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 Siiioiiii' on the Buhoiiy. 
 
 iJiawn by L. KoWalsky. Photogravure by GouriL & Co. 
 
 Kkomont ANi> Kisi.KR. Ffontiif'iei.c
 
 Copyright, 1898, 
 By Little, Browx, and Company. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.
 
 FROMONT AND RISLER. 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 A WEDDING-PARTY AT CAF£ V£F0UR. 
 
 " Madame Chebe ! " 
 
 "My boy—" 
 
 " I am very happy." 
 
 It was the twentieth time that day that the 
 excellent Risler had said that he was very happy, 
 and always with the same touched and contented 
 manner, in the same moderate, low, deep voice, — 
 the voice that is held in check by emotion and 
 dares not speak too loud for fear of suddenly 
 breaking into tears. 
 
 Not for anything in the world would Risler have 
 wept at that moment, — imagine that newly-made 
 husband giving way to his emotion in the midst of 
 the wedding festival ! And yet he had a strong 
 inclination to do so. His happiness choked him, 
 held him by the throat, prevented the words from 
 coming forth. All that he could do was to mur-
 
 2 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 mur from time to time, with a slight trembhng of 
 the Hps, " I am very happy ; I am very happy ! " 
 
 Indeed, he had reason to be. 
 
 Since early morning the poor man had fancied 
 that he was being whirled along in one of those 
 gorgeous dreams from which one fears lest he may 
 awake suddenly with blinded eyes ; but it seemed 
 to him as if this dream of his was never to end. It 
 had begun at five o'clock in the morning, and at ten 
 o'clock at night, exactly ten o'clock by Vefour's 
 clock, it was still in progress. 
 
 How many things had happened during that 
 day, and how vividly he remembered the most 
 trivial details ! 
 
 He saw himself, at daybreak, striding up and 
 down his bachelor quarters, with delight mingled 
 with impatience, already shaven, his coat upon his 
 back, two pairs of white gloves in his pocket. 
 Then there were the state equipages, and in the 
 foremost one yonder, — the one with white horses, 
 white reins, and a yellow damask lining, — the 
 bride, in her finery, floating by like a cloud. Then 
 the procession into the church, two by two, the 
 white veil still leading, ethereal, and dazzling to 
 behold. The organ, the verger, the cure's sermon, 
 the tapers casting their light upon jewels and 
 spring dresses, and the throng of people in the 
 sacristy, the tiny white cloud swallowed up, sur- 
 rounded, embraced, while the husband distributed 
 handshakes among all the leading tradesmen of 
 Paris, who had assembled to do him honor. And 
 the grand crash from the organ at the close, made
 
 A Wedding- Party at Cafe Vefotir. 3 
 
 more solemn by the fact that the church door was 
 thrown wide open, so that the whole street took 
 part in the family ceremony, — the music passing 
 through the vestibule at the same time with the 
 procession, — the exclamations of the crowd, and 
 a burnisher in an ample lutestring apron remarking 
 in a loud voice, " The groom is n't handsome, but 
 the bride's as pretty as a picture." That is the 
 kind of thing that makes you proud when you 
 happen to be the bridegroom. 
 
 And then the breakfast at the factory, in a work- 
 room adorned with hangings and flowers ; the 
 drive in the Bois, — a concession to the wishes of 
 his mother-in-law, Madame Chebe, who, being the 
 petty Parisian bourgeoise that she was, would not 
 have deemed her daughter legally married without 
 a drive around the lake and a visit to the Cascade. 
 Then the return for dinner, as the lamps were 
 being lighted along the boulevard, where people 
 turned to look after the wedding-party, a typical 
 well-to-do bourgeois wedding-party, as it drove 
 up to the grand entrance at Vefour's with all the 
 style the livery horses could command. 
 
 He had reached that point in his dream. 
 
 And now the worthy Risler, dazed with fatigue 
 and well-being, glanced vaguely about that huge 
 table of twenty-four covers, curved in the shape 
 of a horseshoe at the ends, and surrounded by 
 smiling, familiar faces, wherein he seemed to see 
 his happiness reflected in every eye. The dinner 
 was drawing near its end. The wave of private 
 conversations flowed around the table. Faces were
 
 4 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 turned toward each other, black sleeves stole be- 
 hind waists adorned with bunches of asclepias, a 
 childish face laughed ov^er a fruit ice, and the 
 dessert at the level of the guests' lips encompassed 
 the cloth with animation, bright colors, and light. 
 
 Ah ! yes, Risler was very happy. 
 
 Except his brother Frantz, everybody he loved 
 was there. First of all, sitting opposite him, was 
 Sidonie, — yesterday little Sidonie, to-day his wife. 
 For the purposes of dinner she had laid aside her 
 veil ; she had emerged from her cloud. Now, 
 above the smooth, white silk dress, appeared a 
 pretty face of a less lustrous and softer white, and 
 the crown of hair — beneath that other crown so 
 carefully bestowed — would have told you of a 
 tendency to rebel against life, of little feathers ask- 
 ing but an opportunity to fly away. But husbands 
 do not see such things as those. 
 
 Next to Sidonie and Frantz, the person whom 
 Risler loved best in the world was Madame Georges 
 Fromont, whom he called " Madame Chorche," the 
 wife of his partner and the daughter of the late 
 Fromont, his former employer and his god. He 
 had placed her beside him, and in his manner of 
 speaking to her one could read affection and 
 deference. She was a very young woman, of 
 about the same age as Sidonie, but of a more 
 regular, more placid type of beauty. She talked 
 but little, being out of her element in that con- 
 glomerate assemblage ; but she tried to appear 
 affable. 
 
 On Risler's other side sat Madame Chcbe, the
 
 A Wedding-Party at Cafe Vefoiir. 5 
 
 bride's mother, radiant and gorgeous in her dress 
 of green satin, which gleamed hke a shield. Ever 
 since the morning the good woman's every thought 
 had been as brilliant as that robe of emblematic 
 hue. At every moment she said to herself: " My 
 daughter is marrying Fromont Jeune and Risler 
 Aine, of Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes ! " For, in 
 her mind, it was not Risler alone whom her 
 daughter took for her husband, but the whole sign 
 of the establishment, illustrious in the commercial 
 annals of Paris ; and whenever she mentally an- 
 nounced that glorious event, Madame Chebe sat 
 more erect than ever, stretching the silk of the 
 buckler until it almost cracked. 
 
 What a contrast to the attitude of Monsieur 
 Chcbe, who was seated a few chairs away ! In 
 different households, as a general rule, the same 
 causes produce altogether different results. That 
 little man, with the high forehead of a visionary, as 
 inflated and hollow as a garden ball, was as fierce 
 in appearance as his wife was radiant. That was 
 nothing unusual, by the way, for Monsieur Chebe 
 was in a frenzy the whole year long. On this parti- 
 cular evening, however, he did not wear his cus- 
 tomary woebegone, lack-lustre expression, nor the 
 ample-skirted coat, with the pockets sticking out 
 behind, filled to repletion with samples of oil, wine, 
 truffles or vinegar, according as he happened to be 
 dealing in one or the other of those articles. Plis 
 black coat, new and magnificent, made a fitting 
 pendant to the green dress ; but unfortunately hjs 
 thoughts were of the color of his coat. Why had
 
 6 Fronwnt and Rislcr. 
 
 they not seated him beside the bride, as was his 
 right? Why had they given his seat to young 
 Fromont? And there was old Gardinois, the 
 Fromonts' grandfather, what business had he by 
 Sidonie's side? Ah! that's how it was to be! 
 Everything for the Fromonts and nothing for the 
 Chebes ! And yet those people are amazed that 
 there are such things as revolutions ! 
 
 Luckily the little man had by his side, to vent 
 his spleen upon, his friend Delobelle, an old retired 
 actor, who listened to him with his serene and ma- 
 jestic holiday countenance. No matter if one has 
 been kept off the stage fifteen years by the malice 
 of managers, one can still command, when occa- 
 sion requires, theatrical attitudes appropriate to 
 the events of the hour. So it was that on this 
 evening Delobelle wore his wedding-feast physiog- 
 nomy, a half-serious, half-smiling expression, con- 
 descending to the unimportant members of the 
 party, at once unconstrained and solemn. You 
 would have said that he was taking part, in pres- 
 ence of a whole theatre-full of spectators in a first 
 act banquet with pasteboard viands ; and he had 
 even more the appearance of playing a part, had 
 the whimsical Delobelle, because, knowing well that 
 his talent would be made use of during the evening, 
 he had, ever since they had taken their places at 
 table, been going over in his mind the choicest 
 pieces in his repertory, — an occupation which 
 gave to his features a vague, artificial, wandering 
 expression, the falsely attentive air of the actor on 
 the stage, pretending to listen to what is being said
 
 A Wedding-Party at Cafe Vcfoicr. 7 
 
 to him, but all the tunc thinking of nothing but his 
 cue. 
 
 Strangely enough, the bride herself had some- 
 thing of that same expression. On that youthful 
 and pretty face, which happiness enlivened without 
 making glad, there appeared indications of some 
 secret preoccupation ; and, at times, the corners 
 of her lips quivered with a smile, as if she were 
 talking to herself. 
 
 With that same little smile she replied to the 
 somewhat pronounced pleasantries of grandfather 
 Gardinois, who sat by her side. 
 
 " This Sidonie, on my word ! " said the goodman 
 with a laugh. " When I think that not two months 
 ago she was talking about going into a convent. 
 We all know what sort of convents such minxes as 
 she go to ! As the saying is in our province : The 
 Convent of St. Joseph, f our shoes under the bed/" 
 
 And everybody at the table laughed heartily at 
 the rustic jests of the old Bcrrichon peasant, whose 
 colossal fortune filled the place of manliness, of 
 education, of kindness of heart, but not of wit; for 
 he had plenty of that, the rascal, — more than all 
 his bourgeois fellow-guests together. Among the 
 very rare persons who inspired a sympathetic feel- 
 ing in his breast, little Chebe, whom he had known 
 as a little urchin, appealed particularly to him; 
 and she, for her part, having become rich too re- 
 cently not to venerate wealth, talked to her right- 
 hand neighbor with a very perceptible air of 
 respect and coquetry. 
 
 With her left-hand neighbor, on the contrary,
 
 8 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 Georges Fromont, her husband's partner, she ex- 
 hibited the utmost reserve. Their conversation 
 was restricted to the ordinary courtesies of the 
 table ; indeed there was a sort of affectation of 
 indifference between them. 
 
 Suddenly there was that little commotion among 
 the guests which indicates that they are about to 
 rise, the rustling of silk, the moving of chairs, the 
 last words of conversations, the completion of a 
 laugh, and in that half-silence Madame Chebe, 
 who had become communicative, observed in a 
 very loud tone to a provincial cousin, who was gaz- 
 ing in an ecstasy of admiration at the newly-made 
 bride's reserved and tranquil demeanor, as she 
 stood with her arm in Monsieur Gardinois's: 
 
 " You see that child, cousin — well, no one has 
 ever been able to find out what her thoughts 
 were." 
 
 Thereupon the whole party rose and repaired to 
 the grand salon. 
 
 While the guests invited for the ball were arriv- 
 ing in crowds and mingling with the dinner-guests, 
 while the orchestra was tuning up, while the waltz- 
 ers, eye-glass in position, strutted in front of the 
 white gowns of the impatient damsels, the bride- 
 groom, awed by so great a throng, had taken refuge 
 with his friend Planus — Sigismond Planus, cashier 
 of the house of Fromont for thirty years past — 
 in that little gallery decorated with flowers and 
 hung with a paper representing shrubbery and 
 clambering vines, which forms a sort of back- 
 ground of verdure to Vcfour's gilded salons.
 
 A Wedding-Party at Cafe Vefour. 9 
 
 " Sigismond, old friend — I am very happy," 
 
 And Sigismond too was happy; but Rislcr did 
 not give him time to say so. Now that he was no 
 longer in dread of weeping before his guests, all 
 the joy in his heart overflowed. 
 
 "Just think of it, my friend ! — It's so extraor- 
 dinary that a young girl like her would consent to 
 have me. For you know, I 'm not handsome. I 
 did n't need to have that impudent creature tell me 
 so this morning to know it. And then I 'm forty- 
 two — and she such a dear little thing! There 
 were so many others she might have chosen, among 
 the youngest and the richest, to say nothing of my 
 poor Frantz, who loved her so. But, no, she pre- 
 ferred her old Risler. And it came about so 
 queerly. For a long time I noticed that she was 
 sad, greatly changed. I felt sure there was 
 some disappointment in love at the bottom of it. 
 Her mother and I. we looked about, we cudgelled 
 our brains to find out what it could be. One morn- 
 ing Madame Chebe came into my room crying, and 
 said : ' You 're the man she loves, my dear friend ! ' 
 — And I was the man, — I was the man. Bless 
 my soul ! Whoever would have suspected such 
 a thing? And to think that in the same year I 
 had those two great pieces of good fortune — a 
 partner in the house of Fromont and married to 
 Sidonie — Oh ! " 
 
 At that moment, to the strains of a giddy, lan- 
 guishing waltz, a couple whirled into the small 
 salon. They were Risler's bride and his partner, 
 Georges Fromont. Equally young and attractive.
 
 lo Fromont and Risler. 
 
 they were talking in undertones, confining their 
 words within the narrow circle of the waltz. 
 
 "You lie," said Sidonie, slightly pale, but with 
 the same little smile. 
 
 And the other, paler than she, replied : 
 
 " I do not lie. It was my uncle who insisted 
 upon this marriage. He was dying — you had 
 gone away. I dared not say no." 
 
 Risler, at a distance, gazed at them in admiration. 
 
 " How pretty she is ! How well they dance ! " 
 
 But, when they spied him, the dancers separated, 
 and Sidonie walked quickly to him. 
 
 "What! You here? What are you doing? They 
 are looking everywhere for you. Why are n't you 
 in there? " 
 
 As she spoke she re-tied his cravat with a pretty, 
 impatient gesture. That enchanted Risler, who 
 smiled at Sigismond from the corner of his eye, 
 too overjoyed at feeling the touch of that little 
 gloved hand on his neck, to notice that she was 
 trembling to the ends of her slender fingers. 
 
 " Give me your arm," she said to him, and they 
 returned together to the salons. The white dress 
 with its long train made the badly-cut, awkwardly 
 worn black coat, appear even more uncouth ; but 
 a coat cannot be re-tied like a cravat; she must 
 needs take it as it was. As they passed along, re- 
 turning the salutations of all the guests who were 
 so anxious to smile upon them, Sidonie had a 
 momentary thrill of pride, of satisfied vanity. 
 Unhappily it did not last. In a corner of the 
 salon sat a young and attractive woman whom no-
 
 A Wedding- Parly at Cafe Vc/our. 1 1 
 
 body invited to dance, and who looked on at the 
 dances with a placid eye, illumined by all the joy 
 of a first maternity. As soon as he saw her, Ris- 
 Icr walked strai<^ht to where she sat and compelled 
 Sidonie to sit beside her. Needless to say that it 
 was Madame " Chorche." To what other would 
 he have spoken with such affectionate respect? In 
 what other hand than hers could he have placed 
 his little Sidonie's, saying, " You will love her dearly, 
 won't you? You are so good. She needs your 
 advice, your knowledge of the world." 
 
 " Why, my dear Risler," Madame Georges re- 
 plied, " Sidonie and I are old friends. Wc have 
 reason to be fond of each other still." 
 
 And her calm, straightforward glance strove un- 
 successfully to meet that of her old friend. 
 
 With his utter ignorance of women and his habit 
 of treating Sidonie as a child, Risler continued in 
 the same tone : 
 
 " Take her for your model, little one. There 
 are not two people in the world like Madame 
 Chorche. She has her poor father's heart. A 
 true Fromont ! " 
 
 Sidonie, with her eyes cast down, bowed with- 
 out replying, while an imperceptible shudder ran 
 from the tip of her satin shoe to the topmost bit 
 of orange blossom in her crown. But honest 
 Risler saw nothing. The excitement, the danc- 
 ing, the music, all the flowers, all the lights. He 
 was drunk, he was mad. He believed that every- 
 body else breathed the same atmosphere of bliss 
 beyond compare which enveloped him. He had
 
 12 Fromoiit and Risler. 
 
 no perception of the rivalries, the petty hatreds 
 that met and passed one another above all those 
 bejewelled foreheads. 
 
 He did not see Delobelle, standing with his 
 elbow on the mantel, one hand in the armhole of 
 his waistcoat and his hat upon' his hip, weary of 
 his eternal attitudinizing, while the hours slipped 
 by and no one thought of utilizing his talents. 
 He did not notice M. Chebe, who was prowl- 
 ing darkly between the two doors, more incensed 
 than ever against the Fromonts. Oh ! those Fro- 
 monts ! — How large a place they filled at that 
 wedding ! They were all there with their wives, 
 their children, their friends, their friends' friends. 
 One would have said that one of themselves was 
 being married. Who had a word to say of the 
 Rislers or the Chebes? Why, he, he, the father, 
 had not even been presented! — And the little 
 man's rage was redoubled by the attitude of 
 Madame Chebe, smiling maternally upon one 
 and all in her scarab-hued dress. 
 
 Furthermore, there were at this, as at almost all 
 wedding-parties, two quite distinct currents which 
 came together without mingling. One of the 
 two soon gave place to the other. The Fro- 
 monts, who irritated Monsieur Chebe so much 
 and who formed the aristocracy of the ball, the 
 president of the Chamber of Commerce, the syn- 
 dic of the solicitors, a famous chocolate manu- 
 facturer and member of the Corps Legislatif, and 
 the old millionaire Gardinois, all retired shortly 
 after midnight. Georges Fromont and his wife en-
 
 A Wcdding-Parly at Cafe Vefour. 13 
 
 tcrcd their coupe behind them. Only the Risler 
 and Chebe party remained, and the festivity at once 
 changed its aspect, becoming more uproarious. 
 
 The ilhistrious Delobelle, disgusted to see that 
 no one called upon him for anything, decided to 
 call upon himself for something, and began in a 
 voice as resonant as a gong the monologue from 
 Ruy Bias: "Good appetite, messieurs!" — while 
 the guests thronged to the buffet, spread with 
 chocolate and glasses of punch. Inexpensive lit- 
 tle costumes were displayed upon the benches, 
 overjoyed to produce their due effect at last ; and 
 here and there divers young shop-clerks, consumed 
 with dandyism, amused themselves by venturing 
 upon a quadrille. The bride had long wished to 
 take her leave. At last she disappeared with Ris- 
 ler and Madame Chebe. As for Monsieur Chebe, 
 who had recovered all his importance, it was im- 
 possible to induce him to go. Some one must be 
 there to do the honors, deuce take it ! And I 
 promise you that the little man assumed the re- 
 sponsibility ! He was flushed, lively, frolicsome, 
 noisy, almost seditious. On the floor below he 
 could be heard talking politics with Vefour's head 
 waiter, and making such audacious statements ! 
 
 Through the deserted streets the wedding car- 
 riage, the tired coachman holding the white 
 reins somewhat loosely, rolled heavily toward the 
 Marais. 
 
 Madame Chebe talked continuously, enumer- 
 ating all the splendors of that memorable day, 
 rhapsodizing especially over the dinner, the com-
 
 14 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 monplace menu of which had been to her the 
 highest expression of magnificence. Sidonie 
 mused in the darkness of the carriage, and Ris- 
 ler, sitting opposite her, even though he no 
 longer said : " I am very happy," continued to 
 think it with all his heart. Once he tried to 
 take possession of a little white hand that rested 
 against the closed window, but it was hastily with- 
 drawn, and he sat there without moving, lost in 
 mute admiration. 
 
 They drove through the Halles and Rue de 
 Rambuteau, thronged with kitchen-gardeners' wag- 
 ons ; and, near the end of Rue des Francs-Bour- 
 geois, they turned the corner of the Archives 
 into Rue de Braque. There they stopped first, 
 and Madame Chebe alighted at her door, which 
 was too narrow for the magnificent green silk 
 dress, so that it vanished in the hall with rustlings 
 of revolt and with all its folds muttering. A few- 
 minutes later, a tall massive portal on Rue des 
 Vieilles-Haudriettes, bearing on the escutcheon 
 that betrayed the former family mansion, be- 
 neath half-effaced armorial bearings, a sign in 
 blue letters : 
 
 WALL PAPERS, 
 
 was thrown wide open to allow the wedding car- 
 riage to pass through. 
 
 Thereupon the bride, hitherto motionless and 
 like one asleep, seemed to awake suddenly, and 
 if all the lights in the vast buildings, workshops 
 or storehouses, which surrounded the courtyard,
 
 A Wedding-Party at Cafe Vefoiir. 15 
 
 had not been extinguished, Risler might have seen 
 that pretty, enigmatical face suddenly lighted by 
 a smile of triumph. The wheels revolved less 
 noisily on the fine gravel of a garden, and soon 
 stopped before the stoop of a small house of 
 two floors. It was there that the young Fro- 
 monts lived, and Risler and his wife were to take 
 up their abode on the floor above. The house 
 had an aristocratic air. Flourishing commerce 
 avenged itself therein for the dismal street and 
 the out-of-the-way quarter. There was a carpet 
 on the stairway leading to their apartment, and 
 on all sides the gleaming whiteness of marble, 
 the reflection of mirrors and polished copper. 
 
 While Risler was parading his delight through 
 all the rooms of the new apartment, Sidonie re- 
 mained alone in her bedroom. By the light of 
 the little blue lamp hanging from the ceiling, 
 she glanced first of all at the mirror, which gave 
 back her reflection from head to foot, at all her 
 luxurious surroundings, so unfamiliar to her; the", 
 instead of going to bed, she opened the windov/ 
 and stood leaning against the sill, motionless as 
 a statue. 
 
 The night was clear and warm. She could see 
 distinctly the whole factory, its innunicrable un- 
 shaded windows, its glistening panes, its tall chim- 
 ney losing itself in the depths of the sky, and 
 nearer at hand the lovely little garden against the 
 ancient wall of the former mansion. All about 
 were gloomy, miserable roofs, squalid, squalid 
 streets. Suddenly she started. Yonder, in the
 
 1 6 Fromoiit and Risler, 
 
 darkest, the ugliest of all those attics crowding 
 so closely together, leaning against one another 
 as if overweighted with misery, a fifth floor win- 
 dow stood wide open, showing only darkness 
 within. She recognized it at once. It was the 
 window of the landing on which her parents 
 lived. 
 
 The window on the landing ! 
 
 How many things the mere name recalled ! 
 How many hours, how many days she had passed 
 there, leaning on that damp sill, without rail or 
 balcony, looking toward the factory. At that 
 moment she fancied that she could see up yonder 
 little Chebe's ragged person, and in the frame made 
 by that poor window, her whole child life, her de- 
 plorable youth as a Parisian street Arab, passed 
 before her eyes.
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 17 
 
 II. 
 
 LITTLE CHfeBE'S STORY. THREE FAMILIES ON 
 ONE LANDING. 
 
 In Paris the common landing is like an addi- 
 tional room, an enlargement of their abodes, to 
 poor families confined in their too small apart- 
 ments. There it is that they go to get a breath 
 of air in summer, there the women talk and the 
 children play. 
 
 When little Chebe made too much noise in the 
 house, her mother would say to her: "There, 
 there ! 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 house 
 in which space had not been spared, formed a sort 
 of large lobby, with a high ceiling, guarded on the 
 staircase side by a wrought-iron rail, lighted by a 
 large window which looked out upon roofs, court- 
 yards and other windows, and, farther away, upon 
 the garden of the Fromont factory, which was like 
 a green oasis among the huge old walls. 
 
 There was nothing very enlivening about it all, 
 but the child liked it much better than her own 
 home. Their rooms were so dismal, especially 
 when it rained and Ferdinand did not go out. 
 2
 
 1 8 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 His brain always smoking with new ideas, which 
 unfortunately never came to anything, Ferdinand 
 Chebe was one of those slothful, project-devising 
 bourgeois of whom there are so many in Paris. 
 His wife, whom he had dazzled at first, had soon 
 detected his utter insignificance, and had ended by 
 enduring patiently and with unchanged demeanor 
 his continual dreams of wealth and the disasters 
 that immediately followed them. 
 
 Of the dowry of eighty thousand francs which 
 she had brought him and which he had squan- 
 dered in his absurd schemes, there remained only 
 a small annuity, which still gave them a position of 
 some importance in the eyes of their neighbors, as 
 did Madame Chebe's cashmere, which had been 
 rescued from every shipwreck, her wedding laces 
 and two diamond studs, very tiny and very mod- 
 est, which Sidonie sometimes begged her mother 
 to show her, as they lay in the drawer of the com- 
 mode, in an old-fashioned white velvet case, on 
 which the jeweller's name in gilt letters thirty 
 years old, was gradually vanishing. That was 
 the only bit of luxury in that poor annuitant's 
 abode. 
 
 For a long, a very long time Monsieur Chebe 
 had sought a place which would enable him to 
 eke out their slender income. But he sought it 
 only in what he called standing business, his health 
 forbidding any occupation that required him to be 
 seated. 
 
 It seemed that, soon after his marriage, when 
 he was in a flourishing business and had a horse
 
 T/ircc Families on One Landing. \ 9 
 
 and tilbuiA' of his own, the little man had one 
 day a serious fall from his carriage. That fall, 
 to which he referred upon every occasion, served 
 as an excuse for his indolence. 
 
 One could not be with Monsieur Chebe five 
 minutes that he would not say in a confidential 
 tone: 
 
 "You know of the accident that happened to 
 the Due d'Orlcans? " 
 
 And then he would add, tapping his little bald 
 pate: 
 
 " The same thing happened to me in my youth." 
 
 Since that famous fall any sort of office work 
 made him dizzy, and he had found himself inex- 
 orably relegated to standing business. Thus, he 
 had been in turn a broker in wines, in books, in 
 truffles, in clocks, and in many other things beside. 
 Unluckily he tired of everything, never considered 
 his position sufficiently exalted for a former busi- 
 ness man with a tilbury, and, by gradual degrees, 
 by dint of deeming every sort of occupation be- 
 neath him, he had grown old and incapable, a 
 genuine idler with loaferish tastes, a zany. 
 
 Artists are often rebuked for their oddities, for 
 the liberties they take with nature, for that horror 
 of the conventional which impels them to follow 
 bypaths ; but who can ever describe all the absurd 
 fancies, all the idiotic eccentricities with which a 
 bourgeois without occupation can succeed in filling 
 the emptiness of his life? Monsieur Chebe im- 
 posed upon himself certain laws concerning his go- 
 ings and comings, his walks abroad. All the while
 
 20 Fronioiit and Risler. 
 
 that the Boulevard Sebastopol was being built, he 
 went twice a day " to see if it was getting on." 
 
 No one knew better than he the fashionable shops 
 and the bargains; and very often Madame Chebe, 
 annoyed to see her husband's idiotic face at the 
 window while she was energetically mending the 
 family linen, would rid herself of him by giving 
 him an errand to do. " You know that place, on 
 the corner of such a street, where they sell such 
 nice cakes. They'd be nice for our dessert." 
 
 And the husband would go out, saunter along 
 the boulevard by the shops, wait for the omnibus, 
 and pass half the day in procuring two cakes worth 
 three sous, which he would bring home in triumph, 
 wiping his forehead. 
 
 Monsieur Chebe adored the summer, the Sun- 
 days, the great foot-races in the dust at Clamart or 
 Romainville, the excitement of holidays and the 
 crowd. He was one of those who went about for 
 a whole week before the fifteenth of August, gaz- 
 ing at the black lamps and their frames, and the 
 scaffoldings. Nor did his wife complain. At all 
 events she no longer had that chronic grumbler 
 prowling around her chair for whole days, with 
 schemes for gigantic enterprises, combinations that 
 missed fire in advance, lamentations concerning 
 the past, and a fixed determination not to earn 
 money. 
 
 She no longer earned anything herself, poor 
 woman ; but she knew so well how to save, her 
 Avonderful economy made up so completely for 
 everything else, that absolute want, although a
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 21 
 
 near neighbor of such inipccuniosity as thch's, 
 never succeeded in making its way into those 
 three rooms, which were always neat and clean, or 
 in destroying the carefully mended garments or 
 the old furniture concealed beneath its coverings. 
 
 Opposite the Chcbes' door, whose copper knob 
 gleamed in bourgeois fashion upon the landing, 
 there were two other and smaller ones. 
 
 On the first, a visiting card held in place by four 
 nails, according to the custom in vogue among 
 industrial artists, bore the name of 
 
 RISLER 
 
 DESIGNER OF PATTERNS. 
 
 On the other was a small square of leather with 
 these words in gilt letters : 
 
 MESDAMES DELOBELLE 
 
 BIRDS AND INSECTS FOR ORNAMENT. 
 
 The Dclobcllcs' door was often open and dis- 
 closed a large room with a brick floor, where two 
 women, mother and daughter, the latter almost a 
 child, each as weary and as pale as the other. 
 worked at one of the thousand fanciful little trades 
 which go to make up what is called the Article de 
 Paris. 
 
 It was then the fashion to ornament hats and 
 ball dresses with the lovely little insects from 
 South America, which have the brilliant coloring
 
 2 2 Fromont and Rzsler. 
 
 of jewels and reflect the light like diamonds. The 
 Delobelles had adopted that specialty. 
 
 A wholesale house, to whom consignments were 
 made directly from the Antilles, sent to them, 
 unopened, the long, light boxes from which, when 
 the lid was removed, arose a faint odor, a dust of 
 arsenic through which gleamed the piles of insects, 
 impaled before being shipped, the birds packed 
 closely together, their wings held in place by a 
 strip of thin paper. They must all be mounted, — 
 the insects quivering upon brass wire, the hum- 
 ming-birds with their feathers ruffled ; — they must 
 be cleaned and polished, the break in a bright-red 
 claw repaired with a silk thread, dead eyes replaced 
 with sparkling pearls, and the insect or the bird 
 restored to an appearance of life and grace. 
 
 The mother prepared the work under her daugh- 
 ter's direction ; for Deslree, though she was still a 
 mere girl, was endowed with exquisite taste, with a 
 fairy-like power of invention, and no one could 
 insert two pearl-eyes in those tiny heads or spread 
 their lifeless wings so deftly as she. 
 
 Lame from childhood, as the result of an acci- 
 dent which had in no wise impaired the charm of 
 her refined and regular features, Desiree Delobelle 
 owed to her almost enforced immobility, to her 
 constant disinclination to go out, a certain aristo- 
 cratic coloring and the whitest of hands. With 
 her hair always becomingly arranged, she passed 
 her days in the depths of a great easy chair, beside 
 her table laden with fashion-plates and birds of all 
 hues, finding in the fanciful and worldly elegance
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 23 
 
 of her trade a means of forgetting her own distress 
 and a sort of vengeance for her disfigured life. 
 
 She reflected that all those tiny wings were 
 about to fly away from her table to undertake real 
 voyages around the Parisian world, to sparkle at 
 balls and parties, beneath the great chandeliers ; 
 and simply by the way she set up her insects and 
 her birds one could have guessed the tenor of her 
 thoughts. In the days of depression and melan- 
 choly the tapering beaks were stretched forward, 
 the wings were spread to their fullest extent, as if 
 to fly with a mighty impulse, far, far away from 
 fifth floor lodgings, from air-tight stoves, from 
 privation and want. At other times, when she 
 was happy, her insects had the appearance of 
 being overjoyed to live, the saucy swaggering air 
 of a trivial caprice of fashion. 
 
 Happy or unhappy, Dcsiree always worked with 
 the same energy. From dawn until well into the 
 night the table was covered with work. At the 
 last ray of daylight, when the factory bells were 
 ringing in all the neighboring yards, Madame 
 Delobelle lighted the lamp, and after a more than 
 frugal repast they returned to their work. 
 
 Those two indefatigable women had one object, 
 one fixed idea, which prevented them from feeling 
 the burden of enforced vigils. That idea was the 
 dramatic renown of the illustrious Delobelle, 
 
 After he had left the provincial theatres to pur- 
 sue his profession in Paris, Delobelle waited for an 
 intelligent manager, the ideal and providential 
 manager who discovers geniuses, to seek him out
 
 24 Fro77iont and Risler. 
 
 and ofifer him a part suited to his talents. He 
 might, perhaps, especially at the beginning, have 
 obtained a passably good engagement at a theatre 
 of the third order, but Delobelle did not choose to 
 lower 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; and 
 the Delobelle ladies trembled with emotion when 
 they heard behind the partition tirades from 
 Antony or the Medeciii dcs Eiifants, declaimed in 
 a sonorous voice that blended with the thousand 
 and one noises of the great Parisian bee-hive. 
 Then, after breakfast, the actor would sally forth 
 for the day ; would go to " do his boulevard," that 
 is to say, to saunter back and forth between the 
 Chateau d'Eau and the Madeleine, with a tooth- 
 pick in the corner of his mouth, his hat a little on 
 one side, — always gloved and brushed and glossy. 
 
 That question of dress was of great importance 
 in his eyes. It was one of the greatest elements 
 of success, a bait for the manager, — the famous, 
 intelligent manager, — who would never dream of 
 engaging a threadbare, shabbily dressed man. 
 
 So the Delobelle ladies took good care that he 
 lacked nothing ; and you can imagine how many 
 birds and insects it required to fit out a blade of 
 that temper ! The actor thought it the most nat- 
 ural thing in the world. 
 
 In his view, the labors, the privations of his wife 
 and daughter were not, strictly speaking, for his
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 25 
 
 benefit, but for the benefit of that mysterious and 
 unknown genius, whose trustee he considered 
 himself in some sense to be. 
 
 There was a certain analogy between the posi- 
 tion of the Chebe family and that of the Dclobelles. 
 But the latter household was less depressing. The 
 Chebcs felt that their petty annuitant existence 
 was fastened upon them forever, with no prospect 
 of amelioration, always the same ; whereas, in the 
 actor's family, hope and illusion often opened 
 magnificent vistas. 
 
 The Chebes were like people living in a blind 
 alley ; the Delobelles on a foul little street, where 
 there was no light or air, but where a great boule- 
 vard might some day be laid out. And then, too, 
 Madame Chebe no longer believed in her husband, 
 whereas, by virtue of that single magic word, 
 "Art!" her neighbor had never doubted hers. 
 
 And yet for years and years Monsieur Dclobelle 
 had been unavailingly drinking vermouth with 
 dramatic agents, absinthe with leaders of claques, 
 bitters with vaudevillists, dramatists, and the famous 
 what 's-his-namc, author of several great dramas.^ 
 Engagements did not always follow. So that, 
 without once appearing on the boards, the poor 
 man had progressed from jeime premier to grand 
 premier roles, then to the financiers, then to the 
 noble fathers, then to the idiots — 
 
 Pic stopped there ! 
 
 ' Lc fameux machin, autciir de phisieurs grandes viachines. 
 JMachin is an expression used when one cannot recollect a person's 
 name, and machines in theatrical slang means dramatic works.
 
 26 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 On two or three occasions his friends had ob- 
 tained for him a chance to earn his hving as man- 
 ager of a club or a cafe, as an inspector in great 
 warehouses, at the Pliarcs de la Bastille or the 
 Colosse de Rhodes. All that was necessary was to 
 have good manners. Delobelle was not lacking 
 in that respect, God knows ! And yet every sug- 
 gestion that was made to him the great man met 
 with an heroic refusal. 
 
 " I have no right to abandon the stage ! " he 
 would say. 
 
 In the mouth of that poor devil, who had not 
 set foot on the boards for years, it was irresistibly 
 comical. But one lost the inclination to laugh 
 when one saw his wife and his daughter swallowing 
 particles of arsenic day and night, and heard them 
 repeat emphatically as they broke their needles 
 against the brass wire with which the little birds 
 were mounted : 
 
 " No ! no ! Monsieur Delobelle has no right to 
 abandon the stage." 
 
 Happy man, whose bulging eyes, always smiling 
 condescendingly, and whose habit of reigning on 
 the stage had procured for him for life that excep- 
 tional position of a spoiled and admired child- 
 king ! When he left the house, the shopkeepers 
 on Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, with the predilection 
 of the Parisian for everything and everybody con- 
 nected with the theatre, saluted him respectfully. 
 He was always so well dressed ! And then he was 
 so kind, so obliging ! When you think that every 
 Saturday night, he, Ruy Bias, Antony, Raphael in
 
 Three Families on One Lauding. 27 
 
 the Fillcs dc Marbrc, Andres in the Pirates dc la 
 Savane, salHed forth, with a bandbox under his 
 arm, to carry the week's work of his wife and daugh- 
 ter to a flower estabHshment on Rue Saint-Denis! 
 
 Why, even when performing such a commission 
 as that, the devil of a fellow had such nobility of 
 bearing, such native dignity, that the young 
 woman whose duty it was to make up the Delo- 
 belle account was sorely embarrassed to hand to 
 such an irreproachable gentleman the paltry sti- 
 pend so laboriously earned. 
 
 On those evenings, by the way, the actor did 
 not return home to dinner. The women were fore- 
 warned. He always met some old comrade on 
 the boulevard, some unlucky devil like himself, — • 
 there are so many of them in that sacred profes- 
 sion, — whom he entertained at a restaurant or 
 cafe. Then, with scrupulous fidelity, — and very 
 grateful they were to him, — he would carry the 
 rest of the money home, sometimes with a bouquet 
 for his wife or a little present for Desiree, a nothing, 
 a mere trifle. What would you have? Those are 
 the customs of the stage. It is such a simple 
 matter in a melodrama to toss a handful of louis 
 through the window ! 
 
 " Ho ! varlet, take this purse and hie thee hence 
 to tell thy mistress I await her coming." 
 
 And so, notwithstanding their marvellous 
 courage, and although their trade was quite lucra- 
 tive, the Delobellcs often found themselves in 
 straitened circumstances, especially in the dull 
 season of the Article de Paris.
 
 28 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Luckily the excellent Risler wa? at hand, always 
 ready to accommodate his friends. 
 
 Guillaume Risler, the third tenant on the land- 
 ing, lived with his brother Frantz, who was some 
 fifteen years his junior. The two young Swiss, 
 tall and fair and strong and ruddy, brought into 
 the dismal, hard-working house glimpses of the 
 country and of health. The elder was a draughts- 
 man at the Fromont factory and was paying 
 for the education of his brother, who attended 
 Chaptal's lectures, pending his admission to the 
 Ecole Centrale. 
 
 On his arrival at Paris, being sadly perplexed as 
 to the installation of his little household, Guil- 
 laume had derived from the neighborhood of Mes- 
 dames Chebe and Delobelle advice and information 
 which were an indispensable assistance to that 
 ingenuous, timid, somewhat heavy youth, embar- 
 rassed by his foreign accent and manner. After 
 a brief period of neighborhood and mutual ser- 
 vices, the Risler brothers formed a part of both 
 families. 
 
 On holidays covers were always laid for them in 
 one place or the other, and it was a great satis- 
 faction to the two exiles to find in those poor 
 households, modest and straitened as they were, 
 a taste of affection and family life. 
 
 The pay of the designer, who was very clever at 
 his trade, enabled him to be of service to the 
 Delobelles on rent-day, and to make his appear- 
 ance at the Chebes in the guise of the rich uncle, 
 always laden with surprises and presents, so that
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 29 
 
 the little girl, as soon as she saw him, would run to 
 his pockets and climb on his knees. 
 
 On Sunday he would take them all to the 
 theatre ; and almost every evening he would go with 
 Messieurs Chebe and Dclobelle to a brewery on 
 Rue Blondcl, where he regaled them with beer and 
 pretzels. Beer and pretzels were his one vice. 
 
 For his own part, he knew no greater bliss than 
 to sit before a foaming pewter, between his two 
 friends, listening to their talk, and taking part only 
 by a loud laugh or a shake of the head in their 
 conversation, which was generally a long succes- 
 sion of grievances against society. 
 
 A childlike shyness and the germanisms of 
 speech which he never laid aside in his life of 
 absorbing toil, embarrassed him much in giving 
 expression to his ideas. Moreover his friends 
 overawed him. They had in respect to him the 
 tremendous superiority of the man who does 
 nothing over the man who works; and Monsieur 
 Chebe, less generous than Delobclle, did not hesi- 
 tate to make him feel it. He was very lofty with 
 him, was Monsieur Chebe ! In his view, a man 
 who worked, as Rislcr did, ten hours a day, was 
 incapable, when he left his work, of expressing 
 an intelligent opinion. Sometimes the designer, 
 coming home worried from the factory, would pre- 
 pare to pass the night over some urgent work. 
 You should have seen Monsieur Chebc's scandal- 
 ized expression then ! 
 
 " Nobody could make mc follow such a trade ! " 
 he would say, throwing out his chest ; and he would
 
 30 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 add, looking Risler in the eye with the air of a 
 doctor making a professional visit: "Just wait till 
 you 've had one sharp attack." 
 
 Delobelle was not so fierce, but he adopted a 
 still loftier tone. 
 
 " The cedar does not see a rose at its foot." 
 
 Delobelle did not see Risler at his feet. 
 
 When, by chance, he deigned to notice his 
 presence, the great man had a certain air of stoop- 
 ing down to him to listen, and to smile at his 
 words as at a child's ; or else he would amuse 
 himself by dazzling him with stories of actresses, 
 would give him lessons in deportment and the 
 addresses of outfitters, unable to understand why a 
 man who earned so much money should always 
 be dressed like an usher at a primary school. 
 Honest Risler, convinced of his inferiority, would 
 try to earn forgiveness by a multitude of trifling 
 attentions, obliged to furnish all the delicacy, of 
 course, as he was the constant benefactor. 
 
 Between these three households living on the 
 same landing, little Chebe with her perpetual 
 goings and comings formed the bond of union. 
 
 At all hours of the day she would steal into the 
 workroom of the Delobelles, amuse herself by 
 watching their work and looking at all the insects, 
 and, being already more coquettish than playful, 
 if an insect had lost a wing in its travels, or a 
 humming-bird its necklace of down, she would try 
 to make herself a headdress of the remains, to fix 
 that brilliant shaft of color among the ripples of 
 her silky hair. It made Desiree and her mother
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 31 
 
 laugh to sec her stand on tiptoe in front of the old 
 tarnished mirror, with affected httle shrugs and 
 grimaces. Then, when she had had enough of her 
 own admiration, the child would open the door 
 with all the strength of her little fingers, and would 
 go demurely, holding her head perfectly straight 
 for fear of disarranging her head-dress, and knock 
 at the Rislers' door. 
 
 No one was there in the daytime but Frantz the 
 student, leaning over his books, doing his duty 
 faithfully enough. Enter Sidonie ; farewell to 
 study then ! Everything must be put aside to 
 receive that lovely creature with the hummingbird 
 in her hair, assumed to be a princess who had 
 come to Chaptal's school to ask his hand in mar- 
 riage from the director. 
 
 It was really a strange sight to see that tall over- 
 grown boy playing with that little girl of eight, 
 humoring her caprices, adoring her as he yielded 
 to her, so that later, when he fell genuinely in love 
 with her, no one could have said at what time the 
 change began. 
 
 Petted as she was in those two homes, there 
 always came a time when little Chebe ran to the 
 window on the landing. There it was that she 
 found her greatest source of entertainment, a 
 horizon always open, a sort of vision of the future 
 toward which she leaned with eager curiosity and 
 without fear, for children are not subject to vertigo. 
 
 Between the slated roofs sloping toward one 
 another, the high wall of the factory, the tops of 
 the plane-trees in the garden, the many-windowed
 
 32 Fromoiit and Risler, 
 
 workshops appeared to her hke a promised land, 
 the country of her dreams. 
 
 That Fromont estabhshment was to her mind 
 the highest embodiment of wealth. 
 
 The place that it occupied in that part of the 
 Marais, which was at certain hours enveloped by 
 its smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, his fabu- 
 lous tales concerning his employer's wealth and 
 goodness and cleverness, had aroused that childish 
 curiosity; and such portions as she could see of 
 the dwelling-houses, the carved wooden blinds, the 
 circular stoop, with the garden seats arranged in 
 front, a great white bird-house with gilt stripes 
 glistening in the sun, the blue-lined coupe stand- 
 ing in the courtyard, were to her objects of con- 
 stant admiration. 
 
 She knew all the habits of the family: at what 
 hour the bell was rung, when the workmen went 
 away, the Saturday pay-day which kept the cashier's 
 little lamp lighted well into the evening, and the 
 long Sunday afternoon, the closed workshops, the 
 smokeless chimney, the profound silence which 
 enabled her to hear Mademoiselle Claire at play in 
 the garden, running about with her cousin Georges. 
 From Risler she obtained details. 
 
 " Show me the salon windows," she would say 
 to him, " and Claire's room." 
 
 Risler, delighted by this extraordinary sympa- 
 thetic interest in his beloved factory, would explain 
 to the child from their lofty position the arrange- 
 ment of the buildings, point out the print-shop, 
 the gilding-shop, the designing room where he
 
 Three Families on One Landing. 33 
 
 worked, the engine-room, above which towered 
 that enormous chimney which blackened all the 
 neighboring walls with its corrosive smoke, and 
 which of a surety never suspected that a young 
 life, concealed beneath a roof near by, mingled 
 its inmost thoughts with its loud, indefatigable 
 breath. 
 
 One day Sidonie at last entered that paradise of 
 which she had caught a glimpse. 
 
 Madame Fromont, to whom Risler often spoke 
 of her little neighbor's beauty and intelligence, 
 asked him to bring her to the children's ball she 
 was preparing to give at Christmas. At first 
 Monsieur Chebe replied by a curt refusal. Even 
 in those days, the Fromonts, whose name was 
 always on Risler's lips, irritated and humiliated 
 him by their wealth. Moreover, it was to be a 
 fancy ball, and Monsieur Chebe — who did not 
 sell wall-papers, not he! — could not afford to 
 dress his daughter as a rope-dancer. But Risler 
 insisted, declared that he would take everything 
 upon himself, and at once set about designing a 
 costume. 
 
 It was a memorable evening. 
 
 In Madame Ch^be's bedroom, littered with pieces 
 of cloth and pins and small toilet articles, Desiree 
 Delobelle superintended Sidonie's toilet. The 
 child, made taller by her short skirt of red flannel 
 with black stripes, stood before the mirror, erect 
 and motionless, in the glittering splendor of her 
 costume. She was charming. The waist with 
 bands of velvet laced over the white stomacher, 
 3
 
 34 Fromojit and Rislcr. 
 
 the lovely long tresses of chestnut hair escaping 
 from beneath a hat of plaited straw, all the slightly 
 trivial details of her Savoyard's costume were 
 heightened by'the intelligent features of the child, 
 who was quite at her ease in the brilliant colors 
 of that theatrical garb. 
 
 The whole assembled neighborhood uttered cries 
 of admiration. While some one went in search of 
 Delobelle, the lame girl arranged the folds of the 
 skirt, the bows on the shoes, and cast a final glance 
 over her work, without laying aside her needle ; 
 she too was excited, poor child, by the intoxication 
 of that festivity, to which she was not bidden. 
 The great man arrived. He made Sidonie rehearse 
 two or three stately reverences which he had 
 taught her, the proper way to walk, to stand, to 
 smile with her mouth open in a circle, and the 
 exact position of the little finger. It was truly 
 comical to see the precision with which the child 
 went through the drill. 
 
 " She has actor's blood in her veins ! " ex- 
 claimed the old actor enthusiastically, and unable 
 to understand why that great booby of a Frantz 
 was strongly inclined to weep. 
 
 A year after that happy evening Sidonie could 
 have told you what flowers there were in the 
 reception rooms, the color of the furniture, and the 
 air they were playing as she entered the ball-room, 
 so deep an impression did her enjoyment make 
 upon her. She forgot nothing, neither the cos- 
 tumes that made an eddying whirl about her, nor 
 the childish laughter, nor all the tiny steps that
 
 Three Families on One Lanelijig. 35 
 
 glided over the glistening floors. For a moment, 
 as she sat on the edge of a great red silk couch, 
 taking from the plate held before her the first 
 sherbet of her life, she suddenly thought of the 
 dark staircase, of her parents' stuffy little rooms, 
 and it produced upon her the effect of a distant 
 country which she had left forever. 
 
 However, she was considered a fascinating crea- 
 ture, and was universally admired and petted. 
 Claire Fromont, a miniature Cauchoise dressed all 
 in lace, presented her to her cousin Georges, a 
 magnificent hussar who turned at every 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 happy 
 child, she kissed little Chebe with all her heart. 
 
 But the time came to go. — For a long time, in 
 the filthy street where the snow was melting, in 
 the dark hall, in the silent room where her mother 
 awaited her, the brilliant light of the salons con- 
 tinued to shine before her dazzled eyes. 
 
 " Was it very fine? Did you have a good time? " 
 queried Madame Chebe in a low tone, unfastening 
 the buckles of the gorgeous costume, one by one. 
 
 And Sidonie, overdone with fatigue, made no 
 reply, but fell asleep standing, beginning a lovely 
 dream which was to last throughout her youth and 
 cost her many tears. 
 
 Claire Fromont kept her word. Sidonie often 
 went to play in the beautiful gravelled garden, and
 
 36 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 was able to see near at hand the carved bhnds, the 
 dovecot with its threads of gold. She came to 
 know all the corners and hiding places in the 
 vast factory and took part in many glorious games 
 of hide-and-seek behind the printing tables in the 
 solitude of Sunday afternoon. On holidays a 
 cover was laid for her at the children's table. 
 
 Everybody loved her, although she never ex< 
 hibited much affection for anyone. So long as 
 she was in the midst of that luxury, she was con- 
 scious of softer impulses, she was happy and felt 
 that she was embellished by her surroundings, as 
 it were; but when she returned to her parents, 
 when she saw the factory through the dirty panes 
 of the window on the landing, she had an inex- 
 plicable feeling of regret and anger. 
 
 And yet Claire Fromont treated her as a friend. 
 
 Sometimes they took her to the Bois, to the 
 Tuileries, in the famous blue-lined coupe, or into 
 the country, to pass a whole week at Grandfather 
 Gardinois's chateau, at Savigny-sur-Orge. Thanks 
 to the munificence of Risler, who was very proud 
 of his little one's success, she was always presenta- 
 ble and well-supplied. Madame Chebe made it a 
 point of honor, and the pretty lame girl was always 
 at hand to place her treasures of unused coquetry 
 at her little friend's service. 
 
 But Monsieur Chebe, who was always hostile to 
 the Fromonts, looked frowningly upon this grow- 
 ing intimacy. The true reason was that he himselt 
 was never invited ; but he gave other reasons and 
 would say to his wife :
 
 Three Families on One Landing, 37 
 
 "Don't you sec that your daughter's heart is 
 heavy when she returns from that house, and that 
 she passes whole hours dreaming at the wmdow? " 
 
 But poor Madame Chebe, who had been so 
 unhappy ever since her marriage, had become 
 reckless. She declared that one should make the 
 most of the present for fear of the future, should 
 seize happiness when it passes within reach, as 
 one often has no other support and consolation in 
 life than the memory of a happy childhood. 
 
 For once it happened that Monsieur Chebe was 
 right.
 
 38 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 III. 
 
 LITTLE CH£BE'S STORY — THE FALSE PEARLS. 
 
 After two or three years of intimacy with Claire, 
 of sharing her amusements, years during which 
 Sidonie acquired the famiharity with kixury and 
 the graceful manners of the children of the 
 wealthy, the friendship was suddenly broken. 
 
 Cousin Georges, whose guardian M. Fromont 
 was, had entered college some time before. Claire 
 in her turn took her departure for the convent 
 with the outfit of a little queen ; and at that very 
 moment the Chebes were discussing the question 
 of apprenticing Sidonie to some trade. They 
 promised to love each other as before and to 
 meet twice a month, on the Sundays when Claire 
 was allowed to go home. 
 
 Indeed little Chebe did still go down sometimes 
 to play with her friends ; but as she grew older 
 she realized more fully the distance that separated 
 them, and her dresses began to seem to her very 
 simple for Madame Fromont's salon. 
 
 When the three were alone, the childish friend- 
 ship which made them equals prevented any feel- 
 ing of embarrassment; but visitors came, girl 
 friends from the convent, among others a tall girl,
 
 The False Pearls. 39 
 
 always richly dressed, whom her mother's maid 
 used to bring to play with the little Fromonts 
 on Sunday. 
 
 As soon as she saw her coming up the steps, 
 resplendent and disdainful, Sidonie longed to go 
 away at once. The other embarrassed her with 
 awkward questions. Where did she live? What 
 did her parents do? Had she a carriage? 
 
 As she listened to their talk of the convent and 
 their friends, Sidonie felt that they lived in a 
 different world, a thousand leagues from her own; 
 and a deathly sadness seized her, especially when, 
 on her return home, her mother spoke of sending 
 her as an apprentice to Mademoiselle Le Mire, a 
 friend of the Delobelles, who conducted a large 
 false pearl establishment on Rue du Roi-Dore. 
 
 Rislcr insisted upon the plan of having the little 
 one serve an apprenticeship. " Let her learn a 
 trade," said the honest fellow. " Later I will 
 undertake to set her up in business." 
 
 Indeed this same Mademoiselle Le Mire talked 
 of retiring in a few years. It was an excellent 
 opportunity. 
 
 One morning, a dull morning in November, her 
 father took her to Rue du Roi-Dorc, to the fourth 
 floor of an old house, even older and blacker than 
 her own home. 
 
 On the ground floor, at the entrance to the hall, 
 hung a number of signs with gilt letters : Depot 
 for Travelling Bags, Plated Chains, Childrciis Toys, 
 Mathematical Instrnvients in Glass, Bouquets for 
 Brides and Maids of Honor, Wild Flowers a
 
 40 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Specialty; and above, a little dusty show-case, 
 wherein pearls yellow with age, glass grapes 
 and cherries surrounded the pretentious name 
 of Angelina Le Mire. 
 
 Such a horrible house ! 
 
 It had not even a broad landing like that of the 
 Chebes, grimy with old age, but brightened by its 
 window and the beautiful prospect presented by 
 the factory. A narrow staircase, a narrow door, a 
 succession of rooms with brick floors, all small 
 and cold, and in the last an old maid with a false 
 front and black thread mitts, reading a soiled copy 
 of the Journal pour Tons, and apparently very 
 much annoyed to be disturbed in her reading. 
 
 Mademoiselle Le Mire (written in two words) 
 received the father and daughter without rising, 
 discoursed at great length of the position she 
 had lost, of her father, an old nobleman of Le 
 Rouergue — it is most extraordinary how many old 
 noblemen Le Rouergue has already produced ! — 
 and of an unfaithful steward who had carried off 
 their whole fortune. She instantly aroused the 
 sympathies of Monsieur Chebe, for whom decayed 
 gentlefolk had an irresistible attraction, and the 
 goodman went away overjoyed, promising his 
 daughter to call for her at seven o'clock at night 
 in accordance with the terms agreed upon. 
 
 The apprentice was at once ushered into the 
 still empty workroom. Mademoiselle Le Mire 
 seated her in front of a great drawer filled with 
 pearls, needles, and bodkins, with instalments of 
 four-sous novels thrown in at random among them.
 
 The False Pearls. 41 
 
 It was Sidonic's business to sort the pearls and 
 string them in necklaces of equal length, which 
 were tied together to be sold to the small dealers. 
 Then the young women would soon be there and 
 they would show her exactly what she would have 
 to do, for Mademoiselle Le Mire (written in two 
 words) did not interfere at all, but overlooked her 
 business from a considerable distance, from that 
 dark room where she passed her life reading news- 
 paper novels. 
 
 At nine o'clock the workwomen arrived, five tall, 
 pale-faced, faded girls, wretchedly dressed, but 
 with their hair becomingly arranged, after the 
 fashion of poor working girls who go about bare- 
 headed through the streets of Paris. 
 
 Two or three were yawning and rubbing their 
 eyes, saying that they were dead with sleep. Who 
 can say what they had done with their night? 
 
 At last they went to work beside a long table 
 where each one had her own drawer and her own 
 tools. An order had been received for mourning 
 jewels, and haste was essential. Sidonie, whom the 
 forewoman instructed in her task in a tone of in- 
 finite superiority, began dismally to sort a multi- 
 tude of black pearls, bits of glass and wisps of 
 crepe. 
 
 The others, paying no attention to the urchin, 
 chatted together as they worked. They talked of 
 a wedding that was to take place that very day at 
 Saint-Gervais. 
 
 " Suppose we go," said a stout, red-haired girl, 
 whose name was Malvina. " It's to be at noon.
 
 42 Fromojit and Risler. 
 
 We shall have time to go and get back again if we 
 hurry." 
 
 And, at the lunch hour, the whole party rushed 
 downstairs four steps at a time. 
 
 Sidonie had brought her meal in a little basket, 
 like a school-girl ; with a heavy heart she sat at a 
 corner of the table and ate alone for the first time 
 in her life. Great God ! what a sad and wretched 
 thing life seemed to be, what a terrible revenge 
 she would take hereafter for her sufferings there ! 
 
 At one o'clock the girls trooped noisily back, 
 highly excited. 
 
 " Did you see the white satin dress? And the 
 veil oi point d'Angleterrc? There 's a lucky girl ! " 
 
 Thereupon they repeated in the workroom the re- 
 marks they had made in undertones in the church, 
 leaning against the rail, throughout the ceremony. 
 That question of a wealthy marriage, of beautiful 
 clothes, lasted all day long; nor did it interfere 
 with their work, far from it. 
 
 These small Parisian industries, which have to do 
 with the most trivial details of the toilet, keep the 
 work-girls posted as to the fashions and fill their 
 minds everlastingly with thoughts of luxury and 
 elegance. To the poor girls who worked on 
 Mademoiselle Le Mire's fourth floor, the blackened 
 walls, the narrow street did not exist. They were 
 always thinking of something else and passed their 
 lives asking one another : 
 
 " Say, Malvina, if you were rich what would you 
 do? For my part I'd live on the Champs- 
 Elysees." And the great trees on the square,
 
 The False Peaids. 43 
 
 the carriages that turned about there, coqucttishly 
 slackening their pace, appeared momentarily 
 before their minds, a delicious refreshing vision. 
 
 Little Chebe, in her corner, listened without 
 speaking, industriously stringing her black grapes 
 with the precocious dexterity and taste she had 
 acquired in Desiree's neighborhood. So that in 
 the evening, when Monsieur Chebe came to fetch 
 his daughter, they praised her in the highest terms. 
 
 Thereafter all her days were alike. The next 
 day, instead of black pearls, she strung white 
 pearls and bits of false coral ; for at Mademoiselle 
 Le Mire's they worked only in what was false, in 
 tinsel, and that was where little Chebe was to serve 
 her apprenticeship in life. 
 
