregoing away. We are going away."

The old lady rose slowly from the armchair inwhich she was sitting, busily engaged in clea-ning her watch-chain by inserting a pin bet-ween every two links with infinite care.

"Come, come, hurry. Get your things ready."

Her voice trembled, and the poor monoma-niac's room seemed a horrible place to her, all

glistening as it was with the cleanliness thathad gradually become a mania. She had rea-ched one of those fateful moments when theloss of one illusion causes you to lose them all,enables you to look to the very depths ofhuman misery. The realization of her completeisolation, between her half-mad mother, herfaithless husband, her too young child, cameupon her for the first time; but it served only tostrengthen her in her resolution.

In a moment the whole household was busilyengaged in making preparations for thisabrupt, unexpected departure. Claire hurriedthe bewildered servants, and dressed her mot-her and the child, who laughed merrily amidall the excitement. She was in haste to go beforeGeorges' return, so that he might find the crad-le empty and the house deserted. Where shouldshe go? She did not know as yet. Perhaps to heraunt at Orleans, perhaps to Savigny, no matterwhere. What she must do first of all was-go, fly

from that atmosphere of treachery and false-hood.

At that moment she was in her bedroom, pac-king a trunk, making a pile of her effects—aheartrending occupation. Every object that shetouched set in motion whole worlds ofthoughts, of memories. There is so much ofourselves in anything that we use. At times theodor of a sachet-bag, the pattern of a bit of lace,were enough to bring tears to her eyes. Sudden-ly she heard a heavy footstep in the salon, thedoor of which was partly open; then there wasa slight cough, as if to let her know that someone was there. She supposed that it was Risler:for no one else had the right to enter herapartments so unceremoniously. The idea ofhaving to endure the presence of that hypocri-tical face, that false smile, was so distasteful toher that she rushed to close the door.

"I am not at home to any one."

The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismond'ssquare head appeared in the opening.

"It is I, Madame," he said in an undertone. "Ihave come to get the money."

"What money?" demanded Claire, for she nolonger remembered why she had gone to Sa-vigny.

"Hush! The funds to meet my note to-morrow.Monsieur Georges, when he went out, told methat you would hand it to me very soon."

"Ah! yes—true. The hundred thousand francs."

"I haven't them, Monsieur Planus; I haven'tanything."

"Then," said the cashier, in a strange voice, as ifhe were speaking to himself, "then it meansfailure."

And he turned slowly away.

Failure! She sank on a chair, appalled, crushed.For the last few hours the downfall of her hap-piness had caused her to forget the downfall ofthe house; but she remembered now.

So her husband was ruined! In a little while,when he returned home, he would learn of thedisaster, and he would learn at the same timethat his wife and child had gone; that he wasleft alone in the midst of the wreck.

Alone—that weak, easily influenced creature,who could only weep and complain and shakehis fist at life like a child! What would becomeof the miserable man?

She pitied him, notwithstanding his great sin.

Then the thought came to her that she wouldperhaps seem to have fled at the approach ofbankruptcy, 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 nothingmore than that was necessary to change herplans. Instantly she was conscious that her fee-ling of repugnance, of revolt, began to growless bitter, and a sudden ray of light seemed tomake her duty clearer to her. When they cameto tell her that the child was dressed and thetrunks ready, her mind was made up anew.

"Never mind," she replied gently. "We are notgoing away."

BOOK 4.

CHAPTER XXI. THE DAY OF RECKO-NING

The great clock of Saint-Gervais struck one inthe morning. It was so cold that the fine snow,flying through the air, hardened as it fell, cove-ring the pavements with a slippery, white blan-ket.

Risler, wrapped in his cloak, was hasteninghome from the brewery through the desertedstreets of the Marais. He had been celebrating,in company with his two faithful borrowers,Chebe and Delobelle, his first moment of leisu-re, the end of that almost endless period of se-

clusion during which he had been superinten-ding the manufacture of his press, with all thesearchings, the joys, and the disappointmentsof the inventor. It had been long, very long. Atthe last moment he had discovered a defect.The crane did not work well; and he had had torevise his plans and drawings. At last, on thatvery day, the new machine had been tried. Eve-rything had succeeded to his heart's desire. Theworthy man was triumphant. It seemed to himthat he had paid a debt, by giving the house ofFromont the benefit of a new machine, whichwould lessen the labor, shorten the hours of theworkmen, and at the same time double the pro-fits and the reputation of the factory. He indul-ged in beautiful dreams as he plodded along.His footsteps rang out proudly, emphasized bythe resolute and happy trend of his thoughts.

Quickening his pace, he reached the corner ofRue des Vieilles-Haudriettes. A long line ofcarriages was standing in front of the factory,

and the light of their lanterns in the street, theshadows of the drivers seeking shelter from thesnow in the corners and angles that those oldbuildings have retained despite the straighte-ning of the sidewalks, gave an animated aspectto that deserted, silent quarter.

"Yes, yes! to be sure," thought the honest fe-llow, "we have a ball at our house." He remem-bered that Sidonie was giving a grand musicaland dancing party, which she had excused himfrom attending, by the way, knowing that hewas very busy.

Shadows passed and repassed behind the flut-tering veil of the curtains; the orchestra seemedto follow the movements of those stealthy ap-paritions with the rising and falling of its muf-fled notes. The guests were dancing. Risler lethis eyes rest for a moment on that phantasma-goria of the ball, and fancied that he recognizedSidonie's shadow in a small room adjoining thesalon.

She was standing erect in her magnificent cos-tume, in the attitude of a pretty woman beforeher mirror. A shorter shadow behind her, Ma-dame Dobson doubtless, was repairing someaccident to the costume, re-tieing the knot of aribbon tied about her neck, its long ends floa-ting down to the flounces of the train. It was allvery indistinct, but the woman's graceful figurewas recognizable in those faintly traced outli-nes, and Risler tarried long admiring her.

The contrast on the first floor was most stri-king. There was no light visible, with the excep-tion of a little lamp shining through the lilachangings of the bedroom. Risler noticed thatcircumstance, and as the little girl had beenailing a few days before, he felt anxious abouther, remembering Madame Georges's strangeagitation when she passed him so hurriedly inthe afternoon; and he retraced his steps as far asPere Achille's lodge to inquire.

The lodge was full. Coachmen were warmingthemselves around the stove, chatting andlaughing amid the smoke from their pipes.When Risler appeared there was profound si-lence, a cunning, inquisitive, significant silence.They had evidently been speaking of him.

"Is the Fromont child still sick?" he asked.

"No, not the child, Monsieur."

"Monsieur Georges sick?"

"Yes, he was taken when he came home to-night. I went right off to get the doctor. He saidthat it wouldn't amount to anything—that allMonsieur needed was rest."

As Risler closed the door Pere Achille added,under his breath, with the half-fearful, half-audacious insolence of an inferior, who wouldlike to be listened to and yet not distinctlyheard:

"Ah! 'dame', they're not making such a show onthe first floor as they are on the second."

This is what had happened.

Fromont jeune, on returning home during theevening, had found his wife with such a chan-ged, heartbroken face, that he at once divined acatastrophe. But he had become so accustomedin the past two years to sin with impunity thatit did not for one moment occur to him that hiswife could have been informed of his conduct.Claire, 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 threetimes in the wild accents of fever; and his slee-pless nights, a last terrible scene which he hadhad with Sidonie, trying to induce her not to

give this party on the eve of his downfall, M.Gardinois' refusal, all these maddening thingswhich followed so closely on one another'sheels and had agitated him terribly, culminatedin a genuine nervous attack. Claire took pity onhim, put him to bed, and established herself byhis side; but her voice had lost that affectionateintonation which soothes and persuades. Therewas in her gestures, in the way in which shearranged the pillow under the patient's headand prepared a quieting draught, a strangeindifference, listlessness.

"But I have ruined you!" Georges said fromtime to time, as if to rouse her from that apathywhich made him uncomfortable. She repliedwith a proud, disdainful gesture. Ah! if he haddone only that to her!

At last, however, his nerves became calmer, thefever 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 theman whom she had adored so blindly, with thehope of a long and happy life together.

At that moment the ball in Sidonie's apartmentsbegan to become very animated. The ceilingtrembled rhythmically, for Madame had had allthe carpets removed from her salons for thegreater comfort of the dancers. Sometimes, too,the sound of voices reached Claire's ears in wa-ves, and frequent tumultuous applause, fromwhich one could divine the great number of theguests, the crowded condition of the rooms.

Claire was lost in thought. She did not wastetime in regrets, in fruitless lamentations. Sheknew that life was inflexible and that all thearguments in the world will not arrest the cruellogic of its inevitable progress. She did not askherself how that man had succeeded in decei-ving her so long—how he could have sacrificed

the honor and happiness of his family for amere caprice. That was the fact, and all her re-flections could not wipe it out, could not repairthe irreparable. The subject that engrossed herthoughts was the future. A new existence wasunfolding before her eyes, dark, cruel, full ofprivation and toil; and, strangely enough, theprospect of ruin, instead of terrifying her, resto-red all her courage. The idea of the change ofabode made necessary by the economy theywould be obliged to practise, of work madecompulsory for Georges and perhaps for her-self, infused an indefinable energy into the dis-tressing calmness of her despair. What a heavyburden of souls she would have with her threechildren: her mother, her child, and her hus-band! The feeling of responsibility preventedher giving way too much to her misfortune, tothe wreck of her love; and in proportion as sheforgot herself in the thought of the weak crea-tures she had to protect she realized more fullythe meaning of the word "sacrifice," so vague

on careless lips, so serious when it becomes arule of life.

Such were the poor woman's thoughts duringthat sad vigil, a vigil of arms and tears, whileshe was preparing her forces for the great bat-tle. Such was the scene lighted by the modestlittle lamp which Risler had seen from below,like a star fallen from the radiant chandeliers ofthe ballroom.

Reassured by Pere Achille's reply, the honestfellow thought of going up to his bedroom,avoiding the festivities and the guests, forwhom he cared little.

On such occasions he used a small servants'staircase communicating with the counting-room. So he walked through the many-windowed workshops, which the moon, reflec-ted by the snow, made as light as at noonday.He breathed the atmosphere of the day of toil, ahot, stifling atmosphere, heavy with the odor of

boiled talc and varnish. The papers spread outon the dryers formed long, rustling paths. Onall sides tools were lying about, and blouseshanging here and there ready for the morrow.Risler never walked through the shops withouta feeling of pleasure.

Suddenly he spied a light in Planus's office, atthe end of that long line of deserted rooms. Theold cashier was still at work, at one o'clock inthe morning! That was really most extraordina-ry.