 For some time the new apprentice — being 
 younger and better bred than the others — found 
 that they held aloof from her. Later, as she grew 
 older, she was admitted to their friendship and 
 their confidence, but without ever sharing their 
 pleasures. She was too proud to go to see wed- 
 dings at midday; and when she heard them talking 
 of a ball at Vauxhall or the Dclices dti Marais, 
 or of a nice little supper at Bonvalet's or at the 
 Quatrc Scri:;cnts dc la Rochc/lc, she was always 
 very disdainful. 
 
 We looked higher than that, did we not, little 
 Chebe? 
 
 Moreover, her father called for her every even- 
 ing. Sometimes, however, about the New Year, 
 she was obliged to work late with the others, in 
 order to complete the urgent orders. In the gas-
 
 44 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 light those pale-faced Parisians, sorting pearls as 
 white as themselves, of a dead, unhealthy whiteness, 
 were a painful spectacle. There was the same 
 fictitious glitter, the same fragility of spurious 
 jewels. They talked of nothing but masked balls 
 and theatres. 
 
 " Have you seen Adele Page, in the Trois Moiis- 
 qiietaires? And Melingue? And Marie Laurent? 
 Oh ! Marie Laurent ! " 
 
 The actors' doublets, the embroidered dresses of 
 the queens of melodrama appeared before them 
 in the white light of the necklaces forming beneath 
 their fingers. 
 
 In summer the work was less pressing. It was 
 the dull season. In the intense heat, when through 
 the drawn blinds fruit vendors could be heard 
 in the street, crying their mirabelles and Queen 
 Claudes, the work-girls slept heavily, their heads 
 on the table. Or perhaps Malvina would go and 
 ask Mademoiselle Le Mire for a copy of the 
 Jonyjial pour Tons, and read aloud to the others. 
 
 But little Chebe did not care for the novels. 
 She carried one in her head much more interesting 
 than all that trash. 
 
 The fact is that nothing could make her forget 
 the factory. When she set forth in the morning on 
 her father's arm, she always cast a glance in that 
 direction. At that hour the works were just wak- 
 ing, the chimney emitted its first puff of black 
 smoke. Sidonie, as she passed, could hear the 
 shouts of the workmen, the dull, heavy blows of 
 the bars of the printing-press, the mighty, rhyth-
 
 The False Pearls. 45 
 
 mical hum of the machinery, and all those sounds 
 of toil, blended in her memory with recollec- 
 tions of fetes and blue-lined coupes, haunted her 
 persistently. 
 
 They spoke louder than the rattle of the omni- 
 buses, the street cries, the cascades in the gutters ; 
 and even in the workroom, when she was sorting 
 the false pearls, even at night, in her own home, 
 when she went, after dinner, to breathe the fresh 
 air at the window on the landing and to gaze 
 at the dark, deserted factory, that murmur still 
 buzzed in her ears, forming, as it were, a constant 
 accompaniment to her thoughts. 
 
 " The little one is tired, Madame Chebe. She 
 needs aiversion. Next Sunday I will take you all 
 into the country." 
 
 These Sunday excursions, which honest Risler 
 organized to divert Sidonie, served only to sadden 
 her still more. 
 
 On those days she must rise at four o'clock in 
 the morning; for the poor must pay for all their 
 enjoyments, and there was always a ribbon to be 
 ironed at the last moment, or a bit of trimming 
 to be sewn on in an attempt to rejuvenate the ever- 
 lasting little lilac dress with white stripes which 
 Madame Chcbe conscientiously lengthened every 
 year. 
 
 They would all set off together, the Chebes, the 
 Rislers and the illustrious Delobelle. Only Desiree 
 and her mother were never of the , party. The 
 poor crippled child, ashamed of her deformity, 
 would never stir from her chair, and Mamma De-
 
 46 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 lobelle stayed behind to keep her company. More- 
 over, neither of them possessed a suitable dress in 
 which to show herself out-of-doors in their great 
 man's company ; it would have destroyed the whole 
 effect of his appearance. 
 
 When they left the house, Sidonie would brighten 
 up a little. Paris in the pink haze of a July morn- 
 ing, the railway stations filled with light dresses, 
 the country flying past the car windows, and the 
 healthful exercise, the bath un the pure air sat- 
 urated with the water of the Seine, vivified by a 
 bit of forest, perfumed by flowering meadows, by 
 ripening grain, all combined to make her giddy 
 for a moment. But that sensation was soon suc- 
 ceeded by disgust at such a commonplace way of 
 passing her Sunday. 
 
 It was always the same thing. 
 
 They stopped at a refreshment booth, in close 
 proximity to a very noisy and numerously attended 
 rustic festival, for there must be an audience for 
 Delobelle, who would saunter along, absorbed by 
 his chimera, dressed in gray, with gray gaiters, a 
 little hat over his ear, a light overcoat on his arm, 
 imagining that the stage represented a country 
 scene in the suburbs of Paris, and that he was 
 playing the part of a Parisian sojourning in the 
 country. 
 
 As for Monsieur Chebe, who prided himself on 
 being as fond of nature as the late Jean Jacques, 
 he did not appreciate it without the accompani- 
 ments of shooting-matches, wooden horses, sack 
 races, and a profusion of dust and penny-whistles,
 
 TJic False Pearls. 47 
 
 which also constituted Madame Chcbc's ideal of 
 a country life. 
 
 But Sidonie had a diftcrent ideal ; and those Par- 
 isian Sundays passed in strolling through noisy 
 village streets depressed her beyond measure. 
 Her only pleasure in those crowds was the con- 
 sciousness of being stared at. The veriest boor's 
 admiration, frankly expressed aloud at her side, 
 made her smile all day ; for she was of those who 
 disdain no compliment. 
 
 Sometimes, leaving the Chcbes and Delobelle in 
 the midst of the fete, Risler would go into the 
 fields with his brother and the " little one," in 
 search of flowers, of patterns for his wall-papers. 
 Frantz, with his long arms, would pull down the 
 topmost branches of a hawthorn, or would climb 
 a park wall to pick a leaf of graceful shape he had 
 spied on the other side. But they reaped their 
 richest harvests on the banks of the stream. 
 
 There they found those flexible plants with long 
 swaying stalks, which make such a lovely effect on 
 hangings, tall, straight reeds, and the volubilis, 
 whose flower, opening suddenly as if in obedience 
 to a caprice, resembles a living face, some one 
 looking at you amid the lovely, quivering foliage. 
 Risler arranged his nosegays artistically, drawing 
 his inspiration from the very nature of the plants, 
 trying to understand thoroughly their manner of 
 life, which cannot be divined after a day of fatigue 
 has passed over them. 
 
 Then, when the bouquet was completed, tied 
 with a broad blade of grass as with a ribbon, and
 
 48 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 slung over Frantz's back, away they went. Risler, 
 always engrossed in his art, looked about for sub- 
 jects, for possible combinations, as they walked 
 along. 
 
 " Look there, little one — see that bunch of lily 
 of the valley, with its white bells, among those 
 eglantines. What do you think? Wouldn't that 
 be pretty against a sea-green or pearl-gray back- 
 ground? " 
 
 But Sidonie cared no more for lilies of the valley 
 than for eglantine. Wild flowers always seemed 
 to her like the flowers of the poor, something after 
 the manner of her lilac dress. 
 
 She remembered that she had seen flowers of a 
 different sort at Monsieur Gardinois's, at the Cha- 
 teau de Savigny, in the hothouses, on the balconies, 
 and all about the gravelled courtyard lined with 
 tall urns. 
 
 Those were the flowers she loved ; that was her 
 idea of the country ! 
 
 The thought of Savigny recurred at every step. 
 When they passed a park gate she would stop and 
 gaze at the smooth, straight road, which probably 
 led to the main entrance. The lawns shaded by 
 the orderly rows of tall trees, the placid terraces 
 at the water's edge, recalled other lawns, other ter- 
 races. Those visions of splendor, mingling w^ith 
 her memories, made her Sunday even more mel- 
 ancholy. But it was the return home that was 
 most distressing to her. 
 
 The little stations in the outskirts of Paris are so 
 terribly crowded and stifling on those Sunday even-
 
 The False Pearls. 49 
 
 ings in summer. Such artificial enjoyment, such 
 idiotic laughter, such doleful ballads, sung in whis- 
 pers by voices that no longer have the strength to 
 roar ! That was the time when Monsieur Chebe 
 was in his element. 
 
 He would elbow his way to the gate, scold about 
 the delay of the train, declaim against the station- 
 agent, the company, the government ; say to Delo- 
 belle in a loud voice, so as to be overheard by his 
 neighbors : 
 
 "I say — suppose such a thing as this should 
 happen in America ! " Which remark, thanks to 
 the expressive by-play of the illustrious actor, 
 and to the superior air with which he replied, " I 
 believe you ! " gav^e those who stood near to 
 understand that these gentlemen knew exactly 
 what would happen in America in such a case. 
 Now, they were equally and entirely ignorant on 
 that subject ; but, in the crowd, their words made 
 an impression. 
 
 Sitting beside Frantz, with half of his bundle of 
 flowers on her knees, Sidonie would seem to be 
 blotted out, as it were, amid the uproar, during the 
 long wait for the evening trains. From the station, 
 lighted by a single lamp, she could sec the black 
 clumps of trees outside, gashed here and there by 
 the last illuminations of the fete, a dark village 
 street, people constantly coming in, and a lantern 
 hanging on a deserted pier. 
 
 From time to time, on the other side of the 
 glass doors, a train would rush by without stop- 
 ping, with a shower of hot cinders and the roar of 
 4
 
 50 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 escaping steam. Thereupon a tempest of shouts 
 and stamping would arise in the station, and, soar- 
 ing above all the rest, the shrill treble of Monsieur 
 Chebe, shrieking in his sea-gull's voice: "Break 
 down the doors ! break down the doors ! " — a 
 thing that the little man would have taken good 
 care not to do himself, as he had a craven fear of 
 gendarmes. In a moment the storm would abate. 
 The tired women, their hair disarranged by the 
 wind, would fall asleep on the benches. There were 
 torn and ragged dresses, low-necked white gowns, 
 all covered with dust. 
 
 The air they breathed consisted mainly of dust. 
 
 It stood upon all their clothes, rose at every 
 step, obscured the light of the lamp, vexed one's 
 eyes, and raised a sort of cloud in front of the 
 tired faces. The cars which they entered at last 
 after hours of waiting were saturated with it also. 
 Sidonie would open the window and look out at 
 the dark fields, an endless line of shadow. Then, 
 like stars without number, the first lanterns of the 
 outer boulevards appeared near the fortifications. 
 
 So ended the ghastly day of rest of all those 
 poor creatures. The sight of Paris brought back 
 to each one's mind the thought of the morrow's 
 toil. Dismal as her Sunday had been, Sidonie 
 began to regret that it had passed. She thought 
 of the rich, to whom all the days of their lives 
 were days of rest; and vaguely, as in a dream, 
 the long park avenues of which she had caught 
 glimpses during the day appeared to her thronged 
 with those happy ones of earth, strolling on the
 
 The Fahc Pearls. 5 1 
 
 fine caravel, while outside the gate, in the dust of 
 the highroad, the poor man's Sunday hurried 
 swiftly by, having hardly time to pause a moment 
 to look and envy. 
 
 Such was little Chebe's life from thirteen to 
 seventeen. 
 
 The years passed but did not bring with them 
 the slightest change. Madame Chebe's cashmere 
 was a little more threadbare, the little lilac dress 
 had undergone a few additional repairs, and that 
 was all. But, as Sidonie grew older, Frantz, now 
 become a young man, acquired a habit of gazing 
 at her silently with a mcUing expression, of paying 
 her loving attentions that were visible to every- 
 body, and were unnoticed by none save the girl 
 herself. 
 
 Indeed, nothing aroused the interest of little 
 Chebe. 
 
 In the work-room she performed her task regu- 
 larly, silentl)', without the slightest thought of the 
 future, or of saving. All that she did seemed to 
 be done as if she were waiting for something. 
 
 Frantz, on the other hand, had been working 
 for some time with extraordinary energy, the 
 ardor of those who see something at the end of 
 their efforts; so that, at the age of twenty-four, 
 he graduated second in his class from the Ecolc 
 Centrale, with the rank of engineer. 
 
 On that evening Risler had taken the Chebe 
 family to the Gymnase, and throughout the even- 
 ing he and Madame Chebe had been making 
 signs and winking at each other behind the chil-
 
 52 Frornont and Risler, 
 
 dren's backs. And when they left the theatre 
 Madame Chebe solemnly placed Sidonie's arm in 
 Frantz's, as if she would say to the lovelorn 
 youth ! " Now, straighten matters out — here *s 
 your chance." 
 
 Thereupon the poor lover tried to straighten 
 matters out. 
 
 It is a long walk from the Gymnase to the 
 Marais. After a very few steps the brilliancy of 
 the boulevard is left behind, the sidewalks become 
 darker and darker, the passers more and more 
 rare. Frantz began by talking of the play. He 
 was very fond of comedies of that sort, in which 
 there was plenty of sentiment. 
 
 "And you, Sidonie?" 
 
 " Oh ! as for me, Frantz, you know that as long 
 as there are fine dresses — " 
 
 In truth she thought of nothing else at the 
 theatre. She was not one of those sentimental 
 creatures a la Bovary, who return from the play 
 with love phrases ready-made, a conventional ideal. 
 No ! the theatre simply made her long madly for 
 luxury and fine raiment; she brought away from 
 it nothing but new methods of arranging the hair, 
 and patterns of dresses. The new, exaggerated 
 toilets of the actresses, their gait, even the spurious 
 elegance of their speech, which seemed to her of 
 the highest distinction, and with it all the tawdry 
 magnificence of the gilding and the lights, the 
 gaudy placard at the door, the long line of car- 
 riages, and all the somewhat unhealthy excite- 
 ment that springs up about a popular play ; that
 
 The False Pearls. 53 
 
 was what she loved, that was what absorbed her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " How well they acted their love-scene ! " con- 
 tinued the lover. 
 
 And, as he uttered that suggestive phrase, he 
 bent fondly toward a little face surrounded by a 
 white woollen hood, from beneath which the hair 
 escaped in rebellious curls. 
 
 Sidonie sighed : 
 
 " Oh ! yes, the love-scene. The actress wore 
 beautiful diamonds." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Poor Frantz 
 had much difficulty in explaining himself. The 
 words he sought would not come, and then too he 
 was afraid. He fixed the time mentally when he 
 would speak : 
 
 "When we have passed Porte Saint-Denis — 
 when we have left the boulevard." 
 
 But when the time arrived, Sidonie began to 
 talk of such indifferent matters that his declara- 
 tion froze on his lips, or else it was stopped by a 
 passing carriage, which enabled their elders to 
 overtake them. 
 
 At last, in the Marais, he suddenly took 
 courage : 
 
 " Listen to me, Sidonie, — I love you." 
 
 That night the Dclobelles had sat up very late. 
 
 It was the habit of those brave-hearted women 
 to make their working day as long as possible, to 
 prolong it so far into the night that their lamp was 
 among the last to be extinguished on quiet Rue de 
 Braque. They always sat up until the great man
 
 54 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 returned home, and kept a toothsome Httle supper 
 warm for him in the ashes on the hearth. 
 
 In the days when he was an actor there was 
 some reason for that custom ; actors, being obHged 
 to dine early and very sparingly, have a terrible 
 gnawing at their vitals when they go off the stage, 
 and usually eat when they go home. Delobelle 
 had not acted for a long while ; but having, as he 
 said, no right to abandon the stage, he kept his 
 mania alive by clinging to a number of the stroll- 
 ing player's habits, and the supper on returning 
 home was one of them, as was his habit of delay- 
 ing his return until the last footlight in the boule- 
 vard theatres was extinguished. To retire without 
 supping, at the hour when everybody else supped, 
 would have been to abdicate, to abandon the 
 struggle, and he would not abandon it, sacrebleu ! 
 
 On the evening in question the actor had not 
 come in and the women were waiting for him, 
 talking as they worked, and with great animation, 
 notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. During 
 the whole evening they had done nothing but talk 
 of Frantz, of his success, of the future that lay 
 before him. 
 
 " Now," said Mamma Delobelle, " the only thing 
 he needs is to find a good little wife." 
 
 That was Desiree's opinion too. That was all 
 that was lacking now to Frantz's happiness, a 
 good little wife, active and brave and used to 
 work, who would forget everything for him. And 
 if Desiree spoke with great assurance, it was 
 because she was very intimately acquainted with
 
 The False Pearls. 55 
 
 the woman who was so well adapted to Frantz 
 Rislcr's needs. She was only a year younger than 
 he, just enough to make her younger than her 
 husband and a mother to him at the same time. 
 
 Pretty? 
 
 No, not exactly, but attractive rather than ugly, 
 notwithstanding her infirmity, for she was lame, 
 poor child ! And then she was shrewd and bright, 
 and so loving ! No one but Desiree knew how 
 dearly that little woman loved Frantz, and how 
 she had thought of him night and day for years. 
 He had not noticed it himself, but seemed to have 
 eyes for nobody but Sidonie, a gauiine. But no 
 matter ! Silent love is so eloquent, such a mighty 
 power lies hid in restrained feelings. Who knows? 
 Perhaps some day or other — 
 
 And the little cripple, leaning over her work, 
 started upon one of those long journeys to the 
 land of chimeras of which she made so many in 
 her invalid's easy-chair, with her feet resting on 
 the motionless stool ; one of those wonderful jour- 
 neys from which she always returned happy and 
 smiling, leaning on Frantz's arm with all the con- 
 fidence of a beloved wife. As her fingers followed 
 her heart's dream, the little bird she had in her 
 hand at the moment, smoothing his ruffled wings, 
 looked as if he too were of the party and were 
 about to fly far, far away, as joyous and light of 
 heart as she. 
 
 Suddenly the door flew open. 
 
 "I do not disturb you?" said a triumphant 
 voice.
 
 56 Fro7nont and Risler. 
 
 The mother, who was slightly drowsy, suddenly 
 raised her head. 
 
 "Ah! it's Monsieur Frantz. Pray come in, 
 Monsieur Frantz. We're waiting for father, as 
 you see. These brigands of artists always stay 
 out so late ! Take a seat — you shall have supper 
 with him." 
 
 " Oh ! no, thanks," replied Frantz, whose lips 
 were still pale from the emotion he had under- 
 gone, *' thanks, I can't stop. I saw a light and I 
 just stepped in to tell you — to tell you some 
 great news that will make you very happy, because 
 I know that you love me — " 
 
 "Great God, what is it?" 
 
 " Monsieur Frantz Risler and Mademoiselle 
 Sidonie are engaged to be married." 
 
 " There ! did n't I say that all he needed was a 
 good little wife," exclaimed Mamma Delobelle, 
 rising and throwing her arms about his neck. 
 
 Desiree had not the strength to utter a word. 
 She bent still lower over her work, and as Frantz's 
 eyes were fixed exclusively upon his happiness, as 
 Mamma Delobelle did nothing but look at the 
 clock to see if her great man would return soon, 
 no one noticed the lame girl's emotion, nor her 
 pallor, nor the convulsive trembling of the little 
 bird that lay in her hands with its head thrown 
 back, like a bird with its death-wound.
 
 The Glow-Worms of Savigny. 57 
 
 IV. 
 
 LITTLE CH£BE'S STORY — THE GLOW-WORMS OF 
 SAVIGNY. 
 
 " Savigny-sur-Orge. 
 
 ** My dear Sidonie, — We were sitting at table yester- 
 day in the great dining-room which you remember, with 
 the door wide open leading to the terrace, where the 
 flowers are all in bloom. I was a little bored. Dear 
 grandpapa had been cross all the morning, and poor 
 mamma dared not say a word, being held in awe by those 
 frowning eyebrows which have always laid down the law 
 for her. I was thinking what a pity it was to be so en- 
 tirely alone, in the middle of the summer, in such a lovely 
 spot, and that I should be very glad, now that I have left 
 the convent and am destined to pass whole seasons in the 
 country, to have, as in the old days, someone to run about 
 the woods and paths with me. 
 
 " To be sure, Georges comes from time to time ; but he 
 always arrives very late, just in time for dinner, and is off 
 again with my father in the morning before I am awake. 
 And then he is a serious-minded man now, is Monsieur 
 Georges. He works at the factory, and business cares 
 often bring the wrinkles to his brow. 
 
 " I had reached that point in my reflections when sud- 
 denly dear grandpapa turns abruptly to me : 
 
 " * Whatever has become of your little friend Sidonie ? 
 I would be "lad to have her here for a time.'
 
 58 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " You can imagine my delight. What happiness to 
 meet again, to renew the pleasant friendship that was 
 broken off by the fault of life rather than by our own ! 
 How many things we shall have to tell each other ! You, 
 who alone had the knack of driving the wrinkles from 
 my terrible grandfather's brow, will bring us gayety, and 
 I assure you we need it. 
 
 '• This lovely Savigny is so deserted ! Fancy that some- 
 times in the morning I choose to be a little coquettish. I 
 dress myself, I make myself beautiful with my hair in curls 
 and a pretty gown \ I walk through all the paths, and sud- 
 denly I realize that I have taken all this trouble for the 
 swans and ducks, my dog Kiss, and the cows who do not 
 even turn to look at me when I pass. Thereupon, in my 
 wrath, I hurry home, put on a stuff dress and busy my- 
 self on the farm, in the servants' quarters, everywhere. 
 And on my word ! I am beginning to believe that ennui 
 has perfected me, and that I shall make an excellent 
 housekeeper. 
 
 " Luckily the hunting season will soon be here and I 
 rely upon that for a little distraction. In the first place, 
 Georges and father, both enthusiastic sportsmen, will 
 come oftener. And then you will be here, you know. For 
 you will reply instantly that you will come, won't you ? 
 Monsieur Risler said not long ago that you were not well. 
 The air of Savigny will do you worlds of good. 
 
 " Everybody here expects you. And I am dying with 
 impatience. 
 
 " Claire." 
 
 Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a 
 great straw hat — for the first days of August 
 were warm and glorious — and went herself to 
 drop it in the little box from which the postman
 
 The Gloiv-Wovms of Savigny. 59 
 
 collected the mail from the chateau every morning 
 as he passed. 
 
 It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the 
 road. She paused a moment to look at the trees 
 by the roadside, at the neighboring meadows 
 sleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder the 
 reapers were gathering the last sheaves. Farther 
 on they were ploughing. But all the melancholy 
 of the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl 
 was concerned, so overjoyed was she at the 
 thought of seeing her friend once more. 
 
 No breath came from the high hills on the 
 horizon, no voice from the tree-tops to warn her 
 by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending 
 that fatal letter. And immediately upon her re- 
 turn she gave her attention to the preparation 
 of a pretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her 
 own. 
 
 The letter did its errand faithfully. From the 
 little green, vine-embowered gate of the chateau, it 
 found its way to Paris, and arrived that same eve- 
 ning with its Savigny postmark, and impregnated 
 with the odor of the country, at the fifth floor 
 apartment on Rue de Braque. 
 
 What an event that was ! They read it again 
 and again ; and for a whole week, until Sidonie's 
 departure, it lay on the mantel-shelf beside 
 Madame Ch^bc's treasures, the clock under a 
 glass globe and the hvmpire cups. To Sidonie it 
 was like a wonderful romance filled with tales of 
 enchantment and promises, which she read without 
 opening it, simply by gazing at the white envelope
 
 6o Fromout and Rislcr. 
 
 whereon Claire Fromont's monogram was engraved 
 in relief. 
 
 Little she thought of marriage now. The im- 
 portant question was, What dress should she wear 
 to the chateau ? She must give her whole mind to 
 that, to cutting and planning, trying on dresses, 
 devising new ways of arranging her hair. — Poor 
 Frantz ! How heavy his heart was made by these 
 preparations ! That visit to Savigny, which he 
 had tried vainly to oppose, would cause a still 
 further postponement of their wedding, which 
 Sidonie — - why, he did not know — persisted in 
 postponing from day to day. He could not go to 
 see her ; and when she was once there, in the 
 midst of festivities and pleasures, who could say 
 how long she would remain? 
 
 The lover in his despair always went to the 
 Delobelles to confide his sorrows, but he never 
 noticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as he 
 entered, to make room for him by her side at the 
 work-table, and how she at once sat down again, 
 with cheeks as red as fire and gleaming eyes. 
 
 For some days past they had ceased to work at 
 birds and insects for ornament. The mother and 
 daughter were hemming pink flounces destined for 
 Sidonie's dress, and the little cripple had never 
 plied her needle with such good heart. 
 
 In truth little Desiree was not Delobelle's daugh- 
 ter to no purpose. 
 
 She inherited her father's faculty of retaining 
 his illusions, of hoping on to the end and even 
 beyond.
 
 The Glow-Worms of Savigiiy. 6i 
 
 While Frantz was telling his tales of woe, D6si- 
 r^e was thinking that, when Sidonic was gone, he 
 would come every day, if it were only to talk 
 about the absent one; that she would have him 
 there by her side, that they would sit up together 
 waiting for " father," and that, perhaps, some eve- 
 ning, as he sat looking at her, he would discover 
 the difference there is between the woman who 
 loves you and the one who simply allows herself 
 to be loved. 
 
 Thereupon the thought that every stitch taken 
 in the dress tended to hasten the departure which 
 she anticipated with such impatience imparted 
 extraordinary activity to her needle, and the un- 
 happy lover ruefully watched the flounces and 
 ruffles perceptibly piling up about her, like little 
 white-capped waves. 
 
 When the pink dress was finished. Mademoiselle 
 Ch^be started for Savigny. 
 
 Monsieur Gardinois's chateau was built in the 
 valley of the Orge, on the bank of that capri- 
 ciously lovely stream, with its windmills, its little 
 islands, its milldams, and its broad greenswards 
 that die at its shores. 
 
 The chateau, an old Louis Quinze structure, low 
 in reality, although made to seem high by the 
 pointed roof, had a most depressing aspect, an 
 aspect suggestive of aristocratic antiquity: broad 
 steps, balconies with rusty balustrades, old urns 
 marred by time, wherein the flowers stood out viv- 
 idly against the reddish stone. As far as the eye 
 could see, the walls stretched away, decayed and
 
 62 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 crumbling, descending gently to the stream. The 
 chateau overlooked them with its high slated roofs, 
 the farmhouse with its red tiles, and the superb 
 park with its lindens, its ash trees, its poplars, its 
 chestnuts growing confusedly together in a dense 
 black mass, cut here and there by the arched 
 openings of the paths. 
 
 But the charm of the old estate was the water, 
 the water which enlivened its silence, which gave 
 character to its beautiful views. There were at 
 Savigny, to say nothing of the river, springs, 
 fountains, ponds, in which the sun sank to rest in 
 all his glory ; and they formed a suitable setting 
 for that venerable house, green and mossy as it 
 was, and slightly worn away, like a stone on the 
 edge of a brook. 
 
 Unluckily, at Savigny, as in most of those 
 gorgeous Parisian summer palaces, which the par- 
 venus in commerce and speculation have made 
 their prey, the chatelains were not in harmony 
 with the chateau. 
 
 Since he had purchased his chateau, old Gar- 
 dinois had done nothing but mar the beauty of the 
 beautiful property chance had placed in his hands, 
 cut down trees " for the view," fill his park with 
 rough obstructions to keep out trespassers, and 
 reserve all his solicitude for a magnificent kitchen 
 garden, which, as it produced fruit and vegetables 
 in abundance, seemed to him more like his own 
 land, the peasant's land. 
 
 As for the great salons, where the panels with 
 paintings of famous subjects were fading away in
 
 The Gloiu- Worms of Saviguy. 63 
 
 the autumnal fogs, as for the ponds overrun with 
 water-lilies, the grottoes, the rock-bridges, he 
 cared for them only because of the admiration 
 of visitors, and because of such elements was 
 composed that thing which so flattered his vanity 
 as an ex-dealer in cattle, — a chateau ! 
 
 Being already advanced in years, unable to hunt 
 or fish, he passed his time superintending the 
 most trivial details of that extensive property. 
 The grain that was given the hens, the price of 
 the last load of the second crop of ha}% the num- 
 ber of bales of straw stored in a magnificent 
 circular granary, furnished him with subjects for 
 scolding for a whole day ; and certain it is that, 
 when one contemplated from a distance that lovely 
 estate of Savigny, the chateau on the hillside, the 
 river flowing at its feet like a mirror, the high ter- 
 races darkened by ivy, the supporting wall of the 
 park following the majestic slope of the ground, 
 one would never have suspected the proprietor's 
 niggardliness and meanness of spirit. 
 
 In the idleness consequent upon his wealth. 
 Monsieur Gardinois, being sadly bored at Paris, 
 lived at Savigny throughout the year, and the 
 Fromonts kept him company during the summer. 
 
 Madame Fromont was a mild, unintelligent wo- 
 man, whom her fatlier's brutal despotism had early 
 moulded to passi\'e obedience for life. She main- 
 tained the same attitude with her husband, whose 
 constant kindness and indulgence had never suc- 
 ceeded in triumphing over that humiliated, taci- 
 turn nature, indifferent to everything, and, in some
 
 64 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 sense, irresponsible. Having passed her life with 
 no knowledge of business, she had become rich 
 without knowing it and without the slightest desire 
 to take advantage of it. Her fine apartments in 
 Paris, her father's magnificent chateau, made her 
 uncomfortable. She occupied as small a place as 
 possible in both, filling her life with a single pas- 
 sion, order — a fantastic, abnormal sort of order, 
 which consisted in brushing, wiping, dusting and 
 polishing mirrors, gilding and door-knobs, with 
 her own hand, from morning till night. 
 
 When she had nothing to clean, the strange 
 creature would attack her rings, her watch chain, 
 her brooches, scrubbing the cameos and pearls, and 
 by dint of polishing the combination of her own 
 name and her husband's she had effaced all the 
 letters of both. Her fixed idea followed her to 
 Savigny. She picked up the dead wood in the 
 paths, scratched the moss from the benches with 
 the end of her umbrella, and would have liked to 
 dust the leaves and sweep down the old trees; and 
 often, in the train, she looked with envy at the 
 little villas standing in a line along the track, white 
 and clean, with their gleaming utensils, the pewter 
 ball, and the little oblong gardens, which resem- 
 ble drawers in a commode. Those were her type 
 of country-house. 
 
 Monsieur Fromont, who came only occasionally 
 and was always absorbed by his business, enjoyed 
 Savigny little more than she did. Claire alone 
 was really at home in that lovely park. She was 
 familiar with its tiniest shrub. Being obliged to
 
 The Glow- Worms of Savigny. 65 
 
 provide her own entertainment, like all only chil- 
 dren, she had become attached to certain walks, 
 watched the flowers bloom, had her favorite path, 
 her favorite tree, her favorite bench for reading. 
 The dinner-bell always surprised her far away in the 
 park. She would come to the table, out of breath 
 but happy, flushed with the fresh air. The shadow 
 of the hornbeams, by dint of stealing over that 
 youthful brow, had imprinted a sort of gentle mel- 
 ancholy there, and the deep dark green of the 
 ponds, crossed by vague beams, was reflected in 
 her eyes. 
 
 Those lovely surroundings had in very truth 
 shielded her from the vulgarity, the abjectness of 
 the persons about her. Monsieur Gardinois might 
 deplore in her presence, for hours at a time, the 
 perversity of tradesmen and servants, or make an 
 estimate of what was being stolen from him per 
 month, per week, per day, per minute ; Madame 
 Fromont might enumerate her grievances against 
 the mice, the maggots, the dust, the dampness, all 
 desperately bent upon destroying her property, 
 and engaged in a conspiracy against her ward- 
 robes ; not a word of their absurd talk remained 
 in Claire's mind. A run around the lawn, an 
 hour's reading on the river-bank restored the 
 tranquillity of that noble and intensely active 
 mind. 
 
 Her grandfather looked upon her as a strange 
 
 creature, altogether out of place in his family. As 
 
 a child she annoyed him with her great honest 
 
 eyes, her straightforwardness on all occasions, and 
 
 5
 
 66 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 also because he did not find in her a second edi- 
 tion of his own passive and submissive daughter. 
 
 "That child will be a proud chit and an original 
 like her father," he would say in his ugly moods. 
 
 How much better he liked that little Chebe girl 
 who used to come now and then and play in the 
 avenues at Savigny ! In her at least he detected 
 a nature of the common people like his own, with 
 a sprinkhng of ambition and envy, suggested even 
 in those early days by a certain little smile at the 
 corner of the mouth. Moreover, the child exhib- 
 ited an ingenuous amazement and admiration in 
 presence of his wealth, which flattered his parvenu 
 pride ; and sometimes, when he teased her, she 
 would break out with the droll phrases of a Paris 
 gamin, phrases redolent of the faubourgs, seasoned 
 by her pretty, piquant face, inclined to pallor, 
 which not even triviality could deprive of its dis- 
 tinction. So the goodman had never forgotten her. 
 
 On this occasion above all, when Sidonie arrived 
 at Savigny after her long absence, with her fluffy 
 hair, her graceful figure, her wide-awake, mobile 
 face, the whole heightened by mannerisms smack- 
 ing somewhat of the shop-girl, she produced a 
 decided effect. Old Gardinois, wondering greatly 
 to see a tall young woman in place of the child 
 he was expecting to see, considered her prettier 
 and, above all, better dressed than Claire. 
 
 It was a fact that, when Mademoiselle Chebe had 
 left the train and was seated in the great caleche 
 from the chateau, she did not make a bad appear- 
 ance ; but she lacked those things that constituted
 
 The Glow- Worms of Savigny. 67 
 
 her friend's chief beauty and charm — the carriage, 
 the contempt for poses, and, more than all else, 
 the mental tranquillity. Her prettiness was not 
 unlike her dresses, of inexpensive materials, but 
 cut according to the style of the day — rags, if you 
 will, but rags of which fashion, that ridiculous but 
 charming fairy, had regulated the color, the trim- 
 ming and the shape. Paris has pretty faces made 
 expressly for costumes of that sort, very easy to 
 dress becomingly, for the very reason that they 
 are of no type, and Mademoiselle Sidonie's was 
 one of those faces. 
 
 What bliss was hers when the carriage entered 
 the long avenue, bordered with velvety grass and 
 primeval elms, and at the end Savigny awaiting 
 her with its great gate wide open. From that 
 day she led the enchanted life of which she had 
 dreamed so long. Luxury was before her in all 
 its forms, from the magnificent salons, from the 
 high-studded sleeping apartments, from the splen- 
 dor of the greenhouses and stables, down to those 
 petty details in which everything seems to be con- 
 densed, like those exquisite perfumes of which a 
 single drop is sufficient to permeate a whole 
 room, the bunches of flowers strewn over the 
 table-cloth, the dignified bearing of the servants, 
 the doleful and languid "Order the carriage" of 
 Madame Fromont. 
 
 And how thoroughly at ease she felt amid all 
 those refinements of wealth ! How perfectly that 
 sort of life suited her ! It seemed to her that she 
 had never known any other.
 
 68 Frornont and Risler. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of her intoxication, ar- 
 rived a letter from Frantz, which brought her 
 back to the realities of her life, to her wretched 
 fate as the future wife of a government clerk, 
 which transported her, whether she would or no, 
 to the mean little apartment they would occupy 
 some day at the top of some dismal house, 
 whose heavy atmosphere, dense with privation, 
 she seemed already to breathe. 
 
 Should she break her engagement? 
 
 She certainly could do it, as she had given no 
 other pledge than her word. But when he had 
 left her, who could say that she would not wish 
 him back? 
 
 In that little brain, turned by ambition, the 
 strangest ideas jostled one another. Sometimes, 
 while grandfather Gardinois, who had laid aside 
 in her honor his old-fashioned hunting jackets 
 and swanskin waistcoats, was jesting with her, 
 amusing himself by contradicting her in order to 
 draw out a sharp retort, she would gaze stead- 
 fastly, coldly into his eyes, without replying. 
 Ah ! if only he were ten years younger ! But 
 the thought of becoming Madame Gardinois did 
 not long occupy her. A new personage, a new 
 hope came into her hfe. 
 
 After Sidonie's arrival, Georges Fromont, who 
 was hardly seen at Savigny except on Sundays, 
 adopted the habit of coming to dinner almost 
 every day. 
 
 He was a tall, slender, pale youth, of refined 
 bearing. Having no father or mother, he had
 
 The Glow-JVornis of Savigny. 69 
 
 been brought up by his uncle, Monsieur Fre- 
 mont, and was looked to by him to succeed him 
 in business, and probably to become Claire's hus- 
 band as well. That ready-made future did not 
 arouse his enthusiasm. In the first place busi- 
 ness bored him. As for his cousin, thc-e existed 
 between them the intimate good-fellowship of an 
 education in common, and mutual confidence, but 
 nothing more, at least on his side. 
 
 With Sidonie, on the contrary, he was exceed- 
 ingly embarrassed and shy, and at the same time 
 desirous of producing an effect, — a totally differ- 
 ent man, in short. She had just the spurious 
 charm, a little free, which was calculated to at- 
 tract that coxcombish nature, and it was not long 
 before she discovered the impression that she pro- 
 duced upon him. 
 
 When the two girls were walking together in the 
 park, it was always Sidonie who remembered that 
 it was time for the train from Paris. They would 
 go together to the gate to meet the travellers, and 
 Georges's first glance was always for Mademoiselle 
 Chcbc, who remained a little behind her friend, 
 but with the poses and airs that go half-way to 
 meet the eyes. That manoeuvring between them 
 lasted some time. They did not mention love, but 
 all the words, all the smiles they exchanged were 
 full of unspoken avowals. 
 
 One cloudy and lowering summer evening, when 
 the two friends had left the table as soon as din- 
 ner was at an end and were walking in the long 
 tree-lined avenue, Georges joined them. They
 
 70 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 were talking upon indifferent subjects, crunching 
 the gravel beneath their lagging footsteps, when 
 Madame Fromont's voice called Claire from the 
 chateau. Georges and Sidonie were left alone. 
 They continued to walk along the avenue, guided 
 by the uncertain whiteness of the gravel, without 
 speaking or drawing nearer to each other. 
 
 A warm wind rustled among the leaves. The 
 ruffled surface of the pond lapped softly against 
 the arches of the little bridge ; and the blossoms 
 of the acacias and lindens, detached by the breeze, 
 whirled about in circles, perfuming the electricity- 
 laden air. They felt as if they were surrounded by 
 an atmosphere of storm, vibrant and penetrating. 
 Dazzling flashes of heat passed before their troubled 
 eyes, like those that played along the horizon. 
 
 " Oh ! what lovely glow-worms ! " exclaimed the 
 girl, embarrassed by the oppressive silence broken 
 by so many mysterious sounds. 
 
 On the edge of the greensward a blade of grass 
 here and there was illuminated by a tiny green 
 flickering light. She stooped to take one on her 
 glove. He knelt close beside her ; and as they 
 leaned down to the level of the grass, their hair 
 and cheeks touching, they gazed at each other for 
 a moment by the light of the glow-worms. How 
 weird and fascinating she seemed to him in that 
 green light, which shone upon her face and died 
 away in the fine network of her waving hair ! He 
 had put his arm about her waist, and suddenly, 
 feeling that she abandoned herself to him, he 
 clasped her in a long passionate embrace. j
 
 The Glow- Worms of Savigiiy. 71 
 
 "What arc you looking for?" asked Claire, 
 standing in the shadow behind them. 
 
 Taken by surprise, with a choking sensation in his 
 throat, Georges trembled so that he could not reply. 
 Sidonie, on the other hand, rose with the utmost 
 calmness, and said as she smoothed her skirt: 
 
 " It 's the glow-worms. See how many of them 
 there are to-night. And how they sparkle." 
 
 Her eyes also sparkled with extraordinary 
 brilliancy. 
 
 "It's the storm, I suppose," murmured Georges, 
 still trembling. 
 
 The storm was close at hand. At brief intervals 
 great clouds of leaves and dust whirled from one 
 end of the avenue to the other. They walked on 
 a few steps, then all three returned to the salon. 
 The young women took their work, Georges tried 
 to read a newspaper, while Madame Fromont 
 polished her rings and Monsieur Gardinois and his 
 son-in-law played billiards in the adjoining room. 
 
 How long that evening seemed to Sidonie ! She 
 had but one wish, to be alone, alone with her 
 thoughts. 
 
 But, in the silence of her little bed-room, when 
 she had blown out the light, which interferes with 
 dreams by casting too bright a light upon the real- 
 ity, what schemes, what transports of delight ! 
 Georges loved her, Georges Fromont, the heir of 
 the factory. They would marry; she would be 
 rich. For, in that merccnar)- little heart the first 
 kiss of love had awakened no ideas save those of 
 ambition and a life of luxury.
 
 72 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 To assure herself that her lover was sincere, she 
 tried to recall the scene under the trees to its most 
 trifling details, the expression of his eyes, the ardor 
 of his embrace, the oaths uttered brokenly, mouth 
 to mouth, in that vaporous light shed by the 
 glow-worms, which one solemn moment had estab- 
 lished forever in her heart. 
 
 Oh ! the glow-worms of Savigny ! 
 
 All night long they twinkled like stars before her 
 closed eyes. The park was full of them, to the 
 farthest limits of its darkest paths. There were 
 clusters of them all along the lawns, on the trees, 
 in the shrubbery. The fine gravel of the avenues, 
 the waves of the river, emitted green sparks, and all 
 those microscopic flashes formed a sort of holiday 
 illumination in which Savigny seemed to be en- 
 veloped in her honor, to celebrate the betrothal of 
 Georges and Sidonie. 
 
 When she rose the next day, her plan was 
 formed. Georges loved her; that was certain. 
 Did he think of marrying her? She had a suspi- 
 cion that he did not, the shrewd minx ! But that 
 did not frighten her. She felt strong enough to 
 triumph over that childish nature, at once weak 
 and passionate. She had only to resist him, and 
 that is what she did. 
 
 For some days she was cold and indifferent, wil- 
 fully blind and devoid of memory. He tried to 
 speak to her, to renew the blissful moment, but 
 she avoided him, always placing someone between 
 them. 
 
 Then he wrote.
 
 The Glow-Worms of Savigny. 73 
 
 He carried his letters himself to a hollow in the 
 rock near a clear spring called the " Phantom," 
 which was in the outskirts of the park, sheltered 
 by a thatched roof. Sidonie considered that a 
 charming episode. In the evening she must in- 
 vent some falsehood, a pretext of some sort for 
 going to the " Phantom " all alone. The shadow 
 of the trees across the path, the awesomencss of 
 the night, the rapid walk, the excitement, made her 
 heart beat deliciously. She would find the letter 
 saturated with dew, with the intense cold of the 
 spring, and so white in the moonlight that she 
 would quickly hide it for fear of being surprised. 
 
 And then, when she was alone, what joy to open 
 it, to decipher those magic characters, those words 
 of love w'hich swam before her eyes, surrounded 
 by dazzling blue and yellow circles, as if she were 
 reading her letter in the bright sunlight. 
 
 " I love you. Love me " — wrote Georges in 
 every conceivable form. 
 
 At first she did not reply ; but when she felt that 
 he was fairly caught, wholly in the toils, she de- 
 clared herself concisely : 
 
 " I will love no one but my husband." 
 
 Ah ! she was a true woman already, was little 
 Chebe.
 
 74 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 V. 
 
 HOW LITTLE CH^BE'S STORY ENDED. 
 
 Meanwhile September arrived. 
 
 The hunting season brought together a large, 
 noisy, vulgar party at the chateau. There w^ere 
 long repasts at which the wealthy bourgeois lin- 
 gered slothfully and wearily, prone to fall asleep 
 like peasants. They went in carriages to meet the 
 returning hunters in the cool air of the autumn 
 twilight. The mist arose from the fields, from 
 which the crops had been gathered ; and while the 
 frightened game skimmed along the stubble with 
 plaintive cries, the darkness seemed to emerge 
 from the forests whose dark masses increased in 
 size, spreading out over the fields. 
 
 The caleche lamps were lighted, the hoods 
 raised, and they drove quickly homeward with the 
 fresh air blowing in their faces. The dining-hall, 
 brilliantly illuminated, was filled with gayety and 
 laughter. 
 
 Claire Fromont, embarrassed by the vulgarity 
 of those about her, hardly spoke at all. Sidonie 
 shone her brightest. The ride had given anima- 
 tion to her pale complexion and Parisian eyes. 
 She knew how to laugh, understood a little too
 
 Holu Lit lie C/iC'jcs Slory Ended. 75 
 
 much, perhaps, and seemed to the guests the only 
 woman in the party. Her success completed 
 Georgcs's intoxication; but as his advances be- 
 came more pronounced, she showed more and 
 more reserve. Thereupon he determined that she 
 should be his wife. He swore it to himself, with 
 the exaggerated emphasis of weak characters, who 
 seem always to combat beforehand the difficulties 
 to which they know that they will yield some day. 
 
 It was the happiest moment of little Chebe's 
 life. Even aside from any ambitious project, her 
 coquettish, false nature found a strange fascination 
 in this love intrigue, mysteriously carried on amid 
 banquets and merrymakings. 
 
 No one about them suspected anything. Claire 
 was at that healthy and delightful period of youth 
 when the mind, partly open, clings to the things 
 it knows with blind confidence, in utter ignorance 
 of treachery and falsehood. Monsieur Fromont 
 thought of nothing but his business. His wife 
 cleaned her jewels with frenzied energy. Only 
 old Gardinois and his little gimlet-like eyes were 
 to be feared ; but Sidonie entertained him, and 
 even if he had discovered anything, he was not 
 the man to interfere with her future. 
 
 Her hour of triumph was at hand, when a 
 sudden, unforeseen disaster blasted her hopes. 
 
 One Sunday morning Monsieur Fromont was 
 brought back mortally wounded from a hunting 
 expedition. A bullet intended for a deer had 
 pierced his temple. The chateau was turned 
 topsy-turvy.
 
 76 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 All the hunters, among them the unknown 
 bungler, started in haste for Paris. Claire, wild 
 with grief, entered the room where her father lay 
 on his death-bed, there to remain ; and Risler, 
 being advised of the catastrophe, came to take 
 Sidonie home. 
 
 On the night before her departure she had a 
 final meeting with Georges at the "Phantom," — 
 a farewell meeting, painful and stealthy, and made 
 solemn by the proximity of death. They swore, 
 however, to love each other always ; they agreed 
 upon a method of writing to each other. And 
 they parted. 
 
 It was a doleful journey home. 
 
 She returned abruptly to her everyday life, 
 escorted by the despairing grief of Risler, to whom 
 his dear master's death was an irreparable loss. 
 On her arrival, she must needs describe her visit 
 to the smallest detail ; discuss the inmates of the 
 chateau, the guests, the parties, the dinners, and 
 the final catastrophe. What torture for her, when, 
 absorbed as she was by a single, never-varying 
 thought, she had so much need of silence and 
 solitude ! But there was something even more 
 terrible than that. 
 
 On the first day after her return Frantz resumed 
 his former place ; and the glances with which he 
 followed her, the words he addressed to her alone, 
 seemed to her unreasonable beyond endurance. 
 
 Despite all his shyness and distrust of himself, 
 the poor fellow believed that he had some rights 
 as an accepted and impatient lover, and little
 
 How Little Cliches Story Ended 'jy 
 
 Chcbc was obliged to emerge from her dreams to 
 reply to that creditor, and to postpone once more 
 the maturity of his claim. 
 
 There came a day, however, when indecision 
 ceased to be possible. 
 
 She had promised to marry Frantz when he had 
 a position ; and now he was offered an engineer's 
 berth in the South, at the smelting furnaces of 
 Grand' Combe. That was sufficient for the support 
 of a modest establishment. 
 
 There was no way of avoiding the question. 
 
 She must either hold to her promise or invent 
 an excuse for breaking it. But what excuse could 
 she invent? 
 
 In that pressing emergency, she thought of De- 
 sirtfe. Although the little lame girl had never 
 confided in her, she knew her great love for Frantz. 
 Long ago she had detected it, with her coquette's 
 eyes, bright and changing mirrors, which reflected 
 all the thoughts of others without betraying any 
 of her own. It may be that the thought that 
 another woman loved her betrothed had made 
 Frantz's love more tolerable to her at first; and, 
 just as we place statues on tombstones to make 
 them less sad, Dcsirce's pretty little pale face at 
 the threshold of that uninviting future had made it 
 seem less forbidding to her. 
 
 Now it provided her with a simple and honor- 
 able pretext for freeing herself from her promise. 
 
 "No ! I tell you, mamma," she said to Madame 
 Chebe one day, " I will never consent to make a 
 friend like her unhappy. I should suffer too much
 
 78 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 from remorse, — poor Desiree ! Have n't you no- 
 ticed how badly she looks since I came home ; 
 what an imploring way she has of looking at me? 
 No, I won't cause her that sorrow ; I won't take 
 away her Frantz." 
 
 Even while she admired her daughter's generous 
 spirit, Madame Chebe looked upon that as rather 
 an exaggerated sacrifice, and remonstrated with 
 her, 
 
 "Take care, my child; we ain't rich. A hus- 
 band like Frantz don't turn up every day." 
 
 " Very well ! then I won't marry at all," declared 
 Sidonie flatly, and, deeming her pretext an excel- 
 lent one, she clung persistently to it. Nothing 
 could shake her determination, neither the tears 
 shed by Frantz, who was exasperated by her 
 refusal to fulfil her promise, enveloped as it was 
 in vague reasons which she would not even explain 
 to him, nor the entreaties of Risler, in whose ear 
 Madame Chebe had mysteriously mumbled her 
 daughter's reasons, and who, in spite of everything 
 could not but admire such a sacrifice. 
 
 " Don't accuse her, I tell you ! She 's an anchel! " 
 he said to his brother, striving to soothe him. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, she is an angel," assented Madame 
 Chebe with a sigh, so that the poor betrayed lover 
 had not even the right to complain. Driven to 
 desperation, he determined to leave Paris, and as 
 Grand' Combe seemed too near in his frenzied 
 longing for flight, he asked and obtained an ap- 
 pointment as overseer on the Suez Canal at Ismailia. 
 He went away without knowing or caring to know
 
 How Little Cliebes Story Ended 79 
 
 aught of Dcsirce's love ; and yet, when he went 
 to bid her farewell, the dear little cripple looked 
 up into his face with her pretty, bashful eyes, in 
 which were plainly written the words : 
 
 "I love you, if she does not." 
 
 But Frantz Rislcr did not know how to read 
 what was written in those eyes. 
 
 Happily the hearts that are accustomed to suffer 
 have an infinite store of patience. When her 
 friend had gone, the lame girl, with her charming 
 morsel of illusion, inherited from her father and 
 refined by her woman's nature, returned bravely 
 to her work, saying to herself: 
 
 " I will wait for him." 
 
 And thereafter she spread the wings of her birds 
 to their fullest extent, as if they were all going, one 
 after another, to Ismailia in Egypt. And that was 
 a long distance ! 
 
 Before sailing from Marseilles, young Risler wrote 
 Sidonie a farewell letter, at once laughable and 
 touching, wherein, mingling the most technic.l 
 details with the most heartrending adieux, the 
 unhappy engineer declared that he was 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 so considerable a capacity would 
 make an impression on his ungrateful betrothed, 
 and cause her never-ending remorse. But Sidonie 
 had very different matters in her head. 
 
 She was beginning to be disturbed by Georgcs's 
 silence. Since she left Savigny she had heard
 
 8o Fromont and Risler. 
 
 from him once, and that was all. All her letters 
 were left unanswered. To be sure, she knew 
 through Risler that Georges was very busy, and 
 that his uncle's death, devolving the management 
 of the factory upon him as it did, had imposed 
 upon him a responsibility that was beyond his 
 strength. But to leave her without a word ! 
 
 From the window on the landing, where she had 
 resumed her silent observations, for she had so 
 arranged matters as not to return to Mademoiselle 
 Le Mire, little Chebe tried to distinguish her lover, 
 watched him as he went back and forth across the 
 yards and among the buildings, and in the after- 
 noon, when it was time for the train to start for 
 Savigny, saw him enter his carriage to go to his 
 aunt and cousin, who were passing the early months 
 of their period of mourning at the grandfather's 
 chateau in the country. 
 
 All this excited and alarmed her ; and the prox- 
 imity of the factory rendered Georges's avoidance 
 of her even more apparent. To think that by 
 raising her voice a little she could make him turn 
 to where she stood ! To think that they were sepa- 
 rated only by a wall ! And yet, at that moment 
 they were very far apart. 
 
 Do you remember, little Chebe, that unhappy 
 winter evening when the excellent Risler rushed 
 into your parents' room with an extraordinary 
 expression of countenance, exclaiming: " Great 
 news ! " 
 
 Great news, indeed. 
 
 Georges Fromont had just informed him that,
 
 How Little CJiebcs Stojy Ended 8i 
 
 in accordance with his uncle's last wishes, he was 
 to marry his cousin Claire, and that, as he was 
 certainly unequal to the task of carrying on the 
 business alone, he had resolved to take him, Risler 
 for a partner, under the firm name of Fromont 
 Jeune and Risler AL\e. 
 
 How did you succeed, little Chcbe, in maintain- 
 ing your self-possession when you learned that the 
 factory had eluded your grasp and that another 
 woman had taken your place? What a terrible 
 evening ! — Madame Chcbe sat by the table mend- 
 ing. Monsieur Chebe before the fire drying his 
 clothes, which were wet through by his having 
 walked a long distance in the rain. Oh ! that 
 wretched room, overflowing with gloom and ennui ! 
 The lamp gave a dim light. The evening meal, 
 hastily prepared, had left in the room the odor 
 of the poor man's kitchen. And Risler, drunken 
 with joy, talking with increasing animation and 
 laying plans ! 
 
 All these things tore your heart, mad.e the 
 treachery still more horrible by the contrast be- 
 tween the riches that eluded your outstretched 
 hand and the ignoble mediocrity in which you 
 were doomed to pass your life. 
 
 She was seriously ill and for a long while. 
 
 As she lay in bed, whenever the window panes 
 rattled behind the curtains, the unhappy creature 
 fancied that Georges's wedding carriages were driv- 
 ing through the street; and she had paroxysms of 
 nervous excitement, without words and inexplica- 
 ble, as if a fever of wrath were consuming her. 
 6
 
 82 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 At last, time and youthful strength, her mother's 
 care, and, more than all, the attentions of Desiree, 
 who now knew of the sacrifice she had made for 
 her, triumphed over the disease. But for a long 
 while Sidonie was very weak, oppressed by a 
 deadly melancholy, by a constant longing to weep, 
 which played havoc with her nervous system. 
 
 Sometimes she talked of travelling, of leaving 
 Paris. At other times she insisted that she must 
 enter a convent. Her friends were sorely per- 
 plexed and strove to discover the cause of that 
 singular state of mind, which was even more alarm- 
 ing than her illness ; when she suddenly confessed 
 to her mother the secret of her melancholy. 
 
 She loved the elder Risler. She had never 
 dared to whisper it ; but it was he whom she had 
 always loved and not Frantz. 
 
 That news was a surprise to everybody, to Risler 
 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 fond of her 
 as a fool ! Indeed it may be that that love had 
 lain in his heart for a long time without his 
 realizing it. 
 
 And that is how it happened that, on the even- 
 ing of her wedding-day, young Madame Risler, in 
 her white wedding-dress, gazed with a smile of 
 triumph at the window on the landing which had 
 been the narrow setting of ten years of her life. 
 That haughty smile, in which there was a touch 
 of profound pity and of scorn as well, such scorn 
 as a parvenu can feel for his poor beginnings, was
 
 How Little CJicbcs Story Ended 83 
 
 evidently addressed to the poor sickly child whom 
 she fancied that she saw up at that window, in the 
 depths of the past and the darkness, and seemed 
 to say to her, pointing to the factory : 
 
 "What do you say to this, little Chebe? I am 
 here now, you see ! "
 
 84 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 MY WIFE'S RECEPTION DAY. 
 
 Noon. The Marais is breakfasting. 
 
 With the booming notes of the angelus from 
 Saint-Paul, Saint-Gervais and Saint-Denis du Saint- 
 Sacrament, is mingled the shrill jangle of the fac- 
 tory bells, floating up from the yards. Each of 
 those jangling bells has its own distinctive char- 
 acter. Some are melancholy and some gay, some 
 sprightly and some sluggish. There are rich, happy 
 bells, ringing for hundreds of workmen; there are 
 poor, shrinking bells, which seem to hide behind 
 the others and to make as little noise as possible, 
 as if they feared that bankruptcy might hear them. 
 And then there are the lying, insolent bells, those 
 that ring for the outer world, for the street, to 
 make people think that they belong to large 
 establishments and have many people in their 
 charge. 
 
 Thank God, the bell on the Fromont factory is 
 not one of that kind. It is an honest old bell, a 
 little cracked, well-known in the Marais for forty
 
 My Wifcs Recepiio7i Day. 85 
 
 years past, a bell that has never failed to ring 
 except on holidays and days of ^meutcs. 
 
 At its voice a whole colony of workmen files 
 through the gateway of the former mansion-house 
 and vanishes in the neighboring wineshops. The 
 apprentices sit down on the edge of the sidewalk 
 with the masons. To make sure of half an hour 
 for amusement, they breakfast in five minutes on 
 such things as vagrants and paupers eat in Paris, 
 chestnuts, walnuts, and apples, while the masons 
 beside them attack great loaves of bread, white 
 with flour and plaster. The women are in a hurry 
 and run away from the works. They all have, at 
 home or at the shelter, a child to care for or an 
 aged parent, or housekeeping duties to attend to. 
 Suffocated by the air of the workshops, swollen- 
 eyed, their hair made dingy by the dust from the 
 velvet papers, a fine powder which makes one 
 cough, they hurry along, basket on arm, through 
 the crowded street, where the omnibuses make 
 their way with difficulty through the throngs of 
 people. 
 
 Sitting near the door, on a stone which once 
 served as a horse-block for equestrians, Risler 
 watches with a smile the exit from the factory. 
 He never loses his enjoyment of the outspoken 
 esteem of all these good people whom he knew 
 when he was insignificant and humble like them- 
 selves. The " Good-day, Monsieur Risler," uttered 
 by so many different voices, all in the same affec- 
 tionate tone, makes his heart warm. The children 
 accost him without fear, the long-bearded designers,
 
 S6 F7^07nont and Risler. 
 
 half-workmen, half-artists, shake hands with him as 
 they pass, and address him familiarly as " thou." 
 Perhaps there is a little too much familiarity in 
 all this, for the worthy man has not yet begun to 
 realize the prestige and authority of his new posi- 
 tion ; and I know someone who considers this 
 free-and-easy manner very humiliating. But that 
 someone cannot see him at this moment, and the 
 master takes advantage of the fact to bestow a 
 hearty greeting upon the old book-keeper, Sigis- 
 mond, who comes out last of all, erect and red- 
 faced, imprisoned in a high collar, and bareheaded 
 — whatever the weather — for fear of apoplexy. 
 