Risler's first impulse was to retrace his steps. Infact, since his unaccountable falling-out withSigismond, since the cashier had adopted thatattitude of cold silence toward him, he hadavoided meeting him. His wounded friendshiphad always led him to shun an explanation; hehad a sort of pride in not asking Planus why hebore him ill-will. But, on that evening, Rislerfelt so strongly the need of cordial sympathy, ofpouring out his heart to some one, and then it

was such an excellent opportunity for a tete-a-tete with his former friend, that he did not tryto avoid him but boldly entered the counting-room.

The cashier was sitting there, motionless,among heaps of papers and great books, whichhe had been turning over, some of which hadfallen to the floor. At the sound of his emplo-yer's footsteps he did not even lift his eyes. Hehad recognized Risler's step. The latter, so-mewhat abashed, hesitated a moment; then,impelled by one of those secret springs whichwe have within us and which guide us, despiteourselves, in the path of our destiny, he walkedstraight to the cashier's grating.

"Sigismond," he said in a grave voice.

The old man raised his head and displayed ashrunken face down which two great tears we-re rolling, the first perhaps that that animatecolumn of figures had ever shed in his life.

"You are weeping, old man? What troublesyou?"

And honest Risler, deeply touched, held out hishand to his friend, who hastily withdrew his.That movement of repulsion was so instinctive,so brutal, that all Risler's emotion changed toindignation.

He drew himself up with stern dignity.

"I offer you my hand, Sigismond Planus!" hesaid.

"And I refuse to take it," said Planus, rising.

There was a terrible pause, during which theyheard the muffled music of the orchestra ups-tairs and the noise of the ball, the dull, wearingnoise of floors shaken by the rhythmic move-ment of the dance.

"Why do you refuse to take my hand?" deman-ded Risler simply, while the grating upon

which he leaned trembled with a metallic qui-ver.

Sigismond was facing him, with both hands onhis desk, as if to emphasize and drive homewhat he was about to say in reply.

"Why? Because you have ruined the house;because in a few hours a messenger from theBank will come and stand where you are, tocollect a hundred thousand francs; and becau-se, thanks to you, I haven't a sou in the cash-box—that's the reason why!"

Risler was stupefied.

"I have ruined the house—I?"

"Worse than that, Monsieur. You have allowedit to be ruined by your wife, and you havearranged with her to benefit by our ruin andyour dishonor. Oh! I can see your game wellenough. The money your wife has wormed out

of the wretched Fromont, the house at Asnie-res, the diamonds and all the rest is invested inher name, of course, out of reach of disaster;and of course you can retire from businessnow."

"Oh—oh!" exclaimed Risler in a faint voice, arestrained voice rather, that was insufficient forthe multitude of thoughts it strove to express;and as he stammered helplessly he drew thegrating toward him with such force that he bro-ke off a piece of it. Then he staggered, fell to thefloor, and lay there motionless, speechless, re-taining only, in what little life was still left inhim, the firm determination not to die until hehad justified himself. That determination musthave been very powerful; for while his templesthrobbed madly, hammered by the blood thatturned his face purple, while his ears were rin-ging and his glazed eyes seemed already tur-ned toward the terrible unknown, the unhappyman muttered to himself in a thick voice, like

the voice of a shipwrecked man speaking withhis mouth full of water in a howling gale: "Imust live! I must live!"

When he recovered consciousness, he was sit-ting on the cushioned bench on which theworkmen sat huddled together on pay-day, hiscloak on the floor, his cravat untied, his shirtopen at the neck, cut by Sigismond's knife.Luckily for him, he had cut his hands when hetore the grating apart; the blood had flowedfreely, and that accident was enough to avertan attack of apoplexy. On opening his eyes, hesaw on either side old Sigismond and MadameGeorges, whom the cashier had summoned inhis distress. As soon as Risler could speak, hesaid to her in a choking voice:

"Is this true, Madame Chorche—is this true thathe just told me?"

She had not the courage to deceive him, so sheturned her eyes away.

"So," continued the poor fellow, "so the house isruined, and I—"

"No, Risler, my friend. No, not you."

"My wife, was it not? Oh! it is horrible! This ishow I have paid my debt of gratitude to you.But you, Madame Chorche, you could not havebelieved that I was a party to this infamy?"

"No, my friend, no; be calm. I know that youare the most honorable man on earth."

He looked at her a moment, with trembling lipsand clasped hands, for there was somethingchild-like in all the manifestations of that ar-tless nature.

"Oh! Madame Chorche, Madame Chorche," hemurmured. "When I think that I am the onewho has ruined you."

In the terrible blow which overwhelmed him,and by which his heart, overflowing with love

for Sidonie, was most deeply wounded, he re-fused to see anything but the financial disasterto the house of Fromont, caused by his blinddevotion to his wife. Suddenly he stood erect.

"Come," he said, "let us not give way to emo-tion. 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 Georges'room.

Risler understood her and smiled in superbdisdain.

"Never fear, Madame. Monsieur Georges cansleep in peace. I have something more urgent todo than avenge my honor as a husband. Waitfor me here. I will come back."

He darted toward the narrow staircase; andClaire, relying upon his word, remained withPlanus during one of those supreme momentsof uncertainty which seem interminable becau-se of all the conjectures with which they arethronged.

A few moments later the sound of hurriedsteps, the rustling of silk filled the dark andnarrow staircase. Sidonie appeared first, in ballcostume, gorgeously arrayed and so pale thatthe jewels that glistened everywhere on herdead-white flesh seemed more alive than she,as if they were scattered over the cold marble ofa statue. The breathlessness due to dancing, thetrembling of intense excitement and her rapiddescent, caused her to shake from head to foot,and her floating ribbons, her ruffles, her flo-wers, her rich and fashionable attire droopedtragically about her. Risler followed her, ladenwith jewel-cases, caskets, and papers. Uponreaching his apartments he had pounced upon

his wife's desk, seized everything valuable thatit contained, jewels, certificates, title-deeds ofthe house at Asnieres; then, standing in thedoorway, he had shouted into the ballroom:

"Madame Risler!"

She had run quickly to him, and that brief scenehad in no wise disturbed the guests, then at theheight of the evening's enjoyment. When shesaw her husband standing in front of the desk,the drawers broken open and overturned onthe carpet with the multitude of trifles theycontained, she realized that something terriblewas taking place.

"Come at once," said Risler; "I know all."

She tried to assume an innocent, dignified atti-tude; but he seized her by the arm with suchforce that Frantz's words came to her mind: "Itwill kill him perhaps, but he will kill you first."As she was afraid of death, she allowed herself

to be led away without resistance, and had noteven the strength to lie.

"Where are we going?" she asked, in a low voi-ce.

Risler did not answer. She had only time tothrow over her shoulders, with the care for her-self that never failed her, a light tulle veil, andhe dragged her, pushed her, rather, down thestairs leading to the counting-room, which hedescended at the same time, his steps closeupon hers, fearing that his prey would escape.

"There!" he said, as he entered the room. "Wehave stolen, we make restitution. Look, Planus,you can raise money with all this stuff." And heplaced on the cashier's desk all the fashionableplunder with which his arms were filled—feminine trinkets, trivial aids to coquetry, stam-ped papers.

Then he turned to his wife:

"Take off your jewels! Come, be quick."

She complied slowly, opened reluctantly theclasps of bracelets and buckles, and above allthe superb fastening of her diamond necklaceon which the initial of her name-a gleaming S-resembled a sleeping serpent, imprisoned in acircle of gold. Risler, thinking that she was tooslow, ruthlessly broke, the fragile fastenings.Luxury shrieked beneath his fingers, as if itwere being whipped.

"Now it is my turn," he said; "I too must giveup everything. Here is my portfolio. What elsehave I? What else have I?"

He searched his pockets feverishly.

"Ah! my watch. With the chain it will bringfour-thousand francs. My rings, my wedding-ring. Everything goes into the cash-box, everyt-hing. We have a hundred thousand francs topay this morning. As soon as it is daylight we

must go to work, sell out and pay our debts. Iknow some one who wants the house at Asnie-res. That can be settled at once."

He alone spoke and acted. Sigismond and Ma-dame Georges watched him without speaking.As for Sidonie, she seemed unconscious, life-less. The cold air blowing from the gardenthrough the little door, which was opened atthe time of Risler's swoon, made her shiver,and she mechanically drew the folds of herscarf around her shoulders, her eyes fixed onvacancy, her thoughts wandering. Did she nothear the violins of her ball, which reached theirears in the intervals of silence, like bursts ofsavage irony, with the heavy thud of the dan-cers shaking the floors? An iron hand, fallingupon her, aroused her abruptly from her tor-por. Risler had taken her by the arm, and, lea-ding 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. "Resti-tution, reparation! Down on your knees then,wretched woman!" And with irresistible forcehe threw Sidonie at Claire's feet; then, still hol-ding her arm;

"You will repeat after me, word for word, whatI 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!" sheexclaimed, springing to her feet with the agilityof a deer; and, wresting herself from Risler'sgrasp, 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 nightto the liberty obtainable by flight, she rushedfrom the house, braving the falling snow andthe wind that stung her bare shoulders.

"Stop her, stop her!—Risler, Planus, I imploreyou! In pity's name do not let her go in thisway," cried Claire.

Planus stepped toward the door.

Risler detained him.

"I forbid you to stir! I ask your pardon, Mada-me, but we have more important matters thanthis to consider. Madame Risler concerns us nolonger. We have to save the honor of the houseof 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 forhaving suspected you."

Risler pretended not to hear him.

"A hundred thousand francs to pay, you say?How much is there left in the strong-box?"

He sat bravely down behind the gratin, lookingover the books of account, the certificates ofstock in the funds, opening the jewel-cases,estimating with Planus, whose father had beena jeweller, the value of all those diamonds,which he had once so admired on his wife,having no suspicion of their real value.

Meanwhile Claire, trembling from head to foot,looked out through the window at the littlegarden, white with snow, where Sidonie'sfootsteps were already effaced by the fast-falling flakes, as if to bear witness that that pre-cipitate departure was without hope of return.

Up-stairs they were still dancing. The mistressof the house was supposed to be busy with thepreparations for supper, while she was flying,

bare-headed, forcing back sobs and shrieks ofrage.

Where was she going? She had started off like amad woman, running across the garden andthe courtyard of the factory, and under thedark arches, where the cruel, freezing windblew in eddying circles. Pere Achille did notrecognize her; he had seen so many shadowswrapped in white pass his lodge that night.

The young woman's first thought was to jointhe tenor Cazaboni, whom at the last she hadnot dared to invite to her ball; but he lived atMontmartre, and that was very far away for herto go, in that garb; and then, would he be athome? Her parents would take her in, doub-tless; but she could already hear Madame Che-be's lamentations and the little man's sermonunder three heads. Thereupon she thought ofDelobelle, her old Delobelle. In the downfall ofall her splendors she remembered the man whohad first initiated her into fashionable life, who

had given her lessons in dancing and deport-ment when she was a little girl, laughed at herpretty ways, and taught her to look upon her-self as beautiful before any one had ever toldher that she was so. Something told her thatthat fallen star would take her part against allothers. She entered one of the carriages stan-ding at the gate and ordered the driver to takeher to the actor's lodgings on the BoulevardBeaumarchais.

For some time past Mamma Delobelle had beenmaking straw hats for export-a dismal trade ifever there was one, which brought in barelytwo francs fifty for twelve hours' work.

And Delobelle continued to grow fat in the sa-me degree that his "sainted wife" grew thin. Atthe very moment when some one knockedhurriedly at his door he had just discovered afragrant soup 'au fromage', which had beenkept hot in the ashes on the hearth. The actor,who had been witnessing at Beaumarchais so-

me dark-browed melodrama drenched withgore even to the illustrated headlines of itsposter, was startled by that knock at such anadvanced hour.

"Who is there?" he asked in some alarm.

"It is I, Sidonie. Open the door quickly."

She entered the room, shivering all over, and,throwing aside her wrap, went close to the sto-ve where the fire was almost extinct. She beganto talk at once, to pour out the wrath that hadbeen stifling her for an hour, and while she wasdescribing the scene in the factory, loweringher voice because of Madame Delobelle, whowas asleep close by, the magnificence of hercostume in that poor, bare, fifth floor, the dazz-ling whiteness of her disordered finery amidthe heaps of coarse hats and the wisps of strawstrewn about the room, all combined to produ-ce the effect of a veritable drama, of one of tho-

se terrible upheavals of life when rank, feelings,fortunes are suddenly jumbled together.

"Oh! I never shall return home. It is all over.Free—I am free!"

"But who could have betrayed you to your hus-band?" asked the actor.

"It was Frantz! I am sure it was Frantz. Hewouldn't have believed it from anybody else.Only last evening a letter came from Egypt. Oh!how he treated me before that woman! To forceme to kneel! But I'll be revenged. Luckily I tooksomething to revenge myself with before I ca-me away."

And the smile of former days played about thecorners of her pale lips.

The old strolling player listened to it all withdeep interest. Notwithstanding his compassionfor that poor devil of a Risler, and for Sidonie

herself, for that matter, who seemed to him, intheatrical parlance, "a beautiful culprit," hecould not help viewing the affair from a purelyscenic standpoint, and finally cried out, carriedaway by his hobby:

"What a first-class situation for a fifth act!"

She did not bear him. Absorbed by some evilthought, which made her smile in anticipation,she stretched out to the fire her dainty shoes,saturated with snow, and her openwork stoc-kings.

"Well, what do you propose to do now?" Delo-belle asked after a pause.

"Stay here till daylight and get a little rest. ThenI will see."

"I have no bed to offer you, my poor girl.Mamma Delobelle has gone to bed."

"Don't you worry about me, my dear Delobelle.I'll sleep in that armchair. I won't be in yourway, I tell you!"

The actor heaved a sigh.

"Ah! yes, that armchair. It was our poor Zizi's.She sat up many a night in it, when work waspressing. Ah, me! those who leave this worldare much the happiest."

He had always at hand such selfish, comfortingmaxims. He had no sooner uttered that onethan he discovered with dismay that his soupwould soon be stone-cold. Sidonie noticed hismovement.

"Why, you were just eating your supper, we-ren't you? Pray go on."

"'Dame'! yes, what would you have? It's part ofthe trade, of the hard existence we fellows

have. For you see, my girl, I stand firm. Ihaven't given up. I never will give up."

What still remained of Desiree's soul in thatwretched household in which she had livedtwenty years must have shuddered at that te-rrible declaration. He never would give up!

"No matter what people may say," continuedDelobelle, "it's the noblest profession in theworld. You are free; you depend upon nobody.Devoted to the service of glory and the public!Ah! I know what I would do in your place. Asif you were born to live with all those bour-geois—the devil! What you need is the artisticlife, the fever of success, the unexpected, inten-se emotion."

As he spoke he took his seat, tucked his napkinin his neck, and helped himself to a great plate-ful of soup.

"To say nothing of the fact that your triumphsas a pretty woman would in no wise interferewith your triumph as an actress. By the way, doyou know, you must take a few lessons in elo-cution. With your voice, your intelligence, yourcharms, you would have a magnificent pros-pect."

Then he added abruptly, as if to initiate her intothe joys of the dramatic art:

"But it occurs to me that perhaps you have notsupped! Excitement makes one hungry; sit the-re, and take this soup. I am sure that youhaven't eaten soup 'au fromage' for a long whi-le."

He turned the closet topsy-turvy to find her aspoon and a napkin; and she took her seat op-posite him, assisting him and laughing a littleat the difficulties attending her entertainment.She was less pale already, and there was a pret-

ty sparkle in her eyes, composed of the tears ofa moment before and the present gayety.

The strolling actress! All her happiness in lifewas lost forever: honor, family, wealth. She wasdriven from her house, stripped, dishonored.She had undergone all possible humiliationsand disasters. That did not prevent her suppingwith a wonderful appetite and joyously hol-ding her own under Delobelle's jocose remarksconcerning her vocation and her futuretriumphs. She felt light-hearted and happy,fairly embarked for the land of Bohemia, hertrue country. What more would happen to her?Of how many ups and downs was her new,unforeseen, and whimsical existence to consist?She thought about that as she fell asleep in De-siree's great easy-chair; but she thought of herrevenge, too—her cherished revenge which sheheld in her hand, all ready for use, and so une-rring, so fierce!

CHAPTER XXII. THE NEW EMPLOYEEOF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT

It was broad daylight when Fromont Jeuneawoke. All night long, between the drama thatwas being enacted below him and the festivityin joyous progress above, he slept with clen-ched fists, the deep sleep of complete prostra-tion like that of a condemned man on the eve ofhis execution or of a defeated General on thenight following his disaster; a sleep from whichone would wish never to awake, and in which,in the absence of all sensation, one has a fore-taste of death.

The bright light streaming through his curtains,made more dazzling by the deep snow with

which the garden and the surrounding roofswere covered, recalled him to the consciousnessof things as they were. He felt a shock throug-hout his whole being, and, even before hismind began to work, that vague impression ofmelancholy which misfortunes, momentarilyforgotten, leave in their place. All the familiarnoises of the factory, the dull throbbing of themachinery, were in full activity. So the worldstill existed! and by slow degrees the idea of hisown responsibility awoke in him.

"To-day is the day," he said to himself, with aninvoluntary movement toward the dark side ofthe room, as if he longed to bury himself anewin his long sleep.

The factory bell rang, then other bells in theneighborhood, then the Angelus.

"Noon! Already! How I have slept!"

He felt some little remorse and a great sense ofrelief at the thought that the drama of settling-day had passed off without him. What had theydone downstairs? Why did they not call him?

He rose, drew the curtains aside, and saw Ris-ler and Sigismond talking together in the gar-den. And it was so long since they had spokento each other! What in heaven's name had hap-pened? When he was ready to go down hefound 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 rus-hing about with Planus since early morning. Itseems that his wife had superb jewels. The dia-mond necklace alone brought twenty thousandfrancs. He has also sold their house at Asniereswith all it contained; but as time was requiredto record the deed, Planus and his sister advan-ced the money."

She turned away from him as she spoke. He, onhis side, hung his head to avoid her glance.

"Risler is an honorable man," she continued,"and when he learned from whom his wife re-ceived all her magnificent things—"

"What!" exclaimed Georges in dismay. "Heknows?"

"All," Claire replied, lowering her voice.

The wretched man turned pale, stammeredfeebly:

"Why, then—you?"

"Oh! I knew it all before Risler. Remember, thatwhen I came home last night, I told you I hadheard very cruel things down at Savigny, andthat I would have given ten years of my life notto have taken that journey."

"Claire!"

Moved by a mighty outburst of affection, hestepped toward his wife; but her face was socold, so sad, so resolute, her despair was soplainly written in the stern indifference of herwhole bearing, that he dared not take her in hisarms as he longed to do, but simply murmuredunder his breath:

"Forgive!—forgive!"

"You must think me strangely calm," said thebrave woman; "but I shed all my tears yester-day. You may have thought that I was weeping

over our ruin; you were mistaken. While one isyoung and strong as we are, such cowardlyconduct is not permissible. We are armedagainst want and can fight it face to face. No, Iwas weeping for our departed happiness, foryou, for the madness that led you to throwaway your only, your true friend."

She was lovely, lovelier than Sidonie had everbeen, as she spoke thus, enveloped by a purelight which seemed to fall upon her from agreat height, like the radiance of a fathomless,cloudless sky; whereas the other's irregularfeatures had always seemed to owe their bri-lliancy, their saucy, insolent charm to the falseglamour of the footlights in some cheap theatre.The touch of statuesque immobility formerlynoticeable in Claire's face was vivified by anxie-ty, by doubt, by all the torture of passion; andlike those gold ingots which have their full va-lue only when the Mint has placed its stampupon them, those beautiful features stamped

with the effigy of sorrow had acquired since thepreceding day an ineffaceable expression whichperfected their beauty.

Georges gazed at her in admiration. She see-med to him more alive, more womanly, andworthy of adoration because of their separationand all the obstacles that he now knew to standbetween them. Remorse, despair, shame ente-red his heart simultaneously with this new lo-ve, and he would have fallen on his knees befo-re her.

"No, no, do not kneel," said Claire; "if you knewof what you remind me, if you knew what alying face, distorted with hatred, I saw at myfeet last night!"

"Ah! but I am not lying," replied Georges with ashudder. "Claire, I implore you, in the name ofour child—"

At that moment some one knocked at the door.

"Rise, I beg of you! You see that life has claimsupon us," she said in a low voice and with abitter smile; then she asked what was wanted.

Monsieur Risler had sent for Monsieur to comedown to the office.

"Very well," she said; "say that he will come."

Georges approached the door, but she stoppedhim.

"No, let me go. He must not see you yet."

"But—"

"I wish you to stay here. You have no idea ofthe indignation and wrath of that poor man,whom 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 acuriosity most cruel to herself; but Georges didnot wince, and replied simply:

"My life belongs to him."

"It belongs to me, too; and I do not wish you togo down. There has been scandal enough in myfather's house. Remember that the whole facto-ry is aware of what is going on. Every one iswatching us, spying upon us. It required all theauthority of the foremen to keep the men busyto-day, to compel them to keep their inquisitivelooks on their work."

"But I shall seem to be hiding."

"And suppose it were so! That is just like aman. They do not recoil from the worst crimes:betraying a wife, betraying a friend; but thethought that they may be accused of beingafraid touches them more keenly than anyt-hing. Moreover, listen to what I say. Sidoniehas gone; she has gone forever; and if you leavethis house I shall think that you have gone tojoin her."