 He and Risler are fellow-countrymen. They 
 have for each other a deep-seated esteem, dating 
 from their first employment at the factory, from 
 the time, long, long ago, when they breakfasted 
 together at the little creamery on the corner, to 
 which Sigismond Planus goes alone now and selects 
 his refreshment for the day from the slate hanging 
 on the wall. 
 
 But stand aside ! Fromont Jeune's carriage 
 drives through the gateway. He has been out on 
 business all the morning ; and the partners as they 
 walk toward the pretty little house in which they 
 both live at the end of the garden, discuss matters 
 of business in a friendly way. 
 
 " I have been to Prochasson's," says Fromont. 
 " They showed me some new patterns, pretty ones 
 too, on my word ! We must be on our guard. 
 They are dangerous rivals." 
 
 But Risler is not at all anxious. He is strong
 
 My Wifcs Reception Day. Sy 
 
 in his talent, his experience; and then — but this 
 is strictly confidential — he is on the track of a 
 wonderful invention, an improved printing-press, 
 something that — but we shall see. Still talking, 
 they enter the garden, .which is as carefully kept 
 as a public park, with round-topped acacias almost 
 as old as the buildings, and magnificent ivies that 
 hide the high, black walls. 
 
 Beside Fromont Jeunc, Rislcr Aine has the 
 appearance of a clerk making his report to his 
 employer. At every step he stops to speak, for 
 his gait is heavy, his mind works slowly, and words 
 have much difficulty in finding their way to his 
 lips. Oh ! if he could see the little flushed face 
 up yonder, behind the window on the second floor, 
 watching everything so attentively ! 
 
 Madame Risler is waiting for her husband to 
 come to breakfast, and waxes impatient over the 
 goodman's moderation. She motions to him with 
 her hand : " Come, come ! " But Risler docs not 
 notice it. His attention is engrossed by the little 
 Fromont, daughter of Claire and Georges, who is 
 taking a sun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her 
 lace in her nurse's arms. How pretty she is ! — 
 " She is your very picture, Madame Chorche." 
 
 "Do you think so, my dear Risler? Why 
 everybody says she looks like her father." 
 
 " Yes, a little. But — " 
 
 And there they all stand, the father and mother, 
 Risler and the nurse, gravely seeking resemblances 
 in that miniature model of a human being, who 
 stares at them out of her little eyes, blinking with
 
 88 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 the noise and glare. Sidonie at her open window 
 leans out to see what they are doing, and why her 
 husband does not come up. 
 
 At that moment Risler has taken the tiny 
 creature in his arms, the whole fascinating bundle 
 of white clothes and light ribbons, and is trying to 
 make it laugh and crow with baby-talk and 
 gestures worthy of a grandfather. How old he 
 looks, poor man ! His tall body, which he con- 
 torts for the child's amusement, his hoarse voice, 
 which becomes a low growl when he tries to 
 soften it, are shameful and ridiculous. 
 
 Up above, the wife taps the floor with her foot 
 and mutters between her teeth : 
 
 "The idiot! " 
 
 At last, weary of waiting, she sends a servant to 
 tell monsieur that breakfast is served ; but the game 
 is so far advanced that monsieur does not see how 
 he can go away, how he can interrupt those 
 explosions of laughter and little bird-like cries. 
 He succeeds at last, however, in giving the child 
 back to its nurse, and escapes into the hall, laugh- 
 ing with all his heart. He is laughing still when he 
 enters the dining-room ; but a glance from his wife 
 stops him short. 
 
 Sidonie is seated at table before the chafing- 
 dish, already filled. Her martyr-like attitude sug- 
 gests a determination to be ugly. 
 
 " Oh ! there you are. It 's very lucky ! " 
 
 Risler took his seat, a little ashamed. 
 
 " What would you have, m.y love? That child is 
 so — "
 
 My Wi/cs Reception Day. 89 
 
 " I have asked you before not to speak to me in 
 that way. It is n't good form between us." 
 
 " What, not when we 're alone? " 
 
 " Bah ! you will never learn to adapt yourself to 
 our new fortune. And what's the result? No 
 one in this place treats me with any respect. 
 Pere Achille hardly touches his hat to me when I 
 pass his lodge. To be sure, I 'm not a Fromont, 
 and I have n't a carriage." 
 
 " Come, come, little one, you know perfectly 
 well that you can use Madame Chorche's coupe. 
 She always puts it at our disposal." 
 
 " How many times must I tell you that I don't 
 choose to be under any obligations to that 
 woman? " 
 
 "Oh! Sidonie — " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know, it 's all understood. Madame 
 Fromont is the good Lord himself Everyone is 
 forbidden to touch her. And I must make up my 
 mind to be a nobody in my own house, to allow 
 myself to be humiliated, trampled under foot." 
 
 " Come, come, little one — " 
 
 Poor Risler tries to interpose, to say a word in 
 favor of his dear Madame Chorche. But he has 
 no tact. That is the worst possible method of 
 effecting a reconciliation; and Sidonie at once 
 bursts forth : 
 
 " I tell you that that woman, with all her calm 
 airs, is proud and spiteful. In the first place, she 
 detests me, I know that. So long as I was poor 
 little Sidonie and she could toss me her broken 
 dolls and old dresses, it was all right; but now
 
 90 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 that I am my own mistress as well as she, it vexes 
 her and humiliates her. Madame gives me advice 
 with a lofty air, and criticises my ways. I did 
 wrong to have a maid. Of course ! Was n't I in 
 the habit of waiting on myself ? She never loses a 
 chance to wound me. When I call on her on 
 Wednesdays, you ought to hear the tone in which 
 she asks me, right before everybody, how ' dear 
 Madame Chebe ' is. — Oh ! yes. I 'm a Chebe and 
 she 's a Fromont. One 's as good as the other, in 
 my opinion. My grandfather was a druggist. 
 What was hers? A peasant who got rich by 
 money-lending. Oh ! I '11 tell her so one of these 
 days, if she shows me too much of her pride; 
 and I '11 tell her too that their little brat, although 
 they don't suspect it, looks just like that old 
 Pere Gardinois, and God knows he is n't hand- 
 some." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaims Risler, unable to find words to 
 reply to her. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, pardi! I advise you to admire their 
 child. She 's always sick. She cries all night like 
 a little cat. It keeps me awake. And afterward, 
 through the day, I have mamma's piano and her 
 scales — tra la la la. If it was only music worth 
 listening to ! " 
 
 Risler has taken the wisest course. He does 
 not say a word until he sees that she is beginning 
 to calm down a little, when he completes the 
 soothing process with compliments. 
 
 " How pretty we are to-day ! Are we going out 
 soon to make some calls, eh ? "
 
 My Wifes Reception Day, 91 
 
 He resorts to this mode of address to avoid the 
 more familiar form, which is so offensive to her. 
 
 " No, I am not going to make calls," Sidonie re- 
 plies with a certain pride, " On the other hand, I 
 expect 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 Fromont 
 has one ; I can have one also, I fancy." 
 
 " Of course, of course," said honest Risler, 
 looking about with some little uneasiness. " So 
 that 's why I saw so many flowers everywhere, on 
 the landing, in the salon." 
 
 " Yes, my maid went down to the garden this 
 morning. Did I do wrong? Oh ! you don't say 
 so, but I 'm sure you think I did wrong. Dame! 
 I thought the flowers in the garden belonged to us 
 as much as to them." 
 
 " Certainly they do — but you — it would have 
 been better perhaps — " 
 
 "To ask leave? That's it — to humble myself 
 again for a few paltry chrysanthemums and two or 
 three bits of green. Besides, I did n't make any 
 secret of taking the flowers ; and when she conies 
 up a little later — " 
 
 " Is she coming? Ah ! that 's very nice of her." 
 
 Sidonie turned upon him indignantly. 
 
 "Whai's that? Nice of her? Upon my word, 
 if she don't come, that would be the last straw. 
 When I go every Wednesday to be bored to death 
 in her salon with a crowd of affected, simpering 
 women."
 
 92 Fromo7it and Risler. 
 
 She did not say that those same Wednesdays of 
 Madame Fromont's were of great service to her, 
 that they were hke a weekly journal of fashions, 
 one of those composite little publications in which 
 you are told how to enter and leave a room, how to 
 bow, how to place flowers in a jardiniere, and cigars 
 in a case, to say nothing of the engravings, the 
 procession of graceful, faultlessly attired men and 
 women, and the names of the best dressmakers. 
 Nor did Sidonie say that she had entreated all 
 those friends of Claire's, of whom she spoke so 
 scornfully, to come and see her on her day, and 
 that the day was selected by them. 
 
 Will they come? Will Madame Fromont Jeune 
 insult Madame Risler Aine, by absenting herself 
 on her first Friday? The thought makes her 
 almost feverish with anxiety. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, hurry," she says again and 
 again. " Good God ! how long you are at your 
 breakfast ! " 
 
 It is a fact that it is one of honest Risler's whims 
 to eat slowly and to light his pipe at the table while 
 he sips his coffee. To-day he must renounce these 
 cherished habits, must leave the pipe in its case 
 because of the smoke, and, as soon as he has 
 swallowed the last mouthful, run hastily and 
 dress, for his wife insists that he must come up 
 during the afternoon and pay his respects to the 
 ladies. 
 
 What a sensation in the factory when they see 
 Risler Ain6 come in, on a week-day, in a black 
 frock-coat and dress cravat !
 
 My IVifes Reception Day. 93 
 
 "Are you going to a wedding, pray?" cries 
 Sigismond, the cashier, from behind his grating. 
 
 And Risler, not without a fceHng of pride, 
 repHes : 
 
 " It is my wife's reception day ! " 
 
 Soon everybody in the place knows that it is 
 Sidonic's day; and Pcre Achille, who takes care of 
 the garden, is not very well pleased to find that the 
 branches of the winter laurels by the gate are 
 broken. 
 
 Before taking his seat at the table upon which 
 he draws, in the bright light from the high windows, 
 Risler has taken off his fine frock coat, which em- 
 barrasses him, and has turned up his clean shirt 
 sleeves; but the idea that his wife is expecting 
 company preoccupies and disturbs him; and from 
 time to time he puts on his coat and goes up to 
 her. 
 
 " Has no one come? " he asks timidly. 
 
 "No, monsieur, no one." 
 
 In the beautiful red salon — for they have a salon 
 in red damask, with a console between the windows 
 and a pretty table in the centre of the light-flow- 
 ered carpet — Sidonie has established herself in the 
 attitude of a woman holding a reception, a circle 
 of chairs of all sorts around her. Here and there 
 are books, reviews, a little work-basket in the shape 
 of a game-bag, with silk tassels, a bunch of violets 
 in a glass vase, and green plants in the jardinieres. 
 Everything is arranged exactly as in the Fromonts' 
 apartments on the floor below; but the taste, that 
 invisible line which separates the distinguished
 
 94 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 from the vulgar, is not yet refined. You would say 
 it was a passable copy of a pretty genre picture. 
 The hostess's dress, even, is too new; she looks 
 more as if she were making a call than as if she 
 were at home. In Risler's eyes everything is 
 superb, beyond reproach ; he is preparing to say as 
 much as he enters the salon, but, in face of his 
 wife's wrathful glance, he checks himself in terror. 
 
 " You see, it 's four o'clock," she says, pointing 
 to the clock with an angry gesture. " No one 
 will come. But I take it especially ill of Claire 
 not to come up. She 's at home — I am sure of it 
 — I can hear her." 
 
 Indeed, ever since noon, Sidonie has listened 
 intently to the slightest sounds on the floor below, 
 the child's crying, the closing of doors. Risler 
 attempts to go down again in order to avoid a re- 
 newal of the conversation at breakfast; but his 
 wife will not have it so. The very least he can do 
 is to stay with her when everybody else abandons 
 her, and so he remains there, at a loss what to say, 
 rooted to the spot, like those people who dare not 
 move during a storm for fear of attracting the light- 
 ning. Sidonie moves excitedly about, going in 
 and out of the salon, changing the position of a 
 chair, changing it back again, looking at herself 
 as she passes the mirror, and ringing for her maid 
 to send her to ask Pere Achille if no one has in- 
 quired for her. That Pere Achille is such a spite- 
 ful creature ! Perhaps when people have come, he 
 has said that she was out. 
 
 But no, the concierge has not seen anyone.
 
 My Wifes Recepiioii Day. 95 
 
 Silence and consternation. Sidonic is standing 
 at the window on the left, Risler at the one on the 
 right. From there they can see the little garden, 
 where the darkness is gathering, and the black 
 smoke which the chimney emits beneath the low-- 
 hanging clouds. Sigismond's window is the first 
 to show a light on the ground floor ; the cashier 
 trims his lamp himself with painstaking care, and 
 his tall shadow passes in front of the flame and 
 bends double behind the grating. Sidonie's wrath 
 is diverted a moment by these familiar details. 
 
 Suddenly a small coupe drives into the garden 
 and stops in front of the door. At last some one 
 is coming. In that pretty whirl of silk and flowers 
 and jet and flounces and furs, as it runs quickly 
 up the step, Sidonie has recognized one of the 
 most fashionable frequenters of the Fromont salon, 
 the wife of a wealthy dealer in bronzes. What an 
 honor to receive a call from such an one ! Quick, 
 quick ! the family takes its position. Monsieur in 
 front of the hearth, Madame in an easy-chair, care- 
 lessly turning the leaves of a magazine. Wasted 
 pose ! The fair caller did not come to see Sidonie ; 
 she has stopped at the floor below. 
 
 Ah ! if Madame Georges could hear what her 
 neighbor says of her and her friends ! 
 
 At that moment the door opens and " Made- 
 moiselle Planus " is announced. 
 
 She is the cashier's sister, a poor old maid, 
 humble and modest, who has made it her duty to 
 make this call upon the wife of her brother's 
 employer, and who seems stupefied by the warm
 
 96 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 welcome she receives. She is surrounded and 
 made much of. " How kind of you to come ! 
 Draw up to the fire." They overwhelm her with 
 attentions and show great interest in her slightest 
 word. Honest Risler's smiles are as warm as his 
 thanks. Sidonie herself displays all her fascina- 
 tions, overjoyed to exhibit herself in her glory to 
 one who was her equal in the old days, and to 
 reflect that the other, in the room below, must 
 hear that she has had callers. So she makes as 
 much noise as possible, moving chairs, pushing the 
 table around ; and when the old maid takes her 
 leave, dazzled, enchanted, bewildered, she escorts 
 her to the landing with a great rustling of flounces, 
 and calls to her in a very loud voice, leaning over 
 the rail, that she is at home every Friday. " You 
 understand, every Friday." 
 
 Now it is dark. The two great lamps in the 
 salon are lighted. In the adjoining room they 
 hear the servant laying the table. It is all over. 
 Madame Fromont Jeune will not come. 
 
 Sidonie is livid with rage. 
 
 " Just fancy, that minx can't come up eighteen 
 stairs ! No doubt Madame thinks we 're not big 
 enough for her. Ah ! but I '11 have my revenge." 
 
 As she pours forth her wrath in unjust words, 
 her voice becomes coarse, takes on the intonations 
 of the faubourg, an accent of the common people 
 which betrays the ex-apprentice of Mademoiselle 
 Le Mire. 
 
 Risler is unlucky enough to make a remark : 
 
 "Who knows? Perhaps the child is sick."
 
 My Wifes Reception Day. 97 
 
 She turns upon him in a fury, as if she would 
 Hke to bite him. 
 
 "Will you hold your tongue about that child? 
 After all, it 's your fault that this has happened to 
 me. You don't know how to make people treat 
 me with respect." 
 
 And as she violently closed the door of her bed- 
 room, making the globes on the lamps tremble 
 as well as all the knick-knacks on the ^tageres, 
 Risler, left alone, stands motionless in the centre 
 of the salon, looking with an air of consternation 
 at his white wrist-bands, his broad patent-leathers, 
 and mutters mechanically: 
 
 " My wife's day ! "
 
 98 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 11. 
 
 THE TRUE PEARL AND THE FALSE PEARL. 
 
 "What can be the matter? What have I done to 
 her?" Claire Fromont often wondered when she 
 thought of Sidonie, 
 
 She was entirely ignorant of what had formerly- 
 taken place between her friend and Georges, at 
 Savigny. Her life was so upright, her mind so 
 pure, that it was impossible for her to ,divine the 
 jealous, mean-spirited ambition that had grown up 
 by her side within the past fifteen years. And yet 
 the enigmatical expression in that pretty face as it 
 smiled upon her gave her a vague feeling of un- 
 easiness which she could not understand. An 
 affectation of politeness, strange enough between 
 friends, was suddenly succeeded by an ill-dissem- 
 bled wrath, a cold, stinging tone, in presence of 
 which Claire was as perplexed as by a knotty 
 problem. Sometimes, too, a singular presenti- 
 ment, the ill-defined intuition of a great calamity, 
 was mingled with her uneasiness ; for all women 
 have more or less second sight, and, even in the 
 most innocent, utter ignorance of evil is suddenly 
 illumined by visions of extraordinary lucidity.
 
 TJte True Pearl and iJie False Pearl. 99 
 
 From time to time, as the result of a conversa- 
 tion somewhat more prolonged than usual, or of 
 one of those unexpected meetings when faces 
 taken by surprise allow their real thoughts to be 
 seen, Madame Fromont reflected seriously con- 
 cerning this strange little Sidonie ; but the active, 
 urgent duties of life, with its accompaniment of 
 affections and preoccupations, left her no time for 
 dwelling upon such trifles. 
 
 There is, with all women, a time of life when 
 they encounter such sudden \yindings in the road 
 that their whole horizon changes and all their 
 points of view become transformed. 
 
 As a young girl, the falling away of that friend- 
 ship bit by bit, as if torn from her by an unkindly 
 hand, would have been a source of great regret to 
 her. But she had lost her father, the object of her 
 greatest, her only youthful affection ; then she 
 had married. The child had come with its thrice 
 welcome demands upon her every moment. More- 
 over, she had with her her mother, almost in her 
 dotage, still stupefied by her husband's tragic 
 death. In a life so fully occupied, Sidonie's ca- 
 prices received but little attention ; and it had 
 hardly occurred to Claire Fromont to be surprised 
 at her marriage to Rislcr. He was clearly too old 
 for her ; but, after all, what difference did it make, 
 if they loved each other? 
 
 As for being vexed because little Chcbe had at- 
 tained that lofty position, had become almost her 
 equal, her very superior nature was incapable of 
 such pettiness. On the contrary, she would have
 
 lOO Fromont and Risler. 
 
 been glad with all her heart to know that that 
 young wife, whose home was so near her own, 
 who lived the same life, so to speak, and had 
 been her playmate in childhood, was happy and 
 highly-esteemed. Being most kindly disposed 
 toward her, she tried to teach her, to instruct her 
 in the ways of society, as one might instruct an 
 attractive provincial, who fell but little short of 
 being charming. 
 
 Advice is not readily accepted by one pretty 
 young woman from another. When Madame Fro- 
 mont, on the occasion of a grand dinner-party, 
 took Madame Risler to her bedroom, and said to 
 her, smiling frankly in order not to anger her : 
 " Too many jewels, my dear. And then, you 
 know, with a high dress one does n't wear flowers 
 in one's hair," — Sidonie blushed, and thanked her 
 friend, but wrote down an additional grievance 
 against her in the bottom of her heart. 
 
 In Claire's circle her welcome was decidedly 
 cold. 
 
 Faubourg Saint-Germain has its pretensions ; 
 but do not imagine that the Marais has none ! 
 
 Those wives and daughters of mechanics, of 
 wealthy manufacturers, knew little Chebe's story ; 
 indeed they would have guessed it simply by her 
 manner of making her appearance and by her 
 demeanor among them. 
 
 Sidonie's efforts were unavailing. She retained 
 the manners of a shop-girl. Her slightly artificial 
 amiability, sometimes too humble, was as unpleas- 
 ant as the spurious elegance of the shop; and her
 
 The Trtie Pearl and the False Pearl. loi 
 
 disdainful attitudes recalled the superb airs of the 
 head salcszvouieit in the great dry goods establish- 
 ments, arrayed in black silk dresses, which they 
 take off in the dressing-room when they go away 
 at night, — who stare with an imposing air, from 
 the vantage-point of their mountains of curls, at 
 the poor creatures who venture to haggle over 
 prices. 
 
 She felt that she was being examined and criti- 
 cised, and her modesty was compelled to place 
 itself upon a war footing. Of the names mentioned 
 in her presence, the anmsements, the parties, the 
 books of which they talked to her, she knew 
 nothing. Claire did her best to help her, to keep 
 her on the surface, with a friendly hand always 
 outstretched ; but many of these ladies considered 
 Sidonie pretty ; that was enough to make them 
 bear her a grudge for seeking admission to their 
 circle. Others, proud of their husbands' positions, 
 of their wealth, could not invent enough unspoken 
 affronts and patronizing phrases to humiliate the 
 little parvenu. 
 
 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 was 
 taking place between their wives. 
 
 Risler, constantly engrossed in his press, some- 
 times remained at his draughting-table until mid- 
 night. Fromont passed his days abroad, lunched 
 at his club, was almost never at the factory. He 
 had his reasons for that.
 
 I02 Fromont mtd Risler. 
 
 Sidonie's proximity disturbed him. His capri- 
 cious passion for her, that passion that he had 
 sacrificed to his uncle's last wishes, recurred too 
 often to his memory with all the regret one feels 
 for the irreparable ; and, conscious that he was 
 weak, he fled. His was a pliable nature, without 
 sustaining purpose, intelligent enough to appreci- 
 ate its failings, too weak to guide itself On the 
 evening of Risler's wedding — he had been mar- 
 ried but a few months himself — he had experi- 
 enced anew, in that woman's presence, all the 
 emotion of the stormy evenings at Savigny. 
 Thereafter, without self-examination, he avoided 
 seeing her again or speaking with her. Unfor- 
 tunately, as they lived in the same house, as 
 their wives saw each other ten times a day, 
 chance sometimes brought them together; and 
 this strange thing happened, — that that husband, 
 wishing to remain virtuous, deserted his home 
 altogether and sought distraction elsewhere. 
 
 Claire was not astonished that it was so. She 
 had become accustomed during her father's life- 
 time to the constant " up and away" of a business 
 life ; and during her husband's absences, zealously 
 performing her duties as wife and mother, she in- 
 vented long tasks, occupations of all sorts, walks 
 for the child, prolonged, peaceful tarryings in the 
 sunlight, from which she would return home, over- 
 joyed with the little one's progress, deeply im- 
 pressed with the gleeful enjoyment of all infants 
 in the fresh air, and with a touch of their radiance 
 in the depths of her serious eyes.
 
 The True Pearl and the False Pearl. 103 
 
 Sidonie also >vent out a great deal. It often 
 happened, toward night, that Georges's car- 
 riage, driving through the gateway, would com- 
 pel Madame Rislcr to step hastily aside as she 
 was returning in a gorgeous costume from a 
 triumphal promenade. The boulevard, the shop- 
 windows, the purchases, made after long delib- 
 eration as if to enjoy to the full the pleasure of 
 purchasing, detained her very late. They would 
 exchange a bow, a cold glance at the foot of 
 the staircase ; and Georges would hurry into his 
 apartments, as into a place of refuge, concealing 
 beneath a flood of caresses, bestowed upon the 
 child his wife held out to him, the sudden emo- 
 tion that had seized him. 
 
 Sidonie, for her part, seemed to have forgotten 
 everything, and to have retained no other feeling 
 than contempt for that weak, cowardly creature. 
 Moreover, she had many other things to think 
 about. 
 
 Her husband had just had a piano placed in her 
 red salon, between the windows. 
 
 After long hesitation she had decided to learn 
 to sing, thinking that it was rather late to begin 
 to play the piano ; and twice a week, Madame 
 Dobson, a pretty, sentimental blonde, came to 
 give her lessons from twelve o'clock to one. In 
 the silence of the neighborhood the a — a — a 
 and — — 0, persistently prolonged, repeated 
 again and again, with the windows open, gave the 
 factory the atmosphere of a boarding-school. 
 
 And it was in very truth a school-girl who was
 
 I04 Fj''07nont and Risler, 
 
 practising those exercises, an inexperienced, wav- 
 ering little soul, full of unconfessed longings, with 
 everything to learn and to find out in order to 
 become a real woman. But her ambition con- 
 fined itself to a superficial aspect of things. 
 
 " Claire Fromont plays the piano, I will sing. 
 She is considered a refined and distinguished 
 woman, and I propose that people shall say the 
 same of me." 
 
 Without a thought of perfecting her education, 
 she passed her life running about among the mil- 
 liners and dressmakers. ** What are people going 
 to wear this winter?" She was attracted by the 
 gorgeous displays in the shop windows, by every- 
 thing that caught the eye of the passers-by. 
 
 There still remained, at the ends of her fingers, 
 a trace of the false pearls she had handled so long, 
 a touch of their artificial polish, their hollow fra- 
 gility, their superficial brilliancy. Indeed she was 
 herself a false pearl, well-rounded, brilliant, hand- 
 somely set, by which the common herd might be 
 deceived ; but Claire Fromont was a genuine pearl, 
 whose lustre was at once rich and refined, and 
 when they were together the difference was per- 
 ceptible. One realized that Claire had always 
 been a pearl, a tiny pearl in her childhood, en- 
 hanced as she grew to womanhood by those ele- 
 ments of refinement and distinction which had 
 made of her a rare and priceless creature. The 
 other, on the contrary, was clearly the handiwork 
 of Paris, that maker of false jewels who dispenses 
 thousands of trifles, brilliant and charming to the
 
 The Tncc Pearl and tJic False Pearl. 105 
 
 eye, but unsubstantial, ill assorted and badly 
 made : a t}'pical product of the petty trades 
 among which she had grown up. 
 
 The one thing that Sidonie envied Claire more 
 than all else was the child, the luxurious plaything, 
 beribboned from the curtains of its cradle to its 
 nurse's cap. She did not think of the sweet 
 maternal duties, demanding patience and self- 
 abnegation, of the long rockings when sleep would 
 not come, of the laughing awakenings sparkling 
 with fresh water. No ! she saw in the child naught 
 but the daily walk. It was such a pretty sight, 
 the little bundle of finery, with floating ribbons 
 and long feathers, that follows young mothers 
 through the crowded streets. 
 
 When she wanted company she had only her 
 parents or her husband. She preferred to go out 
 alone. The excellent Risler had such an absurd 
 way of showing his love for her, playing with her 
 as if she were a doll, pinching her chin and her 
 cheek, capering about her, crying: " Hou ! hou ! " 
 or staring at her with his great soft eyes like an 
 affectionate and grateful dog. That senseless love, 
 which made of her a toy, a mantel ornament, made 
 her ashamed. As for her parents, they were an 
 embarrassment to her in presence of the people 
 she wished to know, and immediately after her 
 marriage she almost disburdened herself of them 
 by hiring a little house for them at Montrouge. 
 That step had cut short the frequent invasions of 
 Monsieur Chebe and his long frock coat, and the 
 endless visits of good Madame Chebe, in whom the
 
 io6 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 return of comfortable circumstances had revived 
 former habits of gossip and of indolence. 
 
 Sidonie would have been very glad to rid herself 
 of the Delobelles in the same way, for their proxi- 
 mity annoyed her. But the Marais was a central 
 location for the old actor, because the boulevard 
 theatres were so near; then too, D6siree, like all 
 sedentary persons, clung to the familiar outlook, 
 and her gloomy courtyard, dark at four o'clock in 
 winter, seemed to her like a friend, like a familiar 
 face which the sun lighted up at times as if it were 
 smiling at her. As she was unable to get rid of 
 them, Sidonie had adopted the course of ceasing 
 to visit them. 
 
 In truth her life would have been lonely and 
 depressing enough, had it not been for the distrac- 
 tions which Claire Fromont procured for her. 
 Each time added fuel to her wrath. She would 
 say to herself: 
 
 " Must everything come to me through her? " 
 
 And when, just at dinner-time, a box at the 
 theatre or an invitation for the evening was sent to 
 her from the floor below, while she was dressing, 
 overjoyed at the opportunity to exhibit herself, 
 she thought of nothing but crushing her rival. 
 But such opportunities became more rare as 
 Claire's time was more and more engrossed by 
 her child. When grandfather Gardinois came to 
 Paris, however, he never failed to bring the two 
 families together. The old peasant's gayety, for 
 its freer expansion, needed little Sidonie, who did 
 not take fright at his jests. He would take them
 
 The True Pearl and the False Pearl. 107 
 
 all four to dine at Philippe's, his favorite restau- 
 rant, where he knew all the habitues, the waiters 
 and the steward, would spend a lot of money, and 
 then take them to a box, secured beforehand, at 
 the Opera-Comique or the Palais-Royal. 
 
 At the theatre he laughed uproariously, talked 
 familiarly with the box-openers, as he did with 
 the waiters at Philippe's, loudly demanded foot- 
 stools for the ladies, and when the performance 
 was done insisted on having the top-coats and 
 fur wraps of his party first of all, as if he were 
 the only three-million parvenu in the audience. 
 
 For these more or less vulgar entertainments, 
 from which her husband usually excused himself, 
 Claire with her usual tact dressed very quietly and 
 attracted no notice. Sidonie, on the contrary, 
 with all sail set, in full view of the boxes, laughed 
 with all her heart at the grandfather's anecdotes, 
 happy to have descended from the second or 
 third gallery, her usual location in the old days, 
 to that lovely proscenium box, adorned with 
 mirrors, with a velvet rail that seemed made ex- 
 pressly for her light gloves, her ivory opera-glass 
 and her spangled fan. The tawdry splendor of 
 the theatre, the red and gold of the hangings, were 
 genuine splendor to her. She bloomed among 
 them like a pretty paper flower in a filigree 
 jardiniere. 
 
 One evening, at the j)erformance of a successful 
 play at the Palais-Royal, among all the noted 
 women who were present, painted celebrities wear- 
 ing microscopic hats and armed with immense
 
 io8 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 fans, their rouge-besmeared faces standing out 
 from the shadow of the boxes in the gaudy setting 
 of their gowns, Sidonie's behavior, her toilet, the 
 pecuHarities of her laugh and her expression at- 
 tracted much notice. All the opera-glasses in the 
 hall, guided by the magnetic current that is so 
 powerful under the great chandeliers, were turned 
 one by one upon the box in which she sat. 
 Claire soon became embarrassed, and modestly 
 insisted upon changing places with her husband, 
 who, unluckily, had accompanied them that 
 evening 
 
 Georges, youthful and elegant, sitting beside 
 Sidonie, seemed her natural companion, while 
 Risler Ain6, always so placid and self-effacing, 
 seemed in his proper place beside Claire Fromont, 
 who in her dark clothes suggested the respectable 
 woman incog, at the Bal de I'Opera. 
 
 Upon leaving the theatre each of the partners 
 offered his arm to his neighbor. A box-opener, 
 speaking to Sidonie, referred to Georges as "your 
 husband," and the little woman beamed with 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Your husband ! " 
 
 That simple phrase was enough to upset her and 
 set in motion a multitude of evil currents in the 
 depths of her heart. As they passed through the 
 corridors and the foyer, she watched Risler and 
 Madame " Chorche " walking in front of them. 
 Claire's refinement of manner seemed to her to be 
 vulgarized, annihilated by Risler's shufifling gait. 
 " How ugly he must make me look when we are
 
 The True Pearl ami the False Pearl. 109 
 
 walking together! " she said to herself. And her 
 heart beat fast as she thought what a charming, 
 happy, admired couple they would have made, she 
 and this Georges Fromont, whose arm was trem- 
 bling beneath her own. 
 
 Thereupon, when the blue-lined coupe drove up 
 to the door of the theatre, she began to reflect, for 
 the first time, that, when all was said, that woman 
 had stolen her place and that she would be justi- 
 fied in trying to recover it.
 
 no Froinont and Risler, 
 
 III. 
 
 THE BREWERY ON RUE BLONDEL. 
 
 After his marriage Risler had given up the brew- 
 ery. Sidonie would have been glad to have him 
 leave the house in the evening for a fashionable 
 club, a resort of wealthy, well-dressed men ; but the 
 idea of his returning, amid clouds of pipe-smoke, 
 to his friends of earlier days, Sigismond, Delobelle 
 and her own father, humiliated her and made her 
 unhappy. So he ceased to frequent the place ; 
 and that was something of a sacrifice. It was 
 almost a glimpse of his native country, that brew- 
 ery situated in an out-of-the-way corner of Paris. 
 The infrequent carriages, the high, barred windows 
 of the ground floors, the odor of fresh drugs, of 
 pharmaceutical preparations, imparted to that nar- 
 row little Rue Blondel a vague resemblance to 
 certain streets in Bale or Zurich. The brewery 
 was managed by a Swiss and crowded with men of 
 that nationality. When the door was opened, 
 through the smoke-laden atmosphere, dense with 
 the accents of the North, one had a vision of a vast 
 low room with hams hanging from the rafters, casks 
 of beer standing in a row, the floor ankle-deep with 
 saw-dust, and on the counter great salad-bowls 
 filled with potatoes as red as chestnuts and baskets
 
 The Brewery on Rue B Ion del. 1 1 1 
 
 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 rack 
 reserved for the regular customers, and his table, 
 at which he was always joined by several discreet, 
 taciturn compatriots, who listened admiringly, but 
 without comprehending them, to the interminable 
 harangues of Chebe and Delobelle. When Risler 
 ceased his visits to the brewery, the tvvo last-named 
 worthies likewise turned their backs upon it, for 
 several excellent reasons. In the first place. 
 Monsieur Chebe now lived a considerable distance 
 away. Thanks to the generosity of his children, 
 the dream of his whole life was realized at last. 
 
 " When I am rich," the little man used to say in 
 his cheerless rooms in the Marais, " I will have a 
 house of my own, at the gates of Paris, almost in 
 the country, a little garden which I will plant and 
 water myself That will be better for my health 
 than all the excitement of the capital." 
 
 Well, he had his house now, and he did not 
 enjoy himself in it, I give you my word. 
 
 It was at Montrouge, on the road around the 
 city. " A small chalet with garden," said the 
 advertisement, printed on a placard which gave an 
 almost exact idea of the dimensions of the prop- 
 erty. The papers were new and of rustic design, 
 the paint perfectly fresh ; a water-butt planted be- 
 side a vine-clad arbor played the part of a pond. 
 In addition to all these advantages, only a hedge 
 separated this paradise from another " chalet with
 
 1 1 2 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 garden" of precisely the same description, occupied 
 by Sigismond Planus the cashier and his sister. 
 To Madame Chebe that was a most precious cir- 
 cumstance. When the good woman was bored, 
 she would take a stock of knitting and darning 
 and go and sit in the old maid's arbor, dazzling 
 her with the tale of her past splendors. Un- 
 luckily, her husband had not the same source of 
 distraction. 
 
 However, everything went well at first. It was 
 midsummer, and Monsieur Chebe, always in his 
 shirt-sleeves, was busily employed in getting set- 
 tled. Each nail to be driven in the house was the 
 subject of leisurely reflections, of endless discus- 
 sions. It was the same with the garden. He had 
 determined at first to make an English garden of 
 it, lawns always green, winding paths shaded by 
 shrubbery. But the devil of it was that it took so 
 long for the shrubbery to grow. 
 
 " Faith ! I have a good mind to make an orchard 
 of it," said the impatient little man. 
 
 And thenceforth he dreamed of nothing but 
 vegetables, long lines of beans, and peach-trees 
 against the wall. He dug for whole mornings, knit- 
 ting his brow in a preoccupied way and wiping his 
 forehead ostentatiously before his wife, so that 
 she would say: 
 
 " For heaven's sake, do rest a bit — you 're kill- 
 ing yourself" 
 
 The result was that the garden was a mixture, 
 flowers and fruit, park and kitchen garden ; and 
 H^henever he went into Paris Monsieur Chebe was
 
 The Brewery on Rue Blojidcl. 113 
 
 careful to decorate his button-hole with a rose from 
 his rose-bushes. 
 
 While the fine weather lasted, the good people 
 did not weary of admiring the sunsets behind the 
 fortifications, the long days, the bracing country 
 air. Sometimes, in the evening, when the windows 
 were open, they sang duets ; and in presence of 
 the stars in heaven, which began to twinkle simul- 
 taneously with the lanterns on the railway around 
 the city, Ferdinand would become poetical. — But 
 when the rain came and he could not go out, what 
 misery ! Madame Chebc, a d)'ed-in-the-wool Pari- 
 sian, sighed for the narrow streets of the Marais, 
 her expeditions to the market of Blancs-Mantcaux, 
 and to the shops of the quarter. 
 
 As she sat by the window, her usual station for 
 sewing and observation, she would look out at the 
 damp little garden, where the volubilis and the 
 nasturtiums, stripped of their blossoms, were drop- 
 ping away from the lattices with an air of exhaus- 
 tion, at the long straight line of the grassy slope 
 of the fortifications, still fresh and green, and, a 
 little farther on, at the corner of a street, the ofificc 
 of the Paris omnibuses, with all the points on their 
 route inscribed in enticing letters on the green 
 walls. Whenever one of the omnibuses lumbered 
 away on its journey, she followed it with her eye, as 
 a government clerk at Cayenne or Noumea gazes 
 after the packet returning to France ; she made 
 the trip with it, knew just where it would stop, at 
 what point it would lurch around a corner, grazing 
 the shop-windows with its wheels. 
 S
 
 114 Fromont and Riskr, 
 
 As a prisoner, Monsieur Chcbe became a terrible 
 trial. He could not work in the garden. On 
 Sundays the fortifications were (Jeserted ; he could 
 no longer strut about among the working men's 
 families dining on the grass, and pass from group 
 to group in a neighborly way, his feet encased in 
 embroidered slippers, with the authoritative bear- 
 ing of a wealthy landowner of the vicinity. That 
 he missed more than anything else, consumed as 
 he was by the desire to make people think about 
 him. So that, having nothing to do, having no 
 one to pose before, no one to listen to his schemes, 
 his stories, the anecdote of the accident to the 
 Due d'Orleans — a similar accident had happened 
 to him in his youth, you remember — the un- 
 fortunate Ferdinand overwhelmed his wife with 
 reproaches. 
 
 " Your daughter banishes us — your daughter is 
 ashamed of us — " 
 
 She heard nothing but that : " Your daughter — 
 your daughter — your daughter — " For, in his 
 anger with Sidonie, he denied her, throwing upon 
 his wife the whole responsibility for that monstrous 
 and unnatural child. It was a genuine relief for 
 poor Madame Chebe when her husband took an 
 omnibus at the office to go and hunt up Delo- 
 belle — whose hours for lounging were always at 
 his disposal — and pour into his bosom all his 
 rancor against his son-in-law and his daughter. 
 
 The illustrious Delobelle also bore Risler a 
 grudge, and freely said of him : " He is a dastard." 
 
 The great man had hoped to form an integral
 
 The Brcivcry on Riic Blondcl. 1 1 5 
 
 part of the new household, to be the organizer of 
 festivities, the arbiter clcgaiitiaruni. Instead of 
 which, Sidonie received him very coldly, and Ris- 
 ler no longer took him to the brewery even. How- 
 ever, the actor did not complain too loud, and 
 whenever he met his friend he overwhelmed him 
 with attentions and flattery; for he had need of 
 him. 
 
 Weary of awaiting the discerning manager, see- 
 ing that the engagement he had longed for so 
 many years did not come, it had occurred to 
 Delobelle to purchase a theatre and manage it 
 himself He counted upon Risler for the funds. 
 Opportunely enough there happened to be a small 
 theatre on the boulevard for sale, as a result of the 
 failure of its manager. Delobelle mentioned it to 
 Risler, at first very vaguely, in a wholly hypo- 
 thetical form : " There would be a good chance to 
 make a turn." Risler listened with his usual 
 phlegm, saying: "Indeed, it would be a good 
 thing for you." And to a more direct suggestion, 
 not daring to answer " No," he took refuge behind 
 such phrases as " I will see " — " Later on " — "I 
 don't say no," — and finally uttered the unlucky 
 words : " I must see the estimates." 
 
 For a whole week the actor had delved away at 
 plans and figures, seated between his wife and 
 daughter, who watched him in admiration and in- 
 toxicated themselves with this latest dream. The 
 people in the house said : " Monsieur Delobelle is 
 going to buy a theatre." On the boulevard, in 
 the actors' cafes, nothing was talked of but this
 
 1 1 6 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 transaction. Delobcllc did not conceal the fact 
 that he had found someone to advance the funds ; 
 the result being that he was surrounded by a 
 crowd of unemployed actors, old comrades who 
 tapped him familiarly on the shoulder and recalled 
 themselves to his recollection. " You know, old 
 boy." He promised engagements, breakfasted at 
 the cafe, wrote letters there, saluted those who 
 entered with the tips of his fingers, held very 
 animated colloquies in corners ; and already two 
 threadbare authors had read to him a drama in 
 seven tableaux, which was " exactly what he want- 
 ed " for his opening piece. He talked about " my 
 theatre ! " and his letters were addressed : " Mon- 
 sieur Delobelle, Manager." 
 
 When he had composed his prospectus and 
 made his estimates, he went to the factory to see 
 Risler, who, being very busy, made an appoint- 
 ment with him on Rue Blondel ; and that same 
 evening, Delobelle, being the first to arrive at the 
 brewery, estabhshed himself at their old table, 
 ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and 
 waited. He waited a long while, with his eye on 
 the door, trembling with impatience. Whenever 
 anyone entered, the actor turned his head. He 
 had spread his papers on the table, and pretended 
 to be reading them, with animated gestures, move- 
 ments of the head and lips. 
 
 It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in its 
 way. He already fancied himself acting — for that 
 was the m.ain point — acting, in a theatre of his 
 own, parts written expressly for him, to suit his
 
 The Brciucry on Rue Blonde I. 1 1 7 
 
 talents, in which he would produce all the effect 
 of — 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and Monsieur Chebe 
 made his appearance amid the pipe-smoke. He 
 was as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelle 
 there as Delobelle himself was by his coming. 
 He had written to his son-in-law that morning 
 that he wished to speak with him on a matter of 
 very serious importance, and that he would meet 
 him at the brewery. It was an affair of honor, 
 entirely between themselves, from man to man. 
 The real fact concerning this affair of honor was 
 that Monsieur Chebe had given notice of his inten- 
 tion to leave the little house at Montrouge, and 
 had hired a shop with an entresol on Rue du 
 Mail, in the midst of a business district. A shop? 
 Bless my soul, yes. And now he was a little 
 alarmed regarding his hasty step, anxious 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 considerable repairs to be 
 made at the outset. As he had long been ac- 
 quainted with his son-in-law's kindness of heart. 
 Monsieur Chcbc had determined to appeal to him 
 at once, hoping to lead him into his game and to 
 throw upon him the responsibility for this do- 
 mestic coup d'etat. Instead of Risler he found 
 Delobelle. 
 
 They looked askance at each other, with an un- 
 friendly eye, like two dogs meeting beside the same 
 porringer. Each dix'incd whom the other was await- 
 ing, and they did not try to deceive each other.
 
 1 1 8 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 "Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked Monsieur 
 Chebe, eying the documents spread over the ta- 
 ble, and emphasizing the words " my son-in-law," 
 to indicate that Risler belonged to him and to no- 
 body else. 
 
 " I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, 
 gathering up his papers. 
 
 He pressed his lips together, as he added with a 
 dignified, mysterious, but always theatrical air : 
 
 " It is a matter of very great importance." 
 
 " So is mine," declared Monsieur Chebe, his 
 three hairs standing erect like a porcupine's quills. 
 
 As he spoke he took his seat on the bench be- 
 side Delobelle, ordered a pitcher and two glasses 
 as he had done, then sat erect with his hands in 
 his pockets and his back against the wall, waiting 
 in his turn. The two empty glasses in front of 
 them, intended for the same absentee, seemed to 
 be hurling defiance at each other. 
 
 And Risler did not come. 
 
 The two men, drinking in silence, lost their pa- 
 tience and fidgeted about on the bench, each 
 hoping that the other would tire of waiting. 
 
 At last their ill-humor overflowed, and naturally 
 poor Risler received the whole flood. 
 
 " What an outrage to keep a man of my years 
 waiting so long ! " began Monsieur Chebe, who 
 never mentioned his great age except upon such 
 occasions, 
 
 " I believe, on my word, that he is making sport 
 of us," replied Monsieur Delobelle. 
 
 And the other :
 
 The Brciucjy on Rue Blondel. 1 1 9 
 
 " No doubt monsieur had company to dinner." 
 
 " And such company ! " scornfully exclaimed 
 the illustrious actor, in whose mind bitter memo- 
 ries were awakened. 
 
 "The fact is — " continued Monsieur Chebe. 
 
 They drew closer to each other and talked. The 
 hearts of both were full in respect to Sidonie and 
 Risler. They opened the flood-gates. That Ris- 
 ler, with all his good-nature, was an egotist pure 
 and simple, a parvenu. They laughed at his ac- 
 cent and his bearing, they mimicked certain of his 
 peculiarities. Then they talked about his house- 
 keeping, and, lowering their voices, they became 
 confidential, laughed familiarly together, were 
 friends once more. 
 
 Monsieur Chebe went very far : " Let him be- 
 ware ! he has been foolish enough to send the 
 father and mother away from their child ; if any- 
 thing happens to her, he can't blame us. A girl 
 who has n't her parents' example before her eyes, 
 you understand — " 
 
 "Certainly — certainly," said Dclobelle ; "espe- 
 cially as Sidonie has become a great flirt. How- 
 ever, what can you expect? Me will get no more 
 than he deserves. No man of his age ought to — 
 Hush ! there he is ! " 
 
 Risler had entered the room, and was walking 
 toward them, distributing hand-shakes all along 
 the benches. 
 
 There was a moment of embarrassment between 
 the three friends. Risler excused himself as well 
 as he could. He had been detained at home;
 
 I20 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Sidonic had company, — Delobcllc touched Mon- 
 sieur Chebe's foot under the table — and, as he 
 spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexed by the 
 two empty glasses that awaited him, wondered in 
 front of which of the two he ought to take his seat. 
 
 Dclobelle was generous. 
 
 " You have business together, messieurs, do not 
 let me disturb you," 
 
 He added in an undertone, winking at Risler: 
 
 " I have the papers." 
 
 "The papers? " echoed the other, in a bewildered 
 tone. 
 
 " The estimates," whispered the actor. 
 
 Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, he 
 withdrew within himself and resumed the reading 
 of his documents, his head in his hands and his 
 fingers in his ears. 
 
 The two others conversed by his side, first in 
 undertones, then louder, for Monsieur Chebe's 
 shrill, piercing voice could not long restrain itself. 
 
 — He was n't old enough to be buried, deuce take 
 it! — He would have died of ennui at Montrouge. 
 
 — What he must have was the bustle and activity 
 of Rue du Mail or Rue du Sentier, — of the busi- 
 ness districts. 
 
 "Yes, but a shop? Why a shop?" Risler 
 timidly ventured to ask. 
 
 "Why a shop? — why a shop?" repeated Mon- 
 sieur Chebe, red as an Easter Q^g, and raising his 
 voice to the highest pitch in its register. " Why, 
 because I 'm a merchant. Monsieur Risler, a mer- 
 chant and son of a merchant. Oh ! I see what
 
 The Breivery on Rue Blondel. 121 
 
 you 're coming at. I have no business. But 
 whose fault is it? If the people who shut me up 
 at Montrouge, at the gates of Bicetre, like a 
 paralytic, had had the good sense to furnish me 
 with the money to start in business — "At that 
 point Risler succeeded in silencing him, and there- 
 after only snatches of the conversation could be 
 heard : — "a more con\'enient shop — high-studded 
 
 — better air — future plans — enormous business 
 
 — I will speak when the time comes — Many peo- 
 ple will be astonished." — As he caught these frag- 
 ments of sentences, Delobelle became more and 
 more absorbed in his estimates, presenting the 
 eloquent back of the man who is not listening. 
 Risler, sorely perplexed, drank a swallow of beer 
 from time to time to keep himself in countenance. 
 At last, when Monsieur Chcbe had grown calm, 
 and with good reason, his son-in-law turned with a 
 smile to the illustrious Delobelle, and met the 
 stern, impassive glance which seemed to say: 
 "Well! what of me?" 
 
 "Ah! j\Ion DicH ! — that is true," thought the 
 poor fellow. 
 
 Changing at once his chair and glass, he took 
 his seat opposite the actor. But Monsieur Chcbe 
 had not Delobelle's courtesy. Instead of dis- 
 creetly moving away, he took his glass and 
 joined the others, so that the great man, un- 
 willing to speak before him, solemnly replaced 
 his papers in his pocket a second time, saying to 
 Risler : 
 
 " We will talk this over later."
 
 122 From out and Rislcr. 
 
 Very much later, in truth, for Monsieur Chebe 
 had reflected : 
 
 " My son-in-law is so good-natured. If I leave 
 him with this swindler, who knows what he may 
 get out of him? " 
 
 And he- remained to watch. The actor was 
 furious. It was impossible to postpone the matter 
 to some other day, for Risler told them that 
 he was going the next day to pass a month at 
 Savigny. 
 
 " A month at Savigny ! " exclaimed Monsieur 
 Chebe, incensed at the thought of his son-in-law 
 escaping him, "How about business?" 
 
 " Oh ! I shall come to Paris every day with 
 Georges. Monsieur Gardinois was very anxious 
 to see his little Sidonie." 
 
 Monsieur Chebe shook his head. He considered 
 it very imprudent. Business is business. A man 
 ought to be on the spot, always on the spot, in the 
 breach. Who could say? the factory might take 
 fire in the night. And he repeated sententiously: 
 " The eye of the master, my dear fellow, the eye of 
 the master," while the actor — who was little 
 better pleased by this intended departure — opened 
 his great eyes, giving them an expression at once 
 cunning and authoritative, the veritable expression 
 of the eye of the master. 
 
 At last, about midnight, the last Montrouge 
 omnibus bore away the tyrannical father-in-law, 
 and Delobelle was able to speak. 
 
 " In the first place, the prospectus," he said, 
 preferring not to attack the question of figures at
 
 The Brewery on Rue Bloudcl. 123 
 
 once ; and with his cyc-glasscs on his nose, he 
 began, in a declamatory tone, ahvays upon the 
 stage : " When one considers coolly the degree 
 of decrepitude which dramatic art has reached in 
 France, when one measures the distance that sep- 
 arates the stage of Molierc — " There were several 
 pages like that. Risler listened, puffing at his 
 pipe, afraid to stir, for the reader looked at him 
 every moment over his eye-glasses, to watch the 
 effect of his phrases. Unfortunately, right in the 
 middle of the prospectus, the cafe closed. The 
 lights were extinguished ; they must go. — And the 
 estimates? — It was agreed that they should read 
 them as they walked along. They stopped at 
 every gaslight. The actor displayed his figures. 
 So much for the hall, so much for lighting, so 
 much for poor rates, so much for the actors. — On 
 that question of the actors, he was firm. 
 
 "The best point about the affair," he said, "is 
 that we shall have no leading man to pay. Our 
 leading man will be Bibi." ( When Delobelle 
 mentioned himself, he commonly called himself 
 Bibi.) "A leading man is paid twenty thousand 
 francs — as we have none to pay, it 's just as if you 
 put twenty thousand francs in }'our pocket. Tell 
 me, isn't that true?" 
 
 Risler did not reply. He had the constrained 
 manner, the wandering eyes of the man whose 
 thoughts are elsewhere. The reading of the esti- 
 mates being concluded, Delobelle, dismayed to 
 find that they were drawing near the corner of 
 Rue dcs Vieilles-Haudricttcs, put the question
 
 124 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 squarely. Would he advance the money, yes 
 or no? 
 
 "Well ! — no," said Risler, inspired by an heroic 
 courage which he owed principally to the prox- 
 imity of the factory and to the thought that the 
 welfare of his family was at stake. 
 
 Delobelle was dumfounded. He had believed 
 that the business was as good as done, and he 
 stared at his companion, intensely agitated, his 
 eyes as big as saucers, and rolling his papers in 
 his hand. 
 
 *' No," Risler continued, " I can't do what you 
 ask, for this reason." 
 
 Thereupon the worthy man, slowly, with his 
 usual heaviness of speech, explained that he was 
 not rich. Although a partner in a wealthy house, 
 he had no available funds. Georges and he drew 
 a certain sum from the concern every month ; then, 
 when they struck a balance at the end of the 
 year, they divided the profits. It had cost him a 
 good deal to begin housekeeping: all his savings. 
 It was still four months before the inventory. 
 Where was he to obtain the 30,000 francs to be 
 paid down at once for the theatre? And then, 
 beyond all that, the affair could not be successful. 
 
 " Why, it must succeed. — Bibi will be there ! " 
 As he spoke, poor Bibi drew himself up to his full 
 height; but Risler was determined, and all Bibi's 
 arguments met the same refusal : " Later, in two 
 or three years, I don't say something may not be 
 done." 
 
 The actor fought for a long time, yielding his
 
 The Brewery on Rue Blondel. 125 
 
 ground inch by inch. He proposed revising his 
 estimates. The thing might be done cheaper. 
 " It would still be too dear for me," Risler inter- 
 rupted. " My name does n't belong to mc. It is 
 a part of the firm. I have no right to pledge it. 
 Imagine my going into bankruptcy ! " His voice 
 trembled as he uttered the word. 
 
 " But if everything is in my name," said Delo- 
 belle, who had no superstition. He tried every- 
 thing, invoked the sacred interests of art, went so 
 far as to mention the pretty little actresses whose 
 alluring glances — Risler laughed aloud. 
 
 " Come, come, you rascal ! What 's that you 're 
 saying? You forget that we 're both married men, 
 and that it 's very late and our wives are expecting 
 us. — No ill-will, eh? — This is not a refusal, you 
 understand. — By the way, come and see me after 
 the inventory. We will talk it over again. Ah ! 
 there 's Pere Achille putting out his gas. — I must 
 go in. Good-night." 
 
 It was after one o'clock when the actor returned 
 home. 
 
 The t^vo women were waiting for him, working 
 as usual, but with a sort of feverish activity which 
 was strange to them. Every moment the great scis- 
 sors that Mamma Delobelle used to cut the brass 
 wire were seized with strange fits of trembling, and 
 Desiree's little fingers, as she mounted an insect, 
 moved so fast that it gave one the vertigo to watch 
 them. Even the long feathers of the little birds 
 strewn about on the table before her seemed, so 
 to speak, more brilliant, more richly colored than
 
 126 Fronton t and Rislcr, 
 
 on other days. It was because a lovely visitor 
 named Hope had called upon them that evening. 
 She had made the tremendous effort required to 
 climb five dark flights of stairs, and had opened 
 the door of the little room to cast a luminous 
 glance therein. However much you may have 
 been deceived in life, those magic gleams always 
 dazzle you. 
 
 " Oh ! if your father might only succeed ! " said 
 Mamma Delobelle from time to time, as if to sum 
 up a whole world of happy thoughts to which 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, although since she 
 was married she does seem to neglect her old 
 friends a little. But we must make allowance for 
 the difference in our positions. Besides, I never 
 shall forget what she did for me." 
 
 And at the thought of what Sidonie had done 
 for her, the little cripple applied herself with even 
 more feverish energy to her work. Her electrified 
 fingers moved with redoubled swiftness. You would 
 have said that they were running after some flee- 
 ing, elusive thing, like happiness for example, or 
 the love of someone who loves you not. 
 
 " What was it that she did for you? " her mother 
 would naturally have asked her ; but at that mo- 
 ment she was but slightly interested in what her 
 daughter said. She was thinking exclusively of 
 her great man. 
 
 " No ! do you think so, my dear? Just suppose
 
 The Bravery on Rue Blondel. 127 
 
 your father should have a theatre of his own and 
 act again as he used to! You don't remember; 
 you were too small then. But he had a tremen- 
 dous success, no end of recalls. One night, at 
 Alenqon, the subscribers to the theatre gave him 
 a gold wreath. Ah ! he ^\•as a brilliant man in 
 those days, so light-hearted, so glad to bo alive. 
 Those who see him now don't know him, poor 
 man, misfortune has changed him so. Oh well ! 
 I feel sure that all that 's necessary is a little suc- 
 cess to make him young and happy again. And 
 then there 's money to be made managing theatres. 
 The manager at Nantes had a carriage. 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 your armchair once in a while. 
 Your father would take us into the country. You 
 would sec the water and the trees you have had 
 such a longing to see." 
 
 " Oh ! the trees," murmured the pale little re- 
 cluse, trembling from head to foot. 
 
 At that moment the street door of the house was 
 violently closed, and Monsieur Delobelle's meas- 
 ured step echoed in the vestibule. There was a 
 moment of speechless, breathless anguish. The 
 women dared not look at each other, and mamma's 
 great scissors trembled so that they cut the wire 
 crooked. 
 
 The poor dc\-il had unqucstionabl}' receix-ed a 
 terrible blow. His illusions crushed, the humilia- 
 tion of a refusal, the jests of his comrades, the bill 
 at the cafe where he had breakfasted on credit
 
 128 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 during the whole period of his managership, a bill 
 which must be paid — all these things occurred to 
 him in the silence and gloom of the five flights he 
 had to climb. His heart was torn. Even so, the 
 actor's nature was so strong in him that he deemed 
 it his duty to envelop his distress, genuine as it 
 was, in a conventional tragic mask. 
 
 As he entered, he paused, cast an ominous 
 glance around the work-room, at the table cov- 
 ered with work, his little supper waiting for him in 
 a corner, and the two dear anxious faces looking 
 up at him with glistening eyes. He stood a full 
 minute without speaking, — and you know how 
 long a minute's silence seems on the stage ; then he 
 took three steps forward, sank upon a low chair be- 
 side the table and exclaimed in a hissing voice : 
 
 " Ah ! I am accursed ! " 
 
 At the same time he dealt the table such a 
 terrible blow with his fist that the birds and insects 
 for ornament flew to the four corners of the room. 
 His terrified wife rose and timidly approached him, 
 while Desiree half rose in her armchair with an 
 expression of nervous agony that distorted all her 
 features. 
 