"Very well, I will stay," said Georges. "I will dowhatever you wish."

Claire descended into Planus' office.

To see Risler striding to and fro, with his handsbehind his back, as calm as usual, no onewould ever have suspected all that had takenplace in his life since the night before. As forSigismond, he was fairly beaming, for he sawnothing in it all beyond the fact that the noteshad been paid at maturity and that the honor ofthe firm was safe.

When Madame Fromont appeared, Risler smi-led sadly and shook his head.

"I thought that you would prefer to come downin his place; but you are not the one with whomI have to deal. It is absolutely necessary that Ishould see Georges and talk with him. We havepaid the notes that fell due this morning; the

crisis has passed; but we must come to an un-derstanding about many matters."

"Risler, my friend, I beg you to wait a little lon-ger."

"Why, Madame Chorche, there's not a minuteto lose. Oh! I suspect that you fear I may giveway to an outbreak of anger. Have no fear—lethim have no fear. You know what I told you,that the honor of the house of Fromont is to beassured before my own. I have endangered itby my fault. First of all, I must repair the evil Ihave done or allowed to be done."

"Your conduct toward us is worthy of all admi-ration, my good Risler; I know it well."

"Oh! Madame, if you could see him! he's asaint," said poor Sigismond, who, not daring tospeak to his friend, was determined at allevents to express his remorse.

"But aren't you afraid?" continued Claire."Human endurance has its limits. It may be thatin presence of the man who has injured youso—"

Risler took her hands, gazed into her eyes withgrave admiration, and said:

"You dear creature, who speak of nothing butthe injury done to me! Do you not know that Ihate him as bitterly for his falseness to you? Butnothing of that sort has any existence for me atthis moment. You see in me simply a businessman who wishes to have an understandingwith his partner for the good of the firm. So lethim come down without the slightest fear, andif you dread any outbreak on my part, stay herewith us. I shall need only to look at my oldmaster's daughter to be reminded of my promi-se and my duty."

"I trust you, my friend," said Claire; and shewent up to bring her husband.

The first minute of the interview was terrible.Georges was deeply moved, humiliated, pale asdeath. He would have preferred a hundredtimes over to be looking into the barrel of thatman's pistol at twenty paces, awaiting his fire,instead of appearing before him as an unpunis-hed culprit and being compelled to confine hisfeelings within the commonplace limits of abusiness conversation.

Risler pretended not to look at him, and conti-nued to pace the floor as he talked:

"Our house is passing through a terrible crisis.We have averted the disaster for to-day; butthis is not the last of our obligations. That cur-sed invention has kept my mind away from thebusiness for a long while. Luckily, I am freenow, and able to attend to it. But you must giveyour attention to it as well. The workmen andclerks have followed the example of their em-ployers to some extent. Indeed, they have be-come extremely negligent and indifferent. This

morning, for the first time in a year, they beganwork at the proper time. I expect that you willmake it your business to change all that. As forme, I shall work at my drawings again. Ourpatterns are old-fashioned. We must have newones for the new machines. I have great confi-dence in our presses. The experiments havesucceeded beyond my hopes. We unquestiona-bly have in them a means of building up ourbusiness. I didn't tell you sooner because I wis-hed to surprise you; but we have no more sur-prises for each other, have we, Georges?"

There was such a stinging note of irony in hisvoice that Claire shuddered, fearing an out-break; but he continued, in his natural tone.

"Yes, I think I can promise that in six monthsthe Risler Press will begin to show magnificentresults. But those six months will be very hardto live through. We must limit ourselves, cutdown our expenses, save in every way that wecan. We have five draughtsmen now; hereafter

we will have but two. I will undertake to makethe absence of the others of no consequence byworking at night myself. Furthermore, begin-ning with this month, I abandon my interest inthe firm. I will take my salary as foreman as Itook it before, and nothing more."

Fromont attempted to speak, but a gesturefrom his wife restrained him, and Risler conti-nued:

"I am no longer your partner, Georges. I amonce more the clerk that I never should haveceased to be. From this day our partnershiparticles are cancelled. I insist upon it, you un-derstand; I insist upon it. We will remain inthat relation to each other until the house is outof difficulty and I can—But what I shall do thenconcerns me alone. This is what I wanted to sayto you, Georges. You must give your attentionto the factory diligently; you must show your-self, make it felt that you are master now, and I

believe there will turn out to be, among all ourmisfortunes, some that can be retrieved."

During the silence that followed, they heard thesound of wheels in the garden, and two greatfurniture vans stopped at the door.

"I beg your pardon," said Risler, "but I mustleave you a moment. Those are the vans fromthe public auction rooms; they have come totake away my furniture from upstairs."

"What! you are going to sell your furnituretoo?" asked Madame Fromont.

"Certainly—to the last piece. I am simply gi-ving it back to the firm. It belongs to it."

"But that is impossible," said Georges. "I can notallow 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 togive vent to all that was in his heart.

The second floor was deserted. The servants,who had been paid and dismissed in the mor-ning, had abandoned the apartments to thedisorder of the day following a ball; and theywore the aspect peculiar to places where adrama has been enacted, and which are left insuspense, as it were, between the events thathave happened and those that are still to hap-pen. The open doors, the rugs lying in heaps inthe corners, the salvers laden with glasses, thepreparations for the supper, the table still setand untouched, the dust from the dancing onall the furniture, its odor mingled with the fu-mes of punch, of withered flowers, of rice-powder—all these details attracted Risler's no-tice as he entered.

In the disordered salon the piano was open, thebacchanal from 'Orphee aux Enfers' on the mu-sic-shelf, and the gaudy hangings surroundingthat scene of desolation, the chairs overturned,as if in fear, reminded one of the saloon of awrecked packet-boat, of one of those ghostlynights of watching when one is suddenly in-formed, in the midst of a fete at sea, that theship has sprung a leak, that she is taking inwater in every part.

The men began to remove the furniture. Rislerwatched them at work with an indifferent air,as if he were in a stranger's house. That magni-ficence which had once made him so happyand proud inspired in him now an insurmoun-table disgust. But, when he entered his wife'sbedroom, he was conscious of a vague emotion.

It was a large room, hung with blue satin underwhite lace. A veritable cocotte's nest. There we-re torn and rumpled tulle ruffles lying about,bows, and artificial flowers. The wax candles

around the mirror had burned down to the endand cracked the candlesticks; and the bed, withits lace flounces and valances, its great curtainsraised and drawn back, untouched in the gene-ral confusion, seemed like the bed of a corpse, astate bed on which no one would ever sleepagain.

Risler's first feeling upon entering the roomwas one of mad indignation, a longing to fallupon the things before him, to tear and rendand shatter everything. Nothing, you see, re-sembles a woman so much as her bedroom.Even when she is absent, her image still smilesin the mirrors that have reflected it. A little so-mething of her, of her favorite perfume, re-mains in everything she has touched. Her atti-tudes are reproduced in the cushions of hercouch, and one can follow her goings and co-mings between the mirror and the toilette tablein the pattern of the carpet. The one thing abo-ve all others in that room that recalled Sidonie

was an 'etagere' covered with childish toys,petty, trivial knickknacks, microscopic fans,dolls' tea-sets, gilded shoes, little shepherdsand shepherdesses facing one another, exchan-ging cold, gleaming, porcelain glances. That'etagere' was Sidonie's very soul, and herthoughts, always commonplace, petty, vain,and empty, resembled those gewgaws. Yes, invery truth, if Risler, while he held her in hisgrasp last night, had in his frenzy broken thatfragile little head, a whole world of 'etagere'ornaments would have come from it in place ofa brain.

The poor man was thinking sadly of all thesethings amid the ringing of hammers and theheavy footsteps of the furniture-movers, whenhe heard an interloping, authoritative stepbehind him, and Monsieur Chebe appeared,little Monsieur Chebe, flushed and breathless,with flames darting from his eyes. He assumed,as always, a very high tone with his son-in-law.

"What does this mean? What is this I hear? Ah!so you're moving, are you?"

"I am not moving, Monsieur Chebe—I am se-lling out."

The little man gave a leap like a scalded fish.

"You are selling out? What are you selling,pray?"

"I am selling everything," said Risler in ahollow voice, without even looking at him.

"Come, come, son-in-law, be reasonable. Godknows I don't say that Sidonie's conduct—But,for my part, I know nothing about it. I neverwanted to know anything. Only I must remindyou of your dignity. People wash their dirtylinen in private, deuce take it! They don't makespectacles of themselves as you've been doingever since morning. Just see everybody at theworkshop windows; and on the porch, too!

Why, you're the talk of the quarter, my dearfellow."

"So much the better. The dishonor was public,the reparation must be public, too."

This apparent coolness, this indifference to allhis observations, exasperated Monsieur Chebe.He suddenly changed his tactics, and adopted,in addressing his son-in-law, the serious, pe-remptory tone which one uses with children orlunatics.

"Well, I say that you haven't any right to takeanything away from here. I remonstrate forma-lly, with all my strength as a man, with all myauthority as a father. Do you suppose I amgoing to let you drive my child into the street.No, indeed! Oh! no, indeed! Enough of suchnonsense as that! Nothing more shall go out ofthese rooms."

And Monsieur Chebe, having closed the door,planted himself in front of it with a heroic ges-ture. Deuce take it! his own interest was at sta-ke in the matter. The fact was that when hischild was once in the gutter he ran great risk ofnot having a feather bed to sleep on himself. Hewas superb in that attitude of an indignant fat-her, but he did not keep it long. Two hands,two vises, seized his wrists, and he found him-self in the middle of the room, leaving thedoorway clear for the workmen.

"Chebe, my boy, just listen," said Risler, leaningover him. "I am at the end of my forbearance.Since this morning I have been making super-human efforts to restrain myself, but it wouldtake very little now to make my anger burst allbonds, and woe to the man on whom it falls! Iam quite capable of killing some one. Come! Beoff at once!—"

There was such an intonation in his son-in-law's voice, and the way that son-in-law shook

him as he spoke was so eloquent, that Mon-sieur Chebe was fully convinced. He evenstammered an apology. Certainly Risler hadgood reason for acting as he had. All honorablepeople would be on his side. And he backedtoward the door as he spoke. When he reachedit, he inquired timidly if Madame Chebe's littleallowance would be continued.

"Yes," was Risler's reply, "but never go beyondit, for my position here is not what it was. I amno longer a partner in the house."

Monsieur Chebe stared at him in amazement,and assumed the idiotic expression which ledmany people to believe that the accident thathad happened to him—exactly like that of theDuc d'Orleans, you know—was not a fable ofhis own invention; but he dared not make theslightest observation. Surely some one hadchanged his son-in-law. Was this really Risler,this tiger-cat, who bristled up at the slightest

word and talked of nothing less than killingpeople?

He took to his heels, recovered his self-possession at the foot of the stairs, and walkedacross the courtyard with the air of a conque-ror.

When all the rooms were cleared and empty,Risler walked through them for the last time,then took the key and went down to Planus'soffice to hand it to Madame Georges.

"You can let the apartment," he said, "it will beso much added to the income of the factory."

"But you, my friend?"

"Oh! I don't need much. An iron bed up underthe eaves. That's all a clerk needs. For, I repeat,I am nothing but a clerk from this time on. Auseful clerk, by the way, faithful and coura-

geous, of whom you will have no occasion tocomplain, I promise you."

Georges, who was going over the books withPlanus, was so affected at hearing the poor fe-llow talk in that strain that he left his seat pre-cipitately. He was suffocated by his sobs. Clai-re, too, was deeply moved; she went to the newclerk 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 themail.

Risler took the pile of letters, opened them tran-quilly one by one, and passed them over toSigismond.

"Here's an order for Lyon. Why wasn't it ans-wered 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 mindtoward peace and forgetfulness.

Suddenly, among those huge envelopes, stam-ped with the names of business houses, thepaper of which and the manner of folding sug-gested the office and hasty despatch, he disco-vered one smaller one, carefully sealed, andhidden so cunningly between the others that atfirst he did not notice it. He recognized instan-tly that long, fine, firm writing,—To MonsieurRisler—Personal. It was Sidonie's writing!When he saw it he felt the same sensation hehad felt in the bedroom upstairs.

All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayedhusband poured back into his heart with thefrantic force that makes assassins. What wasshe writing to him? What lie had she inventednow? He was about to open the letter; then hepaused. He realized that, if he should read that,it would be all over with his courage; so he lea-

ned over to the old cashier, and said in an un-dertone:

"Sigismond, old friend, will you do me a fa-vor?"

"I should think so!" said the worthy man ent-husiastically. He was so delighted to hear hisfriend speak to him in the kindly voice of theold days.

"Here's a letter someone has written me which Idon't wish to read now. I am sure it would in-terfere with my thinking and living. You mustkeep it for me, and this with it."

He took from his pocket a little package carefu-lly tied, and handed it to him through the gra-ting.

"That is all I have left of the past, all I have leftof that woman. I have determined not to seeher, nor anything that reminds me of her, until

my task here is concluded, and concluded satis-factorily,—I need all my intelligence, you un-derstand. You will pay the Chebes' allowance.If she herself should ask for anything, you willgive her what she needs. But you will nevermention my name. And you will keep this pac-kage safe for me until I ask you for it."

Sigismond locked the letter and the package ina secret drawer of his desk with other valuablepapers. Risler returned at once to his corres-pondence; but all the time he had before hiseyes the slender English letters traced by a littlehand which he had so often and so ardentlypressed to his heart.

CHAPTER XXIII. CAFE CHANTANT

What a rare, what a conscientious clerk did thatnew employe of the house of Fromont provehimself!

Every day his lamp was the first to appear at,and the last to disappear from, the windows ofthe factory. A little room had been arranged forhim under the eaves, exactly like the one hehad formerly occupied with Frantz, a veritableTrappist's cell, furnished with an iron cot and awhite wooden table, that stood under his brot-her's portrait. He led the same busy, regular,quiet life as in those old days.

He worked constantly, and had his mealsbrought from the same little creamery. But,alas! the disappearance forever of youth andhope deprived those memories of all theircharm. Luckily he still had Frantz and Madame"Chorche," the only two human beings of

whom he could think without a feeling of sad-ness. Madame "Chorche" was always at hand,always trying to minister to his comfort, to con-sole him; and Frantz wrote to him often, wit-hout mentioning Sidonie, by the way. Rislersupposed that some one had told Frantz of thedisaster that had befallen him, and he too avoi-ded all allusion to the subject in his letters. "Oh!when I can send for him to come home!" Thatwas his dream, his sole ambition: to restore thefactory and recall his brother.

Meanwhile the days succeeded one another,always the same to him in the restless activityof business and the heartrending loneliness ofhis grief. Every morning he walked through theworkshops, where the profound respect he ins-pired and his stern, silent countenance hadreestablished the orderly conditions that hadbeen temporarily disturbed. In the beginningthere had been much gossip, and various ex-planations of Sidonie's departure had been ma-

de. Some said that she had eloped with a lover,others that Risler had turned her out. The onefact that upset all conjectures was the attitudeof the two partners toward each other, appa-rently as unconstrained as before. Sometimes,however, when they were talking together inthe office, with no one by, Risler would sud-denly start convulsively, as a vision of the cri-me passed before his eyes.

Then he would feel a mad longing to springupon the villain, seize him by the throat, stran-gle him without mercy; but the thought of Ma-dame "Chorche" was always there to restrainhim. Should he be less courageous, less masterof himself than that young wife? Neither Claire,nor Fromont, nor anybody else suspected whatwas in his mind. They could barely detect aseverity, an inflexibility in his conduct, whichwere not habitual with him. Risler awed theworkmen now; and those of them upon whomhis white hair, blanched in one night, his

drawn, prematurely old features did not impo-se respect, quailed before his strange glance-aglance from eyes of a bluish-black like the colorof a gun-barrel. Whereas he had always beenvery kind and affable with the workmen, hehad become pitilessly severe in regard to theslightest infraction of the rules. It seemed as ifhe were taking vengeance upon himself forsome indulgence in the past, blind, culpableindulgence, for which he blamed himself.

Surely he was a marvellous employe, was thisnew officer in the house of Fromont.

Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstan-ding the quavering of its old, cracked voice,had very soon resumed its authority; and theman who guided the whole establishment de-nied himself the slightest recreation. Sober asan apprentice, he left three-fourths of his salarywith Planus for the Chebes' allowance, but henever asked any questions about them. Punc-tually on the last day of the month the little

man appeared to collect his little income, stiffand formal in his dealings with Sigismond, asbecame an annuitant on duty. Madame Chebehad tried to obtain an interview with her son-in-law, whom she pitied and loved; but themere appearance of her palm-leaf shawl on thesteps put Sidonie's husband to flight.

In truth, the courage with which he armed him-self was more apparent than real. The memoryof his wife never left him. What had become ofher? What was she doing? He was almost an-gry with Planus for never mentioning her. Thatletter, above all things, that letter which he hadhad the courage not to open, disturbed him. Hethought of it continually. Ah! had he dared,how he would have liked to ask Sigismond forit!

One day the temptation was too strong. He wasalone in the office. The old cashier had gone outto luncheon, leaving the key in his drawer, amost extraordinary thing. Risler could not re-

sist. He opened the drawer, moved the papers,and searched for his letter. It was not there.Sigismond must have put it away even morecarefully, perhaps with a foreboding of whatactually happened. In his heart Risler was notsorry for his disappointment; for he well knewthat, had he found the letter, it would havebeen the end of the resigned and busy lifewhich he imposed upon himself with so muchdifficulty.

Through the week it was all very well. Life wasendurable, absorbed by the innumerable dutiesof the factory, and so fatiguing that, when nightcame, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless mass.But Sunday was long and sad. The silence ofthe deserted yards and workshops opened a farwider field to his thoughts. He tried to busyhimself, but he missed the encouragement ofthe others' work. He alone was busy in thatgreat, empty factory whose very breath wasarrested. The locked doors, the closed blinds,

the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing withhis dog in the deserted courtyard, all spoke ofsolitude. And the whole neighborhood alsoproduced the same effect. In the streets, whichseemed wider because of their emptiness, andwhere the passers-by were few and silent, thebells ringing for vespers had a melancholysound, and sometimes an echo of the din ofParis, rumbling wheels, a belated hand-organ,the click of a toy-peddler's clappers, broke thesilence, as if to make it even more noticeable.

Risler would try to invent new combinations offlowers and leaves, and, while he handled hispencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient foodthere, would escape him, would fly back to hispast happiness, to his hopeless misfortunes,would suffer martyrdom, and then, on retur-ning, would ask the poor somnambulist, stillseated at his table: "What have you done in myabsence?" Alas! he had done nothing.

Oh! the long, heartbreaking, cruel Sundays!Consider that, mingled with all these perplexi-ties in his mind, was the superstitious reveren-ce of the common people for holy days, for thetwenty-four hours of rest, wherein one recoversstrength and courage. If he had gone out, thesight of a workingman with his wife and childwould have made him weep, but his monasticseclusion gave him other forms of suffering, thedespair of recluses, their terrible outbreaks ofrebellion when the god to whom they haveconsecrated themselves does not respond totheir sacrifices. Now, Risler's god was work,and as he no longer found comfort or serenitytherein, he no longer believed in it, but cursedit.

Often in those hours of mental struggle thedoor of the draughting-room would open gen-tly and Claire Fromont would appear. The poorman's loneliness throughout those long Sundayafternoons filled her with compassion, and she

would come with her little girl to keep himcompany, knowing by experience how conta-gious is the sweet joyousness of children. Thelittle one, who could now walk alone, wouldslip from her mother's arms to run to herfriend. Risler would hear the little, hurryingsteps. He would feel the light breath behindhim, and instantly he would be conscious of asoothing, rejuvenating influence. She wouldthrow her plump little arms around his neckwith affectionate warmth, with her artless, cau-seless laugh, and a kiss from that little mouthwhich never had lied. Claire Fromont, standingin the doorway, would smile as she looked atthem.

"Risler, my friend," she would say, "you mustcome down into the garden a while,—youwork too hard. You will be ill."

"No, no, Madame,—on the contrary, work iswhat 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 thingsbeyond one's strength. A man may forgive, buthe never forgets."

The child almost always succeeded in dragginghim down to the garden. He must play ball, orin the sand, with her; but her playfellow's awk-wardness and lack of enthusiasm soon impres-sed the little girl. Then she would become verysedate, contenting herself with walking gravelybetween the hedges of box, with her hand inher friend's. After a moment Risler would enti-rely forget that she was there; but, although hedid not realize it, the warmth of that little handin his had a magnetic, softening effect upon hisdiseased mind.

A man may forgive, but he never forgets!

Poor Claire herself knew something about it;for she had never forgotten, notwithstandingher great courage and the conception she hadformed of her duty. To her, as to Risler; hersurroundings were a constant reminder of hersufferings. The objects amid which she livedpitilessly reopened the wound that was readyto close. The staircase, the garden, the court-yard, all those dumb witnesses of her hus-band's sin, assumed on certain days an impla-cable expression. Even the careful precautionher husband took to spare her painful remin-ders, the way in which he called attention tothe fact that he no longer went out in the eve-ning, and took pains to tell her where he hadbeen during the day, served only to remind herthe more forcibly of his wrong-doing. Someti-mes she longed to ask him to forbear,—to sayto him: "Do not protest too much." Faith wasshattered within her, and the horrible agony of

the priest who doubts, and seeks at the sametime to remain faithful to his vows, betrayeditself in her bitter smile, her cold, uncomplai-ning gentleness.