 Lolling on his chair, his arms hanging despon- 
 dently by his sides, his head on his chest, the 
 actor soliloquized. A fragmentary soliloquy, in- 
 terrupted by sighs and dramatic hiccoughs, over- 
 flowing with imprecations against the pitiless, selfish 
 bourgeois, those monsters to whom the artist gives 
 his flesh and blood for food and drink. 
 
 Then he reviewed his whole theatrical life, his
 
 The Brezvery on Rnc Blondcl. 129 
 
 early triumphs, the golden wreath from the sub- 
 scribers at Alengon, his marriage to this " sainted 
 woman," and he pointed to the poor creature 
 who stood by his side, with tears streaming from 
 her eyes, and trembling lips, nodding her head 
 dotingly at every word her husband said. 
 
 In very truth, a person who had never heard 
 of the illustrious Delobelle could have told his 
 history in detail after that long monologue. He 
 recalled his arrival in Paris, his humiliations, his 
 privations. Alas ! he was not the one who had 
 known privation. One had but to look at his full, 
 rotund face beside the thin drawn faces of the two 
 women. But the actor did not look so closely. 
 
 " Oh ! " he said, continuing to intoxicate him- 
 self with declamatory phrases, " oh ! to have 
 struggled so long. For ten years, fifteen years 
 have I struggled on, supported by these devoted 
 creatures, fed by them." 
 
 " Papa, papa, hush," cried Desiree, clasping her 
 hands. 
 
 " Yes, fed by them, I say — and I do not blush 
 for it. For I accept all this devotion in the name 
 of sacred art. But this is too much. Too much has 
 been put upon me. I renounce the stage." 
 
 "Oh! my dear, what's that you say?" cried 
 Mamma Delobelle, rushing to his side. 
 
 " No, leave me. I have reached the end of my 
 strength. They have slain the artist in me. It is 
 all over. I renounce the stage." 
 
 If you had seen the two women throw their arms 
 about him then, implore him to struggle on, prove
 
 130 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 to him that he had no right to give up, you could 
 not have restrained your tears. But Delobelle 
 resisted. 
 
 He yielded at last, however, and promised to 
 continue the fight a little while, since it was their 
 wish ; but it required many an entreaty and caress 
 to carry the point. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, the great man, fam- 
 ished by his monologue, relieved by having given 
 vent to his despair, was seated at one end of the 
 table, supping with excellent appetite, feeling no 
 other ill effect than a trifling weariness, like an 
 actor who has played a very long and very dra- 
 matic part during the evening. 
 
 In such cases, the actor who has stirred the 
 emotions of a whole audience and wept genuine 
 tears on the stage, throws it all aside when he 
 has left the theatre. He leaves his emotion in 
 his dressing-room with his costume and his wigs, 
 whereas, the more ingenuous, more keenly im- 
 pressed spectators return home with red eyes and 
 oppressed hearts, and the extraordinary tension of 
 their nerves keeps them awake a long while. 
 
 Little Desiree and Mamma Delobelle did not 
 sleep much that night!
 
 At Saviguy, 131 
 
 IV. 
 
 AT SAVIGNY. 
 
 It was a great misfortune, that sojourn of the two 
 families at Savigny for a month. 
 
 After an interval of two years Georges and 
 Sidonie found themselves side by side once more 
 on the old estate, too old not to be always like 
 itself, where the stones, the ponds, the trees, 
 always the same, seemed to cast derision upon all 
 that changes and passes away. A renewal of 
 intercourse under such circumstances must have 
 been disastrous to two natures that were not of a 
 very different stamp, and far more virtuous than 
 those two. 
 
 As for Claire, she had never been so happy ; 
 Savigny had never seemed so lovely to her. What 
 joy to walk with her child over the greensward 
 where she herself had walked as a child, to sit, a 
 young mother, upon the shaded seats from which 
 her own mother had looked on at her childish 
 games years before ; to go, leaning on Georgcs's 
 arm, to seek out the nooks where they had played 
 together. She felt a tranquil contentment, the 
 overflowing happiness of placid lives which enjoy 
 their bliss in silence ; and all day long her peignoirs 
 swept along the paths, guided by the tiny foot-
 
 132 Froinoui and Risler. 
 
 steps of the child, her cries and her demands upon 
 her mother's care. 
 
 Sidonie seldom took part in these maternal 
 promenades. She said that the chatter of children 
 tired her, and therein she agreed with old Gar- 
 dinois, who seized upon any pretext to annoy 
 his granddaughter. He believed that he accom- 
 plished that object by devoting himself exclusively 
 to Sidonie, and arranging even more entertain- 
 ments for her than on her former visit. The 
 carriages that had been buried in the carriage- 
 house for two years, and were dusted once a week 
 because the spiders spun their webs on the silk 
 cushions, were placed at her disposal. The horses 
 were harnessed three times a day, and the gate was 
 continually turning on its hinges. Everybody in 
 the house followed this impulse of worldliness. 
 The gardener paid more attention to his flowers 
 because Madame Risler selected the finest ones to 
 wear in her hair at dinner. And then there were 
 calls to be made. Luncheon parties were given, 
 parties at which Madame Fromont Jeune presided, 
 but at which Sidonie, with her sprightly manners, 
 shone supreme. Indeed Claire often left her a 
 clear field. The child had its hours for sleeping 
 and riding out, with which no amusements could 
 interfere. The mother w^as compelled to remain 
 away, and it often happened that she was unable 
 to go with Sidonie to meet the partners when they 
 came from Paris at night. 
 
 " You will make my excuses," she would say, as 
 she went up to her room.
 
 At Savigny. 133 
 
 Madame Rislcr was triumphant. A picture of 
 elegant indolence, she would drive away behind the 
 galloping horses, unconscious of the swiftness of 
 their pace, without a thought in her mind. 
 
 The fresh breeze blowing through her veil alone 
 gave her a semblance of life. A tavern seen 
 vaguely through her drooping eyelids at the 
 corner of a road, poorly dressed children playing 
 on the grass between the ruts, reminded her of her 
 Sunday walks with Risler and her parents, and the 
 little shudder that passed over her at the memory 
 made her the more comfortable in her cool, grace- 
 fully draped gown, in the rocking motion of the 
 caleche which lulled her mind to sleep, happy and 
 reassured. 
 
 Other carriages were always waiting at the 
 station. Two or three times she heard someone 
 near her whisper : " That is Madame Fromont 
 Jeune;" and indeed, it was a simple matter for 
 people to make the mistake, seeing the three 
 return together from the station, Sidonic sitting 
 beside Georges on the back seat, laughing and 
 talking with him, and Risler facing them, smiling 
 contentedly with his broad hands spread flat upon 
 his knees, but evidently feeling a little out of place 
 in that fine carriage. The thought that she was 
 taken for Madame Fromont made her very proud, 
 and she became a little more accustomed to it 
 every day. On their arrival at the chateau, the 
 two families separated until dinner ; but, in the pres- 
 ence of his wife sitting tranquilly beside the sleep- 
 ing child, Georges Fromont, too young to be
 
 134 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 absorbed, by the joys of domesticity, was con- 
 stantly thinking of the brilHant Sidonie, whose voice 
 he could hear pouring forth triumphant roulades 
 under the trees in the garden. 
 
 While the whole chateau was thus transformed 
 in obedience to the whims of a young woman, old 
 Gardinois continued to lead the narrow life of a dis- 
 contented, idle, impotent parvenu. The most suc- 
 cessful means of distraction he had discovered was 
 espionage. The goings and comings of his servants, 
 the remarks that were made about him in the 
 kitchen, the basket of fruit and vegetables brought 
 every morning from the kitchen-garden to the 
 pantry, were subjects of continual investigation. 
 He knew no greater pleasure than to find some- 
 body at fault. It occupied his mind, gave him a 
 measure of importance, and at dinner, while his 
 guests listened in silence, he would at great length 
 describe the misdemeanor, the stratagem to which 
 he had resorted to detect it, the culprit's manner, 
 his terror and his entreaties. 
 
 For the purposes of this constant spying upon 
 his household, the goodman made use of a stone 
 bench set in the gravel behind an enormous pau- 
 lownia. He would sit there whole days at a time, 
 neither reading nor thinking, simply watching to 
 see who went in or out. For the night he had 
 invented something different. In the great vesti- 
 bule at the main entrance, which opened upon the 
 stoop with its array of bright flowers, he had 
 caused an opening to be made leading to his bed- 
 room on the floor above. An acoustic tube of an
 
 At Savigny. 135 
 
 improved type was supposed to convey to his ears 
 every sound on the ground floor, even to the con- 
 versation of the servants taking the air on the 
 stoop. 
 
 UnUickily, the instrument was so perfect that it 
 exaggerated all the noises, confused them and pro- 
 longed them, and the incessant, regular ticking of 
 a great clock, the cries of a parroquct kept in one 
 of the lower rooms, the clucking of a hen in 
 search of a lost kernel of corn, were all Monsieur 
 Gardinois could hear when he applied his ear to 
 the tube. As for voices, they reached him in the 
 form of a confused buzzing, like the muttering of a 
 crowd, in which it was impossible to distinguish 
 anything. He had nothing to show for the expense 
 of the apparatus, and he concealed his wonderful 
 tube in a fold of his bed curtains. 
 
 One night the goodman, who had fallen asleep, 
 was awakened suddenly by the creaking of a door. 
 It was an extraordinary thing at that hour. The 
 whole household was asleep. Nothing could be 
 heard save the footsteps of the watchdogs on the 
 sand, or their scratching at the foot of a tree in 
 which an owl was screeching. An excellent 
 opportunity to use his listening tube. Upon putting 
 it to his ear Monsieur Gardinois was assured that 
 he had made no mistake. The sounds continued. 
 One door was opened, then another. The bolt of 
 the front door was thrown back with an effort. 
 But neither Pyramus norThisbe, not even Kiss, the 
 formidable Newfoundland, had made a sign. lie 
 rose softly to see who those strange burglars could
 
 136 Fr 0711011 1 and Rising 
 
 be, who were leaving the house instead of entering 
 it ; and this is what he saw through the slats of his 
 blind: 
 
 A tall, slender young man, with Georges's figure 
 and carriage, arm-in-arm with a woman in a lace 
 hood. They stopped first at the bench by the 
 paulownia, which was in full flower. 
 
 It was a superb, snow-white night. The moon, 
 brushing the tree-tops, made numberless flakes of 
 light amid the dense foliage. The terraces, white 
 with moonbeams, where the Newfoundlands in 
 their curly coats went to and fro, watching the 
 night butterflies, the smooth, deep waters of the 
 ponds, all shone with a mute, calm brilliance, as if 
 reflected in a silver mirror. Here and there glow- 
 worms twinkled on the edges of the greensward. 
 
 The two promenaders remained for a moment 
 beneath the shade of the paulownia, sitting silent 
 on the bench, lost in the dense darkness which the 
 moon makes where its rays do not reach. Sud- 
 denly they appeared in the bright light, wrapped 
 in a languishing embrace, walked slowly across the 
 main avenue, and passed from sight among the 
 trees. 
 
 " I was sure of it," said old Gardinois, recogniz- 
 ing them. Indeed, what need had he to recognize 
 them? Did not the silence of the dogs, the aspect 
 of the sleeping house, tell him more clearly than 
 anything else could, what species of impudent 
 crime, unknown and unpunished, haunted the ave- 
 nues in his park by night? Be that as it may, the 
 old peasant was overjoyed by his discovery. He
 
 At SavigJiy. 137 
 
 returned to bed without a light, chuckhng to him- 
 self, and in the little cabinet filled with hunting 
 implements, from which he had watched them, 
 thinking at first that he had to do with burglars, 
 the moon's rays shone upon naught save the fowl- 
 ing-pieces hanging on the wall and the boxes of 
 cartridges of all sizes. 
 
 They had taken up the thread of their love at 
 the corner of the same avenue. The year that 
 had passed, marked by hesitation, by vague strug- 
 gles, by fruitless resistance, seemed to have been 
 only a preparation for their meeting. And it 
 must be said that, when once the fatal step was 
 taken, they were surprised at nothing so much as 
 that they had postponed it so long. Georges 
 Fromont especially was seized by a mad passion. 
 He was false to his wife, his best friend ; he was 
 false to Risler, his partner, the faithful companion 
 of his every hour. 
 
 It was a constant renewal, a sort of overflow of 
 remorse, wherein his passion was intensified by 
 the magnitude of his sin. Sidonie became his one 
 engrossing thought, and he discovered that until 
 then he had n(,)t lived. As for her, her love was 
 made up of vanity and spite. The thing that she 
 relished above all else was Claire's degradation in 
 her eyes. Ah ! if she could only have said to her: 
 *' Your husband loves me, — he is false to you with 
 me," her pleasure would have been even greater. 
 As for Risler, in her view he richly deserved what 
 had happened to him. In her old apprentice's 
 jargon, in which she still thought, even if she did
 
 1 38 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 not speak it, the poor man was only " an old 
 fool," whom she had taken as a stepping-stone to 
 fortune, "An old fool" is made to be deceived! 
 During the day Savigny belonged to Claire, to 
 the child who ran about upon the gravel, laughing 
 at the birds and the clouds, and who grew apace. 
 The mother and child had for their own the day- 
 light, the paths filled with sunbeams. But the 
 blue nights were given over to adultery, to that 
 sin firmly installed in the chateau, which talked in 
 undertones, crept noiselessly behind the closed 
 blinds, and in face of which the sleeping house 
 became dumb and blind, and resumed its stony 
 impassibility, as if it were ashamed to see and 
 hear.
 
 Planus Irciiiblcs for his Cash-box. 139 
 
 V. 
 
 SIGISMOND PLANUS TREMBLES FOR HIS 
 CASH-BOX. 
 
 "A CARRIAGE, my dear Chorche? — I — have a 
 carriage? What for?" 
 
 '* I assure you, my dear Risler, that it 's quite 
 essential for you. Our business, our relations are 
 extending every day ; the coupe is no longer enough 
 for us. Besides, it does n't look well to see one of 
 the partners always in his carriage and the other 
 on foot. Believe me, it 's a necessary outlay, and 
 of course it will go into the general expenses of 
 the firm. Come, resign yourself to the inevitable." 
 
 It was genuine resignation. 
 
 It seemed to Risler as if he were stealing some- 
 thing in taking the money for such an unheard-of 
 luxury as a carriage ; however, he ended by yield- 
 ing to Georges's persistent representations, thinking 
 as he did so : 
 
 "This will make Sidonic very happy ! " 
 
 The poor fellow had no suspicion that Sidonic 
 herself, a month before, had selected at Binder's 
 the coup6 which Georges insisted upon giving her, 
 and which was to be charged to expense account 
 in order not to alarm the husband. 
 
 Honest Risler was so plainly created to be de-
 
 140 Fr onion t and Rislcr. 
 
 ceived. His inborn uprightness, the impHcit con- 
 fidence in men and things which was the foundation 
 of his transparent nature had been intensified of 
 late by preoccupation resulting from his pursuit 
 of the Risler Press, an invention destined to revo- 
 lutionize the v/all-paper industry, and representing 
 in his eyes his contribution to the partnership 
 assets. When he laid aside his drawings and left 
 his little workroom on the first floor, his face inva- 
 riably wore the absorbed look of the man who has 
 his life on one side, his anxieties on another. 
 What a delight it was to him, therefore, to find his 
 home always tranquil, his wife always in good 
 humor, becomingly dressed and smiling. Without 
 undertaking to explain the change to himself, he 
 recognized that for some time past the " little 
 one" had not been as before in her treatment of 
 him. She allowed him to resume his old habits : 
 the pipe at dessert, the little nap after dinner, the 
 appointments at the brewery with Chebe and 
 Delobelle. Their apartments also w^ere trans- 
 formed, embellished. From the simple expedients 
 of jardinieres filled with flowers and a bright red 
 salon, Sidonie progressed to the latest caprices of 
 fashion, the rage for antique furniture and rare 
 porcelain. The hangings of her bedroom were of 
 a delicate blue silk, with a long nap like the inside 
 of a jewel casket. A grand piano by a famous 
 maker made its appearance in the salon in place 
 of the old one, and Madame Dobson, the singing 
 teacher, came no longer twice a week, but every 
 day, music-roll in hand.
 
 Planus trembles for his Cash-box. 141 
 
 Of a curious type was that young woman of 
 American extraction, with hair of an acid blond, 
 like lemon-pulp, over a bold forehead and metallic 
 blue eyes. As her husband would not allow her 
 to go on the stage, she gave lessons, and sang in 
 some bourgeois salons. As a result of living in 
 the artificial world of compositions for voice and 
 piano, she had contracted a species of sentimental 
 frenzy. 
 
 She was romance itself In her mouth the 
 words " love " and " passion " seemed to have 
 eighty syllables, she uttered them with so much 
 expression. Oh ! expression. That was what 
 Mistress Dobson placed before everything, and 
 what she tried, and tried in vain, to impart to 
 her pupil. 
 
 " Ay Chiquita^' upon which Paris fed for several 
 seasons, was then at the height of its popularity. 
 Sidonie studied it conscientiously, and all the 
 morning she could be heard singing: 
 
 " On dit que tu te fnaries, 
 Tu sa/s que fen pj(is inoun'r.'" ^ 
 
 " Mouri-i-i-i-i-r ! " the expressive Madame Dob- 
 son would interpose, while her hands wandered 
 feebly over the piano-keys ; and die she would, 
 raising her light-blue eyes to the ceiling and wildly 
 throwing back her head. Sidonie could never 
 accomplish it. Her mischievous eyes, her lips, 
 swollen with fulness of life, were not made for 
 
 ^ They say that thou 'rt to marry, 
 Thou know'st that I may die.
 
 142 Froinont and Risler, 
 
 such ^oHan harp sentimentalities. The refrains 
 of Offenbach or Herv6, interspersed with unex- 
 pected notes, in which one resorts to expressive 
 gestures for aid, to a motion of the head or the 
 body, would have suited her better ; but she dared 
 not admit it to her languorous instructress. By 
 the way, although she had been made to sing a 
 great deal at Mademoiselle Le Mire's, her voice 
 was still fresh and 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 to 
 drive in the new coupe and to assist In her pur- 
 chases of dresses and jewels. Madame Dobson's 
 sentimental and sympathetic tone led one to re- 
 pose confidence in her. Her constant repinings 
 seemed to long to attract other repinings. Si- 
 donie told her of Georges, of their relations, 
 attempting to palliate her offence by blaming the 
 cruelty of her parents in marrying her by force 
 to a rich man much older than herself Madame 
 Dobson at once showed a disposition to assist 
 them ; not that the little woman was venal, but 
 she had a passion for passion, a taste for romantic 
 intrigue. As she was unhappy in her own home, 
 married to a dentist who beat her, all husbands 
 were monsters in her eyes, and poor Risler espe- 
 cially seemed to her a horrible tyrant whom his 
 wife was quite justified in hating and deceiving. 
 
 She was an active confidant and a very useful 
 one. Two or three times a week she would bring 
 tickets for a box at the Opera or the Italiens, or
 
 Planus trembles for his Cash-box. 143 
 
 some one of the little theatres which enjo}' a 
 temporary vogue, and cause all Paris to go from 
 one end of Paris to the other for a season. In 
 Risler's eyes the tickets came from Madame 
 Dobson ; she had as many as she chose to the 
 theatres where operas were given. The poor 
 wretch had no suspicion that one of those boxes 
 for an important "first night" had often cost 
 his partner ten or fifteen louis. It was really 
 too easy to deceive such a husband as that. 
 His inexhaustible credulity quietly accepted every 
 falsehood ; moreover, he knew nothing of that fic- 
 titious society in which his wife was already be- 
 ginning to be known. He never accompanied 
 her. On the few occasions, soon after their mar- 
 riage, when he had escorted her to the theatre, he 
 had fallen asleep, to his shame, being too simple- 
 minded to care about the audience and too slow 
 of comprehension to be interested in the play. 
 So that he was infinitely obliged to Madame 
 Dobson for taking his place with Sidonie. She 
 did it with such good grace ! 
 
 In the evening, when his wife went away, always 
 splendidly attired, he would gaze admiringly at 
 her, having no suspicion of the cost of her 
 dresses, certainly none of the man who paid for 
 them, and would await her return at his tabic 
 by the fire, busy with his drawing, free from 
 care, and happy to be able to say to himself: 
 " What a good time she is having ! " 
 
 On the floor below, at the Fromonts', the same 
 comedy was being played, but with a transposi-
 
 144 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 tion of parts. There it was the young wife who 
 sat by the fire. Every evening, half an hour 
 after Sidonie's departure, the great gate swung 
 open to give passage to the Fromont coupe con- 
 veying monsieur to his club. What would you 
 have? Business has its exigencies. All the great 
 deals are arranged at the club, around the bouillotte 
 table, and a man must go there or suffer the pen- 
 alty of seeing his business fall off. Claire inno- 
 cently believed it all. When her husband had 
 gone, she felt depressed for a moment. She would 
 have liked so much to keep him with her or to go 
 out leaning on his arm, to seek enjoyment with 
 him. But the sight of the child cooing in front 
 of the fire and kicking her little pink feet while 
 she was being undressed, speedily soothed the 
 mother. Then the eloquent word " business," 
 the merchant's reason of state, was always at 
 hand to help her to resign herself 
 
 Georges and Sidonie met at the theatre. Their 
 feeling at first when they were together was one 
 of satisfied vanity. People stared at them a great 
 deal. She was really pretty now, and her irregular 
 but attractive features, which required the aid of 
 all the eccentricities of the prevailing style in order 
 to produce their full effect, adapted themselves to 
 them so perfectly that you would have said they 
 were invented expressly for her. In a few mo- 
 ments they went away and Madame Dobson was 
 left alone in the box. They had hired a small 
 suite on Avenue Gabriel, near the rond-point of the 
 Champs Elysees — the dream of the young women
 
 Plaims tirniblcs for his Cash-box. 145 
 
 at the Le Mire establishment — two luxuriously 
 furnished, quiet rooms, where the silence of the 
 wealthy quarter, disturbed only by passing car- 
 riages, formed a blissful envelope for their love. 
 Little by little, when she had become accustomed 
 to her sin, she conceived the most audacious 
 whims. From her old working days she had re- 
 tained in the depths of her memory the names of 
 public balls, of famous restaurants where she was 
 eager to go now, just as she took pleasure in caus- 
 ing the doors to be thrown open for her at the 
 establishments of the great dressmakers, whose 
 signs only she had known in her earlier days. For 
 what she sought above all else in this liaison was 
 revenge for the sorrows and humiliations of her 
 youth. Nothing delighted her so much, for ex- 
 ample, when returning from an evening drive in 
 the Bois, as a supper at the Caf6 Anglais with the 
 sounds of luxurious vice about her. From these 
 repeated excursions she brought back peculiarities 
 of speech and behavior, equivocal refrains and a 
 style of dress that imported into the bourgeois 
 atmosphere of the old commercial house an accu- 
 rate reproduction of the most advanced t}pc of the 
 Paris-Cocotte of that period. 
 
 At the factory they began to suspect something. 
 The women of the people, even the poorest, are so 
 quick at picking a dress to pieces ! When Madame 
 Risler went out, about three o'clock, fifty pairs of 
 sharp, envious eyes, lying in ambush at the win- 
 dows of the polishing-shop, watched her pass, 
 penetrating to the lowest depths of her guilty
 
 146 Fromont and Rislcr, 
 
 conscience through her black velvet dolman and 
 her cuirass of sparkling jet. 
 
 Although she did not suspect it, all the secrets 
 of that mad brain were flying about her like the 
 ribbons that played upon her bare neck ; and her 
 daintily shod feet, in their bronzed boots with ten 
 buttons, told the story of all sorts of clandestine 
 expeditions, of the carpeted stairways they as- 
 cended at night on their way to supper, and the 
 warm fur robes in which they were wrapped when 
 the coupe made the circuit of the lake in the dark- 
 ness dotted with lanterns. 
 
 The workwomen laughed sneeringly and whis- 
 pered : " Just look at that Tata Bebelle ! There 's 
 a way to dress to go out. She don't rig herself 
 up like that to go to mass, that 's sure ! To think 
 that it ain't three years since she used to start for 
 the shop every morning in an old waterproof, and 
 two sous' worth of roasted chestnuts in her pockets 
 to keep her fingers warm. Now she rides in her 
 carriage." And amid the talc dust and the roaring 
 of the stoves, red-hot in winter and summer alike, 
 more than one poor girl reflected on the caprice 
 of chance in absolutely transforming a woman's 
 existence, and began to dream vaguely of a mag- 
 ficent future which might perhaps be in store for 
 her without her suspecting it. 
 
 In everybody's opinion Risler was a dishonored 
 husband. 
 
 Two tireiirs ^ in the printing-room — faithful pa- 
 
 ^ The name given to the boys who hold the ends ot a roll of 
 wall-paper while it is being printed.
 
 Planus trembles for his Cash-box. 147 
 
 trons of the Folios Diamatiqucs — declared that 
 they had seen Madame Risler several times at their 
 theatre, accompanied by some man who kept out 
 of sight at the rear of the box. Pcre Achille, too, 
 told of astounding things. That Sidonic had a 
 lover, that she had several lovers in fact, no 
 one entertained a doubt. But no one had as yet 
 thought of Fromont Jeune. 
 
 And yet she showed no sort of prudence In her 
 relations with him. On the contrary she seemed 
 to make a parade of them ; it may be that that 
 was what saved them. How many times she 
 accosted him boldly on the steps to agree upon a 
 rendezvous for the evening! How many times 
 she had amused herself making him shudder by 
 speaking into his eyes before everyone ! When the 
 first confusion had passed, Georges was grateful to 
 her for these exhibitions of audacity, which he at- 
 tributed to the intensity of her passion. He was 
 mistaken. 
 
 What she would have liked, although she did 
 not admit it to herself, would have been to have 
 Claire see them, to have her draw aside the curtain 
 at her window, to have her conceive a suspicion of 
 what was going on. She needed that in order to 
 be perfectly happy : that her rival should be un- 
 happy. But her wish was ungratified, Claire Fro- 
 mont noticed nothing and lived, as Risler did, in 
 imperturbable serenity. 
 
 Only Sigismond, the old cashier, was realU' ill at 
 ease. And yet he was not thinking of Sidonie 
 when, with his pen behind his ear, he paused a
 
 148 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 moment in his work and gazed fixedly through his 
 grating at the drenched soil of the little garden. 
 He was thinking solely of his master, of Monsieur 
 " Chorche," who was drawing a great deal of money 
 now for his current expenses and sowing confusion 
 in all his books. Every time it was some new ex- 
 cuse. He would come to the little wicket with an 
 unconcerned air : 
 
 "Have you a little money, my good Planus? 
 I was worsted again at boiiillotte last night, and 
 I don'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 certain day when 
 Monsieur Georges, then only twenty years old, had 
 confessed to his uncle that he owed several thousand 
 francs in gambling debts. The goodman there- 
 upon conceived a violent antipathy for the club 
 an-d contempt for all its micmbers. A rich trades- 
 man who was a member happened to come to 
 the factory one day, and Sigismond said to him 
 with brutal frankness : 
 
 " The devil take your Cercle du Chateau d'Eau ! 
 Monsieur Georges has left more than thirty thou- 
 sand 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 seen your 
 master." 
 
 The cashier did not pursue the conversation ; 
 but a terrible thought took up its abode in his 
 mind, and he turned it over and over all day long.
 
 Plaims ircjiiblcs for Jiis CasJi-box. 149 
 
 If Georges did not go to the club, where did he 
 pass his evenings? Where did he spend so much 
 money? 
 
 There was evidently a woman at the bottom 
 of the affair. 
 
 As soon as that idea occurred to him, Sigismond 
 Planus began to tremble seriously for his cash- 
 box. That old bear from the canton of Berne, a 
 confirmed bachelor, had a terrible dread of women 
 in general and Parisian women in particular. He 
 deemed it his duty first of all, in order to set his 
 conscience at rest, to warn Risler. He did it at 
 first in rather a vague v/ay. 
 
 " Monsieur Chorche is spending a great deal of 
 money," he said to him one day. 
 
 Risler exhibited no surprise. 
 
 " What do you expect me to do, my old Sigis- 
 mond? It's his right." 
 
 And the honest fellow meant what he said. In 
 his eyes Fromont Jeune was the absolute master 
 of the establishment. It would have been a fine 
 thing, and no mistake, for him, an ex-draughtsman, 
 to venture to make any comments. The cashier 
 dared say no more imtil the day when a messenger 
 came from a great shawl house with a bill for six 
 thousand francs for a cashmere shawl. 
 
 He went to Georges in his office, 
 
 " Shall I pay it, monsieur? " 
 
 Georges Fromont was a little annoyed. Sidonic 
 had forgotten to tell hini of this latest purchase; 
 she used no ceremony with him now. 
 
 " Pay it, pay it, Pere Planus," he said, with a
 
 150 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 shade of embarrassment, and added : " Charge it 
 to the account of Fromont Jeune. It 's a com- 
 mission entrusted to me by a friend." 
 
 That evening, as Sigismond was hghting his 
 Httle lamp, he saw Risler crossing the garden and 
 tapped on the window to call him. 
 
 " It's a woman," he said under his breath. "I 
 have the proof of it now." 
 
 As he uttered the awful words, " a woman," his 
 voice shook with fear and was drowned in the 
 great uproar of the factory. The sounds of the 
 work in progress had a sinister meaning to the un- 
 happy cashier at that moment. It seemed to him 
 as if all the whirring machinery, the great chimney 
 pouring forth its clouds of smoke, the noise of the 
 workmen at their different tasks — as if all this tumult 
 and animation and fatigue were for the benefit of 
 a mysterious little being, dressed in velvet and 
 bedecked with jewels. 
 
 Risler laughed at him and refused to believe 
 him. He had long been acquainted \vith his com- 
 patriot's mania for detecting in everything the 
 pernicious influence of woman. And yet Planus's 
 words sometimes recurred to his thoughts, espe- 
 cially in the evening, when Sidonie, after all the 
 commotion attendant upon the completion of her 
 toilet, went away to the theatre with Madame 
 Dobson, leaving the apartment very empty as 
 soon as her long train had swept across the thresh- 
 old. Candles burning in front of the mirrors, 
 divers little toilet articles scattered about and 
 thrown aside, tcld of extravagant caprices and a
 
 Planus trembles for /lis Cash-box, 1 5 1 
 
 reckless expenditure of money. Risler saw nothing 
 of all that ; but, when he heard Georges's carriage 
 rolling through the court-yard, he had a feeling 
 of discomfort at the thought of Madame Fromont 
 passing her evenings entirely alone. Poor woman ! 
 Suppose what Planus said were true ! Suppose 
 Georges really had a second establishment ! Oh ! 
 it would be frightful ! 
 
 Thereupon, instead of beginning to work, he 
 would go softly downstairs and ask if Madame were 
 visible, deeming it his duty to keep her company. 
 
 The little girl was always in bed, but the little 
 cap, the blue shoes were still lying in front of the 
 fire. Claire was either reading or working, with 
 her silent mother beside her, always rubbing or 
 dusting with feverish energy, exhausting herself 
 by blowing on the case of her watch, and nervously 
 taking the same thing up and putting it down 
 again ten times in succession, with the obstinate 
 persistence of manias at their inception. Nor was 
 honest Risler a very enlivening companion ; but 
 that did not prevent the young woman from wel- 
 coming him kindly. She knew all that was said 
 about Sidonie in the factory ; and although she 
 did not believe half of it, the sight of the poor 
 man, whom his wife left alone so often, moved her 
 heart to pity. Mutual compassion formed the 
 basis of that placid friendship, and nothing could 
 be more touching than those two deserted ones, 
 each pitying the other and each trying to divert 
 the other's thoughts. 
 
 Seated at the small brightly lighted table in the
 
 152 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 centre of the salon, Risler would gradually yield 
 to the influence of the warmth of the fire and the 
 harmony of his surroundings. He found there 
 articles of furniture with which he had been fami- 
 liar for twenty years, the portrait of his former 
 employer, and his dear Madame " Chorche," bend- 
 ing over some little piece of needlework at his side, 
 seemed to him even younger and more lovable 
 among all those old souvenirs. From time to 
 time she would rise to go and look at the child 
 sleeping in the adjoining room, whose soft breath- 
 ing they could hear in the intervals of silence. 
 Without fully realizing it, Risler felt more com- 
 fortable and warmer there than in his own apart- 
 ment ; for on certain days those attractive rooms, 
 where the doors were forever being thrown open 
 for hurried exits or returns, gave him the impres- 
 sion of a hall without doors or windows, open to 
 the four winds. His rooms were a camping 
 ground ; this was a home. A care-taking hand 
 caused order and refinement to reign everywhere. 
 The chairs seemed to be talking together in under- 
 tones, the fire burned with a delightful noise, and 
 Mademoiselle Fromont's little cap retained in every 
 bow of its blue ribbons suggestions of sweet smiles 
 and childish glances. 
 
 And while Claire was thinking that such an 
 excellent man deserved a better companion in life, 
 Risler, watching the calm and lovely face turned 
 toward him, the intelligent, kindly eyes, asked 
 himself who the hussy could be for whom Georges 
 Fromont neglected such an adorable woman.
 
 The Inventory, i5_ 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE INVENTORY. 
 
 The house in which old Planus lived at INIont- 
 rougc adjoined the one which the Chebes had 
 occupied for some time. There was the same 
 ground floor with three windows, and a single floor 
 above, the same garden with its lattice-work fence, 
 the same borders of green box. There the old 
 cashier lived with his sister. He took the first 
 omnibus that left the office in the morning, re- 
 turned at dinner time, and on Sundays remained at 
 home, tending his flowers and his hens. The old 
 maid was his housekeeper and did all the cooking 
 and sewing. A happier couple never lived. 
 
 Celibates both, they were bound together by an 
 equal hatred of marriage. The sister abhorred all 
 men, the brother looked upon all women with 
 suspicion; but withal they adored each other, 
 each considering the other an exception to the 
 general perversity of the sex. 
 
 In speaking of him, she always said : " Monsieur 
 Planus, my brother!" — and he, with the same 
 affectionate solemnity, interspersed all his sentences 
 with " Mademoiselle Planus, my sister ! " To 
 those two retiring and innocent creatures, Paris, of 
 which they knew nothing, although they visited it 
 every day, was a den of monsters of two varieties.
 
 154 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 bent upon doing one another the utmost possible 
 injury; and whenever, amid the gossip of the 
 quarter, a conjugal drama came to their ears, each 
 of them, beset by his or her own idea, blamed a 
 different culprit. 
 
 " It 's the husband's fault," would be the verdict 
 of " Mademoiselle Planus, my sister." 
 
 "It's the wife's fault," "Monsieur Planus, my 
 brother," would reply. 
 
 " Oh ! the men — " 
 
 " Oh ! the women — " 
 
 That was their one never-failing subject of dis- 
 cussion in those rare hours of idleness which old 
 Sigismond set aside in his busy day, which was as 
 carefully ruled off as his account books. For some 
 time past the discussions between the brother and 
 sister had been marked by extraordinary animation. 
 They were deeply interested in what was taking 
 place at the factory. The sister was full of pity 
 for Madame Fromont and consideredher husband's 
 conduct altogether outrageous ; as for Sigismond, 
 he could find no words bitter enough for the un- 
 known trollop w^ho sent bills for six thousand 
 franc shawls to be paid from his cash-box. In his 
 eyes the honor and fair fame of the old house he 
 had served since his youth were at stake. 
 
 " What is going to become of us? " he repeated 
 again and again. "Oh! these women — " 
 
 One day Mademoiselle Planus sat by the fire 
 with her knitting, waiting for her brother. 
 
 The table had been laid for half an hour, and 
 the old maid was beginning to be worried by such
 
 The Invcntoiy. 155 
 
 unheard-of tardiness, when Sigismond entered with 
 a most distressed face, and without a word, which 
 was contrary to all his habits. 
 
 He waited until the door was shut tight, then 
 said in a low voice, in response to his sister's dis- 
 turbed and questioning expression : 
 
 " I have some news. I know who the woman 
 is who is doing her best to ruin us." 
 
 Lowering his voice still more, after glancing 
 about at the silent walls of their little dining-room, 
 he uttered a name so unexpected that Mademoi- 
 selle Planus made him repeat it. 
 
 " Is it possible?" 
 
 " It 's the truth." 
 
 And, despite his grief, he had almost a trium- 
 phant air. 
 
 The old maid could not believe it. Such a 
 refined, polite person, who had received her with 
 so much cordiality ! — How could anyone imagine 
 such a thing? 
 
 " I have proofs," said Sigismond Planus. 
 
 Thereupon he told her how Pere Achillc had 
 met Sidonie and Georges one night at eleven 
 o'clock, just as they entered a small furnished 
 lodging-house in the Montmartre quarter; and he 
 was a man who never lied. They had known him 
 for a long while. At all events, others had met 
 them. Nothing else was talked about at the fac- 
 tory. Risler alone suspected nothing. 
 
 " But it is your duty to tell him," declared Made- 
 moiselle Planus. 
 
 The cashier's face assumed a grave expression.
 
 156 Fronton f and Risler. 
 
 " It's 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 inter- 
 fering between the two partners, I risk the loss of 
 my place. Oh ! the women — the women ! When 
 I think how happy Risler might have been. When 
 I sent for him to come to Paris with his brother, he 
 had n't a sou ; and to-day he 's at the head of one 
 of the first houses in Paris. Do you suppose that 
 he could be content with that? Oh! yes, of 
 course. Monsieur must marry. As if anyone 
 needed to marry ! And, worse yet, he marries a 
 Parisian woman, one of those frowsy-haired chits 
 who are the ruin of an honest house, when he had 
 right at his hand a fine girl, of almost his own age, 
 a countrywoman, used to work, and well put to- 
 gether as you might say ! " 
 
 " Mademoiselle Planus, my sister," to whose 
 physical structure he alluded, had a magnificent 
 opportunity to exclaim: "Oh! the men, the 
 men ! " but she was silent. It was a very delicate 
 question, and perhaps, if Risler had chosen in time, 
 he might have been the only one. 
 
 Old Sigismond continued : 
 
 " And this is what we have come to. For three 
 months the leading wall-paper factory in Paris has 
 been tied to the flounces of that good-for-nothing. 
 You ought to see how the money flies. All day 
 long I do nothing but open my wicket to meet 
 Monsieur Georgcs's calls. He always applies to 
 me, because at his banker's too much notice would 
 be taken of it, whereas in our office money comes
 
 The Inventory. 157 
 
 and goes, comes in and goes out. But look out 
 for the inventory ! There '11 be some pretty- 
 figures to show at the end of the year. The worst 
 part of the whole business is that Rislcr won't listen 
 to anything. I have warned him several times : 
 ' Look out, Monsieur Georges is making a fool of 
 himself for that woman.' He either turns away 
 with a shrug, or else he tells me that it 's none of 
 his business and that Fromont Jeune is the master. 
 Upon my word, one would almost think — -one 
 would almost think — " 
 
 The cashier did not finish his sentence ; but his 
 silence was pregnant with unspoken thoughts. 
 
 The old maid was appalled ; but, like most 
 women under such circumstances, instead of seek- 
 ing a remedy for the evil, she wandered off into 
 a maze of regrets, conjectures and retrospective 
 lamentations. What a misfortune that they had 
 not known it sooner when they had the Chebes for 
 neighbors. Madame Chebe was such an honor- 
 able woman. They might have put the matter 
 before her so that she would keep an eye on Si- 
 donic and talk seriously to her. 
 
 " Indeed, that's a good idea," Sigismond inter- 
 rupted. "You must go to Rue du Mail and tell 
 her parents. I thought at first of writing to little 
 Frantz. He always had a great deal of influence 
 over his brother, and he 's the only person on 
 earth who could say certain things to him. But 
 Frantz is so far away. And then it would be such 
 a terrible thing to do. I can't help pitying that 
 unlucky Risler, though. No ! the best way is to
 
 158 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 tell Madame Chebe, Will you undertake to do it, 
 sister? " 
 
 It was a dangerous commission. Mademoiselle 
 Planus made some objections, but she had never 
 been able to resist her brother's wishes, and the 
 desire to be of service to their old friend Risler 
 assisted materially in persuading her. 
 
 Thanks to his son-in-law's kindness. Monsieur 
 Chebe had succeeded in gratifying his latest whim. 
 For three months past he had been living at his 
 famous warehouse on Rue du Mail, and a great 
 sensation was created in the quarter by that shop 
 without merchandise, the shutters of which were 
 taken down in the morning and put 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 of scales. In a word, 
 Monsieur Chebe possessed all the requisites of a 
 business of some sort, but did not know as yet just 
 what business he would choose. 
 
 He pondered the subject all day as he walked 
 to and fro across the shop, encumbered with 
 several large pieces of bedroom furniture which 
 they had been unable to get into the back shop ; 
 he pondered it too, as he stood on his doorstep, 
 with his pen behind his ear, and feasted his eyes 
 delightedly on the hurly-burly of Parisian com- 
 merce. The clerks who passed with their pack- 
 ages of samples under their arms, the vans of the 
 express companies, the omnibuses, the porters, 
 the wheelbarrows, the great bales of merchandise
 
 The Inventory. 159 
 
 at the neighboring doors, the packages of rich 
 stuffs and trimmings which dragged in the niiul of 
 the gutter before being consigned to those under- 
 ground regions, those dark holes stuffed with treas- 
 ures, where the fortune of business houses Hes in 
 germ — all these things delighted Monsieur Chebe. 
 
 He amused himself guessing at the contents of 
 the bales and was first at the fray when some 
 passer-by received a heavy package upon his feet, 
 or the horses attached to a dray, spirited and 
 restive, made the long vehicle standing across 
 the street an obstacle to circulation. He had, 
 moreover, the thousand and one distractions of 
 the petty tradesman without customers, the heavy 
 showers, the accidents, the thefts, the disputes. 
 
 At the end of the day Monsieur Chebe, dazed, 
 bewildered, worn out by the labor of other people, 
 would stretch him^self out in his easy-chair and say 
 to his wife, as he wiped his forehead : 
 
 " That 's the kind of life I need — an active life." 
 
 Madame Chebe would smile softly without re- 
 plying. Accustomed as she was to all her hus- 
 band's whims, she had made herself as comfortable 
 as possible in a back shop with an outlook upon a 
 dark yard, consoled herself with reflections on 
 the former prosperity of her parents and her daugh- 
 ter's wealth, and, being always neatly dressed, had 
 succeeded already in acquiring the respect of neigh- 
 bors and tradesmen. 
 
 She asked nothing more than not to be con- 
 founded with the wives of working men, often less 
 poor than herself, and to be allowed to retain, in
 
 i6o Fr onion t and Rislcr, 
 
 spite of everything, a petty bourgeois superiority. 
 That was her constant thought; and so the back 
 room in which she hved, and where it was dark at 
 three in the afternoon, was resplendent with order 
 and cleanHness. During the day the bed became 
 a couch, an old shawl did duty as a table-cloth, 
 the fire-place, hidden by a screen, served as a pan- 
 try, and the meals were cooked in modest retire- 
 ment on a stove no larger than a foot-warmer. A 
 tranquil life — that was the dream of the poor 
 woman, who was constantly tormented by the 
 tergiversations of an uncongenial companion. 
 
 In the early days of his tenancy Monsieur 
 Chebe had caused these words to be inscribed in 
 letters a foot long on the fresh paint of his shop- 
 front : 
 
 COMMISSION — EXPORTATION 
 
 No specifications. His neighbors sold tulle, broad- 
 cloth, linen ; he was inclined to sell everything, 
 but could not make up his mind just what. With 
 what arguments did his indecision lead him to 
 favor Madame Chebe as they sat together in the 
 evening ! 
 
 " I don't know anything about linen ; but when 
 you come to broadcloth, I can take care of that. 
 Only, if I go into broadcloths I must have a man 
 to travel ; for the best kinds come from Sedan 
 and Elbeuf. I say nothing about calicoes ; sum- 
 mer 's the time for them. As for tulle, that 's out 
 of the question ; the season is too far advanced." 
 
 He generally brought his discourse to a close 
 with the words :
 
 The luvcuiory. i6i 
 
 "The night will bring counsel — let's go to 
 bed." 
 
 And to bed he would go, to his wife's great 
 relief. 
 
 After three or four months of that existence, 
 Monsieur Chebe began to be tired of it. The 
 pains in the head, the dizzy fits gradually returned. 
 The quarter was noisy and unhealthy. Besides, 
 business was at a standstill. There was nothing 
 doing in any line, broadcloths, tissues or anything 
 else. 
 
 It was just at the period of that new crisis that 
 " Mademoiselle Planus, my sister," called to speak 
 about Sidonie. 
 
 The old maid had said to herself on the way : 
 " I must break it gently." But, like all shy people, 
 she relieved herself of her burden in the first words 
 she spoke after entering the house. 
 
 It was a stunning blow. When she heard the 
 accusation made against her daughter, Madame 
 Chebe rose in indignation. No one could ever 
 make her believe such a thing. Her poor Sidonie 
 was the victim of an infamous slander. 
 
 Monsieur Chebe, for his part, adopted a very 
 lofty tone, with significant phrases and motions of 
 the head, taking everything to himself as his cus- 
 tom was. How could any one suppose that Ids 
 child, a Chebe, the daughter of an honorable busi- 
 ness man known for thirty years on the street, was 
 capable of — Nonsense ! 
 
 Mademoiselle Planus insisted. It was a painful 
 thing to her to be considered a gossip, a hawker 
 II
 
 1 62 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 of unsavory stories. But they had incontestable 
 proofs. It was no longer a secret to anybody. 
 
 "And even suppose it was true," cried Monsieur 
 Chebe, furious at her persistence. " Is it for us to 
 worry about it? Our daughter is married. She 
 lives a long way from her parents. It 's for her 
 husband, who is much older than she, to advise 
 and guide her. Does he so much as think of do- 
 ing it?" 
 
 Upon that the little man began to inveigh 
 against his son-in-law, that sluggish-blooded Swiss, 
 who passed his life in his office devising machines, 
 refused to accompany his wife into society, and 
 preferred his old bachelor habits, his pipe and 
 his brewery to everything else. 
 
 You should have seen the air of aristocratic 
 disdain with which Monsieur Chebe pronounced 
 the words, " the brewery ! " And yet almost every 
 evening he went there to meet Risler, and over- 
 whelmed him with reproaches if he once failed 
 to appear at the rendezvous. 
 
 Behind all this verbiage the merchant of Rue du 
 Mail — " commission, exportation " — had a very 
 definite idea. He wished to give up his shop, to 
 retire from business, and for some time he had 
 been thinking of going to see Sidonie, in order to 
 interest her in his new schemes. That was not the 
 time, therefore, to make disagreeable scenes, to 
 prate about paternal authority and conjugal honor. 
 As for Madame Chebe, being somewhat less con- 
 fident than before of her daughter's infallibility, 
 she took refuge in the most profound silence.
 
 The Inventory. 163 
 
 The poor woman wished that she were deaf and 
 blind, — that she had never known Mademoiselle 
 Planus. 
 
 Like all persons who have been very unhappy, 
 she loved a benumbed existence with a semblance 
 of tranquillity, and ignorance seemed to her prefer- 
 able to everything. As if life were not sad enough, 
 great God ! And then, after all, Sidonie had 
 always been a good girl ; why should she not be 
 a good woman? 
 
 Night was falling. 
 
 Monsieur Chebe rose gravely to close the shut- 
 ters of the shop, and light a gas-jet which illumined 
 the bare walls, the empty polished shelves, and the 
 whole extraordinary place, which reminded one 
 strongly of the day following a failure. With his 
 lips closed disdainfully, in his determination to 
 remain silent, he seemed to say to the old maid : 
 " Night has come — it 's time for you to go home." 
 And all the while they could hear Madame Chebe 
 sobbing in the back shop, as she went to and fro 
 preparing supper. 
 
 Mademoiselle Planus got no further satisfaction 
 from her visit. 
 
 "Well?" queried old Sigismond, who was im- 
 patiently awaiting her return. 
 
 " They would n't believe me, and politely showed 
 me the door." 
 
 She had tears in her eyes at the thought of her 
 humiliation. 
 
 The old man's face flushed, and he said in a 
 grave voice, taking his sister's hand:
 
 164 Froinont and Rislcr, 
 
 " Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, I ask your 
 pardon for having made you take this step ; but 
 the honor of the house of Fromont was at 
 stake." 
 
 From that moment Sigismond became more and 
 more depressed. His cash-box no longer seemed 
 to him safe or secure. Even when Fromont Jeune 
 did not ask him for money, he was afraid, and he 
 summed up all his apprehensions in four words 
 which came constantly to his lips when talking 
 with his sister: 
 
 *'/ /laf no gonfidcnce,'' he would say, in his 
 hoarse Swiss patois. 
 
 Thinking always of his cash-box, he dreamed 
 sometimes that it had broken apart at all the 
 joints, and insisted on remaining open, no matter 
 how much he turned the key, or else that a high 
 wind scattered all the papers, notes, checks, and 
 bills, and that he ran after them all over the 
 factory, tiring himself out in the attempt to pick 
 them up. 
 
 In the daytime, as he sat behind his grating in 
 the silence of his office, he imagined that a little 
 white mouse had eaten its way through the bottom 
 of the box and was gnawing and destroying all its 
 contents, growing fatter and prettier as the work 
 of destruction went on. 
 
 So that, when Sidonie appeared on the stoop 
 about the middle of the afternoon, in her pretty 
 cocotte's plumage, old Sigismond shuddered with 
 rage. In his. eyes it was the ruin of the house that 
 stood there, ruin in a magnificent costume, with
 
 The Inventory. 165 
 
 her little coupe at the door, and the placid bear- 
 ing of a happy coquette. 
 
 Madame Risler had no suspicion that, at that 
 window on the ground floor, there was an untir- 
 ing foe who watched her slightest movements, 
 the most trivial details of her life, the going 
 and coming of her music-teacher, the arrival of 
 the fashionable dressmaker in the morning, all 
 the boxes that were brought to the house, and the 
 laced cap of the employes of the Magasiii dji 
 LoHvre, whose heavy wagon stopped at the gate 
 with a jingling of bells, like a diligence drawn by 
 stout horses, which were dragging the house of 
 Fromont to bankruptcy at breakneck speed. 
 
 Sigismond counted the packages, weighed them 
 with his eye as they passed, and gazed inquisitively 
 into Risler's apartments through the open windows. 
 The carpets that were shaken with a great noise, 
 the jardinieres that were brought into the sunlight 
 filled with fragile, unseasonable flowers, rare and 
 expensive, the gorgeous hangings — -none of these 
 things escaped his notice. 
 
 The new acquisitions of the household stared 
 him in the face, reminding him of some request 
 for a large amount. 
 
 I5ut the one thing that he studied more carefully 
 than all else was Risler's countenance. 
 
 In his view that woman was in a fair way to 
 change his friend, the best, the most upright of 
 men, into a shameless villain. There was no possi- 
 bility of doubt that Risler knew of his dishonor, 
 and submitted to it. lie was paid to keep quiet.
 
 1 66 Fro7nont ajid Risler. 
 
 Certainly there was something monstrous in 
 such a supposition. But it is the tendency of in- 
 nocent natures, when they are made acquainted 
 with evil for^ the first time, to go at once too far, 
 beyond reason. When he was once convinced of 
 the treachery of Georges and Sidonie, Risler's 
 degradation seemed to the cashier less impossible 
 of comprehension. On what other theory could 
 his indifference in the face of his partner's heavy 
 expenditures be explained? 
 
 The excellent Sigismond in his narrow, stereo- 
 typed honesty, could not understand the delicacy 
 of Risler's heart. At the same time the method- 
 ical book-keeper's habit of thought and his clear- 
 sightedness in business were a thousand leagues 
 from that absent-minded, flighty character, half- 
 artist, half-inventor. He judged him by himself, 
 having no conception of the condition of a man 
 with the disease of invention, absorbed by a fixed 
 idea. Such men are somnambulists. They look 
 but do not see, their eyes 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 he en- 
 tered the counting-room ; then, discouraged by the 
 immovable indifference, which he believed to be 
 wilful and premeditated, fastened upon his face like 
 a mask, he adopted the plan of turning away and 
 fumbling among his papers to avoid those false 
 glances, and keeping his eyes fixed on the garden 
 paths or the interlaced wires of the grating when 
 he spoke to him. Even his words were all con-
 
 The Inventory. 167 
 
 fused, distorted like his glances. No one could 
 say positively to whom he was talking. 
 
 No more friendly smiles, no more reminiscences 
 as they turned over the leaves of the cash-book 
 together : 
 
 " This was the year you came to the factory. 
 Your first increase of pay. Do you remember ? 
 We dined at Douix's that day. And then the 
 Cafe des Aveugles in the evening, eh ? What a 
 debauch ! " 
 
 At last Risler noticed the strange coolness that 
 had sprung up between Sigismond and himself. 
 He mentioned it to his wife. 
 
 For some time past she had felt that antipathy 
 prowling about her. Sometimes, as she crossed 
 the courtyard, she was oppressed, as it were, by 
 malevolent glances which caused her to turn 
 nervously toward the old cashier's corner. This 
 estrangement between the friends alarmed her and 
 she very quickly determined to put her husband 
 on his guard against Planus' unpleasant remarks. 
 
 " Don't you see that he 's jealous of you, of your 
 position? A man who was once his equal, now 
 his superior, — he can't stand that. But as if there 
 was any need of bothering one's head about all 
 these spiteful creatures. Why, I am surrounded 
 by them here." 
 
 Risler looked at her with wide-open eyes : — • 
 "You?" 
 
 " Why, yes, it 's easy enough to see all these 
 people detest me. They bear little Chebe a grudge 
 because she has become Madame Risler Ainc,
 
 1 68 Froviont and Risler, 
 
 God knows all the outrageous things that are said 
 about me. And your cashier don't keep his tongue 
 in his pocket, I promise you. What a spiteful 
 fellow he is ! " 
 
 These few words had their effect. Risler, indig- 
 nant but too proud to complain, met coldness with 
 coldness. Those two honest men, each intensely 
 distrustful of the other, could no longer meet with- 
 out a painful sensation, so that, after a while, Risler 
 ceased to go to the counting-room at all. It was 
 not difficult for him, as Fromont Jeune had charge 
 of all financial matters. His month's allowance 
 was carried to him on the thirtieth of each month. 
 The arrangement afforded Sidonie and Georges 
 additional facilities, and opportunity for all sorts 
 of underhand 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 she detested 
 the trees, the fields, the country roads that cover 
 you with dust : " The most dismal things on earth," 
 she used to say. But Claire Fromont passed the 
 summer at Savigny. As soon as the first fine days 
 arrived the trunks were packed and the curtains 
 taken down on the floor below ; and a great furni- 
 ture van, with the little girl's blue bassinet rocking 
 on top, set off for the grandfather's chateau. Then, 
 one morning, the mother, grandmother, child and 
 nurse, a medley of white gowns and light veils, 
 would drive away behind two fast horses toward 
 the sunny lawns and the pleasant shade of the 
 avenues.
 
 The Inventory. 169 
 
 At that season Paris was ugly, depopulated ; and 
 although Sidonie loved it, even in the summer 
 which heats it like a furnace, it troubled her to 
 think that all the fashion and wealth of Paris were 
 driving by the seashore under their light umbrellas, 
 and would make their outing an excuse for a thou- 
 sand new inventions, for original styles of the most 
 risque sort, which would permit one to show that 
 one has a pretty leg and long, curly chestnut hair 
 of one's own. 
 
 The seashore bathing resorts ! She could not 
 think of them ; Risler could not leave Paris. 
 
 How about buying a country house? They had 
 not the means. 
 
 To be sure, there was the lover, who would have 
 asked nothing better than to gratify this latest 
 whim ; but a country house cannot be concealed 
 like a bracelet or a shawl. The husband must 
 be induced to accept it. That was not an easy 
 matter ; however, they might venture to try it with 
 Risler. 
 
 To pave the way, she talked to him incessantly 
 about a little nook in the countr)', not too expen- 
 sive, very near Paris. Risler listened with a smile. 
 He thought of the high grass, of the orchard filled 
 with fine fruit trees, being already tormented by 
 the longing to possess which comes with wealth ; 
 but as he was prudent, he said : 
 
 "We will see, we will see. Let's wait till the 
 end of the year." 
 
 The end of the year, that is to say the balance- 
 sheet
 
 170 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 The balance-sheet. 
 
 That is the magic word. All through the year 
 we go on and on in the eddying whirl of business. 
 Money comes and goes, circulates, attracts other 
 money, vanishes ; and the fortune of the firm, like 
 a slippery, gleaming snake, always in motion, ex- 
 pands, contracts, diminishes or increases, and it 
 is impossible to know our condition until there 
 comes a moment of rest. Not until the in- 
 ventory shall we know the truth, and whether 
 the year, which seems to have been a prosperous 
 one, has really been so. 
 
 The account of stock is usually taken late in 
 December, between Christmas and New Year's 
 Day. As it requires much extra labor to prepare 
 it, everybody works far into the night. The whole 
 establishment is on foot. The lamps remain lighted 
 in the offices long after the doors are closed, and 
 seem to share in the festal atmosphere peculiar to 
 that last week of the year, when so many windows 
 are illuminated for family gatherings. Everyone, 
 even to the least important employe of the firm, is 
 interested in the results of the inventory. The 
 increases of salary, the New Year's presents depend 
 upon those blessed figures. And so, while the 
 vast interests of a wealthy house are trembling in 
 the balance, the wives and children and aged par- 
 ents of the clerks, in their fifth-floor tenements or 
 poor apartments in the suburbs, talk of nothing 
 but the inventory, the results of which will 
 make themselves felt either by a greatly increased 
 need of economy, or by some purchase, long post-
 
 The Inventory. i 7 1 
 
 poned, which the New Year's gift will make possible 
 at last. 
 
 On the premises of Fromont Jcune and Risler 
 Ainc Sigismond Planus is the god of the establish- 
 ment at that season, and his little office a sanctuary 
 where all the clerks perform their devotions. In 
 the silence of the sleeping factory, the heavy pages 
 of the great books rustle as they are turned, and 
 names called aloud cause search to be made in 
 other books. Fens scratch. The old cashier, sur- 
 rounded by his lieutenants, has a business-like, 
 awe-inspiring air. From time to time Fromont 
 Jeune, on the point of going out in his carriage, 
 looks in for a moment, with a cigar in his mouth, 
 neatly gloved and ready for the street. He walks 
 slowly, on tiptoe, puts his face to the grating: 
 
 " Well ! — are you getting on all right? " 
 
 Sigismond gives a grunt, and the young master 
 takes his leave, afraid to ask any further questions. 
 He knows from the cashier's expression that the 
 showing will be a bad one. 
 