Georges was wofully unhappy. He loved hiswife now. The nobility of her character hadconquered him. There was admiration in hislove, and—why not say it?—Claire's sorrowfilled the place of the coquetry which was con-trary to her nature, the lack of which had al-ways been a defect in her husband's eyes. Hewas one of that strange type of men who loveto make conquests. Sidonie, capricious and coldas she was, responded to that whim of hisheart. After parting from her with a tender fa-rewell, he found her indifferent and forgetfulthe next day, and that continual need of wooingher back to him took the place of genuine pas-sion. Serenity in love bored him as a voyagewithout storms wearies a sailor. On this occa-sion he had been very near shipwreck with his

wife, and the danger had not passed even yet.He knew that Claire was alienated from himand devoted entirely to the child, the only linkbetween them thenceforth. Their separationmade her seem lovelier, more desirable, and heexercised all his powers of fascination to recap-ture her. He knew how hard a task it would be,and that he had no ordinary, frivolous nature todeal with. But he did not despair. Sometimes avague gleam in the depths of the mild and ap-parently impassive glance with which she wat-ched his efforts, bade him hope.

As for Sidonie, he no longer thought of her. Letno one be astonished at that abrupt mental rup-ture. Those two superficial beings had nothingto attach them securely to each other. Georgeswas incapable of receiving lasting impressionsunless they were continually renewed; Sidonie,for her part, had no power to inspire any nobleor durable sentiment. It was one of those intri-gues between a cocotte and a coxcomb, com-

pounded of vanity and of wounded self-love,which inspire neither devotion nor constancy,but tragic adventures, duels, suicides which arerarely fatal, and which end in a radical cure.Perhaps, had he seen her again, he might havehad a relapse of his disease; but the impetus offlight had carried Sidonie away so swiftly andso far that her return was impossible. At allevents, it was a relief for him to be able to livewithout lying; and the new life he was leading,a life of hard work and self-denial, with thegoal of success in the distance, was not distaste-ful to him. Luckily; for the courage and deter-mination of both partners were none too muchto put the house on its feet once more.

The poor house of Fromont had sprung leakson all sides. So Pere Planus still had wretchednights, haunted by the nightmare of notes ma-turing and the ominous vision of the little blueman. But, by strict economy, they always suc-ceeded in paying.

Soon four Risler Presses were definitively setup and used in the work of the factory. Peoplebegan to take a deep interest in them and in thewall-paper trade. Lyons, Caen, Rixbeim, thegreat centres of the industry, were much dis-turbed concerning that marvellous "rotary anddodecagonal" machine. One fine day the Pro-chassons appeared, and offered three hundredthousand francs simply for an interest in thepatent rights.

"What shall we do?" Fromont Jeune asked Ris-ler Aine.

The latter shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"Decide for yourself. It doesn't concern me. Iam only an employe."

The words, spoken coldly, without anger, fellheavily upon Fromont's bewildered joy, andreminded him of the gravity of a situationwhich he was always on the point of forgetting.

But when he was alone with his dear Madame"Chorche," Risler advised her not to accept theProchassons' offer.

"Wait,—don't be in a hurry. Later you will havea better offer."

He spoke only of them in that affair in whichhis own share was so glorious. She felt that hewas preparing to cut himself adrift from theirfuture.

Meanwhile orders came pouring in and accu-mulated on their hands. The quality of the pa-per, the reduced price because of the improvedmethods of manufacture, made competitionimpossible. There was no doubt that a colossalfortune was in store for the house of Fromont.The factory had resumed its former flourishingaspect and its loud, business-like hum. Intense-ly alive were all the great buildings and thehundreds of workmen who filled them. PerePlanus never raised his nose from his desk; one

could see him from the little garden, leaningover his great ledgers, jotting down in magnifi-cently molded figures the profits of the Rislerpress.

Risler still worked as before, without change orrest. The return of prosperity brought no altera-tion in his secluded habits, and from the hig-hest window on the topmost floor of the househe listened to the ceaseless roar of his machi-nes. He was no less gloomy, no less silent. Oneday, however, it became known at the factorythat the press, a specimen of which had beensent to the great Exposition at Manchester, hadreceived the gold medal, whereby its successwas definitely established. Madame Georgescalled Risler into the garden at the luncheonhour, wishing to be the first to tell him the goodnews.

For the moment a proud smile relaxed his pre-maturely old, gloomy features. His inventor'svanity, his pride in his renown, above all, the

idea of repairing thus magnificently the wrongdone to the family by his wife, gave him a mo-ment of true happiness. He pressed Claire'shands and murmured, as in the old days:

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

But what a difference in tone! He said it wit-hout enthusiasm, hopelessly, with the satisfac-tion of a task accomplished, and nothing more.

The bell rang for the workmen to return, andRisler went calmly upstairs to resume his workas on other days.

In a moment he came down again. In spite ofall, that news had excited him more than hecared to show. He wandered about the garden,prowled around the counting-room, smilingsadly 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 toclose the office, Risler summoned courage to goand speak to him.

"Planus, my old friend, I should like—"

He hesitated a moment.

"I should like you to give me the—letter, youknow, the little letter and the package."

Sigismond stared at him in amazement. In hisinnocence, he had imagined that Risler neverthought of Sidonie, that he had entirely forgot-ten her.

"What—you want—?"

"Ah! I have well earned it; I can think of myselfa little now. I have thought enough of others."

"You are right," said Planus. "Well, this is whatwe'll do. The letter and package are at my hou-se at Montrouge. If you choose, we will go and

dine together at the Palais-Royal, as in the goodold times. I will stand treat. We'll water yourmedal with a bottle of wine; something choice!Then we'll go to the house together. You canget your trinkets, and if it's too late for you togo home, Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, shallmake up a bed for you, and you shall pass thenight with us. We are very comfortable there—it's in the country. To-morrow morning at se-ven o'clock we'll come back to the factory bythe first omnibus. Come, old fellow, give methis pleasure. If you don't, I shall think you stillbear your old Sigismond a grudge."

Risler accepted. He cared little about celebra-ting the award of his medal, but he desired togain a few hours before opening the little letterhe had at last earned the right to read.

He must dress. That was quite a serious matter,for he had lived in a workman's jacket duringthe past six months. And what an event in the

factory! Madame Fromont was informed atonce.

"Madame, Madame! Monsieur Risler is goingout!"

Claire looked at him from her window, andthat tall form, bowed by sorrow, leaning onSigismond's arm, aroused in her a profound,unusual emotion which she remembered everafter.

In the street people bowed to Risler with greatinterest. Even their greetings warmed his heart.He was so much in need of kindness! But thenoise of vehicles made him a little dizzy.

"My head is spinning," he said to Planus:

"Lean hard on me, old fellow-don't be afraid."

And honest Planus drew himself up, escortinghis friend with the artless, unconventional pri-

de of a peasant of the South bearing aloft hisvillage saint.

At last they arrived at the Palais-Royal.

The garden was full of people. They had cometo hear the music, and were trying to find seatsamid clouds of dust and the scraping of chairs.The two friends hurried into the restaurant toavoid all that turmoil. They established them-selves in one of the large salons on the firstfloor, whence they could see the green trees,the promenaders, and the water spurting fromthe fountain between the two melancholy flo-wer-gardens. To Sigismond it was the ideal ofluxury, that restaurant, with gilding everyw-here, around the mirrors, in the chandelier andeven on the figured wallpaper. The white nap-kin, the roll, the menu of a table d'hote dinnerfilled his soul with joy. "We are comfortablehere, aren't we?" he said to Risler.

And he exclaimed at each of the courses of thatbanquet at two francs fifty, and insisted on fi-lling his friend's plate.

"Eat that—it's good."

The other, notwithstanding his desire to dohonor to the fete, seemed preoccupied and ga-zed out-of-doors.

"Do you remember, Sigismond?" he said, after apause.

The old cashier, engrossed in his memories oflong ago, of Risler's first employment at thefactory, replied:

"I should think I do remember—listen! The firsttime we dined together at the Palais-Royal wasin February, 'forty-six, the year we put in theplanches-plates at the factory."

Risler shook his head.

"Oh! no—I mean three years ago. It was in thatroom just opposite that we dined on that me-morable evening."

And he pointed to the great windows of thesalon of Cafe Vefour, gleaming in the rays ofthe setting sun like the chandeliers at a wed-ding feast.

"Ah! yes, true," murmured Sigismond, abashed.What an unlucky idea of his to bring his friendto a place that recalled such painful things!

Risler, not wishing to cast a gloom upon theirbanquet, abruptly raised his glass.

"Come! here's your health, my old comrade."

He tried to change the subject. But a momentlater he himself led the conversation back to itagain, and asked Sigismond, in an undertone,as 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 shebeen doing these six months? Does she livewith her parents?"

"No."

Risler turned pale.

He hoped that Sidonie would have returned toher mother, that she would have worked, as hehad worked, to forget and atone. He had oftenthought that he would arrange his life accor-ding to what he should learn of her when heshould have the right to speak of her; and inone of those far-off visions of the future, whichhave the vagueness of a dream, he sometimesfancied himself living in exile with the Chebesin an unknown land, where nothing would

remind him of his past shame. It was not a de-finite plan, to be sure; but the thought lived inthe depths of his mind like a hope, caused bythe need that all human creatures feel of fin-ding their lost happiness.

"Is she in Paris?" he asked, after a few moments'reflection.

"No. She went away three months ago. No oneknows where she has gone."

Sigismond did not add that she had gone withher Cazaboni, whose name she now bore, thatthey were making the circuit of the provincialcities together, that her mother was in despair,never saw her, and heard of her only throughDelobelle. Sigismond did not deem it his dutyto mention all that, and after his last words heheld his peace.

Risler, for his part, dared ask no further ques-tions.

While they sat there, facing each other, bothembarrassed by the long silence, the militaryband began to play under the trees in the gar-den. They played one of those Italian operaticovertures which seem to have been writtenexpressly for public open-air resorts; the swif-tly-flowing notes, as they rise into the air, blendwith the call of the swallows and the silveryplash of the fountain. The blaring brass bringsout in bold relief the mild warmth of the clo-sing hours of those summer days, so long andenervating in Paris; it seems as if one couldhear nothing else. The distant rumbling ofwheels, the cries of children playing, the foots-teps of the promenaders are wafted away inthose resonant, gushing, refreshing waves ofmelody, as useful to the people of Paris as thedaily watering of their streets. On all sides thefaded flowers, the trees white with dust, thefaces made pale and wan by the heat, all thesorrows, all the miseries of a great city, sittingdreamily, with bowed head, on the benches in

the garden, feel its comforting, refreshing in-fluence. The air is stirred, renewed by thosestrains that traverse it, filling it with harmony.