 In truth, since the days of the Revolution, when 
 there was fighting in the very courtyard of the 
 factory, so pitiable an inventory had never been 
 seen in the Fromont establishment. Receipts and 
 expenditures balanced each other. The general 
 expense account had eaten up everything, and, 
 furthermore, P'romont Jeune was indebted to the 
 firm in a large sum. You should have seen old 
 Planus's air of consternation when, on the 31st of 
 December, he went up to Georges's office to make 
 report of his labors.
 
 172 Fromont and Rislcr, 
 
 Georges took a very cheerful view of the matter. 
 Everything would go better next year. And to 
 restore the cashier's good humor, he gave him an 
 extraordinary bonus of a thousand francs, instead 
 of the five hundred his uncle used always to give. 
 Everybody felt the effects of that generous impulse, 
 and, in the universal satisfaction, the deplorable 
 results of the yearly accounting were very soon 
 forgotten. As for Risler, Georges chose to take it 
 upon himself to inform him as to the situation. 
 
 When he entered his partner's little closet, which 
 was lighted from above by a window in the ceiling, 
 so that the light fell directly upon the subject of 
 the inventor's meditations, Fromont hesitated a 
 moment, filled with shame and remorse for what 
 he was about to do. 
 
 The other, when he heard the door, turned joy- 
 fully toward his partner. 
 
 " Chorche, Chorche, my dear fellow, — I have 
 got it, our press. There are still a few little things 
 to think out. But no matter ! I am sure now 
 of my invention, — you will see, — you will see ! 
 Ah ! the Prochassons can dabble all they choose. 
 With the Rider Press we will crush all rivalry." 
 
 " Bravo, my comrade," replied Fromont Jcune. 
 ** So much for the future; but you don't seem to 
 think 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 disturbed 
 and embarrassed expression of Georges's face.
 
 The Inventory. 173 
 
 " Why, yes, on the contrary, it 's very satisfactory 
 indeed," was the reply. " We have every reason 
 to be satisfied, especially as it's our first year. 
 We have forty thousand francs each for our share 
 of the profits; and as I thought you might need 
 a little money to give your wife a New Year's 
 present — " 
 
 Ashamed to meet the eyes of the honest man 
 whose confidence he was betraying, Fromont 
 Jeune placed a bundle of checks and notes on the 
 table. 
 
 Risler was deeply moved for a moment. So 
 much money at one time for him ! His mind 
 dwelt upon the generosity of these Fromonts, who 
 had made him what he was ; then he thought of 
 his little Sidonie, of the longing which she had so 
 often expressed and which he would now be able 
 to gratify. 
 
 With tears in his eyes and a happy smile on his 
 lips, he held out 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-notes 
 spread out before him in the narrow bands which 
 are used to confine those fugitive documents, 
 always ready to fly away. 
 
 " Do you know what that is? " he said to Georges, 
 with an air of triumph. "That is Sidonie's house 
 in the country." 
 
 Parblcu !
 
 174 Fromojit and Risler. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 " To M. Frantz Risler, 
 
 '■'■Engineer of the Compagjiie Fran^aise, 
 '■'■ Isniailia, Egypt. 
 
 " Frantz, my boy, it is old Sigismond who is writ- 
 ing to you. If I knew better how to put my ideas 
 on paper, I should have a very long story to tell 
 you. But this infernal French is too hard, and 
 Sigismond Planus is good for nothing away from 
 his figures. So I will tell you at once what the 
 matter is. 
 
 " Things are taking place in your brother's house 
 that are not as they should be. That woman is 
 false to him with his partner. She has made her 
 husband a laughing-stock, and if this goes on she 
 will cause him to be looked upon as a knave. 
 Look you, my little Frantz, you must come home 
 at once. You 're the only one who can speak to 
 Risler and open his eyes about that little Sidonie. 
 He would n't believe any of us. Ask leave of 
 absence at once, and come. 
 
 " I know that you have your bread to earn out 
 there, and your future to assure ; but a man of 
 honor should think more of the name his parents
 
 A Letter. 175 
 
 gave him than of anything else. And I tell you 
 that if you don't come at once, a time will come 
 when your name of Risler will be so loaded down 
 with shame that you won't dare to bear it. 
 
 "SiGisMOND Planus. 
 
 " Cashier."
 
 176 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 THE JUDGE. 
 
 Those persons who live always indoors, confined 
 by work or infirmity to their chair by the window, 
 take a deep interest in the people who pass, just as 
 they make for themselves a horizon of the neigh- 
 boring walls, roofs and windows. 
 
 Nailed to their place, they live in the life of the 
 streets, and the busy men and women who pass 
 within their range of vision, sometimes every day 
 at the same hour, do not suspect that they serve 
 as the mainspring of other lives, that loving eyes 
 watch for their coming and miss them if they hap- 
 pen to go to their destination by another road. 
 
 The Delobelles, left to themselves all day, in- 
 dulged in this sort of silent observation. Their 
 window was narrow, and the mother, whose eyes 
 were beginning to give out as the result of hard 
 usage, sat near the light against the drawn muslin 
 curtain ; her daughter's large arm-chair was at her 
 side but a little farther away. She announced the 
 approach of their daily passers-by. It was a diver- 
 sion, a subject of conversation ; and the long hours 
 of toil seemed shorter, marked oft' by the regular
 
 The Judge. 177 
 
 appearances of people who were as busy as the}'. 
 There were two little sisters, a gentleman in a gray 
 overcoat, a child who was taken to school and 
 taken home again, and an old government clerk 
 with a wooden leg, whose step on the sidewalk had 
 a sinister sound. 
 
 They hardly ever saw him ; he passed after dark, 
 but they heard him and the sound always struck 
 the little cripple's ears like a harsh echo of her 
 own most melancholy thoughts. All these street 
 friends unconsciously occupied a large place in 
 the lives of the two women. If it rained, they 
 would say : 
 
 " They will get wet. — I wonder if the child got 
 home before the shower." And when the season 
 changed, when the March sun inundated the side- 
 walks or the December snow covered them with 
 its white mantle and its patches of black slush, the 
 appearance of a new garment on one of their 
 friends caused the two recluses to say to them- 
 selves: "It is summer," or "Winter has come." 
 
 Now, on a certain evening in Ma)% one of those 
 soft luminous evenings when life flows forth from 
 the houses into the street through the open win- 
 dows, Dcsirce and her mother were actively at 
 work with needles and fingers exhausting the day- 
 light, to its last ray, before lighting the lamp. 
 They could hear the shouts of children playing in 
 the yards, the mufnod notes of pianos, and the 
 voice of a street peddler, drawing his half-empty 
 wagon. One could smell the springtime in the 
 air, a vague odor of nyacinth and hlac. 
 12
 
 178 Froinout and Risler, 
 
 Delobellc's " mamma " had laid aside her work, 
 and, before closing the window, leaned upon the 
 sill listening to all these noises of a great toiling 
 city, taking delight in walking through the 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 
 he leaves the factory to-night. It may be because 
 the days are lengthening out so fast, but I don't 
 think it can be seven o'clock. Who can that man 
 be with the old cashier? — What a funny thing! — 
 One would say — Why, yes — One would say it 
 was Monsieur Frantz. But that is n't possible. 
 Monsieur Frantz is a long way from here at this 
 moment; and then he had no beard. That man 
 looks ever so much like him all the same ! Just 
 look, my dear." 
 
 But " my dear " does not leave her chair; 'she 
 does not even stir. Her eyes staring into vacancy, 
 her needle in the air, arrested in its pretty industri- 
 ous movement, she has gone away to the blue 
 country, that wonderful country whither one may 
 go at will, without thought of any infirmity. The 
 name Frantz, uttered mechanically by her mother, 
 because of a chance resemblance, represented to 
 her a whole lifetime of illusions, of fervent hopes, 
 ephemeral as the flush that rose to her cheeks 
 when, on returning home at night, he used to come 
 and chat with her a moment. How far away that 
 was already ! To think that he used to live in the 
 little room near hers, that they used to hear his
 
 The Jiidge. 179 
 
 step on the stairs and the noise made by his tabic 
 when he dragged it to the window to draw. What 
 sorrow and what pleasure she used to feel when he 
 talked to her of Sidonie, sitting on the low chair at 
 her knees, while she mounted her birds and her 
 insects. 
 
 As she worked, she would cheer and comfort him, 
 for Sidonie had caused poor Frantz many little 
 griefs before the last great one. The tone of his 
 voice when he spoke of Sidonie, the sparkle in his 
 eyes when he thought of her, fascinated Desir^e in 
 spite of everything, so that when he went away in 
 despair, he left behind him a love even greater 
 than that he carried with him, — a love which the 
 unchanging room, the sedentary, stagnant life kept 
 intact with all its bitter perfume, whereas his would 
 gradually fade away and vanish in the fresh air of 
 the great highways. 
 
 It grows darker and darker. A great wave of 
 melancholy envelops the poor girl with the falling ' 
 darkness of that balmy evening. The blissful gleam 
 from the past dies away as the last glimmer of 
 daylight vanishes in the narrow recess of the win- 
 dow, where her mother still stands leaning on the 
 sill. 
 
 Suddenly the door opens. Someone is there 
 whose features cannot be distinguished. Who can 
 it be? The Delobelles never receive calls. The 
 mother, who has turned her head, thinks at first 
 that someone has come from the shop to get their 
 week's work. 
 
 " My husband has just gone to your place, mon-
 
 I So Fromoiit and Risler. 
 
 sieur. We have nothing here. Monsieur Delo- 
 bclle has taken everything." 
 
 The man comes forward without speaking, and 
 as he approaches the window his features can be 
 made out. He is a tall, solidly built fellow with a 
 bronzed face, a thick sandy beard, and a deep 
 voice, and is a little slow of speech. 
 
 " Aha ! so you don't know me. Mamma Delo- 
 belle?" 
 
 " Oh ! I knew you at once. Monsieur Frantz," said 
 Desiree very calmly, in a cold, sedate tone. 
 
 " Merciful heaven ! it 's Monsieur Frantz." 
 
 Quickly, quickly Mamma Delobelle runs to the 
 lamp, lights it and closes the window. 
 
 " What ! it 's you, is it, my dear Frantz? " How 
 coolly she says it, the little rascal ! " I knew you 
 at once." Ah ! the little iceberg. She will always 
 be the same. 
 
 A veritable little iceberg, in very truth. She is 
 pale, so pale ; and her hand as it lies in Frantz's is 
 all white and cold. 
 
 She seems to him improved, even more refined 
 than before. 
 
 He seems to her superb, as always, with a mel- 
 ancholy, weary expression in the depths of his 
 eyes, which makes him more of a man than when 
 he went away. 
 
 His weariness is due to his hurried journey, un- 
 dertaken immediately on his receipt of Sigismond's 
 letter. Spurred on by the word dishonor, he had 
 started instantly, without awaiting his leave of 
 absence, risking his place and his future prospects ;
 
 TJic Judge. i8i 
 
 and, hurrying from steamboats to railroads, he had 
 not stopped until he reached Paris. Reason 
 enough for being weary, especially when one has 
 travelled in eager haste to reach one's destination, 
 and when one's mind has been constantly beset by 
 impatient thoughts, making the journey ten times 
 over in incessant doubt and fear and perplexity. 
 
 His melancholy dates from farther back. It 
 dates from the day when the woman he loved re- 
 fused to marry him, to become, six months later, 
 the wife of his brother ; two terrible blows in close 
 succession, the second even more painful than the 
 first. It is true that, before entering into that 
 marriage, Risler had written to him to ask his per- 
 mission to be happy, and had written in such 
 touching, affectionate terms, that the violence of the 
 blow was somewhat diminished thereby; and then, 
 in due time, the life in a strange country, the hard 
 work and the long journeys had got the better of 
 his grief. Now there remains only a vast back- 
 ground of melancholy. Unless, indeed, the hatred, 
 the wrath by which he is animated at this moment 
 against the woman who is dishonoring his brother, 
 may be a remnant of his former love. 
 
 But no ! Frantz Risler thinks only of avenging 
 the honor of the Rislers. He comes not as a lover 
 but as a judge ; and Sidonie may well look to 
 herself 
 
 The judge had gone straight to the factory on 
 leaving the train, relying upon the surprise, the 
 unexpectedness of his arrival, to disclose to him at 
 a glance what was taking place.
 
 1 82 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 Unluckily he had found no one. 
 
 The blinds of the httle house at the foot of the 
 garden had been closed for two weeks. 
 
 Pere Achille informed him that the ladies were 
 at their respective country seats where the partners 
 joined them every evening. 
 
 Fromont Jeune had left the factory very early; 
 Risler Ainc had just gone. 
 
 Frantz decided to speak to old Sigismond. But 
 it was Saturday, the regular pay-day, and he must 
 needs wait until the long line of workmen, extend- 
 ing from Achille's lodge to the cashier's grated 
 window, had gradually dropped away. 
 
 Although very impatient and very depressed, the 
 excellent youth, who had lived the life of a Paris 
 working man from his childhood, felt a thrill of 
 pleasure at finding himself once more in the midst 
 of the animated scenes peculiar to that time and 
 place. Upon all those faces, honest or vicious, 
 there was an expression of satisfaction that the 
 week was at an end. You felt that, so far as they 
 were concerned, Sunday began at seven o'clock 
 Saturday evening, in front of the cashier's little 
 lamp. 
 
 One must have lived among working men to 
 realize the full charm of that one day's rest and its 
 solemnity. Many of these poor creatures, bound 
 fast to unhealthy trades, await the coming of the 
 blessed Sunday like a puff of respirable air, essen- 
 tial to their health and their life. What an over- 
 flow of spirits, therefore, what a pressing need of 
 noisy mirth ! It seems as if the oppression of the
 
 The Judge. 18 
 
 o 
 
 week's labor vanishes with the steam from the 
 macliincry, as it escapes in a hissing cloud of 
 vapor over the gutters. 
 
 One by one the workmen moved away from the 
 grating, counting the money that glistened in their 
 black hands. There were disappointments, mut- 
 terings, remonstrances, hours missed, monc}' drawn 
 in advance; and above the tinkling of coins, Sigis- 
 mond's voice could be heard, calm and relentless, 
 defending the interests of his employers with a 
 zeal amounting to ferocity. 
 
 Frantz was familiar with all the dramas of pay- 
 day, the false accents and the true. He knew that 
 one man's wages v/ere expended for his family, to 
 pay the baker, the druggist, or his children's 
 schooling. Another wanted his money for the 
 wine-shop, or for something even worse. And the 
 melancholy, downcast shadows passing back and 
 forth in front of the factory gateway, — he knew 
 what they were waiting for, — that they were all 
 on the watch for a father or a husband, to hurry 
 him home with complaining or coaxing words. 
 
 Oh ! the bare-footed children, the tiny creatures 
 wrapped in old shawls, the shabby women, whose 
 tear-stained faces were as white as the linen caps 
 that surmounted them. 
 
 Oh ! the lurking vice that prowls about on pay- 
 day, the candles that are lighted in the depths of 
 dark alle}'s, the dirty windows of the wineshops 
 where the thousand and one poisonous concoctions 
 of alcohol display their alluring colors. 
 
 Frantz was familiar with all these forms of
 
 184 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 misery ; but they had never seemed to him so 
 depressing, so harrowing as on that evening. 
 
 When the last man was paid, Sigismond came 
 out of his office. 
 
 The two friends recognized each other and em- 
 braced ; and in the silence of the factory, at rest 
 for twenty-four hours and deathly still in all its 
 empty buildings, the cashier explained to Frantz 
 the state of affairs. He described Sidonie's con- 
 duct, her mad extravagance, the utter wreck of the 
 family honor. The Rislers had bought a country 
 house at Asnieres, formerly the property of an 
 actress, and had set up a sumptuous establishment 
 there. They had horses and carriages, and led a 
 luxurious, fast life. The thing that especially 
 disturbed honest Sigismond was the self-restraint 
 of Fromont Jeune. For some time he had drawn 
 almost no money from the strong-box, and yet 
 Sidonie was spending more than ever. 
 
 " / Jiaf no gonfidence ! " said the unhappy 
 cashier, shaking his head, " I /io/ no gonfidence !" 
 
 Lowering his voice, he added : 
 
 " But your brother, my little Frantz, your 
 brother? Who can explain his actions? He goes 
 about through it all with his eyes in the air, his 
 hands in his pockets, his mind on his famous in- 
 vention, which unfortunately does n't move fast. 
 Look here ! do you want me to give you my 
 opinion? — He's either a knave or a fool." 
 
 They were walking up and down the little garden 
 as they talked, stopping for a moment, then resum- 
 ing their walk. Frantz felt as if he were living in
 
 The Judge. 185 
 
 a horrible dream. The rapid journey, the sudden 
 change of scene and climate, the ceaseless flow of 
 Sigismond's words, the new idea that he had to 
 form of Risler and Sidonie — the same Sidonie he 
 had loved so dearly — -all these things bewildered 
 him and almost drove him 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 he 
 was left alone in the Marais, at that dismal and 
 uncertain hour when the daylight has faded and 
 the gas is still unlighted, he walked instinctively 
 toward his old quarters on Rue de l^raque. 
 
 At the hall door hung a placard. Bachelor's 
 Chamber to let. 
 
 It was the same room in which he had lived so 
 long with his brother. He recognized the map 
 fastened to the wall by four pins, the window on 
 the landing, and the Dclobclles' little sign : Birds 
 and Insects for Ornainoit. 
 
 Their door was ajar ; he had only to push it a 
 little in order to enter the room. 
 
 Certainly there was not in all Paris a surer refuge 
 for him, a spot better fitted to welcome and console 
 his perturbed spirit than that hard-working familiar 
 fireside. In his present agitation and perplexity, 
 it was like the harbor with its smooth, deep water, 
 the sunny, peaceful quay, where the women work 
 while awaiting their husbands and fathers, while 
 the wind howls and tlie sea rages outside. More 
 than all else, although he did not realize that it 
 was so, it was a network of steadfast affection, that
 
 1 86 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 miraculous loving-kindness which makes another's 
 love precious to us even when we do not love that 
 other. 
 
 That dear little iceberg of a Desiree loved him 
 so dearly. Her eyes sparkled so even when talk- 
 ing of the most indifferent things with him. As 
 objects dipped in phosphorus shine with equal 
 splendor, so the most trivial words she said illumi- 
 nated her pretty radiant face. What a blissful rest 
 it was for him after Sigismond's brutal disclosures. 
 
 They talked together with great animation while 
 Mamma Delobelle was setting the table. 
 
 " You will dine with us, won't you, Monsieur 
 Frantz? 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 managerial 
 scheme, the illustrious Delobelle no longer took 
 his meals abroad, even on the evenings when he 
 went to collect the weekly earnings. The un- 
 lucky manager had eaten so many meals on 
 credit at his restaurant that he dared not go 
 there again. By way of compensation, he never 
 failed, on Saturday, to bring home with him two 
 or three unexpected, famished guests — " old com- 
 rades" — "unlucky devils." So it happened that, 
 on the evening in question, he appeared upon the 
 stage escorting a financier from the Metz theatre 
 and a comiqne from the theatre at Angers, both 
 on waiting orders. 
 
 The comiqiie, closely shaven, wrinkled, shrivelled
 
 TJic Judge. 187 
 
 by the heat from the footlights, looked like an old 
 strcet-arab ; the fi}uincier wore cloth shoes, and 
 no linen so far as could be seen. 
 
 " Frantz ! — my Frantz ! " cried the old stroll- 
 ing player in a melodramatic voice, clawing the 
 air convulsively with his hands ; after a long and 
 energetic embrace he presented his guests to one 
 another 
 
 " Monsieur Robricart, of the theatre at Metz. 
 
 " Monsieur Chaudezon, of the theatre at Angers. 
 
 " Frantz Risler, engineer." 
 
 In Delobelle's mouth that word engineer as- 
 sumed vast proportions ! 
 
 Desiree pouted prettily when she saw her 
 father's friends. It would have been so nice to 
 be by themselves on a day like to-day. But the 
 great 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 the 
 ladies," he said, forgetting that he adored pie. 
 A lobster next made its appearance, then an 
 Aries sausage, marrons glaces and cherries, the 
 first of the season ! 
 
 While the fimuicier enthusiastically pulled up 
 the collar of his invisible shirt, while the coiiiiquc 
 exclaimed " gnouf ! gnouf ! " with a gesture for- 
 gotten by Parisians for ten years, Desiree thought 
 with dismay of the enormous hole that extempore 
 banquet would make in the paltry earnings of the 
 week, and Mamma Dclobclle, full of business, up- 
 set the whole buffet in order to find a sufficient 
 number of plates.
 
 1 88 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 It was a very lively meal. The two actors ate 
 voraciously, to the great delight of Delobelle, who 
 talked over with them old memories of their days 
 of strolling. Imagine a collection of odds and 
 ends of scenery, extinct lanterns, and mouldy, 
 crumbling stage properties. 
 
 In a sort of vulgar, meaningless, familiar slang 
 they recalled their innumerable triumphs; for all 
 three of them, according to their own stories, 
 had been applauded, laden with laurel-wreaths 
 and carried in triumph by whole cities. 
 
 While they talked they ate as actors eat, sitting 
 with their faces turned three-fourths toward the 
 audience, with the unnatural haste of stage guests 
 at a pasteboard supper, alternating words and 
 mouthfuls, seeking to produce an effect by their 
 manner of putting down a glass or moving a 
 chair, and expressing interest, amazement, joy, 
 terror, surprise with the aid of a skilfully handled 
 knife and fork. Mamma Delobelle listened to 
 them with a smiling face. 
 
 One cannot be an actor's wife for thirty years 
 without becoming somewhat accustomed to these 
 peculiar mannerisms. 
 
 But one little corner of the table was separ- 
 ated from the rest of the party as by a cloud 
 which intercepted the absurd remarks, the hoarse 
 laughter, the boasting. Frantz and Desiree talked 
 together in undertones, hearing naught of what 
 was said around them. Things that happened in 
 their childhood, anecdotes of the neighborhood, 
 a whole ill-defined past which derived its only
 
 The Judge. 189 
 
 value from the mutual memories evoked, from 
 the spark that glowed in the eyes of both, — 
 those were the themes of their pleasant chat. 
 
 Suddenly the cloud was torn aside and Delo- 
 belle's terrible voice interrupted the dialogue. 
 
 " Have you not seen your brother?" he asked, 
 in order to avoid the appearance of neglecting 
 him too much. " And you have not seen his 
 wife either? — Ah! you will find her a Madame. 
 Such toilettes, my dear fellow, and such cJiic ! I 
 just tell you. They have a genuine chateau at 
 Asnicres. The Chebes are there also. Ah ! my 
 old friend, they have all left us behind. They 
 are rich, they look down on old friends. Never 
 a word, never a call. For my part, you under- 
 stand, I snap my fingers at them, but it really 
 wounds these ladies." 
 
 " Oh ! papa," said Desiree hastily, " you know 
 very well that we are too fond of Sidonie to be 
 offended with her." 
 
 The actor smote the table a fierce blow with his 
 fist. 
 
 " Why then you do wrong. You ought to 
 be offended with people who seek constantly to 
 wound and humiliate you." 
 
 He still had upon his mind the refusal to furnish 
 funds for his theatrical project, and he made no 
 secret of his wrath. 
 
 " If you knew," he said to Frantz, " if you 
 knew how money is being squandered over yon- 
 der ! It's a great pity. And nothing substantial, 
 nothing sensible. I, I who speak to you, asked
 
 I go Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 your brother for a paltry sum to assure my future 
 and himself a handsome profit. He flatly refused. 
 Parblcii! Madame is too exacting. She rides, 
 goes to the races in her carriage, and drives her 
 husband at the same rate as her little phaeton on 
 the quay at Asnieres. Between you and me I 
 don't think that our good friend Risler is very 
 happy. That woman makes him believe black is 
 white." 
 
 The ex-actor concluded his harangue with a 
 wink at the comiquc and the financier, and for a 
 moment the three exchanged glances, conventional 
 grimaces, ha! has! and Jmm! hums! and all the 
 pantomime expressive of thoughts too deep for 
 words. 
 
 Frantz was struck dumb. Do what he would, the 
 horrible certainty assailed him on all sides. Sigis- 
 mond had spoken in accordance with his nature, 
 Delobelle with his. The result was the same. 
 
 Fortunately the dinner was drawing near its 
 close. The three actors left the table and betook 
 themselves to the brewery on Rue Blondel. Frantz 
 remained with the two women. 
 
 As he sat beside her, gentle and affectionate in 
 manner, Desiree was suddenly conscious of a great 
 outflow of gratitude to Sidonie. She said to her- 
 self that after all it was to her generosity that she 
 owed this semblance of happiness, and that 
 thought gave her courage to defend her former 
 friend. 
 
 " You see. Monsieur Frantz, you must n't believe 
 all my father told you about your sister-in-law.
 
 The Judge. 191 
 
 Dear papa ! he always exaggerates a little. I'^or 
 my own part, I am very sure that Sidonie is 
 incapable of all the evil she 's charged with. I am 
 sure that her heart has remained the same and 
 that she is still fond of her friends, although she 
 does neglect them a little. Such is life, you know. 
 Friends drift apart without meaning to. Is n't that 
 true, Monsieur Frantz?" 
 
 Oh ! how pretty she was in his eyes, while she 
 talked in that strain. He had never taken so 
 much notice of the refined features, the aristocratic 
 complexion ; and when he left her that evening, 
 deeply touched by the warmth she had displayed 
 in defending Sidonie, by all the charming feminine 
 excuses she put forward for her friend's silence and 
 neglect, Frantz Risler reflected, with a feeling of 
 selfish and ingenuous pleasure, that the child had 
 loved him once and that perhaps she loved him 
 still and kept for him in the bottom of her heart 
 that warm, sheltered spot to which we turn as to 
 the sanctuary when life has wounded us. 
 
 All night long in his old room, lulled by the 
 movement of the vessel, by the murmur of the 
 waves and the howling of the wind which follow 
 long sea-voyages, he dreamed of his youthful days, 
 of little Chcbe and Desiree Delobelle, of their 
 games, their labors, and of the I^cole Centrale, 
 whose great gloomy buildings were sleeping near 
 at hand, in the dark streets of the Marais. 
 
 And when morning came, and the light shining 
 in at his curtainless window vexed his eyes and 
 brought him back to a realization of the duty that
 
 192 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 lay before him and to the anxieties of the day, he 
 dreamed that it was time to go to the School, and 
 that his brother, before going down to the factory, 
 opened the door and called to him : 
 
 " Come ! lazybones. Come ! " 
 
 That dear loving voice, too natural, too real for a 
 dream, made him open his eyes without more 
 ado. 
 
 Risler was standing by his bed, watching his 
 awakening with a charming smile, not untinged 
 by emotion ; that it was Risler himself was evident 
 from the fact that, in his joy at seeing his brother 
 Frantz once more, he could find nothing better 
 to say than : " I am very happy, I am very 
 happy." 
 
 Although it was Sunday, Risler, as his custom 
 was, had come to the factory to avail himself of 
 the silence and solitude to work at his press. 
 Immediately on his arrival, Pere Achille had 
 informed him that his brother was in Paris and had 
 gone to the old house on Rue de Braque, and he 
 had hastened thither in joyful surprise, a little vexed 
 that he had not been forewarned, and especially 
 that Frantz had defrauded him of the first evening. 
 His regret on that account came to the surface 
 every moment in his spasmodic attempts at con- 
 versation, in which everything that he wanted to 
 say was left unfinished, interrupted by innumerable 
 questions on all sorts of subjects and explosions of 
 affection and joy. Frantz excused himself on the 
 plea of fatigue and the pleasure it had given him to 
 be in their old room once more.
 
 The Judge. 193 
 
 "All right, all right," said Risler, " but I sha'n't 
 let you alone now — you are coming to Asnicres 
 at once. I give myself leave of absence to-day. 
 All thought of work is out of the question now 
 that you have come, you understand. Ah ! won't 
 the little one be surprised and glad ! We talk 
 about }^ou so often. What joy ! what joy ! " 
 
 The poor fellow fairly beamed with happiness, 
 he, the silent man, chattered like a magpie, gazed 
 admiringly at his Frantz and remarked upon his 
 growth. The pupil at the Ecole Centralc had a 
 fine physique when he went away; but his features 
 had acquired greater firmness, his shoulders were 
 broader, and it was a far cry from the tall studious- 
 looking boy who had left Paris two years before 
 for Ismailia, to this handsome bronzed corsair, 
 with his serious yet winning face. 
 
 While Risler was gazing at him, Frantz, on his 
 side, was closely scrutinizing his brother, and, 
 finding him the same as always, as ingenuous, as 
 loving, and as absent-minded at times, he said to 
 himself: 
 
 " No ! it is not possible — he has not ceased to 
 be an honest man." 
 
 Thereupon, as he reflected upon what people 
 had dared to imagine, all his wrath turned against 
 that hypocritical, vicious woman, who deceived her 
 husband so impudently and with such absolute 
 impunity, that she succeeded in causing him to be 
 considered her confederate. Oh ! what a terrible 
 reckoning he proposed to have with her; how 
 pitilessly he would talk to her ! 
 13
 
 194 Froinont and Risler. 
 
 "I forbid you, Madame — understand what I 
 say — I forbid you to dishonor my brother ! " 
 
 He was thinking of that all the way, as he 
 watched the still leafless trees glide along the 
 banking of the Saint Germain railway. Sitting 
 opposite him, Risler chattered, chattered without 
 pause. He talked about the factory, about their 
 business. They had gained forty thousand francs 
 each the last year ; but it would be a different 
 matter when the Press was at work. " A rotary 
 press, my little Frantz, rotary and dodecagonal, 
 capable of printing a pattern in twelve to fifteen 
 colors at a single turn of the wheel — red on pink, 
 dark green on light green, without the least running 
 together or absorption, without a line lapping over 
 its neighbor, without any danger of one shade de- 
 stroying or overshadowing another. Do you under- 
 stand that, little brother? A machine that is an 
 artist like a man. It means a revolution in the 
 wall-paper trade." 
 
 " But," queried Frantz with some anxiety, " have 
 you invented this Press of yours yet, or are you 
 still hunting for it?" 
 
 " Invented ! — perfected ! To-morrow I will show 
 you all my plans. I have also invented an auto- 
 matic crane for hanging the paper on the rods in 
 the drying room. Next week I propose to take up 
 my quarters in the factory, way up in the garret, 
 and have my first machine made there secretly, 
 under my own eyes. In three months the patents 
 must be taken out and the Press must be at work. 
 You '11 see, my little Frantz, it will make us all
 
 The Judge. 195 
 
 rich — you can imagine how glad I shall be to be 
 able to make up to these Fromonts for a little of 
 what they have done for me. Ah ! upon my word, 
 the Lord has been too good to me." 
 
 Thereupon he set about enumerating all his 
 blessings. Sidonie was the best of women, a 
 little love of a wife, who conferred much honor 
 upon him. They had a charming home. They 
 went into society, very select society. The little 
 one sang like a nightingale, thanks to Madame 
 Dobson's expressive method. By the way, this 
 Madame Dobson was another most excellent crea- 
 ture. There was just one thing that disturbed 
 poor Risler, that was his incomprehensible falling- 
 out with Sigismond. Perhaps Frantz would help 
 him to clear up that mystery. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I will help you, brother," replied 
 Frantz through his clenched teeth ; and an angry 
 flush rose to his brow at the idea that any one 
 could have suspected the open-heartedness, the 
 loyalty that were displayed before him in all their 
 artless spontaneity. Luckily he, the judge, had 
 arrived ; and he proposed to restore ever}'thing to 
 its proper place. 
 
 Meanwhile, they were drawing near the house at 
 Asnieres. Frantz had noticed at a distance a fan- 
 ciful little turreted affair, glistening with new blue 
 slates. It seemed to him to have been built ex- 
 pressly for Sidonie, a fitting cage for that capri- 
 cious, gaudy-plumaged bird. 
 
 It was a chalet with two stories, whose bright 
 mirrors and pink-lined curtains could be seen
 
 196 Froniont and Risler. 
 
 from the railway, shining resplendent at the far 
 end of a green lawn, where an enormous pewter 
 ball was suspended. 
 
 The river was near at hand, still wearing its 
 Parisian aspect, filled with chains, bathing estab- 
 lishments, great barges, and multitudes of little 
 skiffs, with a layer of coal dust on their pretentious 
 freshly-painted names, tied to the pier and rocking 
 to the slightest motion of the water. From her 
 windows Sidonie could see the waterside restau- 
 rants, silent through the week, but filled to over- 
 flowing on Sunday with a motley, noisy crowd, 
 whose shouts of laughter, mingled with the dull 
 splash of oars, started from both banks to meet 
 in midstream in that current of vague murmurs, 
 shouts, calls, laughter and singing that floats with- 
 out ceasing up and down the Seine on holidays 
 for a distance of ten leagues. 
 
 During the week she saw shabbily dressed idlers 
 sauntering along the shore, men in broad-brimmed 
 straw hats and flannel shirts, women who sat on 
 the worn grass of the sloping bank, doing nothing, 
 with the dreamy eye of a cow at pasture. All the 
 peddlers, hand-organs, harpists, travelling jugglers, 
 stopped there as at a quarantine station. The quay 
 was crowded with them, and as they approached, 
 the windows in the little houses near by were 
 always thrown open, disclosing white dressing- 
 jackets, half-buttoned, heads of dishevelled hair, 
 and an occasional pipe, all watching these paltry 
 strolling shows, as if with a sigh of regret for 
 Paris, so near at hand.
 
 The Jiidge, 197 
 
 It was a hideous and depressing sight. 
 
 The grass, which had hardly begun to grow, 
 was already turning yellow beneath the feet of 
 the crowd. The dust was black; and yet, every 
 Thursday, the cocotte aristocracy passed through 
 on the way to the Casino, with a great show of 
 rickety carriages and borrowed postilions. All 
 these things gave pleasure to that fanatical Parisian, 
 Sidonie ; and then, too, in her childhood, she had 
 heard a great deal about Asnicrcs from the illus- 
 trious Delobelle, who would have liked to have, 
 like so many of his profession, a little villa in those 
 latitudes, a cosy nook in the country to which to 
 return by the 12.30 train, after the play is done. 
 
 All these dreams of little Chcbe's, Sidonie Risler 
 had realized. 
 
 The brothers went to the gate opening on the 
 quay, in which the key was usually left. They 
 entered, making their way among trees and shrubs 
 of recent growth. Here and there a billiard room, 
 the gardener's lodge, a little greenhouse, made their 
 appearance, like the pieces of one of the Swiss 
 chalets we give to children to play with ; all very 
 light and airy, hardly more than resting on the 
 ground, as if ready to fly away at the slightest 
 breath of bankruptcy or caprice : the villa of a 
 cocotte or a pawnbroker. 
 
 Frantz looked about in some bewilderment. In 
 the distance, opening on a porch surrounded by 
 vases of flowers, was the salon with its long blinds 
 raised. An American cas)'-chair, folding-chairs, a 
 sriiall table from which the coffee had not been
 
 1 98 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 removed, could be seen near the door. Within 
 they heard a succession of loud chords on the 
 piano, and the murmur of low voices. 
 
 " I tell you Sidonic will be surprised," said 
 honest Risler, walking softly on the gravel ; " she 
 does n't expect me until to-night. She and Madame 
 Dobson are practising together at this moment." 
 
 Pushing the door open suddenly, he cried from 
 the threshold in his loud, good-natured voice: 
 
 " Guess whom I 've brought." 
 
 Madame Dobson, who was sitting alone at the 
 piano, jumped up from her stool, and at the farther 
 end of the grand salon Georges and Sidonie rose 
 hastily behind the exotic plants that reared their 
 heads above a table, of whose delicate, slender lines 
 they seemed a prolongation. 
 
 "Ah! how you frightened me!" said Sidonie, 
 running to meet Risler. 
 
 The flounces of her white peignoir, through 
 which blue ribands were drawn, like little patches 
 of blue sky among the clouds, rolled in billows 
 over the carpet, and, having already recovered 
 from her embarrassment, she stood very straight, 
 with an affable expression and her everlasting little 
 smile, as she kissed her husband and offered her 
 forehead to Frantz, saying: 
 
 " Good morning, brother." 
 
 Risler left them confronting each other, and 
 went up to Fromont Jeune, whom he was greatly 
 surprised to find there. 
 
 "What, Chorche, you here? I supposed you 
 were at Savigny."
 
 The Judge. 199 
 
 "Yes, to be sure, but — I came — I thought you 
 stayed at Asnieres Sundays. I wanted to speak 
 to you on a matter of business." 
 
 Thereupon, entangHng himself in his words, he 
 began to talk hurriedly of an im})ortant order. 
 Sidonie had disappeared after exchanging a few un- 
 meaning words with the impassive Frantz. Madame 
 Dobson continued her tremolos on the soft pedal, 
 like those which accompany critical situations at 
 the theatre. 
 
 In very truth, the situation at that moment was 
 decidedly strained. But Risler's good humor ban- 
 ished all constraint. He apologized to his partner 
 for not being at home, and insisted upon showing 
 Frantz the house. They went from the salon to 
 the stable, from the stable to the carriage-house, 
 the servants' quarters and the conservatory. Every- 
 thing was new, brilliant, gleaming, too small, and 
 inconvenient, 
 
 " But," said Risler, with a certain pride, " it cost 
 a lot of money ! " 
 
 He persisted in compelling admiration of Si- 
 donie's purchase even to its smallest details, exhib- 
 ited the gas and water fixtures on ever}- floor, the im- 
 proved system of bells, the garden seats, the English 
 billiard table, the lu'dropathic arrangements, and 
 accompanied his exposition with outbursts of grati- 
 tude to Fromont Jeune, who, by taking him into part- 
 nership, had literally placed a fortune in his hands. 
 
 At each new effusion on Risler's part, Georges 
 Fromont shrank visibl}', ashamed and embarrassed 
 by the strange expression on Frantz's face.
 
 200 Fi'omont and Rislcr. 
 
 The breakfast was lacking in gayety. 
 
 Madame Dobson talked almost without interrup- 
 tion, overjoyed to be swimming in the shallows of 
 a romantic love-affair. Knowing, or rather believ- 
 ing that she knew her friend's story from begin- 
 ning to end, she understood the lowering wrath 
 of Frantz, a former lover furious at finding his 
 place filled, and the anxiety of Georges, due to 
 the appearance of a rival ; and she encouraged 
 one with a glance, consoled the other with a smile, 
 admired Sidonie's tranquil demeanor, and reserved 
 all her contempt for that abominable Rislcr, the 
 vulgar, uncivilized tyrant. Her efforts were espe- 
 cially directed to the end that there should be none 
 of those horrible periods of silence, when the 
 clashing knives and forks mark time in such an 
 absurd and embarrassing way. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was at an end Fromont 
 Jeune announced that he must return to Savigny, 
 Risler did not dare detain him, thinking that his 
 dear Madame Chorche would pass her Sunday all 
 alone ; and so, without an opportunity to say a 
 word to his mistress, the lover went away in the 
 bright sunlight to take an afternoon train, still 
 attended by the husband, who insisted upon escort- 
 ing him to the station. 
 
 Madame Dobson sat for a moment with Frantz 
 and Sidonie under a little arbor which a climbing 
 vine studded with pink buds ; then, realizing 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 expression. In the silent
 
 The Judge. 20 1 
 
 garden, that nuifflcd music, glidinf^ between the 
 branches, seemed Hke the cooing of birds before 
 the storm. 
 
 At last they were alone. 
 
 Under the lattice of the arbor, still bare and 
 leafless, the May sun shone too bright. Sidonie 
 shaded her eyes with her hand as she watched 
 the people passing on the quay. Frantz likewise 
 looked out, but in another direction ; and both of 
 them, affecting to be entirely independent of each 
 other, turned at the same instant with the same 
 gesture and moved by the same thought. 
 
 " I have something to say to you," he said, just 
 as she opened her mouth. 
 
 "And I to you," she replied gravely; "but 
 come in here ; we shall be more comfortable." 
 
 And they entered together a little summer-house 
 at the foot of the garden.
 
 202 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 II. 
 
 EXPLANATION. 
 
 Verily it was high time that the judge should 
 come. 
 
 This httle woman was whirHng madly around in 
 the Parisian maelstrom. Upheld by her very 
 lightness, she still remained on the surface; 
 but her outrageous extravagance, the ostentatious 
 luxury of her surroundings, her rapidly increasing 
 contempt for all the proprieties of hfe, all an- 
 nounced that she would soon sink, dragging with 
 her her husband's honor, and, it might be, the 
 fortune and good name of a prominent business 
 house, ruined by her madness. 
 
 Her present environment tended to hasten her 
 destruction. At Paris, in the quarters inhabited 
 by petty tradesmen, which are veritable provincial 
 towns for malevolence and gossip, she was obliged 
 to be more careful; but in her house at Asnieres, 
 surrounded by strolling actors' cottages, contra- 
 band households, dry goods clerks on a vacation, 
 she did not feel the same restraint. There was an 
 atmosphere of vice about her which suited her, 
 which she breathed without distaste. The music 
 of the ball-room entertained her in the evening, as 
 she sat in her little erarden.
 
 Explanation. 203 
 
 A pistol-shot in the next house one night, which 
 set the whole neighborhood agog over a common- 
 place, foolish intrigue, made her dream of similar 
 adventures. She would have liked to be the 
 heroine of a " story " herself Throwin-g aside 
 all restraint in the matter of language and dress, 
 on the days when she did not ride on the quay at 
 Asnieres, in a short skirt and twirling a hunting- 
 crop in her hand, like a female dandy at Trouville 
 or Houlgate, she remained at home, dressed in a 
 wrapper like her neighbors, absolutely inactive, 
 paying little or no attention to her house, where 
 her servants robbed her like a cocotte without a 
 suspicion on her part. This same woman, who 
 was seen in the saddle every morning, passed whole 
 hours talking with her maid of the strange house- 
 holds that surrounded her. 
 
 By slow degrees she sank to her former level, 
 yes, even lower. From the rich, well-considered 
 bourgeoisie to which her marriage had raised her, 
 she descended the ladder to the rank of kept 
 woman. By dint of travelling in railway carriages 
 with fantastically dressed courtesans, with their 
 hair worn over their eyes like a terrier's, or falling 
 over the back a la Genevieve de Brabant, she 
 came at last to resemble them. She transformed 
 herself into a blonde for two months, to the un- 
 bounded amazement of Risler, who could not 
 understand how his doll was so changed. As for 
 Georges, all these eccentricities amused him ; it 
 seemed to him that he had ten women in one. 
 He was the real husband, the master of the house.
 
 204 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 To divert Sidonie's thoughts, he had provided a 
 simulacrum of society for her — his bachelor 
 friends, a few fast tradesmen, almost no women ; 
 women have too sharp eyes. Madame Dobson 
 was the only friend of Sidonie's sex. 
 
 They organized grand dinner-parties, excursions 
 on the water, fireworks. From day to day Risler's 
 position became more absurd, more distressing. 
 When he came home in the evening, tired out, 
 shabbily dressed, he must hurry up to his room to 
 dress. 
 
 " We have some people to dinner," his wife 
 would say. " Make haste." 
 
 And he would be the last to take his place at 
 the table, after shaking hands all around with his 
 guests, friends of Fromont Jeune, whom he hardly 
 knew by name. Strange to say, the affairs of the 
 factory were often discussed at that table, to which 
 Georges brought his acquaintances from the club 
 with the tranquil self-assurance of the gentleman 
 who pays. 
 
 " Business breakfasts and dinners ! " To Risler's 
 mind that phrase explained everything : his part- 
 ner's constant presence, his choice of guests, and 
 the marvellous gowns worn by Sidonie, who beau- 
 tified herself in the interest of the firm. This 
 coquetry on his mistress's part drove Fromont 
 Jeune to despair. Day after day he came unex- 
 pectedly to take her by surprise, uneasy, suspicious, 
 afraid to leave that perverse and deceitful character 
 to its own devices for long. 
 
 " What in the deuce has become of your hus-
 
 Explanation. 205 
 
 baiul?" Pore Gardinois would ask his grand- 
 dauc^htcM" with a cunning leer. "Why doesn't 
 he come here oftcner?" 
 
 Claire apologized for Georges, but his constant 
 neglect began to disturb her. She wept now when 
 she received the little notes, the despatches which 
 arrived daily at the dinner hour: "Don't expect 
 nie to-night, dear love. I shall not be able to 
 come to Savigny until to-morrow or the day after 
 by the night-train." 
 
 She ate her dinner sadl)', opposite an empty 
 chair, and although she did not know that she 
 was betrayed, she felt that her husband was becom- 
 ing accustomed to live away from her. He was so 
 distraught when a family gathering or some other 
 unavoidable diity detained him at the chateau, so 
 reticent concerning what was in his mind. Claire, 
 having now only the most distant relations with 
 Sidonie, knew nothing of what was taking place at 
 Asnieres : but when Georges left her, apparently 
 eager to be gone, and with smiling face, she tor- 
 mented her loneliness with unavowed suspicions, 
 and, like all those who anticipate a great sorrow, 
 she suddenly became conscious of a great void in 
 her heart, a place made ready for disasters to 
 come. 
 
 Her husband was hardly happier than she. 
 That cruel Sidonie seemed to take pleasure in tor- 
 menting him. She allowed everybody to pay 
 court to her. At that moment a certain Cazabon, 
 alias Cazaboni, an Italian tenor from Toulouse, 
 introduced by Madame Dobson, came every day
 
 2o6 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 to sing disturbing duets. Georges, jealous beyond 
 words, hurried to Asnieres in the afternoon, 
 neglected everything, and was already beginning 
 to think that Risler did not watch his wife closely 
 enough. He would have liked him to be blind 
 only so far as he was concerned. 
 
 Ah ! if he had been her husband, what a tight 
 rein he would have kept on her ! But he had no 
 power over her and she was not at all backward 
 about telling him so. Sometimes, too, with the 
 invincible logic that often occurs to the greatest 
 fools, he reflected that, as he was deceiving his 
 friend, perhaps he deserved to be deceived. In 
 short, his was a wretched life. He passed his time 
 running about to jewellers and dry goods dealers, 
 inventing gifts and surprises. Ah ! he knew her 
 well. He knew that he could amuse her with 
 trinkets, not retain his hold upon her, and that, 
 when the day came that she was bored 
 
 But Sidonie was not bored as yet. She was 
 living the life that she longed to live ; she had all 
 the happiness she could hope to attain. There 
 was nothing passionate or romantic about her 
 love for Georges. He was like a second husband 
 to her, younger and, above all, richer than the 
 other. To complete the vulgarization of their 
 liaison, she had summoned her parents to Asnieres, 
 quartered them in a little house in the country, and 
 made of that vain and wilfully blind father and that 
 affectionate, still bewildered mother a halo of 
 respectability of which she felt the necessity as 
 she sank lower and lower.
 
 Explajiation. 207 
 
 EvcrythinjT was shrcwdl)' planned in that pcr- 
 versc little brain, which rcdcctcd coolly upon vice ; 
 and it seemed to her as if she might continue to live 
 thus in peace, when Frantz Risler suddenly arrived. 
 
 Simply from seeing him enter the room, she had 
 realized that her repose was threatened, that an 
 interview of the gravest importance was to take 
 place between them. 
 
 Her plan was formed on the instant. It re- 
 mained to put it in execution. 
 
 The summer-house that they entered contained 
 one large circular room with four windows, each 
 looking out upon a different landscape; it was 
 furnished for the purposes of summer siestas, for 
 the hot hours when one seeks shelter from the 
 sunlight and the noises of the garden. A broad, 
 very low divan ran all around the wall. A small 
 lacquered table, also very low, stood in the middle 
 of the room, covered with odd numbers of society 
 journals. 
 
 The hangings were new, and the Persian pat- 
 tern — birds flying among bluish reeds, — pro- 
 duced the effect of a dream in summer, ethereal 
 figures floating before one's drooping eyes. The 
 lowered blinds, the matting on the floor, the Vir- 
 ginia jasmine clinging to the trellis-work outside, 
 produced a refreshing coolness which was en- 
 hanced by the constant splashing in the river near 
 by, and the lapping of its tiny wavelets on the 
 shore. 
 
 Sidonie sat down as soon as she entered the
 
 2oS Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 room, throwing aside her long white skirt, which 
 sank Hke a mass of snow at the foot of the divan ; 
 and with sparkHng eyes and a smile playing about 
 her lips, bending her little head slightly, its saucy 
 coqucttishness heightened by the 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 understand 
 how to make yourself comfortable." 
 
 And in the next breath, as if he were afraid that 
 the conversation, beginning at such a distance, 
 would not arrive quickly enough at the point to 
 which he intended to lead it, he added brutally : 
 
 " To whom do you owe this magnificence, to 
 your lover or your husband?" 
 
 Without moving from the divan, without even 
 raising her eyes to his, she answered : 
 
 "To both." 
 
 He was a little disconcerted by such self- 
 possession. 
 
 " Then you confess that that man is your 
 lover? " 
 
 " Confess it ! — parblm, yes ! " 
 
 Frantz gazed at her a moment without speak- 
 ing. She too had turned pale, notwithstanding 
 her calmness, and the everlasting little smile no 
 longer quivered at the corners of her mouth. 
 
 He continued : 
 
 ** Listen to me, Sidonie. My brother's name, 
 the name he gave his wife, is mine as well. Since 
 Risler is so foolish, so blind as to allow the name
 
 Explanation. 209 
 
 to be dishonored by you, it is my place to defend 
 it against your attacks. I beg you, therefore, to 
 inform Monsieur Georges Fromont that he must 
 change mistresses as soon as possible, and go else- 
 where to ruin himself. If not — " 
 
 " If not? " queried Sidonie, who had not ceased 
 to play with her rings while he was speaking. 
 
 " If not, I shall tell my brother what is going on 
 in his house, and you will be surprised at the 
 Rislcr whose acquaintance you will make then — 
 a man as violent and ungovernable as he usually is 
 inoffensive. My disclosure will kill him perhaps, 
 but you can be sure that he will kill you first." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Very well! let him kill me. What do I care 
 for that?" 
 
 This was said with such a heartbroken, utterly 
 despondent air, that Frantz, in spite of himself, felt 
 a 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 
 indefinably milder tone. " Do you love this Fro- 
 mont so dearly that you prefer to die rather than 
 renounce him?" 
 
 She hastily drew herself up. 
 
 "I? Love that fop, that d(jll, that silly girl in 
 men's clothes? Nonsense! — I took him as I 
 would have taken any other man." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I could n't help it, because I was mad, 
 because I had and still have in ni}' heart a criminal 
 14
 
 2IO Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 love, which I am determined to tear out, no matter 
 at what cost." 
 
 She had risen and was speaking with her eyes 
 in his, her Hps near his, shivering from head to 
 foot. 
 
 A criminal love ! — Whom did she love, in God's 
 name ? 
 
 Frantz was afraid to question her. 
 
 Although suspecting nothing as yet, he had a 
 feeling that that glance, that breath, leaning toward 
 him, were about to make some horrible disclosure. 
 
 But his office of judge made it necessary for him 
 to know all. 
 
 "Who is it?" he asked. 
 
 She replied in a stifled voice: 
 
 " You know very well that it is you." 
 
 She was his brother's wife. 
 
 For two years he had not thought of her except 
 as a sister. In his eyes his brother's wife in no 
 way resembled his former fiancee, and it would 
 have been a crime to recognize in a single feature 
 of her face the woman to whom he had formerly 
 so often said : " I love you." 
 
 And now it was she who said that she loved 
 him. 
 
 The unhappy judge was thunderstruck, dazed, 
 could find no words in which to reply. 
 
 She, standing before him, waited. 
 
 It was one of those spring days, full of heat and 
 light, to which the moisture of recent rains imparts 
 a strange softness and melancholy. The air was 
 warm, perfumed by fresh flowers which, on that
 
 Explanation. 211 
 
 first day of heat, gax'c forth their fragrance eagerly, 
 hke violets in a nuiff. Through its long, open 
 windows the room in which they were inhaled all 
 those intoxicating odors. Outside, they could 
 hear the Sunday organs, distant shouts on the 
 river, and nearer at hand, in the garden, Madame 
 Dobson's amorous, languishing voice, sighing: 
 
 " 0)1 dit que til ie tnaries j 
 Tu sais que fen puis motiri-i-i-r .f^ 
 
 " Yes, Frantz, I have ahva}'s loved you," said 
 Sidonie. " That love which I renounced long ago 
 because I was a young girl, and young girls do not 
 know what they are doing, — that love nothing 
 has ever succeeded in destroying or lessening. 
 When I learned that Desiree also loved you, the 
 unfortunate, penniless child, in a great outburst 
 of generosity I determined to assure her happiness 
 for life by sacrificing my own, and I at once turned 
 you away, so that you should go to her. Ah ! as 
 soon as you had gone, I realized that the sacrifice 
 was beyond my strength. Poor little Desirce ! 
 How I cursed her in the bottom of my heart ! 
 Will you believe it? Since that time I have avoided 
 seeing her, meeting her. The sight of her caused 
 me too much pain." 
 
 " But if you loved me," asked Frantz, in a low 
 voice, " if you loved me, why did you marry my 
 brother? " 
 
 She did not waver. 
 
 " To marry Risler was to bring myself nearer to 
 you. I said to myself: * I could not be his wife.
 
 212 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Very well, I will be his sister. At all events, in 
 that way it will still be allowable for me to love 
 him, and we shall not pass our whole lives as 
 strangers.' Alas ! those are the innocent dreams 
 a girl has at twenty, dreams of which she very 
 soon learns the impossibility. I could n't love 
 you as a sister, Frantz ; I could n't forget you, 
 either ; my marriage prevented that. With another 
 husband I might perhaps have succeeded, but with 
 Risler it was terrible. He was forever talking 
 about you and your success and your future. — 
 Frantz said this ; Frantz did that. — He loves you 
 so well, poor fellow. And then the most cruel 
 thing to me is that your brother looks like you. 
 There 's a sort of family resemblance in your 
 features, in your gait, in your voices especially, for 
 I have often closed my eyes under his caresses, 
 saying to myself: ' It is he, it is Frantz.' When I 
 saw that that criminal thought was becoming a 
 source of torment to me, something that I could 
 not escape, I tried to find distraction, I consented 
 to listen to this Georges, who had been pestering 
 me for a long time, to transform my life to one of 
 noise and excitement. But I swear to you, Frantz, 
 that in that whirlpool of pleasure into which I then 
 plunged, I have never ceased to think of you, and 
 if anyone had a righ't to come here and call me to 
 account for my conduct, you certainly are not the 
 one, for you, unintentionally, have made me what 
 I am." 
 
 She paused. 
 
 Frantz dared not raise his eyes to her face. For
 
 Exp la n a Hon. 213 
 
 a moment past she had seemed to him too lovely, 
 too alluring. She was his brother's wife ! 
 
 Nor did he dare speak. The unfortunate youth 
 felt that the old passion was despotically taking 
 possession of his heart once more, and that at that 
 moment glances, words, everything that burst 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 
 the divan beside her. 
 
 Those few words were in themselves an act of 
 cowardice, a beginning of surrender, as if destiny, 
 by showing itself so pitiless, had deprived him of 
 the strength to defend himself. Sidonie had placed 
 her hand on his. " Frantz — Frantz ! " she said; 
 and they remained there side by side, silent and 
 burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dob- 
 son's romanza, which reached their cars by snatches 
 through the shrubbery : 
 
 " Ton amour, c\'st tiia folic. 
 Ht'las ! jc )i'e)i puis gj(cri-i-i-ry 
 
 Suddenly Risler's tall figure appeared in the 
 doorway. 
 
 " This way, Chebe, this way. They are in the 
 suniincr-house." 
 
 As he spoke, the goodman entered, escorting 
 his Hither-in-law and mother-in-law, whom he had 
 gone to fetch. 
 
 There was a moment of effusive greetings and 
 innumerable embraces. You should have seen the
 
 2 14 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 patronizing air with which Monsieur Chebe scru- 
 tinized the young man, who was head and shoul- 
 ders taller than he. 
 
 " Well, my boy, does the Suez canal progress as 
 you would wish? " 
 
 Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz had 
 never ceased to be her future son-in-law, threw her 
 arms around him, while Risler, tactless as usual in 
 his gayety and his enthusiasm, waved his arms 
 madly on the stoop, talked of killing several fatted 
 calves to celebrate the return of the prodigal son, 
 and roared to the singing-mistress in a voice that 
 echoed through the neighboring gardens : 
 
 " Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson — if you '11 
 allow me, it 's a pity for you to be singing there. 
 To the devil with expression for to-day. Play us 
 something lively, a good waltz, so that I can take 
 a turn with Madame Chebe." 
 
 "Risler, Risler, are you crazy, my son-in-law?" 
 
 " Come, come, mamma ! We must — hop ! " 
 
 And up and down the paths, to the strains of 
 an automatic six-step waltz — a genuine vcr/se de 
 VaiLcanson — he dragged his breathless mamma- 
 in-law, who stopped at every step to restore to 
 their usual orderliness the dangling ribands of her 
 hat and the lace trimming of her shawl, her lovely 
 shawl bought for Sidonie's wedding. 
 
 Poor Risler was drunk with joy. 
 
 To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day of 
 agony. Driving, rowing on the river, lunch on the 
 grass on the lie des Ravageurs — he was spared 
 none of the charms of Asnieres ; and all the time.
 
 Explanation. 215 
 
 in the glaring sunlight of the roads, in the glare 
 reflected by the water, he must laugh and chatter, 
 describe his journey, talk of the Isthmus of Suez 
 and the great work undertaken there, listen to the 
 whispered complaints of Monsieur Chcbe, who was 
 still incensed with his children, and to his brother's 
 description of the Press. " Rotary, my dear h'rantz, 
 rotary and dodecagonal ! " Sidonie left the gentle- 
 men to their conversation and seemed absorbed in 
 deep thought. From time to time she said a word 
 or two to Madame Dobson, or smiled sadly at her, 
 and Frantz, not daring to look at her, followed the 
 motions of her blue-lined parasol and of the white 
 flounces of her dress. 
 
 How she had changed in two years ! How 
 lovely she had grown ! 
 