Poor Risler felt as if the tension upon all hisnerves were relaxed.

"A little music does one good," he said, withglistening eyes. "My heart is heavy, old fellow,"he added, in a lower tone; "if you knew—"

They sat without speaking, their elbows restingon the window-sill, while their coffee was ser-ved.

Then the music ceased, the garden became de-serted. The light that had loitered in the cornerscrept upward to the roofs, cast its last raysupon the highest windowpanes, followed bythe birds, the swallows, which saluted the closeof day with a farewell chirp from the gutterwhere they were huddled together.

"Now, where shall we go?" said Planus, as theyleft the restaurant.

"Wherever you wish."

On the first floor of a building on the RueMontpensier, close at hand, was a cafe chan-tant, where many people entered.

"Suppose we go in," said Planus, desirous ofbanishing his friend's melancholy at any cost,"the beer is excellent."

Risler assented to the suggestion; he had nottasted beer for six months.

It was a former restaurant transformed into aconcert-hall. There were three large rooms, se-parated by gilded pillars, the partitions havingbeen removed; the decoration was in the Moo-rish style, bright red, pale blue, with little cres-cents and turbans for ornament.

Although it was still early, the place was full;and even before entering one had a feeling ofsuffocation, simply from seeing the crowds ofpeople sitting around the tables, and at the fart-her end, half-hidden by the rows of pillars, agroup of white-robed women on a raised plat-form, in the heat and glare of the gas.

Our two friends had much difficulty in findingseats, and had to be content with a place behinda pillar whence they could see only half of theplatform, then occupied by a superb person inblack coat and yellow gloves, curled and waxedand oiled, who was singing in a vibrating voi-ce—

Mes beaux lions aux crins dores, Du sang des troupeaux alteres, Halte la!—Je fais sentinello!

[My proud lions with golden manes Who thirst for the blood of my flocks, Stand back!—I am on guard!]

The audience—small tradesmen of the quarterwith their wives and daughters-seemed highlyenthusiastic: especially the women. He repre-sented so perfectly the ideal of the shopkeeperimagination, that magnificent shepherd of thedesert, who addressed lions with such an air ofauthority and tended his flocks in full eveningdress. And so, despite their bourgeois bearing,their modest costumes and their expressionlessshop-girl smiles, all those women, made uptheir little mouths to be caught by the hook ofsentiment, and cast languishing glances uponthe singer. It was truly comical to see that glan-ce at the platform suddenly change and becomecontemptuous and fierce as it fell upon the hus-band, the poor husband tranquilly drinking aglass of beer opposite his wife: "You wouldnever be capable of doing sentry duty in thevery teeth of lions, and in a black coat too, andwith yellow gloves!"

And the husband's eye seemed to reply:

"Ah! 'dame', yes, he's quite a dashing buck, thatfellow."

Being decidedly indifferent to heroism of thatstamp, Risler and Sigismond were drinkingtheir beer without paying much attention to themusic, when, at the end of the song, amid theapplause and cries and uproar that followed it,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 hehad discovered in the front row near the plat-form. His gray head was turned partly awayfrom them. He was leaning carelessly against apillar, hat in hand, in his grand make-up asleading man: dazzlingly white linen, hair cur-led with the tongs, black coat with a camellia inthe buttonhole, like the ribbon of an order. Heglanced at the crowd from time to time with apatronizing air: but his eyes were most fre-

quently turned toward the platform, with en-couraging little gestures and smiles and pre-tended applause, addressed to some one whomPere Planus could not see from his seat.

There was nothing very extraordinary in thepresence of the illustrious Delobelle at a cafeconcert, as he spent all his evenings away fromhome; and yet the old cashier felt vaguely dis-turbed, especially when he discovered in thesame row a blue cape and a pair of steely eyes.It was Madame Dobson, the sentimental sin-ging-teacher. The conjunction of those two fa-ces amid the pipe-smoke and the confusion ofthe crowd, produced upon Sigismond the effectof two ghosts evoked by a bad dream. He wasafraid for his friend, without knowing exactlywhy; and suddenly it occurred to him to takehim away.

"Let us go, Risler. The heat here is enough tokill one."

Just as they rose—for Risler was no more desi-rous to stay than to go—the orchestra, consis-ting of a piano and several violins, began a pe-culiar refrain. There was a flutter of curiositythroughout the room, and cries of "Hush! hush!sit down!"

They were obliged to resume their seats. Risler,too, was beginning to be disturbed.

"I know that tune," he said to himself. "Wherehave I heard it?"

A thunder of applause and an exclamationfrom Planus made him raise his eyes.

"Come, come, let us go," said the cashier, tryingto lead him away.

But it was too late.

Risler had already seen his wife come forwardto 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 theball; but her whole costume was much less richand shockingly immodest.

The dress was barely caught together at theshoulders; her hair floated in a blond mist lowover her eyes, and around her neck was a nec-klace of pearls too large to be real, alternatedwith bits of tinsel. Delobelle was right: the Bo-hemian life was better suited to her. Her beautyhad gained an indefinably reckless expression,which was its most characteristic feature, andmade her a perfect type of the woman who hasescaped from all restraint, placed herself at themercy of every accident, and is descending sta-ge by stage to the lowest depths of the Parisianhell, from which nothing is powerful enough tolift her and restore her to the pure air and thelight.

And how perfectly at ease she seemed in herstrolling life! With what self-possession shewalked to the front of the stage! Ah! could she

have seen the desperate, terrible glance fixedupon her down there in the hall, concealedbehind a pillar, her smile would have lost thatequivocal placidity, her voice would havesought in vain those wheedling, languoroustones in which she warbled the only song Ma-dame Dobson had ever been able to teach her:

Pauv' pitit Mamz'elle Zizi, C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne La tete a li.

Risler had risen, in spite of Planus's efforts. "Sitdown! sit down!" the people shouted. The wret-ched man heard nothing. He was staring at hiswife.

C'est l'amou, l'amou qui tourne La tete a li,

Sidonie repeated affectedly.

For a moment he wondered whether he shouldnot leap on the platform and kill her. Red fla-

mes shot before his eyes, and he was blindedwith frenzy.

Then, suddenly, shame and disgust seizedupon him and he rushed from the hall, over-turning chairs and tables, pursued by the terrorand imprecations of all those scandalized bour-geois.

CHAPTER XXIV. SIDONIE'S VENGEAN-CE

Never had Sigismond Planus returned home solate without giving his sister warning, duringthe twenty years and more that he had lived atMontrouge. Consequently Mademoiselle Pla-nus was greatly worried. Living in communityof ideas and of everything else with her brot-

her, having but one mind for herself and forhim, the old maid had felt for several monthsthe rebound of all the cashier's anxiety and in-dignation; and the effect was still noticeable inher tendency to tremble and become agitatedon slight provocation. At the slightest tardinesson Sigismond's part, she would think:

"Ah! mon Dieu! If only nothing has happenedat the factory!"

That is the reason why on the evening in ques-tion, when the hens and chickens were all as-leep on their perches, and the dinner had beenremoved untouched, Mademoiselle Planus wassitting in the little ground-floor living-room,waiting, in great agitation.

At last, about eleven o'clock, some one rang. Atimid, melancholy ring, in no wise resemblingSigismond's vigorous pull.

"Is it you, Monsieur Planus?" queried the oldlady from behind the door.

It was he; but he was not alone. A tall, bent oldman accompanied him, and, as they entered,bade her good-evening in a slow, hesitatingvoice. Not till then did Mademoiselle Planusrecognize Risler Aine, whom she had not seensince the days of the New Year's calls, that is tosay, some time before the dramas at the factory.She could hardly restrain an exclamation ofpity; but the grave taciturnity of the two mentold her that she must be silent.

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, you will putclean sheets on my bed. Our friend Risler doesus the honor to pass the night with us."

The sister hastened away to prepare the be-droom with an almost affectionate zeal; for, aswe know, beside "Monsieur Planus, my brot-her," Risler was the only man excepted from

the general reprobation in which she envelopedthe whole male sex.

Upon leaving the cafe concert, Sidonie's hus-band had had a moment of frantic excitement.He leaned on Planus's arm, every nerve in hisbody strained to the utmost. At that moment hehad no thought of going to Montrouge to getthe letter and the package.

"Leave me—go away," he said to Sigismond. "Imust be alone."

But the other knew better than to abandon himthus to his despair. Unnoticed by Risler, he ledhim away from the factory, and as his affectio-nate heart suggested to the old cashier what hehad best say to his friend, he talked to him allthe time of Frantz, his little Frantz whom heloved so dearly.

"That was genuine affection, genuine and trust-worthy. No treachery to fear with such heartsas that!"

While they talked they left behind them thenoisy streets of the centre of Paris. They walkedalong the quays, skirted the Jardin des Plantes,plunged into Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Rislerfollowed where the other led. Sigismond'swords did him so much good!

In due time they came to the Bievre, borderedat that point with tanneries whose tall drying-houses with open sides were outlined in blueagainst the sky; and then the ill-defined plainsof Montsouris, vast tracts of land scorched andstripped of vegetation by the fiery breath thatParis exhales around its daily toil, like a mons-trous dragon, whose breath of flame and smokesuffers no vegetation within its range.

From Montsouris to the fortifications of Mon-trouge is but a step. When they had reached

that point, Planus had no great difficulty intaking his friend home with him. He thought,and justly, that his tranquil fireside, the specta-cle of a placid, fraternal, devoted affection,would give the wretched man's heart a sort offoretaste of the happiness that was in store forhim with his brother Frantz. And, in truth, thecharm of the little household began to work assoon as they arrived.

"Yes, yes, you are right, old fellow," said Risler,pacing the floor of the living-room, "I mustn'tthink of that woman any more. She's like a de-ad woman to me now. I have nobody left in theworld but my little Frantz; I don't know yetwhether I shall send for him to come home, orgo out and join him; the one thing that is cer-tain is that we are going to stay together. Ah! Ilonged so to have a son! Now I have found one.I want no other. When I think that for a mo-ment I had an idea of killing myself! Nonsense!it would make Madame What-d'ye-call-her,

yonder, too happy. On the contrary, I mean tolive—to live with my Frantz, and for him, andfor nothing else."

"Bravo!" said Sigismond, "that's the way I liketo hear you talk."

At that moment Mademoiselle Planus came tosay that the room was ready.

Risler apologized for the trouble he was cau-sing them.

"You are so comfortable, so happy here. Really,it's too bad to burden you with my melancho-ly."