 Then horrible thoughts came to his mind. There 
 were races at Longchamps that day. Carriages 
 passed theirs, rubbed against it, driven by women 
 with painted faces, closely veiled. Sitting motion- 
 less on the box, they held their long whips straight 
 in the air, with doll-like gestures, and nothing 
 about them seemed alive except their blackened 
 eyes, fixed on the horses' heads. As they passed, 
 people turned to look. Every eye followed them, 
 as if drawn by the wind caused by their rapid 
 motion. 
 
 Sidonie resembled those creatures. She might 
 herself have driven Georges's carriage; for Frantz 
 was in Georges's carriage. He had drunk Georges's 
 wine. All the luxurious enjoyment of that family 
 party came from Georges.
 
 2i6 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 It was shameful, revolting. He would have 
 hked to shout the whole story to his brother. In- 
 deed it was his duty, as he had come there for that 
 express purpose. But he no longer felt the cour- 
 age to do it. 
 
 Ah ! the unhappy judge ! 
 
 That evening after dinner, in the salon open to 
 the fresh breeze from the river, Risler begged his 
 wife to sing. He wished her to exhibit all her 
 newly-acquired talents to Frantz. 
 
 Sidonie, leaning on the piano, objected with a 
 melancholy air, while Madame Dobson ran her 
 fingers over the keys, shaking her long curls. 
 
 " But I don't know anything. What do you 
 want me to sing? " 
 
 She ended, however, by being persuaded. Pale, 
 disenchanted, with her mind upon other things, in 
 the flickering light of the candles which seemed to 
 be burning incense, the air was so heavy with the 
 odor of the hyacinths and lilacs in the garden, she 
 began a Creole ballad very popular in Louisiana, 
 which Madame Dobson herself had arranged for 
 the voice and piano : 
 
 " Pauv' pititMam^zelle Zizi, 
 Oest Pamoii, faviou qici totirne la Ute a li?'' ^ 
 
 And as she told the story of the ill-fated little 
 Zizi, who was driven mad by passion, Sidonie had 
 the appearance of a lovesick woman. With \\hat 
 heartrending expression, with the cry of a wounded 
 
 1 " Poor little Mam'zelle Zizi, 
 
 'T is love, 't is love that turns her head."
 
 Explanation. 2 1 7 
 
 dove, did she repeat that refrain, so melancholy and 
 so sweet, in the childlike patois of the colonies : 
 
 " Cest r anion, r anion qui ton me la tete a li^ 
 
 It was enough to drive the unlucky judge mad 
 as well. 
 
 But no. The siren had been unfortunate in her 
 choice of a ballad. For, at the mere name of 
 Mam'zelle Zizi, Frantz was suddenly transported 
 to a gloomy chamber in the Marais, a long way 
 from Sidonie's salon, and his compassionate heart 
 evoked the image of little Dosiree Delobelle, who 
 had loved him so long. Until she was fifteen, she 
 had never been called anything but Ziree or Zizi, 
 and she was \he pmtv pitit Zizi of the Creole bal- 
 lad to the life, the ever-neglected, ever-faithful 
 lover. In vain now did the other sing. Frantz no 
 longer heard her or saw her. He was in that poor 
 room, beside the great arm-chair, on the little low 
 chair on which he had sat so often awaiting the 
 father's return. Yes, there, and there only, was 
 his salvation. He must take refuge in that child's 
 love, throw himself at her feet, say to her: "Take 
 me — save me!" And who knows? She loved 
 him so dearly. Perhaps she would save him, would 
 cure him of his guilty passion. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Risler, seeing 
 that his brother rose hurriedly as soon as the last 
 flourish was at an end. 
 
 " I am going back. It is late." 
 
 "What! You are not going to sleep here? 
 Why, your room is ready for you. "
 
 2 1 8 Fromoni and Risler. 
 
 " All ready," added Sidonie, with a meaning 
 glance. 
 
 He refused resolutely. His presence in Paris 
 was necessary for the fulfilment of certain very 
 important commissions entrusted to him by the 
 Company. They continued their efforts to detain 
 him when he was in the vestibule, when he was 
 crossing the garden in the moonlight and run- 
 ning to the station, amid all the diverse noises 
 of Asnieres. 
 
 When he had gone, Risler went up to his room, 
 leaving Sidonie and Madame Dobson at the win- 
 dows of the salon. The music from the neighbor- 
 ing Casino reached their ears, with the " Yo-ho ! " 
 of the boatmen and the footsteps of the dancers 
 like a rhythmical, muffled drumming on the 
 tambourine. 
 
 " There 's a kill-joy for you ! " observed Madame 
 Dobson. 
 
 '* Oh ! I have checkmated him," replied Sidonie; 
 " only I must be careful. I shall be closely watched 
 now. He is so jealous. I am going to write to 
 Cazaboni not to come again for some time, and 
 you must tell Georges to-morrow morning to go to 
 Savigny for a fortnight."
 
 Poor Little Mam zc lie Zizi, 219 
 
 III. 
 
 POOR LITTLE MAM'ZELLE ZIZL 
 
 Oil ! how happy Dcsiree was ! 
 
 Frantz came every day and sat at her feet on the 
 little low chair, as in the good old days, and he no 
 longer came to talk of Sidonie. 
 
 As soon as she began to work in the morning, 
 she would see the door open softly. " Good morn- 
 ing, Mam'zellc Zizi." He always called her now 
 by the name she had borne as a child ; and if }'ou 
 could know how prettily he said it: " Good morn- 
 ing, INIam'zelle Zizi." 
 
 In the evening they waited for "the father" 
 together, and while she worked he made her 
 shudder with the story of his travels. 
 
 "What in the world is the matter with you? 
 You 're not the same as you used to be," 
 Mamma Delobelle would saj', surprised to see her 
 in such high spirits and abox'c all so actix'e. For 
 instead of remaining always buried in her easy-^ 
 chair, with the self-renunciation of a young grand- 
 mother, the little creature was constantly jumping 
 up and running to the window as lightl}' as if she 
 were putting out wings ; and she practised standing 
 erect, asking her mother in a whisper:
 
 2 20 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " Do you notice //, when I am not walking? " 
 
 From her shapely little head, upon which she 
 had previously concentrated all her energies in the 
 arrangement of her hair, her coquetry extended 
 over her whole person, as did her fine curly tresses 
 when she unloosed them. Yes, she was very, very 
 coquettish now; and everybody noticed it. Even 
 the birds and insects for ornament assumed a 
 knowing little air. 
 
 Ah ! yes, Desiree Delobelle was happy. For 
 some days Monsieur Frantz had been talking of 
 their all going into the country together ; and as 
 the father, kind and generous as always, graciously 
 consented to allow the ladies to take a day's fur- 
 lough, they all four set out one Sunday morning. 
 
 It is impossible to imagine what a beautiful day 
 it was. When Desiree opened her window at six 
 o'clock, when she saw the sun, already hot and 
 luminous, shining through the morning haze, when 
 she thought of the trees, the fields, the roads, of 
 all the marvellous splendors of nature, which she 
 had not seen for so long, and which she was soon 
 to sec, leaning on Frantz's arm, the tears came to 
 her eyes. The church bells ringing, the noises of 
 Paris already ascending from the streets, the Sun- 
 day clothes and cleanliness — the poor man's way 
 of celebrating the day — which lighten the gloom 
 of even the little chimney sweep's cheeks, all the 
 accessories of the dawning of that memorable day 
 were long and blissfully revelled in by her. 
 
 The evening before, Frantz had brought her a 
 parasol, a little parasol with an ivory handle ; with
 
 Poor Little Manizelle Zizi. 221 
 
 the aid of that she had arranged a very careful but 
 very simple toilet, as befits a poor infirm little 
 creature who does not wish to attract attention. 
 And it is stating it too mildly to say that the poor 
 infirm little creature was charming. 
 
 At precisely nine o'clock Frantz arrived in a 
 cab hired for the day, and went upstairs for his 
 guests. Down came Mam'zelle Zizi coquettishly, 
 unassisted, supporting herself by the baluster, 
 without faltering. Mamma Delobelle followed be- 
 hind, keeping an eye upon her; and the illustrious 
 actor, his topcoat on his arm, hurried on before 
 with young Risler, to open the carriage door. 
 
 Oh ! the lovely drive, the lovely country, the 
 lovely river, the lovely trees ! 
 
 Do not ask her where they went; Dcsiree never 
 knew. But she will tell you that the sun was 
 brighter there than anywhere else, the birds more 
 joyous, the woods denser; and she will not lie. 
 
 When she was a little child, she had sometimes 
 had such days of fresh air and long drives in the 
 country. But later, constant toil, poverty, and the 
 sedentary life so grateful to the infirm, had kept 
 her nailed, as it were, to the old quarter of Paris 
 in which she lived, and where the high roofs, the 
 windows with iron balconies, the factor}' chimneys, 
 making with their new bricks red streaks against 
 the black walls of historic mansions, had formed 
 an unchanging and satisf}'ing horizon for her life. 
 For a long time she had known naught of flowers 
 beyond the volubilis at her window, naught of 
 trees beyond the acacias in the Fromont garden
 
 22 2 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 of which she caught distant ghmpses through the 
 smoke. 
 
 How her heart swelled with joy, therefore, when 
 she found herself in the open country ! Light as 
 air with all her pleasure and her revivified youth, 
 she went from surprise to surprise, clapping her 
 hands and uttering little birdlike cries ; and the 
 impulsive outbursts of her artless curiosity con- 
 cealed the hesitation of her gait. Really it was 
 not too noticeable. Besides, he was always at 
 hand, ready to support her, to give her his hand 
 across the ditches, and he was so attentive, the 
 expression of his eyes so tender ! That wonderful 
 day passed like a vision. The great blue sky 
 appearing like vapor between the branches, the 
 long line of underbrush extending to the foot of 
 the first trees of the forest, — the shadowy, myste- 
 rious forest, where the flowers grow straighter and 
 taller, where the golden mosses resemble rays of 
 sunlight on the trunks of the oaks, — the surprise 
 caused by the clearings flooded with light, — every- 
 thing, even to the weariness following a day's walk- 
 ing in the open air, entranced and fascinated her. 
 
 Toward evening, when, as they stood on the 
 \'crge of the forest, she saw — in the light of the set- 
 ling sun — the dusty roads winding among the fields, 
 the river like a silver thread, and over yonder, in 
 the space between two hills, a mist of gray roofs, 
 weathercocks and cupolas which they told her was 
 Paris, she carried away at a glance, in a corner 
 of her memory, that whole blooming countryside, 
 perfumed with love and with June hawthorn, as if 
 she were never, never to see it again.
 
 Poor Little Manizclle Zizi. 223 
 
 The nosegay that the little cripple brought back 
 from that beautiful excursion made her room fra- 
 grant for a week. Among the hyacinths, the vio- 
 lets, the white-thorn, there were a multitude of 
 nameless little flowers, those flowers of the lowly 
 which grow from nomadic seed scattered cver}-- 
 where along the roads. 
 
 Gazing at the slender pale blue and bright pink 
 blossoms, with all the delicate shades that flowers 
 invented before colorists, many and many a time 
 during that week Desirde took her excursion again. 
 The violets reminded her of the little moss-covered 
 mound on which she had picked them, seeking 
 them under the leaves, her fingers touching Frantz's. 
 These great water-lilies they had found on the edge 
 of a ditch, still damp from the winter rains, and, in 
 order to reach them, she had leaned very heavily 
 on Frantz's arm. All these memories recurred to 
 her as she worked. Meanwhile, the sun, shining 
 in at the open window, made the feathers of the 
 humming-birds glisten. The springtime, youth, 
 the songs of the birds, the fragrance of the flowers 
 transfigured that dismal fifth floor workroom, and 
 Desiree said in all seriousness to Mamma Delo- 
 belle, putting her nose to her friend's bouquet: 
 
 " Have you noticed how sweet the flowers smell 
 this year, mamma? " 
 
 And Frantz too began to fall under the charm. 
 Little by little, Mam'zelle Zizi took possession of 
 his heart and banished from it even the memory 
 of Sidonie. To be sure the poor judge did all that 
 he could to accomplish that result. At ever)- hour
 
 2 24 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 in the day he was by Dcsiree's side, and clung to her 
 hke a child. Not once did he venture to return to 
 Asnieres. He was too much afraid of the other. 
 
 " Pray come and see us once in a while ; Sidonie 
 keeps asking for you," Risler said to him from 
 time to time, when his brother came to the factory 
 to see him. But Frantz held firm, alleging all sorts 
 of business engagements as pretexts for postponing 
 his visit to the next day. It was easy to satisfy 
 Risler, who was more engrossed than ever with his 
 press, which they had just begun to build. 
 
 Whenever Frantz came down from his brother's 
 closet, old Sigismond was sure to be watching for 
 him, and would walk a few steps with him in his 
 long lutestring sleeves, quill and knife in hand. He 
 kept the young man informed concerning matters 
 at the factory. For some time past, things seemed 
 to have changed for the better. 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 
 yonder was keeping more within bounds. 
 
 The cashier was triumphant. 
 
 " You see, my boy, whether I did well to write 
 to you. Your arrival was all that was needed to 
 straighten everything out. And yet," the good- 
 man would add by force of habit, " and yet / haf 
 no gonfidcncd' 
 
 " Never fear, Monsieur Sigismond, I am here," 
 the judge would reply. 
 
 " You 're not going away yet, are you, my dear 
 Frantz?"
 
 Poor Little I\Iar,izcllc Zizi. 225 
 
 "No, no — not yet. I have an important matter 
 to finish up first." 
 
 " Ah ! so much the better." 
 
 The important matter to which Frantz referred 
 was his marriage to Desiree Delobelle. He had 
 not yet mentioned it to any one, not even to her; 
 but Mam'zelle Zizi must have suspected something, 
 for she became prettier and more Hght-hearted 
 from day to day, as if she foresaw that the day 
 would soon come when she would need all her 
 gayety and all her beauty. 
 
 They were alone in the workroom one Sunday 
 afternoon. Mamma Delobelle had gone out, proud 
 enough to show herself for once in public with her 
 great man, and leaving friend Frantz with her 
 daughter to keep her company. Carefully dressed, 
 his whole person endued with a holiday air, Frantz 
 had a singular expression on his face that day, an 
 expression at once timid and resolute, emotional 
 and solemn, and simply from the way in which the 
 little low chair took its place beside the great easy 
 chair, the easy chair understood that a very serious 
 communication was about to be made to it in con- 
 fidence, and it had some little suspicion as to what 
 it might be. 
 
 The conversation began with divers unimpor- 
 tant remarks, interspersed with long and frequent 
 pauses, just as, on a journey, we stop at every 
 baiting-place to take breath, to enable us to reach 
 our destination. 
 
 " It is a fine day to-day." 
 
 •' Oh ! yes, beautiful." 
 '5
 
 2 20 Fro7no}it aiid Risler. 
 
 " Our flowers still smell sweet." 
 
 " Oh ! very sweet." 
 
 And even as they uttered those trivial sentences, 
 their voices trembled at the thought of what was 
 going to be said in another moment. 
 
 At last the little low chair moved a little nearer 
 the great easy chair ; their eyes met, their fingers 
 were intertwined, and the two children, in low 
 tones, slowly, called each other by their names, 
 
 " Desiree ! " 
 
 " Frantz ! " 
 
 At that moment there was a knock at the door. 
 
 It was the soft little tap of a daintily gloved hand 
 which fears to soil itself by the slightest touch. 
 
 " Come in ! " said Desiree, with a slight gesture 
 of impatience ; and Sidonie appeared, lovely, co- 
 quettish and affable. She had come to sec her 
 little Zizi, to embrace her as she was passing by. 
 She had been meaning to come for so long. 
 
 Frantz's presence seemed to surprise her greatly, 
 and, being engrossed by her delight in talking 
 with her former friend, she hardly looked at him. 
 After the effusive greetings and caresses, after a 
 pleasant chat over old times, she expressed a wish 
 to see the window on the landing and the room 
 formerly occupied by the Rislers. It pleased her 
 thus to live all her youth over again. 
 
 " Do you remember, Frantz, when Princess 
 Humming-bird entered your room, holding her 
 little head very straight under a diadem of birds' 
 feathers? " 
 
 Frantz did not reply. He was too deeply moved
 
 Poor Link jMaiiizcilc Zizi. 227 
 
 to reply. Something warned him that it was on his 
 account, solely on his account, that the woman had 
 come, that she was determined to see him again, to 
 prevent him from giving himself to another, and the 
 poor wretch realized with dismay that she would 
 not have to exert herself overmuch to accomplisli 
 her object. When he saw her enter the room his 
 whole heart had been caught in the toils once more. 
 
 Desiree suspected nothing, not she. Sidonie's 
 manner was so frank and friendly. And then, 
 they were brother and sister now. Love was no 
 longer possible between them. 
 
 But the little cripple had a vague presentiment 
 of her woe when Sidonic, standing in the doorway 
 and ready to go, turned carelessly to her brother- 
 in-law and said : 
 
 " By the way, Frantz, Risler told me to be sure 
 and bring you back to dine with us to-night. The 
 carriage is below. We \vill pick him up as we 
 pass the factory." 
 
 Then she added, with the prettiest smile imagi- 
 nable : 
 
 "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 ungrateful 
 wretch ! 
 
 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 next, 
 nor ever after, could Mam'zelle Zizi's great easy 
 chair learn what the interesting communication 
 was that the little low chair had to make to it.
 
 228 
 
 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE WAITING ROOM. 
 
 " Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more than ever 
 and forever ! What is the use of struggling and fighting 
 against fate ? Our crime is stronger than we are. And 
 after all, is it a crime for us to love ? We were destined 
 for each other. Have we not the right to come together 
 although life has parted us ? So, come. It is all over, 
 we will go away. To-morrow evening, Lyon station, at 
 ten o'clock. The tickets are secured and I shall expect 
 you. " Frantz." 
 
 For a month past Sidonie had been hoping for 
 that letter, a month during which she had brought 
 all her wheedling and cunning into play to lure 
 her brother-in-law on to that written explosion of 
 passion. She had had difficulty in accomplishing 
 it. It was no easy matter to pervert an honest 
 young heart like Frantz's to the point of com- 
 mitting a crime ; and in that strange contest, in 
 which the one who really loved fought against his 
 own cause, she had often felt that she was at the 
 end of her strength and was almost discouraged. 
 When she was most confident that he was sub- 
 jugated, his sense of right would suddenly rebel,
 
 The Waiting Room. 229 
 
 and he would be all ready to fly, to escape her 
 once more. 
 
 What a triumph it was for her, therefore, when 
 that letter was handed to her one morning. 
 Madame Dobson happened to be there. She 
 had just arrived, laden with complaints from 
 Georges, who was horribly bored away from his 
 mistress, and was beginning to be alarmed con- 
 cerning this brother-in-law, who was more atten- 
 tive, more jealous, more exacting than a husband. 
 
 " Oh ! the poor dear fellow, the poor dear fel- 
 low," said the sentimental American, " if you 
 could see how unhappy he is ! " 
 
 And, shaking her curls, she unrolled her music- 
 roll and took from it the poor dear fellow's letters, 
 which she had carefully hidden between the leaves 
 of her arias, delighted to be involved in this love- 
 story, to give rein to her emotion in an atmos- 
 phere of intrigue and mystery which melted her 
 cold e}'es and softened her dry, white 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 had 
 never written or received a single one on her 
 own account. 
 
 Always on the road between Asnieres and Paris 
 with an amorous message under her wing, that 
 curious carrier-pigeon remained true to her dove- 
 cot and cooed for none but unselfish motives. 
 
 When Sidonie showed her Frantz's note, Ma- 
 dame Dobson asked : 
 
 "What reply are you going to make?"
 
 230 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " It is already done. I answered yes." 
 
 " What ! You will go away with that mad- 
 man?" 
 
 Sidonie began to laugh. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! well, hardly. I said yes, so that he 
 may go and wait for me at the station. That 's 
 all. The least I can do is to give him a quarter 
 of an hour of agony. He has made me miserable 
 enough for the last month. Just consider that I 
 have changed my whole life for my gentleman ! 
 I have had to close my doors and give up seeing 
 my friends and everybody I know who is young 
 and agreeable, beginning with Georges and ending 
 with you. For you know, my dear, you were n't 
 agreeable to him, and he would have liked to dis- 
 miss you like the rest." 
 
 The one thing that Sidonie did not mention — and 
 it was the most potent cause of her anger against 
 Frantz — was that he had frightened her, that he had 
 frightened her terribly by threatening her with her 
 husband. From that moment she had felt decid- 
 edly ill at ease, and her life, her dear life, which 
 she so petted and coddled, had seemed to her to be 
 exposed to serious danger. Such men as Risler, 
 too fair and cold in appearance, are subject to ter- 
 rible outbursts of wrath, white-hot wrath, of which 
 no one can foresee the results, like those colorless 
 and odorless explosives which we fear to use 
 because no one knows their power. Yes, the 
 thought that her husband might some day be 
 apprized of her conduct positively terrified her. 
 
 There came to her mind, from her former
 
 The Waitiiic Room 
 
 <!> 
 
 2;i 
 
 existence, a wretched existence in a crowded 
 quarter, memories of households broken up, hus- 
 bands avenged, blood spattered upon the shame 
 of adultery. Visions of death haunted her. And 
 death, everlasting rest, profound silence, were well 
 calculated to frighten that little creature, hungry 
 for pleasure, eager for noise and commotion to the 
 point of madness. 
 
 That blessed letter put an end to all her fears. 
 It was impossible now for Frantz to denounce her, 
 even in the frenzy of his disappointment, knowing 
 that she had such a weapon in her hands ; and if 
 he did speak, she would show the letter, and all 
 his accusations would become in Risler's eyes 
 calumny pure and simple. Ah ! master judge, we 
 have you now. 
 
 Suddenly she was seized with an outbreak of 
 wild joy. 
 
 " I am born again — I am born again ! " she 
 cried to Madame Dobson. ShG ran out into the 
 garden, gathered great bouquets for her salon, 
 threw the windows wide open to the sunlight, gave 
 orders to the cook, the coachman, the gardener. 
 The house must be made to look beautiful, for 
 Georges was coming back, and for a beginning 
 she organized a grand dinner-party for the end of 
 the week. Verily you would have said that she 
 had been absent a month, that she had just 
 returned from an annoying, wearisome journey on 
 business, she showed such haste in re-establishing 
 life and activity about her. 
 
 The next evening Sidonie, Risler and Madame
 
 232 Froinout and Rislcr. 
 
 Dobson were together in the salon. While honest 
 Rislcr turned the leaves of an old hand-book of 
 mechanics, Sidonie sang to Madame Dobson's 
 accompaniment. Suddenly Sidonie stopped in the 
 middle of her aria and burst into a roar of laughter. 
 The clock had just struck ten. 
 
 Rislcr looked up quickly. 
 
 " What are you laughing at? " 
 
 "Nothing — an idea that came into my head," 
 replied Sidonie, winking at Madame Dobson and 
 pointing at the clock. 
 
 It was the hour appointed for the meeting, and 
 she was thinking of her lover's torture as he waited 
 for her to come. 
 
 Since the return of the messenger bringing from 
 Sidonie the " yes " he had so feverishly awaited, a 
 great calmness had overspread his troubled mind, 
 like the sudden removal of a heavy burden. No 
 more uncertainty, no more clashing between passion 
 and duty. He had an instantaneous feeling of 
 relief, as if he no longer had a conscience. He 
 made his preparations with the greatest tranquillity, 
 pulled his trunks on to the floor, emptied the 
 bureau and closets, and long before the time at 
 which his luggage was to be called for, he was 
 sitting on a trunk in the middle of his room, gazing 
 at the map nailed to the wall in front of him, like 
 an emblem of his wandering life, following with 
 his eye the straight course of the roads and the 
 wavy lines that represent the seas. 
 
 Not once did it occur to him that on the other
 
 TJic IVaiuiig Rouin. 233 
 
 side of the landing someone was weeping and 
 sighing because of him. Not once did he think of 
 his brother's despair, of the ghastly drama they 
 were to leave behind them. His mind was far 
 away from all these matters, it had gone on before, 
 and was already on the platform of the station with 
 Sidonie, in dark clothes suitable for travel and for 
 flight: ay, even farther away, on the shore of the 
 blue sea, where they would stay some little time to 
 evade pursuit; still farther away, arriving with her 
 in a strange land, where no one could demand her 
 or take her from him. At other times, he thought 
 of the railway carriage rushing at night through 
 the lonely country. He saw a sweet little pale 
 face resting beside his on the cushions, a blooming 
 lip within reach of his lip, and two fathomless e}'es 
 looking at him by the soft light of the lamp, to the 
 soothing accompaniment of the wheels and the 
 steam. 
 
 And now, engine, hiss and roar. Shake the 
 earth, redden the sky, spit smoke and flame. 
 Plunge into tunnels, cross mountains and rivers, leap, 
 belch, shriek; but take us with you, take us far 
 from the cixilized world, its laws, its affections, 
 away from life, away from ourselves. 
 
 Two hours before the opening of the gate for 
 the designated train, I'Vantz was already at the 
 Lyon station, that gloomy station which, in the 
 distant quarter of Paris in which it lies, seems like 
 a first halting-place in the provinces. He sat 
 down in the darkest corner and remained there
 
 2 34 Froinont and Rhlcr. 
 
 without stirring, as if dazed. At that moment his 
 brain was as excited and uproarious as the station 
 itself. He was overwhelmed by a flood of confused 
 reflections, vague memories, fanciful comparisons. 
 In a single minute he made such journeys to the 
 farthest corner of his memory that he asked him- 
 self two or three times why he was there, and what 
 he was waiting for. But the thought of Sidonie 
 gushed forth from those inconsequent thoughts 
 and illumined them with a bright light. 
 
 She was coming. 
 
 Instinctively, although the appointed hour was 
 still distant, he looked among the people who were 
 hurrying along, calling to one another, to see if he 
 could not discern that graceful figure suddenly 
 emerging from the crowd and thrusting it aside at 
 every step with the radiance of her beauty. 
 
 After many departures and arrivals and shrill 
 whistles which, confined beneath the arched roof, 
 resembled a sound of tearing, the station suddenly 
 became empty, as deserted as a church on weekdays. 
 The time for the ten o'clock train was drawing near. 
 There was no other train before that. Frantz rose. 
 
 Now it was no longer a dream, a chimera lost in 
 that vast uncertain expanse of time. In a quarter 
 of an hour, half an hour at the latest, she would be 
 there. 
 
 Thereupon began for him the horrible torture of 
 suspense, that strange plight of body and mind 
 when all the faculties are in abeyance, when the 
 heart no longer beats, when the breath is hurried 
 and panting like the thought, when gestures and
 
 TJie Walling Room. 235 
 
 sentences arc left unfinished, when evcr)-thing is 
 waiting. Poets have described again and again 
 the horrible agony of the lover listening to the 
 rumbling of a carriage through the deserted street, 
 a furtive step ascending the stairs. 
 
 But to await one's mistress in a railway station, 
 in a waiting-room, is a far more dismal matter. 
 The dim lanterns, making no reflection on the 
 dusty floor, the great windows and glass doors, the 
 incessant noise of footsteps and slamming doors 
 which torments the anxious ear, the bare, lofty 
 walls, the placards advertising " an excursion train 
 to Monaco," " a circular tour in Switzerland," the 
 atmosphere of travel, of change, of indifference, of 
 instability, all are well adapted to oppress the heart 
 and heighten its anguish. 
 
 Frantz went hither and thither, watching the 
 carriages that arrived. They stopped at the long 
 flight of stone steps. The carriage doors opened 
 and closed noisily, and from the darkness without, 
 faces appeared at the door in the light, faces 
 tranquil or disturbed, happy or distressed, hats 
 trimmed with feathers and enveloped in light veils, 
 peasants' caps, sleeping children dragged along by 
 the hand. Each new arrival made him start. He 
 fancied that he saw her enter, closely veiled, hesi- 
 tating, a little embarrassed. How quickly he 
 would be by her side, to comfort her, to protect 
 her ! 
 
 As the station filled, his watch became more 
 difficult. Carriages succeeded one another with- 
 out intermi.ssion. He was obliged to run from one
 
 236 Froviout and Risler. 
 
 door to another. Then he went out, thinking that 
 he could see better outside, and unable to endure 
 longer, in the stifling air of the crowded waiting- 
 room, the anxiety that was beginning to oppress 
 him. 
 
 It was a damp evening toward the end of Sep- 
 tember. There was a light mist, and the lanterns 
 of the carriages at the foot of the broad inclined 
 footway, appeared faint and indistinct. Each one, 
 on arriving, seemed to say: "It is I, — here I am." 
 But it was never Sidonie who alighted, and the 
 carriage he had watched as it drew near, his heart 
 swelling with hope as if it contained more than 
 his life, he watched as it returned to Paris, disgust- 
 ingly light and empty. 
 
 The hour for the departure of the train was 
 approaching. He looked at the clock. There 
 was but a quarter of an hour more. It frightened 
 him ; but the bell at the wicket, which had now 
 been opened, summoned him. He ran thither and 
 took his place in the long line. 
 
 " Two first-class for Marseille," he said. It 
 seemed to him as if that were equivalent to 
 taking possession. 
 
 He made his way back to his post of observa- 
 tion, through the luggage-laden trucks and the 
 late-comers who jostled him as they ran. The 
 drivers shouted : " Look out ! " He stood there 
 among the wheels of the cabs, under the horses' 
 feet, with deaf ears and staring eyes. Only five 
 minutes more. It was almost impossible for her 
 to arrive in time. People were rushing into the
 
 The Waiting Rooni. 237 
 
 train-shed. Trunks rolled by on baggage trucks; 
 and the great bundles wrapped in cloth, the valises 
 studded with copper nails, the little bags slung 
 over the shoulders of commercial travellers, the 
 baskets of all shapes and sizes, were engulfed by 
 the same doorway, jostled and swaying with the 
 same haste. 
 
 At last she appeared. 
 
 Yes, there she is, it is certainly she — a woman 
 in black, slender and graceful, accompanied by 
 another shorter woman, Madame Dobson, no 
 doubt. 
 
 But a second glance undeceived him. It was 
 a young woman who resembled her, a woman of 
 fashion like her, with a happy face. A man, also 
 young, joined them. It was evidently a wedding- 
 party ; the mother accompanied them, to see them 
 safely on board the train. They passed Frantz, 
 enveloped in the current of happiness that bore 
 them along. With a feeling of envy and rage he 
 saw them pass through the swinging doors, cling- 
 ing to each other, united and pressed close to- 
 gether in the crowd. 
 
 It seemed to him that those people had robbed 
 him, that it was his place, his and Sidonie's, that 
 they were to occupy in the train. 
 
 Now there is the confusion of departure, the last 
 stroke of the bell, the steam escaping with a hiss- 
 ing sound, mingled with the hurried footsteps of 
 belated passengers, the slamming of doors and the 
 rumbling of the heavy omnibuses. And Sidonie 
 comes not. And Frantz still waits.
 
 238 Fro}no}it and Rislcr. 
 
 At that moment a hand is placed on his shoulder. 
 
 Great God ! 
 
 He turns. Monsieur Gardinois's coarse face, 
 surrounded by a travelling cap with ear pieces, is 
 before him. 
 
 " I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler. Are 
 you going to Marseille by the express? I am not 
 going far." 
 
 He explains to Frantz that he has missed the 
 Orleans train, and is going to try to connect with 
 Savigny by the Lyon line ; then he talks about 
 Risler Aine and the factory. 
 
 " It seems that business has n't been prospering 
 for some time. They were caught in the Bon- 
 nardel failure. Ah ! our young men need to be 
 careful. At the rate they're sailing their ship, the 
 same thing is likely to happen to them that hap- 
 pened to Bonnardel. But excuse me, I believe 
 they 're going to close the gate. An 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 consequence 
 to him. He is waiting, waiting. 
 
 But now the gate is abruptly closed like a last 
 barrier between him and his persistent hope. 
 Once more the station is empty. The uproar has 
 been transferred to the line of the railway, and 
 suddenly a shrill whistle falls upon the lover's ear 
 like an ironical farewell, then dies away in the 
 darkness. 
 
 The ten o'clock train has gone. 
 
 He tries to be calm and to reason. Evidently
 
 The Wait in Q: Room. 239 
 
 she missed the train from Asnieres; but, knowing 
 that lie is waiting for her, she will come, no matter 
 how late it may be. He will wait on. The waiting- 
 room was made for that. 
 
 The unhapp)' man sits down on a bench. The 
 great windows have been closed, and the darkness 
 beyond them is broken by gleams of glazed 
 paper. The book-stall keeper, half asleep, is en- 
 gaged in setting his stock in order. Frantz glances 
 mechanically at the rows of gaudy volumes, the 
 typical raihvay librar}', whose titles he has learned 
 by heart in the four hours he has been there. 
 
 There are books that he recognizes from having 
 read them in his tent at Ismailia or in the steamer 
 that brought him back from Suez, and all those 
 commonplace, tri\'ial novels have retained a ma- 
 rine or exotic odor for him. But soon the book- 
 stall is closed, and he no longer has even that 
 resource to deceive his weariness and his fever. 
 The toy-stall, too, has withdrawn behind its board 
 shutters. Whistles, wheelbarrows, watering-pots, 
 spades, rakes, all the playthings of little Parisians 
 in the countr}', disappear in a twinkling. The pro- 
 prietress, a sickly, sad-faced w'oman, wraps herself 
 in an old cloak and goes away, her foot-warmer in 
 her hand. 
 
 All these people have finished their day's work, 
 have prolonged it to the last minute with the cou- 
 rage and obstinac}' characteristic of Paris, which 
 does not extinguish its lamps until daylight. 
 
 The prospect of a long vigil brings to his mind 
 a well known room in w'hich at that hour the lamp
 
 240 From out and R icier. 
 
 burns low on a table laden with humming-birds 
 and glow-worms ; but that vision passes swiftly 
 through his mind in the chaos of confused thoughts 
 to which the delirium of suspense gives birth. 
 
 Suddenly he discovers that he is dying wii.h 
 thirst. The restaurant is still open. He enters. 
 The night waiters are dozing on the benches. The 
 floor is damp with the dregs from the glasses. It 
 takes them an interminable time to wait upon him ; 
 and then, just as he is about to drink, the thought 
 that Sidonie may have arrived during his absence, 
 that perhaps she is looking for him in the waiting- 
 room, makes him jump to his feet and rush out 
 like a madman, leaving his glass full and his money 
 on the table. 
 
 She will not come. 
 
 He feels it. 
 
 His footsteps, ringing along the walk in front ot 
 the station, monotonous and regular, grate upon 
 his ears, as if they were testifying to his solitude 
 and disappointment. 
 
 What has happened ? What can have detained 
 her? Is she ill, or was it the anticipation of re- 
 morse for her sin? But in that case she would 
 have sent him word, she would have sent Madame 
 Dobson. Perhaps Risler had found the letter? 
 She was so reckless, so imprudent. 
 
 And while he thus lost himself in conjectures, 
 the hours passed. The roofs of the buildings of 
 Mazas, buried in darkness, were already begin- 
 ning to stand out distinctly against the brighten- 
 ing sky. What was he to do? He must go to
 
 The IVai/ijiq^ Room. 241 
 
 Asnicres at once and tr}^ to find out what had 
 happened. He wished he were there already. 
 
 Having made up his mind, he descended the 
 steps of the station at a rapid pace, passing soldiers 
 with their knapsacks on their backs, and poor 
 people coming to take the morning train, the train 
 of the poverty and want which rise betimes. 
 
 He crossed Paris at daybreak, a dismal, shivering 
 Paris, where the lanterns on the police stations 
 showed their red lights at intervals, and the police- 
 men walked their beats two by two, stopping at the 
 street corners and scrutinizing the shadows. 
 
 In front of one of the stations he saw a crowd 
 collected, ragpickers and countrywomen. Doubt- 
 less some drama of the night about to reach its 
 d^noiluiciit before the commissioner of police. — 
 Ah ! if Frantz had known what that drama was ! 
 but he could have no suspicion, and he glanced at 
 the crowd indifferently from a distance. 
 
 But all such unpleasant sights, the very dawn 
 rising over Paris with the pallor of weariness, the 
 lanterns blinking on the bank of the Seine, like 
 the wax tapers around a corpse, the exhaustion of 
 his sleepless night, enveloped him in profound 
 melancholy. 
 
 When he reached Asnicres, after a walk of two 
 or three hours, it was like an awakening. 
 
 The sun, rising in all its glory, set field and 
 river on fire. The bridge, the houses, the quay, 
 all stood forth with that matutinal sharpness of 
 outline which gives the impression of a new day 
 emerging, luminous and smiling, from the dense 
 16
 
 242 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 mists of the night. From a distance he descried 
 his brother's house, ah'eady awake, the open bhnds 
 and the flowers on the window-siUs. He wandered 
 about some- time before he could summon 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 to 
 bathe in the river. 
 
 " There 's nothing new at the house? " inquired 
 Frantz tremblingly. 
 
 " Nothing new, Monsieur Frantz." 
 
 " Is my brother at home? " 
 
 " No, Monsieur slept at the factory." 
 
 " No one sick? " 
 
 " No, Monsieur Frantz, no one, so far as I know." 
 
 The horses waded into the water up to their 
 breasts, tossing the spray about. 
 
 Thereupon Frantz made up his mind to ring at 
 the small gate. 
 
 The gardener was raking the paths. The house 
 was astir; and, early as it was, he heard Sidonie's 
 voice as clear and vibrating as the song of a bird 
 among the rosebushes of the facade. 
 
 She was talking with animation. 
 
 Frantz, deeply moved, drew near to listen. 
 
 " No, no cream. The cafe parfait will be 
 enough. Be sure that it 's well frozen and ready 
 at seven o'clock. — Oh ! about an entree — let us 
 see — " 
 
 She was holding council with her cook concern-
 
 Tlic Waiiiug Room. 243 
 
 ing the famous dinner-party for the next clay. Her 
 brother-in-law's sudden appearance did not dis- 
 concert her. 
 
 " Ah ! good-morning, Frantz," she said very 
 calmly, " I am at your service directly. We 're 
 to have some people to dinner to-morrow, cus- 
 tomers of the firm, a grand business dinner. You '11 
 excuse me, won't you?" 
 
 Fresh and smiling, in the white ruffles of her 
 trailing peignoir and her little lace cap, she con- 
 tinued to discuss her menu, inhaling the cool air 
 that rose from the fields and the river. There was 
 not the slightest trace of chagrin or anxiety upon 
 that tranquil face. Her smooth forehead, the 
 charming naive expression of surprise, which was 
 likely to keep her young so long, her pink lips, 
 slightly parted, were in striking contrast with the 
 lover's features, distorted by a night of agony and 
 fatigue. 
 
 For a long quarter of an hour Frantz, sitting in 
 a corner of the salon, saw all the conventional 
 dishes of a bourgeois dinner-party pass before him 
 in their regular order, from the little hot pate's, 
 the sole Normande and the innumerable ingredients 
 of which that dish is composed, to the Montreuil 
 peaches and Fontainebleau grapes. She did not 
 spare him a single cntrentct. 
 
 At last, when they were alone and he was able 
 to" speak, he asked in a hollow voice: 
 
 " Did n't you receive my letter?" 
 
 "Why, yes, of course." 
 
 She had risen to go to the mirror and adjust a
 
 244 Froniont and Risler. 
 
 little curl or two entangled with her floating 
 ribbons, and continued, looking at herself all the 
 while: 
 
 '* Why, yes, I received your letter. Indeed, I 
 was enchanted to receive it. — Now, if you should 
 ever feel inclined to tell your brother any of the 
 vile stories about me that you have threatened me 
 with, I could easily satisfy him that the only source 
 of your lying tale-bearing was anger with me for 
 repulsing a criminal passion as it deserved. Con- 
 sider yourself warned, my dear boy — and mi 
 revoir." 
 
 As pleased as an actress who has just completed 
 a bit of declamation with fine effect, she passed 
 him and left the salon smiling, with a little curl at 
 the corners of her mouth, triumphant and without 
 anger. 
 
 And he did not kill her !
 
 A News licm. 245 
 
 V. 
 
 A NEWS ITEM. 
 
 On the evening preceding that ill-omened day, a 
 few moments after Frantz had stealthily left his 
 room on Rue de Braque, the illustrious Delobelle 
 returned home, with downcast face and that air of 
 lassitude and disillusionment with which he always 
 met untoward events. 
 
 " Oh ! mon Dieii, my poor man, what has hap- 
 pened?" instantly inquired Madame Delobelle, 
 whom twenty years of exaggerated dramatic pan- 
 tomime had not yet surfeited. 
 
 Before replying, the ex-actor, who never failed 
 to precede his most trivial words with some facial 
 play, learned long before for stage purposes, 
 dropped his lower lip in token of disgust and 
 loathing, as if he had just swallowed something 
 very bitter. 
 
 " The matter is that those Rislers are certainly 
 ingrates or egotists, and, beyond all question, 
 exceedingly ill-bred. Do you know what I just 
 learned downstairs from the concierge, who glanced 
 at me out of the corner of his eye, making sport 
 of me? Well, Frantz Rislcr has gone! He left 
 the house a short time ago, and has left Paris
 
 246 Froviojit a)id Risler. 
 
 perhaps ere this, without so much as coming to 
 shake my hand, to tliank me for the welcome 
 he has received here. What do you think of 
 that? For he didn't say good-bye to you two 
 either, did he? And yet, only a month ago, he 
 was always in our rooms, without any remonstrance 
 from us." 
 
 Mamma Delobelle uttered an exclamation of 
 genuine surprise and grief. Desiree, on the con- 
 trary, did not say a word or make a motion. 
 Always the same little iceberg. The wire she 
 was twisting did not even pause in her active 
 fingers. 
 
 " So much for having friends," continued the 
 illustrious Delobelle. " In God's name, what have 
 I done to that fellow?" 
 
 It was one of his whims to fancy that he was 
 pursued by the hatred of the whole world. That 
 was a part of the attitude in life assumed by him, 
 the crucified of art. 
 
 Gently, with almost maternal tenderness, — for 
 there is always something of the maternal feeling 
 in the indulgent, forgiving affection that such 
 great children inspire, — Mamma Delobelle con- 
 soled her husband, coaxed him, and added a 
 dainty dish to his dinner. In his heart the poor 
 devil was really affected ; now that Frantz had 
 gone, the role of perpetual host, formerly played 
 by the elder Risler, was vacant once more, and 
 the actor was thinking of the comforts he should 
 miss.
 
 A News Item. 247 
 
 And to think that, by the side of that selfish, 
 superficial chagrin, there was a genuine, far-reach- 
 ing sorrow, the sorrow that kills, and that that 
 blinded mother did not discover it. Oh ! wretched 
 woman, turn your eyes upon your daughter. See 
 that transparent pallor, those tearless eyes which 
 gleam unwaveringly, as if their thoughts and 
 their gaze were concentrated on some object 
 visible to them alone. Cause that poor suffer- 
 ing heart to open itself to you. Question your 
 child. Make her speak, above all things make 
 her weep, to rid her of the burden that is sti- 
 fling her, so that her tear-dimmed eyes can no 
 longer distinguish in space that horrible unknown 
 thing upon which they are fixed in desperation 
 now. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 There arc women in whom the mother kills 
 the wife. In that woman the wife had killed the 
 mother. A priestess of the god Delobelle, ab- 
 sorbed in contemplation of her idol, she fancied 
 that her daughter had come into the world solely 
 to devote herself to the same worship, to kneel at 
 the same altar. Both of them should have but a 
 single aim in life, to toil for the great man's glor}-, 
 to console his unappreciated genius. The rest of 
 the world had no existence. Mamma Delobelle 
 had never noticed Desiree's quick flush as soon 
 as Frantz entered the workroom, all the circum- 
 locutions of a love-lorn maiden to which she 
 resorted to lead the conversation to him, to bring
 
 248 Frornont and Risler. 
 
 his name on every occasion into their chatting 
 over their work, and that, too, for many years, 
 since the time, now far distant, when Frantz used 
 to start for the Ecole Centrale in the morning 
 just as the two women Hghted their lamp to be- 
 gin their day's work. She had never sought the 
 meaning of those long silences in which trusting 
 and happy youth securely locks itself with its 
 dreams of the future ; and if she sometimes 
 said to Desiree, when her silence annoyed her : 
 " What 's the matter with you ? " the girl had 
 only to reply: "Nothing," to send her mother's 
 thoughts, turned aside for a moment, back at once 
 to their favorite preoccupation. 
 
 Thus this woman, who could read what was 
 written in her husband's heart in the faintest 
 wrinkle of that Olympian but insignificant brow, 
 had never shown for her poor Zizi that power of 
 divination in which the oldest and most wrinkled 
 mothers make themselves young again, even to 
 the point of counterfeiting a girlish friendship, in 
 order to become confidants and advisers. 
 
 And therein consists the most inhuman feature 
 of the unconscious egotism of men like Delobelle. 
 
 It gives birth to other egotisms in its neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 The habit that prevails in certain families of 
 considering everything in its relation to a single 
 person, necessarily leaves in the shade the joys 
 and sorrows which are indifferent and unprofit- 
 able to him.
 
 A News Item. 249 
 
 And in what way, I ask you, could the pitiful 
 boy-and-girl drama which caused the poor loving 
 creature's heart to be swollen to bursting with un- 
 shed tears, concern the glory of the great actor? 
 
 She was suffering terribly, none the less. 
 
 For nearly a month past, ever since the day 
 when Sidonie came and took Frantz away in her 
 coupe, Desiree had known that she was no longer 
 loved, and she knew her rival's name. She bore 
 them no ill-will, she pitied them rather. But, 
 why had he returned? Why had he so heedlessly 
 given her that false hope? As the unhappy man 
 condemned to the darkness of a dungeon accus- 
 toms his eyes to the different degrees of darkness 
 and his limbs to the confined space, and then, if 
 he is led suddenly into the light for a moment, 
 finds on his return the dungeon gloomier, the 
 darkness more profound than before, so it was 
 with her, poor child ; and that bright light that 
 had suddenly burst upon her life, had left it, 
 upon being withdrawn, more forlorn by all the 
 horror of renewed captivity. How many tears 
 had she devoured in silence since that moment ! 
 How many tales of woe had she told her little 
 birds ! For once more it was work that had sus- 
 tained her, desperate, incessant work, which, by 
 its regularity and monotony, by the constant re- 
 currence of the same duties and the same motions, 
 served as a balance-wheel to her thoughts. 
 
 And just as the little dead birds found beneath 
 her fingers a semblance of life, so her illusions and 
 her hopes, dead likewise and filled with a subtler
 
 250 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 and more penetrating poison than that which flew 
 about her work-table in grains of powder, still 
 flapped their wings from time to time with an 
 effort wherein intense suffering was blended with 
 the vigorous impulse of a resurrection. Frantz 
 was not altogether lost to her. Although he 
 came but rarely to see her, she knew that he was 
 there, she could hear him go in and out, pace the 
 floor with restless step, and sometimes, through 
 the half-open door, see his loved shadow hurry 
 across the landing. He did not seem happy. 
 Indeed what happiness could be in store for 
 him? He loved his brother's wife. And at the 
 thought that Frantz was not happy, the fond 
 creature almost forgot her own sorrow to think 
 only of the sorrow of the man she loved. 
 
 She was well aware that it was impossible that 
 he could ever love her again. But she thought 
 that perhaps she would see him come in some 
 day, wounded and dying, that he would sit down 
 on the little low chair, lay his head on her knees, 
 and with a great sob tell her of his suffering and 
 say to her : " Comfort me." 
 
 That forlorn hope kept her alive for three weeks. 
 She needed so little as that. 
 
 But no. Even that was denied her. Frantz 
 had gone, gone without a glance for her, without 
 a parting word. The lover's desertion was fol- 
 lowed by the desertion of the friend. It was 
 horrible ! 
 
 At her father's first words, she felt as if she were 
 hurled into a deep, ice-cold abyss, filled with dark-
 
 A News Item. 251 
 
 ncss, into which she plunged swiftly, helplessly, 
 well knowing that she would nev^cr return to the 
 light. She was stifling. She would have liked 
 to resist, to struggle, to call for help. 
 
 But to whom? 
 
 Well she knew that her mother would not hear 
 her. 
 
 Sidonie? Oh! she knew her, now. It would 
 have been better for her to apply to these little 
 insects with the gorgeous plumage, whose tiny 
 eyes gazed at her with such heedless gayety. 
 
 The terrible part of it was that she realized in- 
 stantly that work would not save her again. It 
 had lost its beneficent power. The inert arms 
 were powerless now; the weary, listless fingers 
 parted in the idleness of utter discouragement. 
 
 Who was there who had the power to sustain 
 her in that great disaster? 
 
 God? The thing that is called Heaven? 
 
 She did not even think of that. In Paris, espe- 
 cially in the quarters where the working class live, 
 the houses are too high, the streets too narrow, 
 the air too murky for heaven to be seen. It is 
 obscured by the smoke from the factories, and the 
 steam that ascends from the damp roofs ; and 
 then, life is so hard for most of those people, that 
 if the idea of a Providence should intrude itself in 
 their misery, it would be greeted with a threaten- 
 ing gesture and a curse. That is why there are 
 so many suicides in Paris. The common people, 
 not knowing how to pray, are ready^ to die at any 
 moment. Death appears in the background of
 
 252 Fro7nont and Risler. 
 
 all their sulETerings, the death that delivers and 
 consoles. 
 
 It was Death at which the little cripple was 
 gazing so earnestly. 
 
 Her course was determined upon at once : she 
 must die. 
 
 But how? 
 
 Sitting motionless in her easy chair, while idiotic 
 life went on about her, while her mother prepared 
 the dinner, while the great man declaimed a long 
 soliloquy against human ingratitude, she considered 
 what manner of death she should choose. As she 
 was almost never alone, she could not think of the 
 brazier of charcoal, to be lighted after closing the 
 doors and windows. As she never went out, she 
 could not think either of poison to be purchased 
 at the druggist's, a little package of white powder 
 to be buried in the depths of the pocket, with 
 the needle-case and the thimble. There was the 
 phosphorus on the matches, too, the verdigris 
 on old sous, the open window with the paved 
 street below; but the thought of forcing upon 
 her parents the ghastly spectacle of a self-inflicted 
 death-agony, the thought that what would remain 
 of her, picked up amid a crowd of people, would 
 be so frightful to look upon, made her reject that 
 method. 
 
 She still had the river. 
 
 At all events the water carries you away some- 
 where, so that nobody finds you, and your death 
 is shrouded in mystery. 
 
 The river!
 
 A News Item. 253 
 
 She shuddcrc(d at the mere thought. But it 
 was not the vision of the deep, black water that 
 terrified her. The girls of Paris laugh at that. 
 You throw your apron over your head so that you 
 can't see, and poicf ! But she must go downstairs, 
 into the street, all alone, and the street frightened 
 her. 
 
 Now, while the poor girl was making, in anticipa- 
 tion, that final bound toward death and oblivion, 
 while she was gazing from afar at the dark 
 chasm, with haggard eyes, to which the madness 
 of suicide was already ascending, the illustrious 
 Delobelle gradually recovered his spirits, talked 
 less dramatically, and finally, as there was cabbage 
 for dinner, a dish of which he was very fond, he 
 softened as he ate, recalled his former triumphs, 
 the golden wreath, the subscribers at Alengon, and, 
 as soon as dinner was at an end, went off to see 
 Robricart make his debut at the Odeon in Le 
 Misanthrope, brushed and combed, with clean white 
 cuffs, and in his pockets a new and shiny hundred- 
 sou piece which his wife had given him so that 
 he could play the dandy. 
 
 " I am very happy," said Mamma Delobelle as 
 she removed the dishes. " Father dined well to- 
 night. It comforted him a little, poor man ! The 
 play will finish diverting him. He needs so much 
 to be diverted." 
 
 Yes, it was a terrible thing to go out into the 
 street alone. She must wait until the gas was out, 
 steal softly downstairs when her mother had gone 
 to bed, pull the concierge's cord and make her
 
 2 54 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 way across Paris, where you meet men who stare 
 impertinently into your face, and pass briUiantly 
 lighted cafes. Desiree had had that horror of the 
 street from her childhood. When, as a little girl, she 
 was sent on an errand, the street urchins used to 
 follow her with jeers, and she could not say which 
 was the more painful, the parody of her uneven gait, 
 the hitching up of the insolent little blouses, or the 
 pity of the passers-by, who charitably looked the 
 other way. She was afraid of the carriages, too, 
 and the omnibuses. The river was a 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 to 
 sit up any longer?" 
 
 With her eyes on her work, " my child" replied 
 that she was. She wished to finish her dozen. 
 
 " Good-night, then," said Mamma Delobelle, her 
 enfeebled sight being unable to endure the light 
 longer. " I have put father's supper by the fire. 
 Just look at it before you go to bed." 
 
 Desiree did not lie. She really intended to finish 
 her dozen, so that her father could take them to 
 the shop in the morning; and really, to see that 
 tranquil little head bending forward in the white 
 light of the lamp, one w^ould never have imag- 
 ined all the sinister thoughts with which it w^as 
 thronged. 
 
 At last she takes up the last bird of the dozen, a 
 marvellously lovely little bird whose wings seem 
 to have been dipped in sea-water, all green as they 
 are with a tinge of sapphire.
 
 A News Item. 255 
 
 Carefully, daintil)', Dcsircc suspends him on a 
 piece of brass wire, in the charming attitude of a 
 frightened creature about to fly away. 
 
 Ah ! how true it is that the little blue bird is 
 about to fly away ! What a desperate flight into 
 space ! How certain one feels that this time it is 
 the great journey, the everlasting journey from 
 which there is no return ! 
 
 Now the work is finished, the table set in order, 
 the last needlefuls of silk scrupulously picked up, 
 the pins stuck in the cushion. 
 
 The father, when he returns, will find the lamp 
 partly turned down and his supper in front of the 
 hot ashes ; and that ghastly, ill-omened evening 
 will seem to him as peaceful as all other evenings, 
 in view of the neatness of the room and the strict 
 compliance with his usual whims. Very softly 
 D^sir^-e opens the wardrobe and takes a thin shawl 
 which she throws over her shoulders ; then she 
 goes. 
 
 What? Not a glance at her mother, not a silent 
 farewell, not a tear? — No, nothing! With the ter- 
 rible clearness of vision of those who are about to 
 die, she suddenly realizes that her childhood and 
 youth have been sacrificed to a vast self-love. She 
 feels very sure that a word from their great man 
 will comfort that sleeping mother, with whom she 
 is almost angry for not waking, for allowing her 
 to go without a quiver of her closed eyelids. 
 
 When one dies young, even by one's own act, it 
 is never without a rebellious feeling, and poor 
 D^siree bids adieu to life, indignant with destiny.
 
 256 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Now she is in the street. Where is she going? 
 Everything seems deserted already. These quar- 
 ters, so full of life in the daytime, subside early in 
 the evening. The people work too hard not to 
 fall asleep quickly. While the Paris of the boule- 
 vards, still full of life, causes the ruddy glare of a 
 distant conflagration to hover over the whole city, 
 here all the great doors are closed, the shutters in 
 place at the shop windows. From time to time a 
 belated knock, the footstep of a policeman whom 
 you hear but do not see, the soliloquy of a drunken 
 man interrupted by the vagaries of his course, break 
 the silence ; or a sudden gust of wind from the 
 neighboring quays rattles the glass of a lantern or 
 the old rope of a pulley, sweeps around a street 
 corner and dies away with a whistling sound under 
 a sagging threshold. 
 
 Desiree walks rapidly, wrapped in her little shawl, 
 head erect, dry-eyed. Not knowing the way, she 
 walks straight ahead. 
 
 The dark, narrow streets of the Marais, where 
 gas-jets twinkle at long intervals, cross and re-cross 
 and wind about, and again and again in her fever- 
 ish course she goes over the same ground. There 
 is always something between her and the river. 
 And yet the wind brings its damp, cool breath to 
 her face. Really, one would say that the water re- 
 coils, surrounds itself with barriers, that thick walls 
 and lofty buildings purposely place themselves in 
 front of death ; but the little cripple has good 
 courage, and over the uneven pavement of the old 
 streets she goes on and on.
 
 A News Item. 257 
 
 Did you ever see, toward the close of a day's 
 hunting, a wounded partridge seek shelter in a 
 furrow? He crouches, he skims along the ground, 
 dragging his bleeding wing toward some place of 
 refuge where he can die in peace. The uncertain 
 gait of this little shadow, hurrying along the side- 
 walks close to the walls, gives one exactly the same 
 impression. And to think that, at that very hour, 
 almost in the same quarter, some one else is wan- 
 dering through the streets, waiting, watching, des- 
 perate ! Ah ! if they could but meet. Suppose 
 she should accost that feverish watcher, should ask 
 him to direct her : 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Monsieur. How can I get 
 to the Seine? " 
 
 He would recognize her at once. 
 
 "What! Can it be you, Mam'zelle Zizi? What 
 are you doing out-of-doors at this time of night? " 
 
 " I am going to die, Frantz. You have taken 
 away all my pleasure in living." 
 
 Thereupon he, deeply moved, would seize her, 
 press her to his heart and carry her away in his 
 arms, saying : 
 
 " Oh ! no, do not die. I need you to comfort 
 me, to cure all the wounds the other has inflicted 
 on me." 
 
 But that is a mere poet's dream, one of the 
 meetings that life cannot bring about. It is far too 
 cruel, is this inexorable life ; and when so very little 
 is needed sometimes to save a whole existence, it 
 takes good care not to furnish that very little. 
 That is why true novels are always so sad. 
 17
 
 258 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Streets, more streets, then a square and a bridge 
 whose lanterns make another luminous bridge in 
 the black water. Here is the river at last. The 
 mist of that damp, soft autumn evening causes all 
 of this huge Paris, entirely strange to her as it is, 
 to appear to her like an enormous confused mass, 
 which her ignorance of the landmarks magnifies 
 still more. This is the place where she must die. 
 