"Ah! my old friend, you can arrange just suchhappiness as ours for yourself," said honestSigismond with beaming face. "I have my sis-ter, you have your brother. What do we lack?"

Risler smiled vaguely. He fancied himself al-ready installed with Frantz in a quiet little qua-kerish house like that.

Decidedly, that was an excellent idea of PerePlanus.

"Come to bed," he said triumphantly. "We'll goand show you your room."

Sigismond Planus's bedroom was on theground floor, a large room simply but neatlyfurnished; with muslin curtains at the windowsand the bed, and little squares of carpet on thepolished floor, in front of the chairs. The dowa-ger Madame Fromont herself could have foundnothing to say as to the orderly and cleanlyaspect of the place. On a shelf or two againstthe wall were a few books: Manual of Fishing,The Perfect Country Housewife, Bayeme'sBook-keeping. That was the whole of the inte-llectual equipment of the room.

Pere Planus glanced proudly around. The glassof water was in its place on the walnut table,the box of razors on the dressing-case.

"You see, Risler. Here is everything you need.And if you should want anything else, the keysare in all the drawers—you have only to turnthem. Just see what a beautiful view you getfrom here. It's a little dark just now, but whenyou wake up in the morning you'll see; it ismagnificent."

He opened the widow. Great drops of rain we-re beginning to fall, and lightning flashes ren-ding the darkness disclosed the long, silent lineof the fortifications, with telegraph poles atintervals, or the frowning door of a casemate.Now and then the footsteps of a patrol makingthe rounds, the clash of muskets or swords,reminded them that they were within the mili-tary zone.

That was the outlook so vaunted by Planus—amelancholy outlook if ever there were one.

"And now good-night. Sleep well!"

But, as the old cashier was leaving the room,his friend called him back:

"Sigismond."

"Here!" said Sigismond, and he waited.

Risler blushed slightly and moved his lips likea man who is about to speak; then, with amighty effort, he said:

"No, no-nothing. Good-night, old man."

In the dining-room the brother and sister talkedtogether a long while in low tones. Planus des-cribed the terrible occurrence of the evening,the meeting with Sidonie; and you can imaginethe—"Oh! these women!" and "Oh! these men?"At last, when they had locked the little garden-

door, Mademoiselle Planus went up to herroom, and Sigismond made himself as comfor-table as possible in a small cabinet adjoining.

About midnight the cashier was aroused by hissister 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 sigh,but so loud and so sad! It came from the roombelow."

They listened. Without, the rain was falling intorrents, with the dreary rustling of leaves thatmakes 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 awailing sound, like a sob, in which a name waspronounced with difficulty:

"Frantz! Frantz!"

It was terrible and pitiful.

When Christ on the Cross sent up to heavenHis despairing cry: 'Eli, eli, lama sabachthani',they who heard him must have felt the samespecies of superstitious terror that suddenlyseized upon Mademoiselle Planus.

"I am afraid!" she whispered; "suppose you goand look—"

"No, no, we will let him alone. He is thinking ofhis brother. Poor fellow! It's the very thought ofall others that will do him the most good."

And the old cashier went to sleep again.

The next morning he woke as usual when thedrums beat the reveille in the fortifications; forthe little family, surrounded by barracks, regu-lated its life by the military calls. The sister hadalready risen and was feeding the poultry.When she saw Sigismond she came to him inagitation.

"It is very strange," she said, "I hear nothingstirring in Monsieur Risler's room. But the win-dow is wide open."

Sigismond, greatly surprised, went and knoc-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 thedamp air had been blowing in all night throughthe open window. At the first glance at the bed,Sigismond thought: "He hasn't been in bed"—for the clothes were undisturbed and the condi-tion of the room, even in the most trivial de-tails, revealed an agitated vigil: the still smo-king lamp, which he had neglected to extin-guish, the carafe, drained to the last drop by thefever of sleeplessness; but the thing that filledthe cashier with dismay was to find the bureaudrawer wide open in which he had carefullybestowed the letter and package entrusted tohim by his friend.

The letter was no longer there. The package layon the table, open, revealing a photograph ofSidonie at fifteen. With her high-necked frock,her rebellious hair parted over the forehead,and the embarrassed pose of an awkward girl,the little Chebe of the old days, MademoiselleLe Mire's apprentice, bore little resemblance to

the Sidonie of to-day. And that was the reasonwhy Risler had kept that photograph, as a sou-venir, not of his wife, but of the "little one."

Sigismond was in great dismay.

"This is my fault," he said to himself. "I ought tohave taken away the keys. But who would havesupposed that he was still thinking of her? Hehad sworn so many times that that woman nolonger existed for him."

At that moment Mademoiselle Planus enteredthe room with consternation written on herface.

"Monsieur Risler has gone!" she exclaimed.

"Gone? Why, wasn't the garden-gate locked?"

"He must have climbed over the wall. You cansee his footprints."

They looked at each other, terrified beyondmeasure.

"It was the letter!" thought Planus.

Evidently that letter from his wife must havemade some extraordinary revelation to Risler;and, in order not to disturb his hosts, he hadmade his escape noiselessly through the win-dow, like a burglar. Why? With what aim inview?

"You will see, sister," said poor Planus, as hedressed with all haste, "you will see that thathussy has played him still another trick." Andwhen his sister tried to encourage him, he recu-rred to his favorite refrain:

"I haf no gonfidence!"

As soon as he was dressed, he darted out of thehouse.

Risler's footprints could be distinguished on thewet ground as far as the gate of the little gar-den. He must have gone before daylight, for thebeds of vegetables and flowers were trampleddown at random by deep footprints with longspaces between; there were marks of heels onthe garden-wall and the mortar was crumbledslightly on top. The brother and sister went outon the road skirting the fortifications. There itwas impossible to follow the footprints. Theycould tell nothing more than that Risler hadgone in the direction of the Orleans road.

"After all," Mademoiselle Planus ventured tosay, "we are very foolish to torment ourselvesabout him; perhaps he has simply gone back tothe factory."

Sigismond shook his head. Ah! if he had saidall that he thought!

"Return to the house, sister. I will go and see."

And with the old "I haf no gonfidence" he rus-hed away like a hurricane, his white mane stan-ding even more erect than usual.

At that hour, on the road near the fortifications,was an endless procession of soldiers and mar-ket-gardeners, guard-mounting, officers' horsesout for exercise, sutlers with their parapherna-lia, all the bustle and activity that is seen in themorning in the neighborhood of forts. Planuswas striding along amid the tumult, when sud-denly he stopped. At the foot of the bank, onthe left, in front of a small, square building,with the inscription.

CITY OF PARIS, ENTRANCE TO THE QUARRIES,

On the rough plaster, he saw a crowd assem-bled, and soldiers' and custom-house officers'uniforms, mingled with the shabby, dirty blou-ses of barracks-loafers. The old man instinctive-ly approached. A customs officer, seated on thestone step below a round postern with iron

bars, was talking with many gestures, as if hewere acting out his narrative.

"He was where I am," he said. "He had hangedhimself sitting, by pulling with all his strengthon the rope! It's clear that he had made up hismind to die, for he had a razor in his pocketthat he would have used in case the rope hadbroken."

A voice in the crowd exclaimed: "Poor devil!"Then another, a tremulous voice, choking withemotion, asked timidly:

"Is it quite certain that he's dead?"

Everybody looked at Planus and began tolaugh.

"Well, here's a greenhorn," said the officer."Don't I tell you that he was all blue this morn-ing, when we cut him down to take him to thechasseurs' barracks!"

The barracks were not far away; and yet Sigis-mond Planus had the greatest difficulty in theworld in dragging himself so far. In vain did hesay to himself that suicides are of frequent oc-currence in Paris, especially in those regions;that not a day passes that a dead body is notfound somewhere along that line of fortifica-tions, as upon the shores of a tempestuoussea,—he could not escape the terrible presenti-ment that had oppressed his heart since earlymorning.

"Ah! you have come to see the man that hangedhimself," said the quartermaster-sergeant at thedoor of the barracks. "See! there he is."

The body had been laid on a table supported bytrestles in a sort of shed. A cavalry cloak thathad been thrown over it covered it from headto foot, and fell in the shroud-like folds whichall draperies assume that come in contact withthe rigidity of death. A group of officers andseveral soldiers in duck trousers were looking

on at a distance, whispering as if in a church;and an assistant-surgeon was writing a reportof the death on a high window-ledge. To himSigismond spoke.

"I should like very much to see him," he saidsoftly.

"Go and look."

He walked to the table, hesitated a minute,then, summoning courage, uncovered a swol-len face, a tall, motionless body in its rain-soaked garments.

"She has killed you at last, my old comrade!"murmured Planus, and fell on his knees, sob-bing bitterly.

The officers had come forward, gazing curi-ously at the body, which was left uncovered.

"Look, surgeon," said one of them. "His hand isclosed, as if he were holding something in it."

"That is true," the surgeon replied, drawingnearer. "That sometimes happens in the lastconvulsions.

"You remember at Solferino, CommandantBordy held his little daughter's miniature in hishand like that? We had much difficulty in tak-ing it from him."

As he spoke he tried to open the poor, tightly-closed dead hand.

"Look!" said he, "it is a letter that he is holdingso tight."

He was about to read it; but one of the officerstook it from his hands and passed it to Sigis-mond, who was still kneeling.

"Here, Monsieur. Perhaps you will find in thissome last wish to be carried out."

Sigismond Planus rose. As the light in the roomwas dim, he walked with faltering step to thewindow, and read, his eyes filled with tears:

"Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more thanever and forever! What is the use of strugglingand fighting against fate? Our sin is strongerthan we..."

It was the letter which Frantz had written to hissister-in-law a year before, and which Sidoniehad sent to her husband on the day followingtheir terrible scene, to revenge herself on himand his brother at the same time.

Risler could have survived his wife's treachery,but that of his brother had killed him.

When Sigismond understood, he was petrifiedwith horror. He stood there, with the letter inhis hand, gazing mechanically through theopen window.

The clock struck six.

Yonder, over Paris, whose dull roar they couldhear although they could not see the city, acloud of smoke arose, heavy and hot, movingslowly upward, with a fringe of red and blackaround its edges, like the powder-smoke on afield of battle. Little by little, steeples, whitebuildings, a gilded cupola, emerged from themist, and burst forth in a splendid awakening.

Then the thousands of tall factory chimneys,towering above that sea of clustered roofs, be-gan with one accord to exhale their quiveringvapor, with the energy of a steamer about tosail. Life was beginning anew. Forward, yewheels of time! And so much the worse for himwho lags behind!

Thereupon old Planus gave way to a terribleoutburst of wrath.

"Ah! harlot-harlot!" he cried, shaking his fist;and no one could say whether he was address-ing the woman or the city of Paris.