 She feels so small, so entirely alone, so lost in 
 the immensity of this great, brilliantly-lighted yet 
 deserted city. She walks toward the quay, and 
 suddenly the odor of flowers, of leaves, of freshly- 
 turned earth causes her to pause a moment. At 
 her feet, on the footpath that skirts the stream, 
 bundles of shrubs wrapped in straw, flower-pots 
 in their white paper coverings are already in place 
 for to-morrow's market. Wrapped in their shawls, 
 with their feet on their foot-stoves, the flower- 
 women lean back in their chairs, benumbed by 
 sleep and the cool night air. The Reines-Margue- 
 rites of all colors, the mignonette, the late roses 
 fill the air with fragrance, standing erect in a ray 
 of moonlight with their slender shadows by their 
 sides, transplanted, torn from their native soil, 
 awaiting the caprice of slumbering Paris, 
 
 Poor little Desiree ! One would say that her 
 whole youth, her infrequent days of pleasure and 
 her hopeless love ascend to her heart in the per- 
 fume of that itinerant garden. She walks softly 
 among the flowers. Sometimes a gust of wind 
 makes the shrubs brush against one another like 
 the branches of a hedge ; and on the footpath,
 
 A News Item. 259 
 
 baskets filled with plants lately taken from the 
 ground exhale an odor of moist earth. 
 
 She recalls the country excursion which Frantz 
 had organized for her. That breath of nature, 
 which she breathed that day for the first time, falls 
 to her lot again at the moment of her death. 
 "Remember," it seems to say to her; and she re- 
 plies mentally : " Oh ! yes, I remember." 
 
 She remembers only too well. When it arrives 
 at the end of the quay, which was bedecked as for 
 a holiday, the furtive little shadow pauses at the 
 steps leading down to the bank. 
 
 Almost immediately there are shouts and excite- 
 ment all along the quay : 
 
 " Quick — a boat — grappling-irons ! " Boatmen 
 and policemen come running from all sides. A 
 boat puts off from the shore with a lantern in the 
 bow. 
 
 The flower-women wake, and when one of them 
 asks with a yawn what is happening, the woman 
 who keeps the cafe that crouches at the corner 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 
 gentleness and charm. In the light of the lan- 
 terns swinging to and fro on the shore, a black 
 group forms and moves away. She is saved ! It 
 was a sand-hauler who fished her out. Policemen 
 arc carrying her, surrounded by boatmen and light- 
 ermen, and in the darkness a hoarse voice is heard 
 saying with a sneer : " That water-hen gave me a
 
 26o Fromont and Risler. 
 
 lot of trouble. You ought to see how she slipped 
 through my fingers ! I believe she 'd 'a' liked to 
 make me lose my reward." Gradually the tumult 
 subsides, the bystanders disperse, and, while the 
 black group moves away toward a police-station, 
 the flower-women resume their naps, and the 
 Reines-Marguerites tremble in the night wind on 
 the deserted quay. 
 
 Ah ! poor girl, you thought that it was an easy 
 matter to have done with life, to disappear ab- 
 ruptly. You did not know that, instead of bearing 
 you away swiftly to the oblivion you sought, the river 
 would drive you back to all the shame, to all the 
 ignominy of unsuccessful suicide. First of all, the 
 station, the hideous station with its filthy benches, 
 its floor where the sodden dust seems like mud 
 from the street. There Desiree was doomed to 
 pass the rest of the night. They laid her on a 
 camp-bed in front of the stove, which was chari- 
 tably stuffed full of fuel for her benefit, and the 
 sickening heat made the steam rise in clouds from 
 her heavy, dripping clothes. Where was she? 
 She had no clear idea. The men lying all about 
 in beds like her own, the depressing bareness of 
 the room, the howling of two drunkards locked in 
 cells, who were beating on the doors with horrible 
 oaths, all of these the little cripple gazed at and 
 listened to vaguely, without understanding. 
 
 By her side a woman in rags, with her hair fall- 
 ing over her shoulders, was crouching in front of 
 the open door of the stove, whose ruddy reflection 
 had no power to flush that haggard, pallid face.
 
 A News Item. 261 
 
 She was a madwoman picked up during the night, 
 an unfortunate creature who kept nodding her 
 head invohintarily and repeating incessantly in an 
 unmeaning voice, ahnost independent of the move- 
 ment of her Hps : " Oh ! yes, poor, you may well 
 say so. — Oh! yes, poor, you may well say so." 
 And that distressing lament, amid the snoring of 
 the sleeping men, oppressed Desiree horribly. 
 She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of that 
 vacant face, which terrified her like the personifi- 
 cation of her own despair. From time to time the 
 street door opened, the voice of an officer called 
 out certain names, whereupon two policemen went 
 out while two others came in and threw themselves 
 on their beds, as exhausted as sailors who have 
 passed the night on deck. 
 
 At last day broke with the shuddering glare so 
 distressing to invalids. Suddenly aroused from 
 her torpor, Desirdc sat up in her bed, threw off 
 the blanket in which they had wrapped her, and 
 despite fatigue and fever tried to stand, in order 
 to regain full possession of her faculties and her 
 will. She had but one thought, — to escape from 
 all those eyes that were opening on all sides, to 
 leave that frightful place where the breath of sleep 
 was so heavy and its attitudes so distorted. 
 
 " I implore you, messieurs," she said, trembling 
 from 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 of attention, 
 more affecting than usual. But they could not
 
 262 Fromont and Rislcr, 
 
 take her back to her mother as yet. She must go 
 before the commissioner first. That was absolutely 
 necessary. They called a cab from compassion 
 for her ; but she must go from the station to the 
 cab, and there was a crowd at the door to stare at 
 the little lame girl with the damp hair glued to her 
 temples, and her policeman's blanket which did not 
 prevent her shivering. At headquarters she was 
 conducted up a dark, damp stairway where sinister 
 figures were passing to and fro, A swinging door, 
 which the exigencies of the public service kept 
 opening and closing ; cold, ill-lighted rooms ; on 
 the benches, silent, downcast, sleeping men and 
 women, vagabonds, thieves, prostitutes ; a table 
 covered with an old green cloth at which the 
 " commissioner's dog " was writing, a tall knave 
 with the head of a pawn and a threadbare coat: 
 that was the place. 
 
 When Desiree entered, a man rose from the 
 shadow and came to meet her, holding out his 
 hand. It was the man of the reward, her hideous 
 rescuer at twenty-five francs, 
 
 " Well, little mother," he said, with his cynical 
 laugh, and in a voice that made one think of foggy 
 nights on the water, " how are we since our dive? " 
 
 Thereupon he told the assembled company how 
 he had fished her out, how he had grabbed her 
 like that, then like this, and how, but for him, she 
 would surely be well on her way to Rouen under 
 water. 
 
 The unhappy girl was burning red with fever 
 and shame; so bewildered that it seemed to her
 
 A Nezvs Item. 26 
 
 J 
 
 as if the river had left a veil over her eyes, a buzz- 
 ing in her ears. At last she was ushered into a 
 smaller room, into the presence of a pompous in- 
 dividual, wearing the insignia of the Legion of 
 Honor — Monsieur le Commissaire in person, who 
 was sipping his caf^ an lait d,vA reading the Gazette 
 des Tribunaiix. 
 
 "Ah! it's you, is it?" he said in a surly tone 
 and without raising his eyes from his paper, as he 
 dipped a piece of bread in his cup ; and the officer 
 who had brought D^sir^e began at once to read 
 his report: 
 
 " At quarter to twelve, on Quai de la Megisserie, 
 in front of No. 17, the woman Delobelle, twenty- 
 four years old, flower-maker, living with her par- 
 ents on Rue de Braque, tried to commit suicide by 
 throwing herself into the Seine, and was taken out 
 safe and sound by Sieur Parcheminet, sand-hauler 
 of Rue de la Rutte-Chaumont." 
 
 Monsieur le Commissaire listened as he ate, 
 with the listless, bored expression of a man whom 
 nothing can surprise ; at the end he gazed sternly 
 and with a pompous affectation of virtue at the 
 woman Delobelle, and lectured her in the most 
 approved fashion. It was very wicked, it was 
 cowardly, this thing that she had done. What 
 could have driven her to such an evil act? Why 
 did she seek to destroy herself? Come, woman 
 Delobelle, answer, why was it? 
 
 But the woman Delobelle obstinately declined 
 to answer. It seemed to her that it would put a 
 stigma upon her love to avow it in such a place.
 
 264 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " I don't know — I don't know," she whispered, 
 shivering. 
 
 Testy and impatient, the commissioner decided 
 that she should be taken back to her parents, but 
 only on one condition : she must promise never to 
 try it again. 
 
 " Come, do you promise? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, monsieur." 
 
 " You will never try again ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no, indeed I will not, never — never ! " 
 
 Notwithstanding her protestations, Monsieur le 
 Commissaire de Police shook his head, as if he did 
 not trust her oath. 
 
 Now she is outside once more, on the way to 
 her home, to a place of refuge ; but her martyr- 
 dom was not yet at an end. 
 
 In the carriage the officer who accompanied her 
 was too polite, too affable. She seemed not to 
 understand, shrank from him, withdrew her hand. 
 What torture ! — But the most terrible moment of 
 all was the arrival in Rue de Braque, where the 
 whole house was in a state of commotion, and the 
 inquisitive curiosity of the neighbors must be en- 
 dured. Early in the morning the whole quarter 
 had been informed of her disappearance. It was 
 rumored that she had gone away with Frantz Ris- 
 ler. The illustrious Delobelle had gone forth very 
 early, intensely agitated, with his hat awry and 
 rumpled wristbands, a sure indication of extraordi- 
 nary preoccupation; and the concierge, on taking 
 up the provisions, had found the poor mother half 
 mad, running from one room to another, looking
 
 A News Item. 265 
 
 for a note from the child, for any clew, however 
 unimportant, that would enable her at least to 
 form some conjecture. 
 
 That unhappy mother's mind had tardily and 
 suddenly awakened to the peculiarity of her 
 daughter's actions during the last few da}-s and 
 her silence on the subject of Frantz's departure. 
 " Do not weep, my wife, I will bring her back to 
 you," the father had said when he went away, as 
 much to shun the spectacle of that great sorrow as 
 to seek information; and since then she had done 
 nothing but go from the landing to the window, 
 from the window to the landing. At the slightest 
 sound in the hall she would open the door, with 
 wildly beating heart, and rush out; and then, 
 when she returned, the loneliness of the little room, 
 heightened by D^siree's great empty armchair half 
 turned toward the sewing table, made her burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Suddenly a carriage stopped in front of the 
 door. Voices and footsteps echoed through the 
 hall. 
 
 " Maine Delobelle, here she is ! Your daughter 's 
 been found." 
 
 It was really Desirce who came toiling up the 
 stairs on the arm of a stranger, pale and fainting, 
 without hat or shawl, and wrapped in a great 
 brown cape. When she saw her mother she 
 smiled at her with an almost foolish expression. 
 
 " Do not be alarmed, it is nothing," she tried to 
 say, then sank to the floor. Mamma Delobelle 
 would never have believed that she was so strong.
 
 266 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 To lift her daughter, take her into the room, and 
 put her to bed was a matter of a moment; and 
 she talked to her and kissed her. 
 
 " Here you are at last. Where have you come 
 from, you bad child? Tell me, is it true that you 
 tried to kill yourself? Were you suffering so 
 terribly? Why did you conceal it from me?" 
 
 When she saw her mother in that condition, 
 with tear-stained face, aged in a few short hours, 
 Desiree felt a terrible burden of remorse. She re- 
 membered that she had gone away without saying 
 good-bye to her, and that in the depths of her 
 heart she had accused her of not loving her. 
 
 Not loving her ! 
 
 "Why, it would kill me if you should die," said 
 the poor mother. " Oh ! when I got up this 
 morning and saw that your bed had n't been slept 
 in and that you were n't in the work-room either ! — 
 I just turned round and fell flat. — Are you warm 
 now? — Do you feel well? — You won't do it again, 
 will you — try to kill yourself? " 
 
 And she tucked in the bed-clothes, rubbed her 
 feet, and rocked her upon her breast. 
 
 As she lay in bed, with her eyes closed, Desiree 
 saw anew all the incidents of her suicide, all the 
 hideous scenes through which she had passed in 
 returning from death to life. In the fever, which 
 rapidly increased, in the intense drowsiness which 
 began to overpower her, her mad journey across 
 Paris continued to excite and torment her. Myr- 
 iads of dark streets stretched away before her, with 
 the Seine at the end of each.
 
 A News I ion. 267 
 
 That ghastly river, which she could not find in 
 the night, haunted her now. 
 
 She felt that she was besmirched with its slime, 
 its mud ; and in the nightmare that oppressed her, 
 the poor child, powerless to escape the obsession 
 of her recollections, whispered to her mother : 
 "Hide me — hide me— I am ashamed!"
 
 268 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 VL 
 
 SHE PROMISED NOT TO TRY AGAIN. 
 
 Oh ! no, she will not try again. Monsieur le Com- 
 missaire need have no fear. In the first place how 
 could she go as far as the river, now that she can- 
 not stir from her bed ? If Monsieur le Commissaire 
 could see her now, he would not doubt her word. 
 Doubtless the wish, the longing for death, so un- 
 mistakably written on her pale face the other 
 morning, are still visible there ; but they are 
 softened, resigned. The woman Delobelle knows 
 that by waiting a little, yes, a very little time, she 
 will have nothing more to wish for. 
 
 The doctors declare that she is dying of in- 
 flammation of the lungs ; she must have contracted 
 it in her wet clothes. The doctors are mistaken ; 
 it is not inflammation of the lungs. Is it her love, 
 then, that is killing her? — No. Since that terrible 
 night she no longer thinks of Frantz, she no longer 
 feels that she is worthy to love or to be loved. 
 Thenceforth there is a stain upon her spotless life, 
 and it is of that and nothing else that she is 
 dying. 
 
 Each of the changing scenes of the horrible 
 drama is to her mind a defilement: the being
 
 S/ic Pi'omised not to Try Again. 269 
 
 dragged from the water before all those men, her 
 tired slumber in the station, the vile songs she 
 heard there, the madwoman warming herself at the 
 stove, the whole mass of vice and contagion and 
 heartrending misery in the corridor at headquar- 
 ters ; and then, too, the contempt expressed in 
 some glances, the impudence of others, the jests of 
 her rescuer, the advances of the police officer, the 
 destruction of her maidenly modesty, the having to 
 give her name, and even the burden of her infirmity 
 which pursued her through all the phases of her 
 endless martyrdom, like a satire, an exaggeration 
 of the absurdity of her suicide for love. 
 
 She is dying of shame, I tell you. In her mo- 
 ments of delirium at night that is what she repeats 
 incessantly : " I am ashamed ! I am ashamed ! " 
 and in her calmer moments she buries her head 
 under the bedclothes, covers her face with them, as 
 if to hide or to wrap herself in her shroud. 
 
 Mamma Delobelle sits by Desirde's bed, working 
 by the light from the window, and nursing her 
 daughter. From time to time she raises her eyes 
 to contemplate that mute despair, that mysterious 
 disease, then hastily resumes her work; for it is 
 one of the hardest trials of the poor that they can- 
 not suffer at their ease. They must work without 
 respite, and, even when death is hovering nigh, 
 they must think of the urgent demands, the difficul- 
 ties of life. 
 
 The rich man can shut himself up with liis grief, 
 he can steep himself in it, live in it, do only these 
 two things : suffer and weep.
 
 270 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 The poor man has neither the power nor the 
 right so to do. I knew a countrywoman in my 
 province, an old woman who had lost her daughter 
 and her husband in the same year, two terrible 
 trials in rapid succession ; but she still had boys to 
 bring up and a farm to manage. She must be 
 astir at daybreak, attending to everything, over- 
 looking men engaged in various kinds of work, 
 scattered through the fields and leagues apart. 
 The poor widow said to me : " I have n't a minute 
 in the whole week to cry; but on Sunday, oh ! on 
 Sunday, I make up for it." And it was the fact that 
 on that day, while the children went out to walk, 
 or played out-of-doors, she would lock herself in 
 her room and pass the afternoon weeping and sob- 
 bing and calling her husband and daughter through 
 the silent house. 
 
 Mamma Delobelle had not even her Sunday. 
 Consider that she had to work alone now, that her 
 fingers had not the marvellous dexterity of Desiree's 
 little hands, that medicines were dear, and that she 
 would not for anything in the world have interfered 
 with one of " the father's " cherished habits. And 
 so, at whatever hour the invalid opened her eyes, 
 she would see her mother, in the pale light of early 
 morning, or under her night lamp, working, working 
 without rest. 
 
 When the curtains of her bed were drawn, she 
 would hear the sharp metallic sound of the scissors 
 as they were laid upon the table. 
 
 Her mother's fatigue, this sleepless vigilance 
 that constantly bore her fever company, was a
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 271 
 
 source of suffering to her. Sometimes they over- 
 shadowed all the rest. 
 
 " Come, give me my work," she would say, try- 
 ing to sit up in bed. It was like a ray of light in 
 the darkness that grew more dense every day. 
 Mamma Delobelle, seeing in that request of the 
 invalid a sign of renewed interest in life, would ar- 
 range her as comfortably as possible, and move up 
 the table. But the needle was too heavy, the eyes 
 too weak, and the slightest sound of a carriage 
 rumbling over the pavement, a shout rising to 
 the windows, reminded Desiree that the street, the 
 horrible street, was there, close at hand. No, she 
 certainly had not the strength to live. Ah ! if 
 she could only have died first, and then have been 
 born again ! Meanwhile she was dying and en- 
 veloping herself little by little in perfect self-renun- 
 ciation. Between two stitches the mother would 
 look up at her child, whose face grew paler and 
 paler : 
 
 " How do you feel ? " 
 
 "Very well," the sick girl would reply, with a 
 faint, heart-broken smile, which illumined her sor- 
 rowful face and showed all the ravages that had 
 been wrought upon it, as a sunbeam, stealing into 
 a poor man's lodging, instead of brightening it, 
 brings out more clearly its cheerlessness and nudity. 
 Then there would be long pauses, the mother silent 
 for fear of weeping, the daughter benumbed by 
 fever, already enveloped in those invisible veils 
 wherein death, with a sort of compassion, envel- 
 ops the moribund, in order to overcome their
 
 272 Fr onion t and Rislci\ 
 
 remaining strength and to bear them away more 
 gently, without a struggle. 
 
 The illustrious Delobelle was never there. He 
 had not changed in any respect the habits of a 
 strolling player out of an engagement. And yet 
 he knew that his daughter was dying: the doctor 
 had told him so. Moreover, it had been a terrible 
 blow to him, for, at heart, he loved his child dearly; 
 but in that singular nature the most sincere, the 
 most genuine feelings adopted a false and unnat- 
 ural mode of expression, by the same law which 
 ordains that, when a shelf is placed awry, nothing 
 that you place upon it seems to stand straight. 
 
 Delobelle's natural tendency was, before every- 
 thing, to air his grief, to spread it abroad. He 
 played the role of the unhappy father from one 
 end of the boulevard to the other. He was always 
 to be found in the neighborhood of the theatres or 
 at the actors' restaurant, wnth red eyes and pale 
 cheeks. He loved to invite the question : " Well, 
 my poor old fellow, how are things going at 
 home?" Thereupon he would shake his head 
 with a nervous gesture ; his grimace held tears in 
 check, his mouth imprecations, and he would stab 
 heaven with a silent glance, overflowing with 
 wrath, as when he played the Medeciu dcs En- 
 fant s ; all of which did not prevent him, however, 
 from bestowing the most delicate and thoughtful 
 attentions upon his daughter. 
 
 For instance, he had adopted the practice, since 
 she had been ill, of bringing her flowers from his 
 wanderings about Paris ; and he was not content
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 273 
 
 with common flowers, with the humble violets 
 which bloom at every street corner for lii^ht purses. 
 In those melancholy autumn days he must have 
 roses and pinks and, above all, white lilacs, lilacs 
 raised under glass, with flowers and leaves and 
 stalk of the same greenish white, as if nature in 
 her haste had adhered to a uniform coloring. 
 
 " Oh ! it is too much, it is too much ; I shall be 
 angry," the sick girl would always say, when he 
 entered the room in triumph, nosegay in hand ; 
 but he would reply with such a lordly air: " Non- 
 sense, nonsense ! " that she dared not insist. 
 
 And yet it was a very expensive habit, and the 
 mother had such hard work to earn a living for 
 them all. 
 
 But Mamma Delobelle, far from complaining, 
 considered it a very lovely thing for her great man 
 to do. 
 
 Such contempt for money, such superb reckless- 
 ness, filled her with admiration, and she believed 
 more implicitly than eycr in her husband's genius 
 and his theatrical future. 
 
 He also maintained an unalterable confidence, 
 no matter what happened. And }'et iiis eyes came 
 very near being opened to the truth at last. A 
 hot little hand laid upon that pompous, illusion- 
 ridden head, came very near expelling the bee that 
 had been buzzing there so long. This is how it 
 came to pass. 
 
 One night Ddsiree awoke with a start, in a very 
 strange state. It should be said that tlie doctor, 
 when he came to see her on the preceding even-
 
 2 74 Fr 07110 lit and Risler. 
 
 ing, had been greatly surprised to find her sud- 
 denly brighter and calmer, and entirely free from 
 fever. Without attempting to explain this un- 
 hoped-for resurrection, he had gone away, saying: 
 " Let us wait and see; " he relied upon the power 
 of youth to throw off disease, upon the resistless 
 force of the life-giving sap, which often engrafts a 
 new life upon the very symptoms of death. If he 
 had looked under Desir^e's pillow, he would have 
 found there a letter postmarked Cairo, wherein lay 
 the secret of that happy change. Four pages 
 signed by Frantz, his whole conduct confessed and 
 explained to his dear little Zizi. 
 
 It was the very letter of which the sick girl had 
 dreamed. If she had dictated it herself, all the 
 phrases likely to touch her heart, all the delicately 
 worded excuses likely to pour balm into her 
 wounds would have been less satisfactorily ex- 
 pressed. Frantz repented, asked forgiveness, and 
 without making any promises, above all without 
 asking anything from her, described to his faithful 
 friend his struggles, his remorse, his sufferings. 
 He inveighed against Sidonie, urged Desiree to 
 distrust her, and, with a resentment which his for- 
 mer passion made wofully clear-sighted, he wrote 
 of that wicked and at the same time superficial 
 nature, of that soft voice made for falsehood and 
 never betrayed by an accent from the heart, — for 
 it came from the head, like all of that Parisian 
 doll's passionate outbursts. 
 
 What a misfortune that that letter had not 
 arrived a few days earlier. Now, all those kind
 
 She Promised not io Try Again. 275 
 
 words were to Desirce like the dainty dishes that 
 are brought too late to a man dyin<:j of hunger. 
 He inhales their perfume, longs for them, but 
 has not the strength to taste them. All day long 
 the sick girl read and re-read her letter. She 
 would take it from the envelope, then fold it once 
 more with loving hands, and, closing her eyes, see 
 it still from beginning to end, even to the color of 
 the stamp. Frantz had thought of her ! That 
 thought alone was so infinitely sweet to her that she 
 fell asleep at last with the impression of a loving 
 arm supporting her feeble head. 
 
 Suddenly she awoke, and, as we said a moment 
 since, in an extraordinary state. She had a sense 
 of weakness, of agoni.zing pain throughout her 
 being — something beyond all power of expression. 
 It seemed to her that her life hung by a mere 
 thread, a thread stretched to the breaking point, 
 whose nervous vibration imparted a supernatural 
 acuteness and delicacy to all her faculties. It was 
 dark. The room in which she lay — her parents 
 had given her their room, which was more spacious 
 and airy than her little closet — was half in dark- 
 ness. The night lamp made its flickering circle of 
 light on the ceiling, that depressing sort of constel- 
 lation which interests the wakeful hours of invalids; 
 and the lamp on the table, turned low and re- 
 stricted by the shade, lighted only the scattered 
 work and the silhouette of Mamma Delobelle 
 dozing in her armchair. 
 
 In Dcsirce's head, which seemed to her lighter 
 than usual, there suddenly began a grand proces-
 
 276 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 sion of thoughts and memories. The most distant 
 periods of her past seemed to approach her. The 
 most trivial incidents of her childhood, scenes that 
 she had not then understood, words heard as in a 
 dream, recurred to her mind. 
 
 The child was surprised but felt no fear. She 
 did not know that, prior to the utter annihilation 
 of death, people frequently pass through a moment 
 of singular exaltation, as if the whole being were 
 exhausting its faculties and its strength in one last 
 involuntary struggle. 
 
 From her bed she could see her father and 
 mother, one by her side, the other in the work- 
 room, the door of which had been left open. 
 Mamma Delobelle was lying back in her chair in 
 the careless attitude of long-continued fatigue, 
 heeded at last; and all the scars, the ugly sabre 
 cuts with which age and suffering brand the faces 
 of the old, manifested themselves, ineffaceable and 
 pitiful to see, in the relaxation of slumber. During 
 the day a strong will and engrossing duties place 
 a mask, as it were, over the real expression of men's 
 faces ; but the night restores them to themselves. 
 At that moment the stout-hearted woman's deep 
 wrinkles, her reddened eyelids, her sparse hair, 
 white at the temples, the wasted hands distorted by 
 toil — all these could be seen, and Desiree saw 
 them all. She would have liked to be strong 
 enough to rise and kiss that lovely, placid brow, 
 furrowed by WTinkles which did not mar its 
 beauty. 
 
 In striking contrast to that picture, the illustrious
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 277 
 
 Delobelle appeared to his daughter tlirouijli the 
 open door in one of his favorite attitudes. Seated 
 before the Httle white cloth that bore his supper, 
 with his body at an angle of sixty-seven and 
 a half degrees, he was eating and at the same time 
 running through a pamphlet which rested against 
 the carafe in front of him. The great man had 
 just come in — in fact, the sound of his footsteps 
 had aroused the invalid, and, still excited by the 
 animation and sparkle of a fine performance, he 
 was supping alone, gravely and solcmnl}', arrayed 
 in his new frock coat, his napkin in his neck, his 
 hair disciplined with a slight touch of the curling- 
 tongs. 
 
 For the first time in her life Desir6e noticed the 
 striking lack of harmony between her emaciated 
 mother, scantih' clad in little black dresses which 
 made her look even thinner and more haggard 
 than she really was, and her happy, well-fed, idle, 
 placid, thoughtless father. At a glance she real- 
 ized the diftcrence between the two lives. The 
 circle of habits, in which children end by seeing 
 outside objects indistinctl)*, their e}-es being 
 trained to its special light, had disappeared so far 
 as she was concerned. Now she judged her par- 
 ents from a distance, as if she had insensibly 
 moved away from them. That clearness of vision 
 at the last hour was an additional source of suffer- 
 ing. What would become of them when she was 
 no longer there? luther her mother would work 
 too hard and would kill herself; or else the poor 
 woman would be obliged to cease working alto-
 
 278 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 gather and that selfish husband, forever engrossed 
 by his theatrical ambition, would allow them both 
 to drift gradually into abject poverty, that black 
 hole which widens and deepens as one goes down 
 into it. 
 
 And yet he was not a bad man, he had proved 
 it to them many and many a time. But there was 
 a far-reaching blindness which nothing had ever 
 succeeded in relieving. Suppose she were to try? 
 Suppose that, before going away — something told 
 her that she would go very soon — before going 
 away, she should tear away the thick bandage 
 that the poor man kept over his eyes wilfully and 
 by force? 
 
 Only a hand as light and loving as hers could 
 attempt that operation. 
 
 Only she had the right to say to her father : 
 
 " Earn your living. Give up the stage." 
 
 Thereupon, as time was flying, Desiree Delo- 
 belle summoned all her courage and called softly : 
 
 " Papa — papa — " 
 
 At his daughter's first summons, the great man 
 hurried to her side. There had been that evening 
 a "first night" at the Ambigu, and he had come 
 home intensely excited, electrified. The chande- 
 liers, the claque, the conversation in the foyer, all 
 the stimulating details upon which he fed his 
 mania, had left him more confirmed than ever in 
 his illusions. 
 
 He entered Desiree's bedroom, radiant and 
 superb, very erect, his lamp in his hand and a 
 camellia in his buttonhole.
 
 She Promised uol to Try Again. 279 
 
 " Good evening, Zizi, Arc n't you asleep? " 
 
 His voice had a joyous intonation that produced 
 a strange effect amid the prcvaiHng gloom. 
 
 Desir^c motioned to him not to speak, pointing 
 to her sleeping mother. 
 
 " Put down your lamp, — I have something to 
 say to you." 
 
 Her voice, broken by emotion, impressed him; 
 and so did her eyes, for they seemed larger than 
 usual, and were lighted by a piercing glance that 
 he had never seen in them. 
 
 He approached with something like awe, taking 
 out his camellia to give to her, with his mouth in 
 the shape of a " little apple," and with a great 
 squeaking of new boots, which he considered very 
 aristocratic. His bearing was clearly embarrassed, 
 a result doubtless of the too great contrast between 
 the brilliantly lighted, noisy theatre he had lately 
 left and that little sick room, where the muffled 
 sounds, the lowered lights, died away in an atmos- 
 phere of fever. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter, Bichette? Do you 
 feel any worse? " 
 
 D6siree replied with a movement of her little 
 pale face that she felt very ill and that she wanted 
 to speak to him very close, very close. When the 
 great man stood by her pillow, she laid her burning 
 hand on the great man's arm and v/hispercd in his 
 ear. She was very ill, hopelessly ill. She real- 
 ized fully that she had not long to live. 
 
 " Then, father, you will be left alone with 
 mamma. Don't tremble like that. You knew
 
 28o Froniont and Risler. 
 
 that this thing must come, yes, that it was very 
 near. But I want to tell you this. When I am 
 gone, I am terribly afraid mamma won't be strong 
 enough to support the family. Just see how pale 
 and exhausted she is." 
 
 The actor looked at his " sainted wife," and 
 seemed greatly surprised to find that she did really 
 look so badly. Then he consoled himself with the 
 selfish remark : 
 
 " She never was very strong." 
 
 That remark and the tone in which it was made 
 angered Desiree and strengthened her determina- 
 tion. She continued, without pity for the actor's 
 illusions : 
 
 " What will become of you two when I am no 
 longer here? Oh! I know that you have great 
 hopes, but it takes them a long while to come to 
 anything. The results you have waited for so long 
 may not come for a long time to come ; and until 
 then what will you do? Listen ! my dear father, I 
 would not willingly hurt you ; but it seems to me 
 that at your age, as intelligent as you are, it would 
 be easy for you — I am sure Monsieur Risler Ain6 
 would ask nothing better." 
 
 She spoke slowly, with an effort, carefully choos- 
 ing her words, leaving long pauses between every 
 two sentences, hoping always that they might be 
 filled by a movement, an exclamation from her 
 father. But the actor did not understand. He 
 listened, he stared at her with his eyes open to 
 their fullest extent, feeling vaguely that an accusa- 
 tion was rising up against him from that innocent,
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 28 1 
 
 inexorable, childish conscience; he did not yet 
 know what it was. 
 
 " I think that you would do well," pursued 
 Desiree, timidly, " I think that you would do well 
 to give up — " 
 
 " Eh ? — what ? — what 's that ? " 
 
 She paused when she saw the effect of her words. 
 The old actor's mobile features were suddenly con- 
 tracted under the lash of violent despair; and 
 tears, genuine tears which he did not even think 
 of concealing behind his hand as they do on the 
 stage, filled his eyes but did not flow, so tightly 
 did his agony clutch him by the throat. The poor 
 devil began to understand. And so, of the only 
 two admirations which had remained faithful to 
 him, one was turning its back upon his glory! 
 His daughter no longer believed in him. It was 
 impossible. He had misunderstood, he had not 
 heard aright. What would he do well to give up, 
 come, let us see. But in face of the unspoken 
 prayer, of that glance imploring mercy, Desiree 
 had not the courage to finish. Moreover, the poor 
 child was at the end of her strength and her life. 
 
 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 him 
 what he would do well to give up. 
 
 The woman Delobelle is dead, Monsieur le 
 Commissairc. Did I not say that she would never 
 try again? This time death has spared her the
 
 282 Fromoul and Risler. 
 
 long walk and the trouble ; it came itself and took 
 her. And now, unbelieving man, four strong 
 spruce boards nailed solidly together answer to 
 you for that child's promise. She promised not to 
 try again, she will never try again. 
 
 The little lame girl is dead. That is the news of 
 the hour in the Francs-Bourgeois quarter, which 
 was deeply stirred by that mournful occurrence. 
 Not that Desiree was very popular there, for she 
 never went out and only occasionally showed at 
 the window her hermit-like pallor and the dark- 
 ringed eyes of the untiring working-girl. But the 
 burial of the illustrious Delobclle's daughter could 
 not fail to be attended by many actors, and Paris 
 adores those people. It loves to see those idols of 
 the evening pass through the streets in broad day- 
 light; to study their real features, away from the 
 glamour of the footlights. And so, on that morning, 
 while white draperies were being hung with much 
 hammering under the little narrow doorway on 
 Rue de Braque, the sidewalk and the street were 
 crowded with sightseers. 
 
 We must do the guild of actors the justice to say 
 that they are attached to one another, or at all 
 events are held together by a fraternal feeling, a 
 professional bond which brings them together on 
 all occasions of external manifestations: balls, con- 
 certs, actors' dinners, funerals. 
 
 Although Delobelle was no longer on the stage, 
 although his name had disappeared altogether 
 from newspaper criticisms and posters more than 
 fifteen years before, a little notice of two lines
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 2.S3 
 
 in an obscure theatrical journal was sufificient: 
 M, Delobelle, formerly leading man at the theatres 
 of Mcta and Alencon, has had the misfortune, etc. 
 Those who wish to attend zvill meet, etc. From 
 every corner of Paris and the suburbs the actors 
 came in crowds at that summons. 
 
 Famous or not famous, unknown or renowned, 
 they were all there, — those who had played with 
 Dclobclle in the provinces, those who met him 
 in the actors' cafes, where he was like one of the 
 faces which one sees every day, to which it is diffi- 
 cult to give a name, but which one remembers be- 
 cause of the surroundings in which one sees them 
 and of which they seem to be a part ; then there 
 were provincial actors, passing through Paris, who 
 came there to "flush" a manager and secure a 
 good engagement. 
 
 And all alike, the obscure and the illustrious, 
 Parisians and provincials, with but one absorbing 
 thought, to see their names mentioned by some 
 newspaper in a description of the funeral. For to 
 those creatures of vanity all kinds of publicity seem 
 desirable. They are so afraid that the public will 
 forget them, that the moment they leave the stage 
 they feel that they must make people talk about 
 them, must resort to any means to recall themselves 
 to the memory of fickle, ever-changing Parisian 
 fashion. 
 
 As parly as nine o'clock all the common people 
 of the Marais — that gossip-loving province — were 
 awaiting the coming of the actors, at windows and 
 doors or in the streets. The working-girls looked
 
 284 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 out through the dusty windows of the shops, the 
 petty bourgeois from behind their plaited curtains, 
 housekeepers with their baskets on their arms, 
 apprentices with bundles on their heads. 
 
 At last they arrived, on foot or in carriages, 
 singly or in parties. They could be recognized by 
 their clean shaven faces with a bluish tinge on the 
 chin and cheeks, by their affected manner, too em- 
 phatic or too simple, by their conventional gestures, 
 and, above all, by that overflow of sentiment which 
 results from the exaggeration required by the op- 
 tical conditions of the stage. The different ways 
 in which those worthy fellows manifested their 
 emotion on that painful occasion were truly inter- 
 esting to watch. Every appearance in the dark 
 little paved courtyard of the house of death, was 
 like an appearance on the stage, and varied accord- 
 ing to the speciality of the actor. The great lead- 
 ■Jng parts, with fateful air and wrinkled brow, one 
 and all began upon their arrival by brushing away 
 with the end of the glove a tear which they could 
 no longer restrain in the corner of the eye, then 
 sighed, glanced at the sky, and stood in the centre 
 of the stage, that is to say the courtyard, hat on 
 hip, with a slight tapping of the left foot whicli 
 assisted them to restrain their grief: " Be still, m}- 
 heart, be still." The coniiqiics, on the other hand, 
 " carried it off" with simplicity. They accosted 
 one another with a compassionate air of good- 
 fellowship, called one another ma paiiv* vicille} 
 with earnest, nervous hand-shakes, a trembling of 
 1 Lit., " my poor old girl."
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 285 
 
 the flabby cheeks, a drooping at the corner of the 
 eyes and hps which reduced their emotion to the 
 trivial level of farce. 
 
 All sorts of mannerisms, and all equally sincere. 
 
 As soon as they appeared, these gentlemen 
 divided into two camps. The celebrated actors 
 glanced disdainfully at the unknown, shabby Rob- 
 ricarts, whose envy flung back their contempt in 
 innumerable insulting remarks : "Have you noticed 
 how So-and-so has aged? He won't be able to 
 hold his parts long." 
 
 The illustrious Delobelle went back and forth 
 between the two groups, dressed in black, neatly 
 gloved in black, with red eyes and clenched teeth, 
 distributing silent hand-clasps. The poor devil's 
 heart was full of tears, but that did not prevent his 
 having his hair curled and arranged 01 doni-Cnpoiit 
 for the occasion. A strange compound. No one 
 could have said, after reading his heart, at what 
 point genuine grief ended and the affectation of 
 grief began, they were so inextricably mingled. — 
 Among the actors there were several other persons 
 of our acquaintance. Monsieur Chebe, more im- 
 portant than ever, hovered assiduously about the 
 popular actors, while Madame Chebe bore the poor 
 mother company upstairs. Sidonie had been un- 
 able to come ; but Risler Ain6 was there, almost 
 as deeply moved — good Risler, the friend in need, 
 who had paid all the expenses of the sad ceremony, 
 so that the mourning carriages were superb, with 
 silver-fringed draperies, and the bier was strewn 
 with white roses and violets. In the wretched.
 
 2^6 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 dismal hall opening on Rue de Braque, those mod- 
 est white decorations under the tapers, those trem- 
 bling flowers sprinkled with holy water, bore a 
 striking resemblance to the destiny of that poor 
 child, whose faintest smiles had always been 
 drenched with tears. 
 
 The procession moved slowly through the winding 
 streets. At the head stalked Delobelle, shaken by 
 sobs, almost as deeply moved on his own account, a 
 poor father burying his child, as on his dead daugh- 
 ter's, and, in the background of his sincere sorrow, 
 his ever-present vain personality, like a stone in the 
 bed of a stream, unmoved by the rushing waters. 
 The pomp and parade of the ceremony, the black 
 line which blocked travel in the streets as it passed, 
 the draped carriages, the Rislers' little coupe which 
 Sidonie had sent to give tone to the occasion, — it 
 all flattered and excited him, do what he would. 
 Unable to contain himself, he turned to Robricart, 
 who was walking beside him : 
 
 " Did you notice? " 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 The unhappy father, wiping his eyes, murmured, 
 not without a touch of pride : 
 
 " There are two private carriages." 
 
 Dear little Zizi, so kindly and so simple ! All 
 that ostentation of sorrow, all those solemn-faced 
 mourners were hardly suited to her. 
 
 But happily Mamma Delobelle, whom they had 
 been unable to keep from watching her little one's 
 departure, was standing behind the drawn blinds 
 of the work-room window.
 
 She Promised not to Try Again. 29>j 
 
 "Adieu! adieu!" said the mother in an under- 
 tone, ahnost to herself, wringint^ her hands with the 
 senseless gesture of a dotard or a madwoman. 
 
 Softly as those farewell words were said, Desiree 
 Delobelle must have heard them.
 
 288 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 THE FANCIFUL LEGEND OF THE LITTLE 
 BLUE MAN. 
 
 You may believe me or not, as you choose, but I 
 am a firm believer in the little blue man. Not 
 that I have ever seen him ; but a friend of mine, 
 a poet, in whom I have every confidence, has fre- 
 quently told me that he found himself face to face 
 with that strange little imp one night, and this is 
 how it happened. 
 
 My friend had been weak enough to give his 
 tailor a note ; and like all men of imagination 
 under similar circumstances, as soon as his signa- 
 ture was given he had supposed that he was rid 
 of his debt forever, and all thought of the note 
 passed from his mind. Now it happened that our 
 poet was awakened with a start one night by a 
 strange noise in his chimney. He thought at 
 first that it was some cold-blooded little sparrow 
 seeking the w^armth from the dying fire, or a 
 weathercock annoyed by a change in the wind. 
 But after a moment, as the noise became more dis- 
 tinct, he clearly distinguished the jingling of a bag 
 of gold-pieces mingled with a vague rattling of
 
 TJie Fanciful Lcgejid. 289 
 
 chains. At the same time he heard a shrill little 
 voice, like a locomotive whistle in the distance, 
 clear as the crowing of a rooster, shout to him from 
 the roof: " The note ! the note ! " 
 
 "Ah! my God! my note!" said the poor fel- 
 low, suddenly remembering that the document 
 he had given his tailor fell due in a week; and he 
 did nothing until morning but toss and turn, seek- 
 ing sleep in every corner of his bed and finding 
 only the thought of that accursed note of hand. 
 The next night and the next and every night 
 thereafter, he was awakened at the same time and 
 in the same way ; the same jingling of money, the 
 rattling of a chain, and the little voice crying with 
 a sneering laugh : " The note ! the note ! " The 
 worst part of it was that, as the day when the note 
 was to mature came nearer and nearer, the voice 
 became shriller and fiercer, more full of threats of 
 execution and bankruptcy. 
 
 Ill-fated poet ! your fatiguing labors of the day, 
 your scouring of the city to obtain money, were 
 not enough, it seems ; to cap the climax, that cruel 
 little voice must come and rob you of sleep and 
 rest. To whom did that fantastic voice belong, in 
 God's name? What malicious spirit could take 
 pleasure in martyrizing him thus? lie determined 
 to set his mind at rest. Accordingly one night, 
 instead of going to bed, he put out his light, 
 opened his window, and waited. 
 
 I need not tell you that in his capacity of l}Tic 
 
 poet, my friend lived way up in the air, on a level 
 
 with the roofs. For several hours he saw nothing 
 19
 
 290 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 but that picturesque expanse of roofs packed 
 closely together, and sloping toward each other, 
 through which streets ran in all directions like 
 great precipices, and the even surface of which 
 was broken capriciously by chimneys and gable 
 ends notched by a ray of moonlight. It was like 
 a seccnd city above dark and slumbering Paris, an 
 aeria/ city suspended in mid-air between the black 
 void below and the dazzling light of the moon. 
 
 M / friend waited, waited a long while. At last, 
 abo"«t two or three o'clock in the morning, just as 
 all the steeples rising out of the darkness were 
 passing the hour from one to another, he heard a 
 light step close at hand running over the tiles and 
 slates, and a shrill little voice called into the chim- 
 siey: "The note! the note!" Thereupon, by 
 leaning out a little, my poet spied the villainous 
 little man-tormenting imp who had spoiled his 
 sleep for a week. He could not tell me anything 
 positively as to his size; the moon plays you 
 such tricks by the fantastic dimensions it gives 
 to objects and their shadows. He noticed only 
 that the strange devilkin was dressed like the 
 messengers from the Bank, blue coat with silver 
 buttons, crush hat, a sergeant's stripes on his 
 sleeve, and that he had a leather wallet almost 
 as big as himself under his arm, the key to which 
 hung at the end of a long chain and jangled 
 madly at every step, like the bag of money which 
 he waved in the other hand. Thus it was that 
 my friend caught a glimpse of the little blue 
 fellow, as he flitted swiftly across a moonbeam;
 
 The Fanciful Legend. 291 
 
 for he seemed very hurried, full of business, cleared 
 the streets at one leap and ran from chimney to 
 chimney, c^liding over the roofs. 
 
 That infernal little man has such a numerous 
 clientage, you see. There arc so many tradesmen 
 in Paris, so many men who dread the end of the 
 month, so many poor devils who have signed a 
 note of hand or written the word " accepted " 
 across a draft. To all those people the little blue 
 man gave as he passed his warning cry. He 
 uttered it over factories, at that hour lifeless and 
 silent, over great financial houses, sleeping amid 
 the luxurious silence of their gardens, over the 
 houses of five and six floors, the uneven, incon- 
 gruous roofs that are massed together in the heart 
 of the poorer quarters. " The note ! the note ! " 
 From end to end of the city, in that crystal atmos- 
 phere which intense cold and bright moonlight 
 produce in high places, the little strident voice 
 rang out pitilessly. Wherever it was heard it 
 banished sleep, awoke anxiety, wearied the mind 
 and the eyes, and sent a sort of vague shudder of 
 unrest and insomnia from the attic to the cellar 
 of Parisian houses. 
 
 Think what you will of this legend, at all events 
 here is something of which I can affirm the truth 
 in support of my poet's talc : one night, near the 
 end of January, old Sigismond Planus, cashier of 
 the house of Fromont Jeune and Risler Ainc, was 
 awakened with a start in his little house at Mont- 
 rouge by the same teasing voice, the same rattling 
 of chains, followed by that fatal cry:
 
 292 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 "The note!" 
 
 " That is true," thought the worthy man, sitting 
 up in bed ; " day after to-morrow will be the last 
 day of the month. And I have the courage to 
 sleep ! " 
 
 In truth, a considerable sum of money must be 
 raised : a hundred thousand francs to be paid on 
 two obligations, and at a moment when, for the 
 first time in thirty years, the strong-box of the 
 house of Fromont was absolutely empty. What 
 was to be done? Sigismond had tried several 
 times to speak to Fromont Jeune, but he seemed 
 to shun the burdensome responsibility of business, 
 and when he walked through the offices was always 
 in a hurry, feverishly excited, and seemed neither 
 to see nor hear anything about him. He answered 
 the old cashier's anxious questions, gnawing his 
 moustache : 
 
 " All right, all right, my old Planus. Don't dis- 
 turb yourself, I will look into it." And as he said 
 it he seemed to be thinking of something else, to 
 be a thousand leagues away from his surroundings. 
 It was rumored in the factory, where his liaison 
 with Madame Risler was no longer a secret to 
 anybody, that Sidonie deceived him, made him very 
 unhappy; and, indeed, his mistress's whims wor- 
 ried him much more than his cashier's anxiety. 
 As for Risler, no one ever saw him; he passed his 
 days shut up in a room under the eaves, overseeing 
 the mysterious, interminable manufacture of his 
 machines. 
 
 This indifference on the part of the employers
 
 The Fanciful Legend. 293 
 
 to the affairs of the factory, this absohite lack of 
 oversight, had led by slow degrees to general 
 demoralization. Workmen and clerks did as they 
 pleased, came late to their work and disappeared 
 early, with no thought of the old bell, which, after 
 regulating the hours of work so many years, 
 seemed now to sound the alarm of impending dis- 
 aster. Some business was still done, because an 
 established house will go on alone for years by 
 force of the first impetus ; but what ruin, what 
 chaos beneath that apparent prosperity ! 
 
 Sigismond knew it better than any one, and that 
 is why the little blue man's cry had roused him so 
 quickly from his sleep. As if to cee his way more 
 clearly amid the multitude of painful thoughts 
 which whirled madly through his brain, the cashier 
 lighted his candle, sat down on his bed, and 
 thought: "Where were they to find that hundred 
 thousand francs?" To be sure there was more 
 than that owing to the firm. There were old 
 accounts that had been dragging along for years, 
 balances due from the Prochassons and others ; 
 but what a humiliation it would be for him to go 
 about collecting all those ancient bills ! That sort 
 of thing is not done in the higher business circles; 
 it is better suited to petty retail concerns. And 
 yet even that would be preferable to a protest. 
 Oh ! the thought that the messenger from the 
 Bank would come to his grating with a self-assured, 
 confident air and tranquilly place his notes on the 
 shelf, and that he, Planus, Sigismond Planus, 
 would be obliged to say to him :
 
 294 Frojuont and Risler. 
 
 "Take the notes back. I have no funds to 
 meet them." 
 
 No, no ! That was not possible. Any sort of 
 humiliation was preferable to that. 
 
 " Well it 's decided. I will go to-morrow," 
 sighed the poor cashier. 
 
 And while he tossed about in torture, unable to 
 close an eye until morning, the blue man, continu- 
 ing his rounds, shook his bag of money and his 
 chain over an attic on Boulevard Beaumarchais to 
 which the illustrious Delobelle had moved with his 
 wife after Desiree's death. 
 
 Alas! the little lame girl had not gone astray in 
 her predictions. When she had gone, Mamma 
 Delobelle was not long able to continue her work 
 upon the birds and insects for ornament. Her 
 eyes were dimmed with tears, her old hands 
 trembled so that she could not mount the hum- 
 ming-birds straight, and despite all her efforts, their 
 faces retained a piteous, grieved expression. She 
 was obliged to give up. Thereupon the brave 
 woman took up sewing. She mended laces and 
 embroideries, and gradually descended to the level 
 of a seamstress. But her constantly decreasing 
 earnings hardly sufficed for the most necessary 
 household expenses, and Delobelle, whose exact- 
 ing profession of actor /// partibns compelled him 
 to spend money freely, was driven to incur debts. 
 He owed his tailor, his bootmaker, his shirtmaker ; 
 but what disturbed him most were the famous 
 breakfasts he had eaten at the cafe on the boule- 
 vard, in his managerial days.
 
 The Fanciful Legend. 295 
 
 The bill amounted to two hundred and fifty 
 francs, payable at the end of January, and there 
 was no hope of further renewal; so that the 
 little blue man's cry sent a shiver throui^h his 
 every limb. 
 
 Only one day more before it was due ! Only one 
 day more to procure the two hundred and fifty 
 francs ! If he failed to procure them, everything 
 in their apartment would be sold. Sold the poor 
 furniture, never renewed since the beginning of 
 their housekeeping — insufficient, to be sure, and 
 inconvenient, but dear by reason of the memories 
 awakened by its frayed edges, by the signs of long 
 usage on certain corners. Sold the long table of 
 the birds and insects for ornament, at one end 
 of which he had supped for twenty years. Sold 
 Zizi's great armchair, at which they could not look 
 without tears, and which seemed to have retained 
 something of their darling, her movements, her 
 attitudes, the prostration of her long days of toil 
 and dreaming. It would surely kill Mamma Delo- 
 belle to see all those precious souvenirs taken 
 away. 
 
 As he thought of that, the unlucky strolling 
 player, whose dense selfishness did not always 
 shield him from the stings of remorse, tossed and 
 turned in his bed, heaved profound sighs; and all 
 the while he had before his eyes D6siree's little 
 pale face, with its imploring, affectionate expres- 
 sion, which she turned anxiously toward him as 
 she died, asking him under her breath to give up — 
 to give up — What could it have been that she
 
 296 Fromout and Risler, 
 
 wanted her father to give up? She had died 
 before she succeeded in telling him ; but Delobelle 
 had partly understood none the less, and since 
 then uneasiness and doubt had found their way 
 into that pitiless nature ; to-night they added 
 cruelly to the burden of his pecuniary perplexities. 
 
 " The note ! the note ! " 
 
 This time it was Monsieur Chebe's chimney 
 down which the little blue man hurled his fateful 
 cry as he passed. 
 
 It should be said that Monsieur Chebe had 
 recently embarked in some considerable enter- 
 prise, a " standing " business, very vague, exces- 
 sively vague, which consumed a deal of money. 
 On several different occasions Risler and Sidonie 
 had been obliged to pay their father's debts, on 
 the express condition that he would remain in 
 retirement, that he would let business alone ; but 
 these constant plunges were necessary to his exist- 
 ence. He took the plunge each time with renewed 
 courage, with a more restless activity. When he 
 had no money. Monsieur Chebe gave his signature ; 
 indeed, he deplorably abused that signature of his, 
 always relying on the profits of the undertaking to 
 meet his engagements. The devil of it was that 
 the profits never appeared, whereas the notes he 
 had signed, after roving from one end of Paris to 
 the other for months, returned to the house with 
 despairing punctuality, all black with hieroglyphics 
 picked up on their travels. 
 
 As it happened, his January engagements were 
 very heavy, and when he heard the little blue man
 
 The Fanciful Legend. 297 
 
 pass, he suddenly remembered that he had not a 
 sou with which to meet them. Death ! Me must 
 needs go once more and humble himself before 
 that Risler, run the risk of being refused, confess 
 that he had broken his word. The poor devil's 
 agony as he thought of those things was heightened 
 by the silence of night, when the eye is unoccupied, 
 when the mind has nothing to distract it, and by 
 the horizontal position which, by dint of making 
 the whole body helpless, abandons the mind, with- 
 out means of defence, to its terrors and its anxieties. 
 Again and again Monsieur Chebc lighted his lamp, 
 picked up his newspaper and struggled vainly to 
 read, to the vast displeasure of good Madame 
 Chebe, who groaned softly and turned toward the 
 wall in order not to see the light. 
 
 And meanwhile the infernal little blue man, 
 enchanted with his mischief-making, went his way 
 with his sneering laugh to jingle his bag of money 
 and his chain a little farther on. Behold him on 
 Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, above a great factory 
 where all the windows are dark save a single one 
 on the first floor at the end of the garden. 
 
 Notwithstanding the late hour, Georges Fromont 
 had not yet retired. He was sitting by the fire, 
 with his head in his hands, in the blind and dumb 
 concentration due to irreparable misfortune, think- 
 ing of Sidonie, of that horrible Sidonie who was 
 asleep at that moment on the floor above. She 
 was positively driving him mad. She was false to 
 him, he was sure of it, — she was false to him with 
 the Toulousan tenor, that Cazabon, alias Cazaboni,
 
 29^^ Fromont and Risler. 
 
 whom Madame Dobson 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 on that very day, speaking of a grand ball she 
 was about to give, she had declared explicitly that 
 nothing should prevent her inviting her tenor. 
 
 " Then he 's your lover ! " Georges had ex- 
 claimed angrily, his eyes gazing into hers. 
 
 She had not denied it ; she had not even turned 
 her eyes away. But, still with the utmost coolness, 
 she had informed him, with her wicked little smile, 
 that she admitted no man's right to judge or to 
 interfere with her actions, that she was free, that 
 she proposed to remain free and not to allow him 
 to tyrannize over her any more than Risler. The}' 
 had passed an hour so, in her carriage, with the 
 shades lowered, disputing, insulting each other, 
 almost fighting. 
 
 And to think that he had sacrificed everything 
 to that woman, — his fortune, his honor, even his 
 lovely Claire, who lay sleeping with her child in 
 the adjoining room — a whole lifetime of happiness 
 within reach of his hand, which he had spurned for 
 that vile creature ! Now she had admitted that 
 she did not love him, that she loved another. And 
 he, the coward, still longed for her. In heaven's 
 name what potion had she given him? 
 
 Carried away by indignation that made the 
 
 blood boil in his veins, Georges Fromont started 
 
 - from his armchair and strode feverishly up and 
 
 down the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence 
 
 of the sleeping house like living insomnia. The
 
 The Fanciful Legend. 299 
 
 other was asleep upstairs. She could sleep by 
 fav^or of her heedless, remorseless nature. Perhaps 
 too she was thinking of her Cazaboni. 
 
 When that thought passed through his mind, 
 Georges had a mad longing to go up, to wake 
 Risler, to tell him everything and destroy himself 
 with her. Really that deluded husband was too 
 idiotic ! Why did he not watch her more closely? 
 She was pretty enough, yes, and vicious enough 
 too for every precaution to be taken with her. 
 
 And it was while he was struggling amid such 
 cruel and unfruitful reflections as these that the 
 little blue man's cry of alarm suddenly rang out 
 above the whistling of the wind. 
 
 " The notes ! the notes ! " 
 
 The miserable wretch ! Tn his wrath he had 
 entirely forgotten them. And }'et he had long 
 watched the approach of that terrible last day of 
 January. How many times, between two assigna- 
 tions, when his mind, free for a moment from 
 thoughts of Sidonie, recurred to his business, to 
 the realities of life — how many times had he said 
 to himself: "That day will be the end of ever>'- 
 thing ! " But as with all those who live in the 
 delirium of intoxication, his cowardice convinced 
 him that it was too late to mend matters, and he 
 returned more quickly and more determinedly to 
 his evil courses, in order to forget, to divert his 
 thoughts. 
 
 But now it was no longer possible to divert his 
 thoughts. He saw the impending disaster clearly, 
 in its full meaning; and Sigismond Planus's
 
 300 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 wrinkled, solemn face rose before him with its 
 sharply-cut features, whose absence of expression 
 softened their "harshness, and his light German- 
 Swiss eyes, which had haunted him for many 
 weeks with their impassive stare. 
 
 Well, no, he had not the hundred thousand 
 francs, nor did he know where to get them. In 
 the past six months he had played heavily and 
 lost enormous sums, in his effort to gratify his 
 mistress's ruinous whims. In addition to that, 
 there had been the failure of a banker, and that 
 inexorable balance-sheet. Nothing was left but 
 the factory, and in what a condition ! 
 
 Where was he to turn now ; what could he 
 do? 
 
 The crisis which, a few hours before, seemed to 
 him a chaos, an eddying whirl in which he could 
 see nothing distinctly and whose very confusion 
 was a source of hope, appeared to him at that 
 moment with appalling distinctness. An empty 
 cash-box, closed doors, notes protested, ruin. 
 That is what he saw whichever way he turned. 
 And when, on top of all the rest, came the thought 
 of Sidonie's treachery, the wretched, desperate 
 man, finding nothing to cling to in that shipwreck, 
 suddenly uttered a sob, a cry of agony, as if ap- 
 pealing for help to some higher power. 
 
 " Georges, Georges, it 's I. What is the matter? " 
 
 His wife stood before him, his wife who now 
 waited for him every night, watching anxiously for 
 his return from the Club, for she still believed that 
 he passed his evenings there. Seeing her husband
 
 TJic Fanciful Legend. 301 
 
 change, grow more depressed day by day, Claire 
 fancied that he must be in great trouble concerning 
 money, probably on account of losses at play. 
 She had been told that he played a great deal, 
 and notwithstanding the indifference with which he 
 treated her, she was anxious for him, and longed 
 to have him make her his confidant, give her an 
 opportunity to show her generosity and affection. 
 That night she had heard him walking very late in 
 his room. As her little daughter had a severe 
 cough and required her care every moment, she 
 had divided her solicitude between the child's suf- 
 fering and the father's, and had lain there, listening 
 to every sound, in one of those tearful, sorrowful 
 vigils in which women summon all the courage 
 they possess to enable them to support the heavy 
 burden of manifold duty. At last the child fell 
 asleep, and Claire, hearing the father sob, ran to 
 him. 
 
 Oh ! what boundless, though tardy remorse 
 overwhelmed him when he saw her before him, so 
 deeply moved, so lovely and so loving ! Yes, she 
 was in very truth the true companion, the faithful 
 friend. How could he have deserted her? For a 
 long, long time he wept upon her shoulder, unable 
 to speak. And it was fortunate that he did not 
 speak, for he would have told her all, all. The 
 unhappy man felt the need of pouring out his heart, 
 — an irresistible longing to accuse himself, to ask 
 forgiveness, to lessen the weight of the remorse 
 that was crushing him. 
 
 She spared him the pain of uttering a word :
 
 302 Froinont and R is lev. 
 
 "You have been gambling, have you not? You 
 have lost — lost heavily?" 
 
 He moved his head affirmatively ; then, when he 
 was able to speak, he confessed that he must have 
 a hundred thousand francs for the day after the 
 morrow, and that he did not know how to obtain 
 them. 
 
 She did not reproach him. She was one of 
 those women who, when face to face with disaster, 
 think only of repairing it, without a word of recrim- 
 ination. Indeed, in the bottom of her heart she 
 blessed this misfortune which brought him nearer 
 to her and became a bond between their two lives, 
 which had long lain so far apart. She reflected a 
 moment. Then, with an effort indicating a resolu- 
 tion which had cost a bitter struggle, she said : 
 
 " All is not lost as yet. I will go to Savigny to- 
 morrow and ask my grandfather for the money." 
 
 He would never have dared to suggest that to 
 her. Indeed, it would never have occurred to him. 
 She was so proud and old Gardinois so hard 1 
 Surely that was a great sacrifice for her to make 
 for him, and a striking proof of her love. He was 
 suddenly conscious of that feeling of warmth, of 
 lightness about the heart that comes after danger 
 has passed. Claire appeared to him like a super- 
 natural creature endowed with the gift of soothing 
 and consoling, just as the other, up yonder, had 
 the gift of fascination and destruction. He would 
 gladly have knelt before that lovely face, which 
 her superb black hair, negligently twisted for the 
 night, framed with a glossy blue-black halo, and
 
 The Fancifiil Legend. 303 
 
 in which the somewhat severe Hnes of the rcj^ular 
 features were softened b)' an adorably tender 
 expression. 
 
 " Claire, Claire, — how cjood you are ! " 
 
 VV^ithout replying, she led him to their child's 
 cradle. 
 
 "Kiss her," she said softly; and as they stood 
 there side by side, their heads leaning over the 
 child, whose breath, quiet now but still a little 
 quickened by the racking cough, Georges was 
 afraid of waking her, and he embraced the mother 
 passionately. 
 
 Certain it is that that was the first effect of that 
 sort that the appearance of the little blue fellow 
 ever produced in a household. Ordinarily, wher- 
 ever that horrible little imp goes, he severs hands 
 and hearts, and turns the mind aside from its most 
 cherished affections by agitating it with the innu- 
 merable anxieties aroused by the rattling of his 
 chain and his ill-omened cry from the house-tops : 
 
 " The note ! the note ! "
 
 304 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 II. 
 
 REVELATIONS. 
 
 "Ah! here's Sigismond. How goes it, Pere 
 Sigismond? How's business? Is it good with 
 you? " 
 
 The old cashier smiled affably, shook hands with 
 the master, his wife, and his brother, and, as they 
 talked, looked curiously about. It was a manufac- 
 tory of wall-papers on Faubourg Saint-Antoine, 
 the establishment of the little Prochassons, who 
 were beginning to be formidable rivals. Those 
 former employes of the house of Fromont had set 
 up on their own account, beginning in a very small 
 way, and had gradually succeeded in making for 
 themselves a place on 'Change. Fromont the uncle 
 had assisted them for a long while with his credit 
 and his money; the result being most friendly re- 
 lations between the two firms, and a balance — 
 some ten or fifteen thousand francs — which had 
 never been definitely adjusted, because they knew 
 that money was in good hands when the Prochas- 
 sons had it. 
 
 Indeed, the appearance of the factory was most 
 reassuring. The chimneys proudly shook their 
 plumes of smoke. The dull roar of constant toil
 
 Revelations. 305 
 
 indicated that the worksliops were full of work nun 
 and activity. The buildings were in good repair, 
 the windows clean ; everything had an aspect of 
 enthusiasm, of good humor, of discipline ; and be- 
 hind the grating in the counting-room sat the wife 
 of one of the brothers, simply dressed, with her 
 hair neatly brushed, and an air of authority on her 
 youthful face, deeply intent upon a long column of 
 figures. 
 
 Old Sigismond thought bitterly of the difference 
 between the house of Fromont, once so wealthy, 
 now living entirely upon its former reputation, and 
 the ever-increasing prosperity of the establishment 
 before his eyes. His stealthy glance penetrated to 
 the darkest corners, seeking some defect, some- 
 thing to criticise; and his failure to find anj'thing 
 made his heart heavy and his smile forced and 
 anxious. 
 
 What embarrassed him most of all was the ques- 
 tion how he should approach the subject of the 
 money due his emplo\'crs without bctra}-ing the 
 emptiness of the strong-box. The poor man as- 
 sumed a jaunty, unconcerned air wliich was truly 
 pitiful to see. — Business was good — very good. 
 lie happened to be passing through the quarter 
 and thought he would come in a moment — that 
 was natural, was it not? One likes to sec old 
 friends. 
 
 But these preambles, these constantly expanding 
 circumlocutions, did not bring him to the point he 
 wished to reach ; on the contrar}% they led him 
 awa)' from his goal, and imagining that he detected
 
 3o6 From out and Risler, 
 
 amazement in the eyes of those who listened to 
 him, he went completely astray, stammered, lost 
 his head, and, as a last resort, took his hat and pre- 
 tended to go. At the door he suddenly bethought 
 himself: 
 
 " Ah ! by the way, as long as I am here — " 
 
 He gave a litUe wink which he thought sly, but 
 which was in reality heartrending. 
 
 " As long as I am here, suppose we settle that 
 old account." 
 
 The two brothers and the young woman in the 
 counting-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 jest, a rather 
 broad jest, on the part of the old cashier. — "Go 
 along with you, you sly old Pere Planus ! " — The 
 old man laughed with them ! He laughed without 
 any desire to laugh, simply to do as the others 
 did. 
 
 At last they explained. Fromont Jeune had 
 come in person, six months before, to collect the 
 balance in their hands. 
 
 Sigismond felt that his strength was going. He 
 summoned courage however to reply: 
 
 "Ah! yes; true. I had forgotten. — Sigismond 
 Planus is growing old, that's plain. I am failing, 
 my children, I am failing." 
 
 And the goodman went away wiping his eyes, 
 in which still glistened great tears caused by the 
 hearty laugh he had just enjoyed. The young pec-
 
 Rev e la tions. ^oj 
 
 pic behind him exchanged glances and shook their 
 heads. They understood. 
 
 The blow he had received was so crushing that 
 the cashier, as soon as he was out-of-doors, was 
 obliged to sit down on a bench. So that was why 
 Georges did not come to the counting-room for 
 money. He made his collections in person. What 
 had taken place at the Prochassons had probably 
 been repeated everywhere else. It was quite use- 
 less, therefore, for him to subject himself to further 
 humiliation. Yes, but the notes, the notes ! — 
 That thought renewed his strength. He wiped the 
 beads of perspiration from his forehead and set out 
 once more to try his fortune with a customer in the 
 faubourg. But this time he took his precautions 
 and called to the cashier from the doorway, without 
 entering : 
 
 "Good-morning, Pere So-and-So. — I want to 
 ask you a question." 
 
 He held the door half open, his hand clenched 
 upon the knob. 
 
 "When did we settle our last bill? I forgot to 
 enter it." 
 
 Oh ! it was a long while ago, a very long while, 
 that their last bill was settled. I'romont Jeune's 
 receipt was dated in September. It was five months 
 ago. 
 
 The door was hastily closed. Another ! Evi- 
 dently it would be the same thing everywhere. 
 
 " Ah ! Monsieur Chorche, Monsieur Chorche," 
 muttered poor Sigismond ; and while he pursued 
 his pilgrimage, with bent head and trembling legs,
 
 3oS Fro7nont and Risler. 
 
 Madame Fromont Jeune's carriage passed him 
 close, on its way to the Orleans station ; but Claire 
 did not see old Planus, any more than she had 
 seen, when she left her house a few moments earlier, 
 Monsieur Chebe in his long frock-coat and the 
 illustrious Delobelle in his stovepipe hat, turning 
 into Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes at opposite ends, 
 each with the factory and Risler's wallet for his ob- 
 jective point. The young woman was much too 
 deeply engrossed by what she had before her to 
 look into 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 never 
 borrowed or loaned a sou in his life, who never lost 
 an opportunity to tell how, on one occasion, being 
 driven to ask his father for forty francs to buy a 
 pair of trousers, he had repaid the loan in small 
 amounts. In his dealings with everybody, even 
 with his children, M. Gardinois followed those tra- 
 ditions of avarice which the earth, the cruel earth, 
 often ungrateful to those who till it, seems to in- 
 culcate in all peasants. The goodman did not pro- 
 pose that any part of his colossal fortune should go 
 to his children during his lifetime. 
 
 "They'll find my property when I am dead," 
 he often said. 
 
 Acting upon that principle, he had married his 
 daughter, the elder Madame Fromont, without one 
 sou of dowry, and he never forgave his son-in-law 
 for having made a fortune without assistance from 
 him. For it was one of the peculiarities of that
 
 Revelations. 309 
 
 nature, made up of vanity and selfishness in equal 
 parts, to wish that everyone should need his help, 
 should bow before his wealth. When the Fromonts 
 expressed in his presence their satisfaction at the 
 prosperous turn their business was beginning to 
 take, his sharp, cunning little blue eye would smile 
 ironically, and he would growl : " We shall see 
 what it all comes to at the end," in a tone that 
 made them shudder. Sometimes too, at Savigny, 
 in the evening, when the park, the avenues, the 
 blue slates of the chateau, the red brick of the 
 stables, the ponds and watercourses shone resplen- 
 dent, bathed in the golden glory of a lovely sunset, 
 this eccentric parvenu would say aloud before his 
 children, after casting his eyes about: 
 
 " The one thing that consoles me for dying some 
 day is that no one in the family will ever be rich 
 enough to keep a chateau that costs fifty thousand 
 francs a year to keep up." 
 
 And yet, with that latter-day tenderness which 
 even the sternest grandfathers find in the depths of 
 their hearts, old Gardinois would gladly have made 
 a pet of his granddaughter. But Claire, even as a 
 child, had felt an invincible repugnance for the 
 former peasant's hardness of heart and vainglori- 
 ous selfishness. And when affection forms no 
 bonds between those who are separated b}- differ- 
 ence in education, such repugnance is increased by 
 innumerable trifles. When Claire married Georges, 
 the goodman said to Madame Fromont: 
 
 " If your daughter wishes, I will give her a royal 
 present; but she must ask for it."
 
 3IO Fromojit and Risler. 
 
 And Claire got nothing, as she would not ask for 
 anything. 
 
 What a bitter humiliation to come, three years 
 later, to beg a hundred thousand francs from the 
 generosity she had formerly spurned, to humble 
 herself, to face the endless sermons, the sneering 
 raillery, the whole seasoned with Berrichon jests; 
 with phrases smacking of the soil, with the taunts, 
 often well-deserved, which narrow but logical minds 
 can utter on occasion, and which sting with their 
 vulgar patois like an insult from an inferior. 
 
 Poor Claire ! Her husband, her father were 
 about to be humiliated in her person. She must 
 necessarily confess the failure of the one, the down- 
 fall of the house which the other had founded and 
 of which he had while he lived been so proud. 
 The thought that she would be called upon to de- 
 fend all that she loved best in the world made her 
 strong and weak at the same time. 
 
 It was eleven o'clock when she reached Savigny. 
 As she had given no warning of her visit, the car- 
 riage from the chateau was not at the station, and 
 she had no choice but to walk. 
 
 It was a cold morning and the roads were dry 
 and hard. The north wind blew freely across the 
 arid fields and the river, and swept unopposed 
 through the leafless trees and bushes. The chateau 
 appeared under the low-lying clouds, with its long 
 line of low walls and hedges separating it from the 
 surrounding fields. The slates on the roof were as 
 gloomy as the sky they reflected ; and that magni- 
 ficent summer residence, completely transformed by
 
 Revelations. 311 
 
 the bitter, silent winter, without a leaf on its trees 
 or a pigeon on its roofs, seemed to have naught of 
 life save its rippling watercourses and the murmur- 
 ing of the tall poplars as they bowed majestically to 
 one another, shaking the magpies' nests hidden 
 among their topmost branches. 
 
 At a distance Claire fancied that the home of 
 her youth wore a surly, depressed air. It seemed 
 to her that Savigny watched her approach with the 
 cold, aristocratic expression which it assumed for 
 passengers on the high road, who stopped at the 
 iron spikes of its gateways. 
 
 Oh ! the cruel aspect of everything ! 
 
 And yet not so cruel after all. For, with its 
 tightly-closed exterior, Savigny seemed to say to 
 her: "Begone — do not come in!" And if she 
 had chosen to listen, Claire, renouncing her plan of 
 speaking to her grandfather, would have returned 
 at once to Paris to maintain the rc[)osc of her life. 
 But she did not understand, poor child, and already 
 the great Newfoundland, who had recognized her, 
 came leaping through the dead leaves and sniffed 
 at the gate. 
 
 " Good-morning, Frangoise. Where is grand- 
 papa?" the young woman asked the gardener's 
 wife, who came to open the gate, fawning and false 
 and trembling, like all the servants at the chateau 
 when they felt that the master's eye was upon 
 them. 
 
 Grandpapa was in his office, a little ell independ- 
 ent of the main house, where he j^assed his days 
 fumbling among boxes and pigeonholes and great
 
 312 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 books with green backs, with the rage for bureau- 
 cracy due to his early ignorance and the strong 
 impression made upon him long before by the 
 office of the notary in his village. 
 
 At that moment he was closeted there with his 
 keeper, a sort of country spy, a paid informer who 
 kept him posted as to all that was said and done in 
 the neighborhood. 
 
 He was the master's favorite. His name was 
 Fouinat,^ and he had the flat, crafty, bloodthirsty 
 face appropriate to his name. 
 
 When his granddaughter entered, pale and 
 trembling under her furs, the old man understood 
 that something serious and unusual had happened, 
 and he made a sign to Fouinat, who disappeared, 
 gliding through the half-open door as if he were 
 entering the very wall. 
 
 " What 's the matter, little one? Why, you 're all 
 perliitee," said the grandfather, seated behind his 
 huge desk. 
 
 Perlute, in the Berrichon dictionary, signifies 
 troubled, excited, upset, and applied perfectly to 
 Claire's condition. Her rapid walk in the cold 
 country air, the effort she had made in order to do 
 what she was doing, imparted an unwonted expres- 
 sion to her face, which was much less reserved than 
 usual. Without the slightest encouragement on 
 his part, she kissed him and seated herself in front 
 of the fire, where old stumps, surrounded by dry 
 moss and pine needles picked up in the paths, were 
 smouldering with occasional outbursts of life and 
 1 hfouine is a pole-cat.
 
 Revelations. 313 
 
 the hissing of sap. She did not even take time to 
 shake off the hoar-frost that stood in beads on her 
 veil, but began to speak at once, faithful to her 
 resolution to state the object of her visit imme- 
 diately upon entering the room, before she allowed 
 herself to be intimidated by the atmosphere of fear 
 and respect which encompassed the grandfather 
 and made of him a sort of awe-inspiring deity. 
 
 She required all her courage not to become con- 
 fused, not to interrupt her narrative before that 
 piercing gaze which transfixed her, enlivened from 
 her first words by a malicious joy, before that 
 savage mouth whose corners seemed tightly closed 
 by premeditated reticence, obstinacy, a denial of 
 any sort of sensibility. She went on to the end at 
 one bound, respectful without humility, concealing 
 her emotion, steadying her voice by the conscious- 
 ness of the truth of her story. Really, seeing them 
 thus face to face, he cold and calm, stretched out 
 in his arm-chair, with his hands in the pockets of 
 his gray swansdown waistcoat, she carefully choos- 
 ing her words, as if each of them might condemn 
 or absolve her, you would never have said that it 
 was a child before her grandfather, but an accused 
 person before the examining magistrate. 
 
 His thoughts were entirely engrossed by the joy, 
 the pride of his triumph. So they were conquered 
 at last, those proud upstarts of Fromonts ! So they 
 needed old Gardinois at last, did they? Vanity, 
 his dominating passion, overflowed in his whole 
 manner, do what he would. When she had fin- 
 ished, he took the floor in his turn, began naturally
 
 314 Fromont and Risler, 
 
 enough with " I was sure of it — I ahvays said 
 so — I knew we should see what it would all come 
 to" — and continued in the same vulgar, insulting 
 tone, ending with the declaration that, " in view 
 of his principles, which were well known in the 
 family," he would not lend a sou. 
 
 Then Claire spoke of her child, of her husband's 
 name, which was also her father's, and which would 
 be dishonored by the failure. The old man was 
 as cold, as implacable as ever, and took advantage 
 of her humiliation to humiliate her still more ; for 
 he belonged to the race of worthy rustics who, 
 when their enemy is down, never leave him with- 
 out leaving on his face the marks of the nails in 
 their shoes. 
 
 " All I can say to you, little one, is that Savigny 
 is open to you. Let your husband come here. I 
 happen to need a secretary. Very well, Georges 
 can do my writing for twelve hundred francs a 
 year and board for the whole family. Offer him 
 that from me, and come." 
 
 She rose indignantly. She had come as his 
 child and he received her as a beggar. They 
 had not reached that point yet, thank God ! 
 
 " Do you think so? " queried M. Gardinois with 
 a savage twinkle in his eye. 
 
 Claire shuddered and walked toward the door 
 without replying. The old man detained her with 
 a gesture. 
 
 " Look out ; you don't know what you 're refus- 
 ing. It 's in your interest, you understand, that I 
 suggest bringing your husband here. You don't
 
 Revelations. 3 1 5 
 
 know the life he's leading up yonder. Of course 
 you don't know it, or you 'd never come and ask 
 me for money to go where yours has gone. Ah ! 
 I know all about your man's affairs. I have my 
 police at Paris, yes, and at Asnicres, as well as at 
 Savigny. I know what the fellow does with his 
 days and his nights ; and I don't choose that 
 my crowns shall go to the places where he goes. 
 They 're not clean enough for money honestly 
 earned." 
 
 Claire's eyes opened wide in amazement and 
 horror, for she felt that a terrible drama entered 
 her life at that moment through the little low door 
 of denunciation. The old man continued with 
 a sneer: 
 
 " That little Sidonie has fine sharp teeth." 
 
 " Sidonie ! " 
 
 " Faith, yes, to be sure. I have told you the 
 name. At all events you 'd have found it out some 
 day or 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 last 
 idea to come into your head. Well, yes, Sidonie's 
 the one who has got it all out of him, — with her 
 husband's consent, by the way." 
 
 He went on pitilessly to tell the young wife the 
 source of the money for the house at Asnieres, 
 the horses, the carriages, and how the pretty little 
 nest on Avenue Gabriel was furnished. He ex- 
 plained everything in detail. It was clear that, 
 having found a new opportunity to exercise his 
 mania for espionage, he had availed himself of
 
 3i6 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 it to the utmost; perhaps, too, there was at the 
 bottom of it all, a vague, carefully concealed rage 
 against his little Chebe, the anger of a senile 
 passion never avowed. 
 
 Claire listened to him without speaking, with a 
 smile of utter incredulity. That smile irritated the 
 old man, spurred on his malice. "Ah! you don't 
 believe me. Ah ! you want proofs, do you ? " 
 And he gave her proofs, heaped them upon her, 
 overpowered her with knife-thrusts in the heart. 
 She had only to go to Darches, the jeweller on 
 Rue de la Paix. A fortnight before, Georges had 
 bought a diamond necklace there for thirty thou- 
 sand francs. It was his New Year's gift to 
 Sidonie. Thirty thousand francs for diamonds at 
 the moment of becoming bankrupt ! 
 
 He might have talked the entire day and Claire 
 would not have interrupted him. She felt that the 
 slightest effort would cause the tears that filled her 
 eyes to overflow, and she was determined to smile, 
 to smile to the end, the dear brave-hearted crea- 
 ture. From time to time she cast a sidelong glance 
 at the road. She was in haste to go, to fly from 
 the sound of that spiteful voice, which pursued her 
 pitilessly. 
 
 At last he stopped; he had told the whole 
 story. She bowed and walked toward the door. 
 
 "Are you going? What a hurry you're in!" 
 said the grandfather, following her outside. 
 
 At heart he was a little ashamed of his savagery. 
 
 "Won't you breakfast with me? " 
 
 She shook her head, not having strength to speak.
 
 Revelations. 3 1 7 
 
 " At least wait till the carriage is ready — some- 
 one will drive you to the station." 
 
 No, still no. 
 
 And she walked on with the old man at her 
 heels. 
 
 Proudly, and with head erect, she crossed the 
 courtyard, filled with souvenirs of her childhood, 
 without once looking behind. And yet what 
 echoes of hearty laughter, what sunbeams of her 
 younger days were imprinted in the tiniest grain of 
 gravel in that courtyard ! 
 
 Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were still 
 in the same place. She had not a glance for them, 
 nor for the pheasants in the aviary, nor even for 
 the great dog Kiss, who followed her docilely, 
 awaiting the caress which she did not give him. 
 She had come as a child of the house, she went 
 away as a stranger, her mind filled with horrible 
 thoughts which the slightest reminder of her 
 placid and happy past could not have failed to 
 aggravate. 
 
 " Adieu, grandfather." 
 
 " Adieu, then." 
 
 And the gate closed upon her brutally. As 
 soon as she was alone, she began to walk swiftly, 
 swiftly, almost to run. She was not going away, 
 she was escaping. Suddenly, when she reached 
 the end of the wall of the estate, she found herself 
 in front of the little green gate, surrounded by 
 nasturtiums and honeysuckle, where the chateau 
 mail-box was. She stopped instinctively, struck 
 by one of those sudden awakenings of the memory
 
 3i8 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 which take place within us at critical moments and 
 place before our eyes with wonderful clearness of 
 outline the most trivial acts of our lives bearing 
 any relation to present disasters or joys. Was it 
 the red sun that suddenly broke forth from the 
 clouds, flooding the level expanse with its oblique 
 rays in that winter afternoon as at the sunset hour 
 iu August? Was it the silence that surrounded 
 her, broken only by the harmonious sounds of 
 nature, which are almost alike at all seasons? 
 
 Whatever the cause, she saw herself once more 
 as she was, at that same spot, three years before, 
 on a certain day when she placed in the post a 
 letter inviting Sidonie to come and pass a month 
 with her in the country. Something told her that 
 all her misfortunes dated from that moment. " Ah ! 
 if I had known — if I had known!" And she 
 fancied that she could still feel between her fingers 
 the satiny 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 that she was, 
 against the injustice of life. She asked herself: 
 " Why is it? What have I done? " 
 
 Then she suddenly exclaimed : " No ! it is n't 
 true. It is n't possible. He lied to me." And as 
 she went on toward the station, the unhappy girl 
 tried to convince herself, to make herself believe 
 what she said. But she did not succeed. 
 
 The truth dimly seen is like the veiled sun, 
 which tires the eyes far more than its most brilliant 
 rays. In the semi-obscurity which still enveloped
 
 Revelations, 3 1 9 
 
 her misfortune, the poor woman's sight was keener 
 than she could have wished. Now she understood 
 and accounted for certain pecuHar circumstances 
 in her husband's hfe, his frequent absences, his 
 restlessness, his embarrassed behavior on certain 
 days, and the abundant details which he sometimes 
 volunteered, upon returning home, concerning his 
 movements, mentioning names as proofs which she 
 did not ask. PVom all these conjectures the evi- 
 dence of his wrong-doing was made up. And still 
 she refused to believe it and looked forward to her 
 arrival in Paris to set her doubts at rest. 
 
 There was no one at the station, a lonely, cheer- 
 less little station, where no traveller ever shows his 
 face in winter. As Claire sat there awaiting the 
 train, gazing vaguely at the station-master's melan- 
 choly little garden, and the debris of climbing 
 plants running along the fences by the track, she 
 felt a moist, warm breath on her glove. It was 
 her friend Kiss, who had followed her and was re- 
 minding her of their happy romps together in the 
 old days with little shakes of the head, short leaps, 
 capers of joy tempered by humility, concluding by 
 stretching his beautiful white coat at full length at 
 his mistress's feet, on the cold floor of the waiting- 
 room. Those humble caresses which sought her 
 out, like a hesitating offer of devotion and s}'mpa- 
 thy, caused the sobs she had so long restrained to 
 break forth at last. But suddenly she felt ashamed 
 of her weakness. She rose and sent the dog away, 
 sent him away pitilessly with voice and gesture, 
 pointing to the house in the distance, with a stern
 
 320 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 face which poor Kiss had never seen. Then she 
 hurriedly wiped her eyes and her moist hands ; for 
 the train for Paris was approaching and she knew 
 that in a moment she should need all her courage. 
 
 Claire's first thought on leaving the train was to 
 take a cab and drive to the jeweller on Rue de la 
 Paix, who had, as her grandfather alleged, supplied 
 Georges with a diamond necklace. If that should 
 prove to be true, then all the rest was true. Her 
 dread of learning the truth was so great that, when 
 she reached her destination and alighted in front 
 of that magnificent establishment, she stopped, 
 afraid to enter. To give herself countenance, she 
 pretended to be deeply interested in the jewels 
 displayed in velvet cases ; and one who had seen 
 her, quietly but fashionably dressed, leaning for- 
 ward to look at that gleaming and attractive display, 
 would have taken her for a happy wife engaged in 
 selecting a bracelet, rather than an anxious, sorrow- 
 stricken soul who had come thither to discover the 
 secret of her life. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon. At that 
 time of day, in winter. Rue de la Paix presents a 
 truly dazzling aspect. In that luxurious neighbor- 
 hood life moves quickly between the short morning 
 and the early evening. There are carriages mov- 
 ing swiftly in all directions, an uninterrupted 
 rumbling, and on the sidewalks a coquettish haste, 
 a rustling of silks and furs. Winter is the real 
 Parisian season. To see that devil's own Paris in 
 all its beauty and wealth and happiness, one must 
 watch the current of its life beneath a lowering
 
 Rev e la tions. 321 
 
 sky, heavy with snow. Nature is absent from the 
 picture, so to speak. No wind, no sunh'ght. Just 
 enough hght for the dullest colors, the faintest 
 reflections to produce an admirable efifect, from 
 the reddish-gray tone of the monuments to the 
 pearls of jet which bestud a woman's dress. 
 Theatre and concert posters shine resplendent, as 
 if illumined by the effulgence of the footlights. 
 The shops are crowded. It seems that all those 
 people must be preparing for perpetual festivities. 
 And at such times, if any sorrow is mingled with 
 that bustle and tumult, it seems the more terrible 
 for that reason. For five minutes Claire suffered 
 martyrdom worse than death. Yonder, on the 
 road to Savigny, in the vast expanse of the deserted 
 fields, her despair spread out as it were in the 
 sharp air and seemed to enfold her less closely. 
 Here she was stifling. The voices beside her, the 
 footsteps, the heedless jostling of people who 
 passed, all added to her torture. 
 
 At last she entered the shop. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, madame, certainly, — Monsieur Fre- 
 mont. A necklace of diamonds and roses. We 
 could make you one like it for twenty-five thousand 
 francs." 
 
 That was five thousand less than for him. 
 
 "Thanks, monsieur," said Claire, " I will think it 
 over." 
 
 A mirror in front of her, in which she saw her 
 dark-ringed eyes and her dcathi}' pallor, frightened 
 her. She went out quickly, walking stiffly in order 
 not to fall.
 
 32 2 Fromo7it and Risler. 
 
 She had but one idea, to escape from the street, 
 from the noise ; to be alone, quite alone, so that 
 she might plunge headlong into that abyss of 
 heartrending thoughts, of black things dancing 
 madly> in the depths of her mind. Oh ! the coward, 
 the infamous villain ! And to think that only last 
 night she was speaking comforting words to him, 
 had her arms about him ! 
 
 Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it hap- 
 pened, she found herself in the courtyard of the 
 factory. Through what streets had she come? 
 Had she come in a carriage or on foot? She had 
 no remembrance. She had acted unconsciously, 
 as in a dream. The sentiment of reality returned, 
 pitiless and poignant, when she reached the steps 
 of her little house. Risler was there, superintend- 
 ing several men who were carrying potted plants 
 up to his wife's apartments in preparation for the 
 magnificent party she was to give that very even- 
 ing. With his usual tranquillity he directed the 
 work, protected the tall branches which the work- 
 men might have broken : " Not like that. Bend 
 it over. Look out for the carpet." 
 
 The atmosphere of pleasure and merry-making, 
 which had so revolted her a moment before, pur- 
 sued her to her own house. It was too much, on 
 top of all the rest ! She rebelled ; and as Risler 
 saluted her, affectionately and with deep respect as 
 always, her face assumed an expression of intense 
 disgust, and she passed without speaking to him, 
 without seeing the amazement that opened his 
 great honest eyes.
 
 Revelations. 323 
 
 From that moment her course was determined 
 upon. 
 
 Wrath, a wrath born of uprightness and sense of 
 justice, guided her actions. 
 
 She hardly took time to kiss her child's rosy- 
 cheeks before running to her mother's room. 
 
 " Come, mamma, dress yourself quickly. We 
 are going away. We are going away." 
 
 The old lady rose slowly from the armchair in 
 which she was sitting, busily engaged cleaning her 
 watch chain by inserting a pin between every two 
 links with infinite care. 
 
 " Come, conic, hurry. Get your things ready." 
 
 Her voice trembled, and the poor monomaniac's 
 room seemed a horrible place to her, all glistening 
 as it was with the cleanliness that had gradually 
 become a mania. She had reached one of those 
 fateful moments when the loss of one illusion causes 
 you to lose them all, enables you to look to the 
 very depths of human misery. The realization of 
 her utter isolation, between her half-mad mother, 
 her faithless husband, her too young child, came 
 upon her for the first time; but it served only to 
 strengthen her in her resolution. 
 
 In a moment the whole household was busily 
 engaged in making preparations for this abrupt, 
 unexpected departure. Claire hurried the bewil- 
 dered servants and dressed her mother and the 
 child, who laughed merrily amid all the excite- 
 ment. She was anxious to go before Georges's 
 return, so that he might find the cradle empty and 
 the house deserted. Where should she go? She
 
 324 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 did not know as yet. Perhaps to an aunt's at 
 Orleans, perhaps to Savigny, no matter where. 
 What she must do first of all was — go, fly from 
 that atmosphere of treachery and falsehood. 
 
 At that moment she was in her bedroom, pack- 
 ing a trunk, making a pile of her effects, — a heart- 
 rending occupation. Every object that she touched 
 set in motion wdiole worlds of thoughts, of memo- 
 ries. There is so much of ourselves in anything 
 that we use. At times the odor of a sachet-bag, 
 the pattern of a bit of lace, was enough to bring 
 tears to her eyes. Suddenly she heard a heavy 
 footstep in the salon, the door of which was partly 
 open ; then there was a slight cough, as if to let 
 her know that there was some one there. She 
 supposed that it was Risler : for no one else had 
 the right to enter her apartments so unceremoni- 
 ously. The idea of having to endure the presence 
 of that hypocritical face, that false smile, was so 
 distasteful to her that she rushed to close the 
 door. 
 
 " I am not at home to anyone." 
 
 The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismond's 
 square head appeared in the opening. 
 
 "It's me, madame," he said, in an undertone. 
 " I have come to get the money." 
 
 "What money?" demanded Claire, for she no 
 longer remembered why she had gone to Savigny. 
 
 " Sh ! The funds to meet my note to-morrow. 
 Monsieur Georges, when he went out, told me that 
 you would hand it to me very soon." 
 
 " Ah ! yes — true. The hundred thousand francs.
 
 Revelations. 325 
 
 I haven't them, Monsieur Planus; I haven't any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Then," said the cashier, in a strange voice, as 
 if he were speaking to himself, " then it means 
 failure." 
 
 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 of the 
 house ; but she remembered now. 
 
 So her husband was ruined ! 
 
 In a little while, when he returned home, he 
 would learn of the disaster, and he would learn at 
 the same time that his wife and child had gone ; 
 that he was left alone in the midst of the wreck. 
 
 All alone, that weak, easily influenced creature, 
 who could only weep and complain and shake his 
 fist at life, like a child. What would become of 
 the miserable man? 
 
 She pitied him, notwithstanding his crime. 
 
 Then the thought came to her that she would 
 perhaps seem to have fled at the approach of 
 bankruptcy, of povert>'. 
 
 Georges might say to himself: 
 
 " If I had been rich, she would have forgiven 
 me ! " 
 
 Ought she to allow him to entertain that doubt? 
 
 To a generous, noble heart like Claire's, nothing 
 more than that was necessary to change her plans. 
 Instantly she was conscious that her feeling of re- 
 pugnance, of revolt, began to grow less poignant,
 
 326 Fromo7it and Rislcr. 
 
 and a sudden ray of light seemed to make her 
 duty clearer to her. When they came to tell her 
 that the child was dressed and the trunks ready, 
 her mind was made up anew. 
 
 " It is no matter," she replied gently. " We are 
 not going away."
 
 TJic Day of Reckoning. 327 
 
 III. 
 
 THE DAY OF RECKONING. 
 
 The great clock of Saint-Gcrvais struck one in the 
 morning. It was so cokl that the fine snow, flying 
 through the air, hardened as it fell, covering the 
 pavements with a slippery white blanket. 
 
 Risler, wrapped in his cloak, was hurrying home 
 from the brewery through the deserted streets of 
 the Marais. He had been celebrating, in company 
 with his two faithful borrowers, Chebe and Delo- 
 belle, his first moment* of leisure, the end of that 
 endless period of seclusion during which he had 
 been superintending the manufacture of his press, 
 with all the gropings, the joys, and the disappoint- 
 ments of the inventor. It had been long, very 
 long. At the last moment he had discovered a 
 defect. The crane did not work well ; and he had 
 had to revise his plans and drawings. At last, on 
 that very day, the new machine had been tried. 
 Everything had succeeded to his heart's desire. 
 The worthy man was triumphant. It seemed to 
 him that he had paid a debt, by giving the house 
 of Fromont the benefit of a new machine, which 
 would lessen the labor, shorten the hours of the
 
 328 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 workmen, and at the same time double the profits 
 and the reputation of the factory. So that he in- 
 dulged in beautiful dreams, I promise you, as he 
 plodded along. His footsteps rang out proudly, 
 emphasized by the resolute and happy gait of his 
 thoughts. 
 
 What plans, what hopes ! 
 
 He could replace the chalet at Asnieres — which 
 Sidonie was beginning to look upon as a mere 
 hovel — by a fine country estate ten or fifteen 
 leagues from Paris; he could give Monsieur Chebe 
 a little larger allowance, and accommodate Delo- 
 belle more frequently, for his unfortunate wife was 
 working herself to death; and lastly he could send 
 for Frantz to come home. That was his most 
 cherished wish. He never ceased to think of the 
 poor boy, — an exile in an unhealthy country, at 
 the mercy of a tyrannical management, which sent 
 its employes home on leave, to recall them almost 
 immediately without explanation ; for Risler still 
 had upon his mind Frantz's abrupt, inexplicable 
 departure on his last journey, and his brief appear- 
 ance in Paris, which had revived all his affectionate 
 memories of their life together without giving him 
 time to feel that his brother was really there. So 
 he proposed, when the press was fairly started, to 
 find some little corner in the factory where Frantz 
 could be made useful and could lay the foundations 
 of genuine prosperity. As always, Risler thought 
 only of the happiness of others. His only selfish 
 satisfaction consisted in seeing everybody about 
 him smiling.
 
 The Day of Rcckoniiig. 329 
 
 Quickening his pace, he reached the corner of 
 Rue des Vieillcs-Haudriettes. A long hne of car- 
 riages was standing in front of the factory, and the 
 light of their lanterns in the street, the shadows 
 of the drivers seeking shelter from the snow in 
 corners and angles that those old buildings have 
 retained despite the straightening of the sidewalks, 
 gave an animated aspect to that deserted, silent 
 quarter. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! to be sure," thought the honest 
 fellow, " we have a ball at our house." He re- 
 membered that Sidonie was giving a grand musi- 
 cal and dancing part}-, which she had excused him 
 from attending, by the way, " knowing that he was 
 very busy." In the midst of his plans, of his vi- 
 sions of wealth dispensed with generous hand, this 
 festivity, the echoes of which reached his ears, was 
 all that was needed to complete his satisfaction and 
 his pride. With a certain solemnity of manner he 
 pushed open the heavy gate, which was left ajar 
 for the going and coming of the guests, and saw 
 the whole second floor of the little house at the 
 end of the garden brilliantly illuminated. 
 
 Shadows passed and repassed behind the flutter- 
 ing veil of the curtains; the orchestra seemed to 
 follow the movements of those stealthy apparitions 
 with the rising and falling of its muffled notes. 
 Dancing was in progress. Risler let his eyes rest 
 for a moment on that phantasmagoria of the ball, 
 and fancied that he recognized Sidonie's shadow in 
 a small room adjoining the salon. 
 
 She was standing erect in her magnificent cos-
 
 33^ Fromoiit and Risler. 
 
 tume, in the attitude of a pretty woman before her 
 mirror. A shorter shadow behind her, Madame 
 Dobson doubtless, was repairing some accident to 
 the dress, retying the knot of a ribbon tied about 
 her neck, its long ends floating down to the 
 flounces of the train. It was all very indistinct, 
 but the woman's graceful figure was recognizable 
 in those faintly traced outlines, and Risler tarried 
 long admiring her. 
 
 The contrast on the first floor was most striking. 
 There was no light visible, with the exception of 
 a little lamp shining through the lilac hangings 
 of the bedroom. Risler noticed that circumstance, 
 and as the little girl had been ailing a few days 
 before, he felt anxious about her, remembering 
 Madame Georges's strange agitation when she 
 passed him by so hurriedly in the afternoon ; and 
 he retraced his steps as far as Pere Achille's lodge 
 to inquire. 
 
 The lodge was full. Coachmen were warming 
 themselves around the stove, chatting and laughing 
 amid the smoke from their pipes. When Risler 
 appeared there was profound silence, a cunning, 
 inquisitive, significant silence. They had evidently 
 been speaking of him, 
 
 " Is the Fromonts' 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 ofi" to get the doctor. He said 
 that it would n't amount to anything, that all 
 monsieur needed was rest."
 
 The Day of Reckonhig. 2>Z^ 
 
 As Risler closed the door Perc Achillc added, 
 under his breath, with the half-fearful, half-auda- 
 cious insolence of an inferior, who would like to be 
 listened to and yet not distinctly heard : 
 
 " Ah ! dame, they 're not cutting such a shine on 
 the first floor as they are on the second." 
 
 This is what had happened. 
 
 Fromont Jeune, on returning home during the 
 evening, had found his wife with such a changed, 
 heart-broken face, that he at once divined a catas- 
 trophe. But he had become so accustomed in the 
 past two years to impunity for his crime, that it 
 did not for one moment occur to him that his wife 
 could have been informed of his conduct. Claire, 
 for her part, to avoid humiliating him, was gen- 
 erous enough to speak only of Savigny. 
 
 "Grandpapa refused," she said. 
 
 The miserable man turned frightfully pale. 
 
 "I am lost — I am lost," he muttered two or 
 three times in the wild accents of fever; and his 
 sleepless nights, a last terrible scene which he had 
 had with Sidonie, trying to induce her not to give 
 this party on the eve of his downfall, Monsieur Gar- 
 dinois's refusal, all these maddening things which 
 followed so closely on one another's heels and had 
 agitated him terribly one after another, culminated 
 in a genuine nervous attack. Claire took pity on 
 him, put him to bed and established herself by his 
 side ; but her voice had lost that affectionate in- 
 tonation which soothes and persuades. There 
 was in her gestures, in the way in which she
 
 332 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 arranged the pillow under the patient's head and 
 prepared a quieting draught, a strange indifference, 
 listlessness. 
 
 " But I have ruined you ! " Georges said from 
 time to time, as if to rouse her from that apathy, 
 which made him uncomfortable. She replied with 
 a proud, disdainful gesture. Ah ! if he had done 
 only that to her ! 
 
 At last, however, his nerves became quieter, the 
 fever 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 that man whom 
 she had adored so blindly, with the hope of a long 
 and happy life together. 
 
 At that moment the ball in Sidonie's apartments 
 began to become very animated. The ceiling 
 trembled rhythmically, for Madame had had all the 
 carpets removed from her salons for the greater 
 comfort of the dancers. Sometimes, too, the sound 
 of voices reached Claire's ears in puffs, and fre- 
 quent tumultuous applause, from which one could 
 divine the great number of the guests, the crowded 
 condition of the salons. 
 
 Claire was lost in thought. She did not waste 
 time in regrets, in fruitless lamentations. She 
 knew that life was inflexible and that all the argu- 
 ments in the world will not arrest the cruel logic 
 of its inevitable progress. She did not ask herself 
 how that man had succeeded in deceiving her so 
 long, — how he could have sacrificed the honor and
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 333 
 
 happiness of his family for a mere caprice. That 
 was the fact, and all her reflections could not wipe 
 it out, could not repair the irreparable. The sub- 
 ject that engrossed her thoughts was the future. 
 A new existence was unfolding before her eyes, 
 dark, cruel, full of privation and toil ; and, strangely 
 enough, the prospect of ruin, instead of terrifying 
 her, restored all her courage. The idea of the 
 change of abode made necessary by the economy 
 they would be obliged to practise, of work made 
 compulsory for Georges and perhaps for herself, 
 infused an indefinable energy into the distressing 
 calmness of her despair. What a heavy burden 
 of souls she was going to have with her three 
 children : her mother, her child and her husband ! 
 The feeling of responsibility prevented her giving 
 way too much to her misfortune, to the shipwreck 
 of her love ; and in proportion as she forgot herself 
 in the thought of the weak creatures she had to 
 protect, she realized more fully the meaning of the 
 word " sacrifice," so vague on careless lips, so 
 serious when it becomes a rule of life. 
 
 Such were the poor woman's thoughts during 
 that sad vigil, a vigil of arms and tears, while she 
 was preparing her forces for the great battle. 
 Such was the scene lighted by the modest little 
 lamp which Risler had seen from below, like a star 
 fallen from the radiant chandeliers of the ball-room. 
 
 Reassured by Pcre Achille's reply, the honest 
 fellow thought of going up to his bedroom, avoid- 
 ing the festivities and the guests, for whom he cared 
 but little.
 
 334 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 On such occasions he used a small servants' 
 staircase communicating with the counting-room. 
 So he walked through the many-windowed work- 
 shops, which the moon, reflected by the snow, 
 made as light as at noon-day. He breathed the 
 atmosphere of the day of toil, a hot stifling atmos- 
 phere, heavy with the odor of boiled talc and 
 varnish. The papers spread out on the dryers 
 formed long, rustling paths. On all sides tools 
 were lying about, and blouses hanging here and 
 there ready for the morrow. Risler never walked 
 through the shops without a feeling of pleasure. 
 
 Suddenly he spied a light in Planus's office, at 
 the end of that long line of deserted rooms. The 
 old cashier was still at work, at one o'clock in the 
 morning ! It w^as really most extraordinary. 
 
 Risler's first impulse was to retrace his steps. 
 In fact, since his unaccountable falling-out with 
 Sigismond, since the cashier had adopted that at- 
 titude of cold silence toward him, he had avoided 
 meeting him. His wounded friendship had always 
 led him to shun an explanation ; he had a sort of 
 pride in not asking Planus why he bore him ill-will. 
 But, on that evening, Risler felt so strongly the 
 need of cordial sympathy, of pouring out his heart 
 to someone, and then it was such an excellent op- 
 portunity for a tete-a-tete with his former friend, 
 that he did not try to avoid him but boldly entered 
 the counting-room. 
 
 The cashier was sitting there, motionless, among 
 heaps of papers and great books, which he had 
 been turning over, and some of which had fallen to
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 335 
 
 the floor. At the sound of his employer's foot- 
 steps, he did not even Hft his eyes. He had recog- 
 nized Risler's step. The latter, somewhat abashed, 
 hesitated a moment ; then, impelled by one of 
 those secret springs which we have within us and 
 which guide us, despite ourselves, in the path 
 of our destiny, he walked straight to the cashier's 
 grating. 
 
 " Sigismond," he said, in a grave voice. 
 
 The old man raised his head and displayed a 
 shrunken face down which two great tears were 
 rolling, the first perhaps that that animate column 
 of figures had ever shed in his life. 
 
 "You are crying, old man? What's the 
 trouble? " 
 
 And honest Risler, deeply touched, held out his 
 hand to his friend, who hastily withdrew his. That 
 movement of repulsion was so instinctive, so brutal, 
 that all Risler's emotion changed to indignation. 
 
 He drew himself up with stern dignity. 
 
 " I offer you my hand, Sigismond Planus ! " he 
 said. 
 
 "And I refuse to take it," said Planus, rising. 
 
 There was a terrible pause, during which they 
 heard the muffled music of the orchestra upstairs 
 and the noise of the ball, the dull, wearing noise 
 of floors shaken b)' the rh}-thmic movement of the 
 dance. 
 
 "Why do you refuse to take my hand?" de- 
 manded Risler simply, while the grating upon 
 which he leaned trembled with a metallic shudder. 
 
 Sigismond was facing him, with both hands on
 
 33^ Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 his desk, as if to emphasize and drive home what 
 he was about to say in reply. 
 
 "Why? Because you have ruined the house, 
 because in a few hours a messenger from the Bank 
 will come and stand where you are, to collect a 
 hundred thousand francs, and because, thanks to you, 
 I haven't a sou in the cash-box — that's why!" 
 
 Risler was stupefied. 
 
 " I have ruined the house — I ? " 
 
 "Worse than that, monsieur. You have allowed 
 it to be ruined by your wife, and you have arranged 
 with her to get the benefit of our ruin and your dis- 
 honor. Oh ! I can see your game well enough. 
 The money your wife has wormed out of the 
 wretched Fromont, the house at Asnieres, the 
 diamonds and all the rest is invested in her name, 
 of course, out of reach of disaster; and of course 
 you can retire from business now." 
 
 "Oh! — oh!" exclaimed Risler in a faint 
 voice, a restrained voice rather, that was insufficient 
 for the multitude of thoughts it strove to express; 
 and as he stammered helplessly he drew the grat- 
 ing toward him with such force that he broke off a 
 piece of it. Then he staggered, fell to the floor 
 and lay there motionless, speechless, retaining only, 
 in what little life was still left in him, the firm de- 
 termination not to die until he had justified himself. 
 That determination must have been very powerful ; 
 for while his temples throbbed madly, hammered 
 by the blood that turned his face purple, while his 
 ears were ringing and his glazed eyes seemed 
 already turned toward the terrible unknown, the
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 'Xi'hl 
 
 unhappy man muttered to himself in a thick voice, 
 the voice of a shipwrecked man speakin^^ with his 
 mouth full of water in a howling gale: " I must 
 Hve — I must live." 
 
 When he recovered consciousness, he was sitting 
 on the cushioned bench on which the workmen sat 
 huddled together on pay-day, his cloak on the 
 floor, his cravat untied, his shirt open at the neck, 
 cut open by Sigismond's knife. Luckily for him 
 he had cut his hands when he tore the grating 
 apart ; the blood had flowed freely and that acci- 
 dent was enough to avert an attack of apoplexy. 
 On opening his eyes he saw on either side old 
 Sigismond and Madame Georges, whom the cashier 
 had summoned in his distress. As soon as Risler 
 could speak, he said to her in a choking voice : 
 
 "Is this true, Madame Chorchc, — is this true 
 that he just told me?" 
 
 She had not the courage to deceive him, so she 
 turned her eyes away. 
 
 "So," continued the poor fellow, " so the house 
 is ruined, and I — " 
 
 " No, Risler, my friend. No, not you." 
 
 "My wife, was it not? Oh! it is horrible! 
 This is how I have paid my debt of gratitude to 
 you. But you, Madame Chorche, you could not 
 have believed that I was a party to this infann? " 
 
 "No, my friend, no, be calm. I know that }'Ou 
 are the most honorable man on earth." 
 
 He looked at her a moment, with trembling lips 
 and clasped hands, for there was something infan- 
 tile in all the manifestations of that artless nature.
 
 33*^ Fromo7tt and Risler. 
 
 " Oh ! Madame Chorche, Madame Chorche," he 
 murmured. " When I think that I am the one who 
 has ruined you." 
 
 In the terrible blow which overwhelmed him, and 
 by which his heart, overflowing with love for Si- 
 donie, was most deeply wounded, he refused to see 
 anything but the financial disaster to the house of 
 Fromont, caused by his blind devotion to his wife. 
 Suddenly he stood erect. 
 
 " Come," he said, "let us not give way to emo- 
 tion. We must see about settling our accounts." 
 
 Madame Fromont was afraid. 
 
 " Risler, Risler — where are you going? " 
 
 She thought that he was going up to Georges' s 
 room. 
 
 Risler understood her and smiled in superb 
 disdain. 
 
 " Never fear, madame. Monsieur Georges can 
 sleep in peace. I have something more urgent to 
 do than avenge my honor as a husband. W^ait for 
 me here. I will come back." 
 
 He darted toward the narrow staircase ; and 
 Claire, relying upon his word, remained with 
 Planus during one of those supreme moments of 
 uncertainty which seem interminable because of all 
 the conjectures with which they are thronged. 
 
 A few moments later the sound of hurried steps, 
 the rustling of silk filled the dark and narrow 
 staircase. 
 
 Sidonie appeared first, in ball costume, gor- 
 geously arrayed and so pale that the jewels that 
 glistened everywhere on her dead white flesh
 
 The Day of Reckon in g. 339, 
 
 seemed more alive than she, as if scattered over 
 the cold marble of a statue. The brcathlessness 
 due to dancing, the trembling of intense excitement 
 and her rapid descent, caused her to shake from 
 head to foot, and her floating ribbons, her ruffles, 
 her flowers, her rich and fashionable attire drooped 
 tragically about her. Risler followed her, laden 
 with jewel-cases, caskets and papers. Upon reach- 
 ing his apartments he had pounced upon his wife's 
 desk, seized everything valuable that it contained, 
 jewels, certificates, title-deeds of the house at 
 Asnieres ; then, standing in the doorway, he had 
 shouted into the ball-room : 
 
 " Madame Risler ! " 
 
 She had run quickly to him, and that brief scene 
 had in no wise disturbed the guests, then at the 
 height of the evening's enjoyment. When she saw 
 her husband standing in front of the desk, the 
 drawers broken open and overturned on the carpet 
 with the numberless trifles they contained, she 
 realized that something terrible was 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 such force 
 that Frantz's words came to her mind : " It will 
 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 not even the 
 strength to lie. 
 
 "Where are we going?" she asked in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Risler did not answer. She had but time to
 
 340 Froniont and Risler, 
 
 throw over her shoulders, with the care for herself 
 that never failed her, a light tulle veil, and he 
 dragged her, pushed her rather, down the stairs 
 leading to the counting-room, which he descended 
 at the same time, his steps in hers, fearing that his 
 prey would escape him. 
 
 " There," he said as he entered the room. " We 
 have stolen, we make restitution. Look, Planus, 
 you can raise money with all this stuff." And he 
 placed on the cashier's desk all the fashionable 
 plunder with which his arms were filled, feminine 
 trinkets, trivial aids to coquetry, stamped papers. 
 
 Then he turned to his wife : 
 
 " Now, your jewels. Come, be quick." 
 
 She complied slowly, opened regretfully the 
 locks of bracelets and buckles, and above all the 
 superb clasp of her diamond necklace on which 
 the initial of her name — a gleaming S — resembled 
 a sleeping serpent, imprisoned in a circle of gold. 
 Risler, thinking that she was too slow, ruthlessly 
 broke the fragile fastenings. Luxury shrieked 
 beneath his fingers, as if it were being whipped. 
 
 " Now, it's my turn," he said, " I too must give 
 up everything. Here is my portfolio. What else 
 have I? What else have I? " 
 
 He searched his pockets feverishly. 
 
 " Ah ! my watch. With the chain it will bring 
 four thousand francs. My rings, my wedding ring. 
 Everything goes into the cash-box, everything. 
 We have a hundred thousand francs to pay this 
 morning. As soon as it's daylight we must go to 
 work, sell out and pay our debts. I know some-
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 341 
 
 one who wants the house at Asniercs. That can 
 be arranged at once." 
 
 He alone talked and acted. Sigismond and 
 Madame Georges watched him without speaking. 
 As for Sidonie, she seemed unconscious, lifeless. 
 The cold air blowing from the garden through the 
 little door, which was opened at the time of Risler's 
 swoon, made her shiver, and she mechanically 
 drew the folds of her scarf around her shoulders, 
 her e}'es fixed on vacancy, her thoughts wandering. 
 Did she not hear the violins of her ball, which 
 reached their ears in the intervals of silence, like 
 bursts of savage irony, with the heavy thud of the 
 dancers shaking the floors? An iron hand, falling 
 upon her, aroused her abruptly from her torpor. 
 Risler had taken her by the arm, and, leading her 
 before his partner's wife, he said : 
 
 " Down on your knees." 
 
 Madame Fromont drew back, remonstrated. 
 
 " No, no, Risler, not that." 
 
 " It must be," said the implacable Risler. " Res- 
 titution, reparation. Down on your knees then, 
 wretched woman ! " And with irresistible force 
 he threw Sidonie at Claire's feet; then, still holding 
 her arm : 
 
 "You will repeat after me, word for word, what 
 I am going to say: Madame, — " 
 
 Sidonie, half dead with fear, repeated faintly: 
 " Madame, — " 
 
 "A whole lifetime of humility and submission — " 
 
 "A whole lifetime of himiil - No, I cannot!" 
 she exclaimed, springing to her feet with the agility
 
 342 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 of a deer ; and, wresting herself from Risler's grasp, 
 through tliat open door which had tempted her 
 from the beginning of this horrible scene, luring 
 her out into the darkness of the night to the 
 liberty obtainable by flight, she rushed from the 
 house, braving the falling snow and the wind that 
 stung her bare shoulders. 
 
 " Stop her, stop her — Risler, Planus, I implore 
 you. In pity's name do not let her go in this way." 
 
 Planus stepped toward the door. 
 
 Risler detained him. 
 
 " I forbid you to stir ! I ask your pardon, 
 madame, but we have more important matters 
 than this to consider. Madame Risler concerns 
 us no longer. We have to save the honor of the 
 house of Fromont, which alone is at stake, which 
 alone fills my thoughts at this moment." 
 
 Sigismond put out his hand. 
 
 "You are a noble man, Risler. Forgive me for 
 having suspected you." 
 
 Risler pretended not to hear him. 
 
 "A hundred thousand francs to pay, you say? 
 How much is there left in the strong-box?" 
 
 He sat gravely down behind the grating, looking 
 over the books of account, the certificates of stock 
 in the funds, opening the jewel-cases, estimating 
 with Planus, whose father had been a jeweller, the 
 value of all those diamonds, which he had once so 
 admired on his wife, having no suspicion of their 
 value. 
 
 Meanwhile Claire, trembling from head to foot, 
 looked out through the window at the little garden,
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 343 
 
 white with snow, where Sidonie's footsteps were 
 ah-eady effaced by the fast-faUinc; flakes, as if to 
 bear witness that that precipitate departure was 
 without hope of return. 
 
 Upstairs they were dancing stiH. The mistress of 
 the house was supposed to be busy with the pre- 
 parations for supper, while she was flying, bare- 
 headed, forcing back sobs and shrieks of rage. 
 
 Where was she going? 
 
 She had started off hke a mad woman, running 
 across the garden and the courtyard of the factory, 
 and under the dark arches, where the cruel, freez- 
 ing wind blew in eddying circles. Pere Achilla 
 did not recognize her ; he had seen so many 
 shadows wrapped in white pass his lodge that 
 night. 
 
 The young woman's first thought was to join 
 the tenor Cazaboni, whom at the last she had not 
 dared to invite to her ball ; but he lived at Mont- 
 martre, and that was very far away in the garb in 
 which she then was; and then, would he be at 
 home? Her parents would take her in doubtless; 
 but she could alread)' hear Madame Chebe's lamen- 
 tations and the little man's sermon untlcr three 
 heads. Thereupon she thought of Delobelle, her 
 old Delobelle. In the downfall of all her splendors, 
 she remembered the man who had first initiated 
 her into fashionable life, who had given her lessons 
 in dancing and deportment when she was a little 
 girl, laughed at her pretty ways and taught her to 
 look upon herself as beautiful before an}-one had 
 ever told her that she was so. Something told her
 
 344 Fromoiit and Risler. 
 
 that that fallen star would take her part against 
 all others. She entered one of the carriages 
 standing at the gate and ordered the driver to 
 take her to the actor's lodgings on Boulevard 
 Beaumarchais. 
 
 For some time past Mamma Delobelle had been 
 making straw hats for export, — a dismal trade if 
 ever there was one, and one that brought in barely 
 two francs fifty for twelve hours' work. 
 
 And Delobelle continued to grow fat in the same 
 degree that his " sainted wife " grew thin. At the 
 very moment when some one knocked hurriedly 
 at his door he had just discovered a fragrant soup 
 an frontage, which had been kept hot in the ashes 
 on the hearth. The actor, who had been witness- 
 ing at Beaumarchais some dark-browed melodrama 
 drenched with gore even to the illustrated head- 
 lines of its poster, was startled by that knock at 
 such an advanced hour. 
 
 " Who is there? " he asked in some alarm. 
 
 "It's I, Sidonie. Open the door quickly," 
 
 She entered the room, shivering all over, and, 
 throwing aside her wrap, went close to the stove 
 where the fire was at the point of death. She 
 began to talk at once, to pour out the wrath that 
 had been stifling her for an hour, and while she 
 was describing the scene in the factory, lowering 
 her voice because of Madame Delobelle, who was 
 asleep close by, the magnificence of her costume 
 in that poor, bare fifth floor, the glaring whiteness 
 of her disordered finery amid the heaps of coarse 
 hats and the wisps of straw strewn about the
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 345 
 
 room, all combined to produce the effect of a veri- 
 table drama, of one of those terrible upheavals of 
 life when ranks, feelings, fortunes, are suddenly 
 jumbled together. 
 
 "Oh! I shall never return home. It's all over. 
 Free, I am free ! " 
 
 " But who could have betrayed you to your 
 husband?" asked the actor. 
 
 " It was Frantz ! I am sure it was Frantz. He 
 would n't have believed it from anybody else. 
 Only last evening a letter came from Egypt. Oh ! 
 how he treated me before that woman ! To force 
 me to kneel. But I '11 be revenged. Luckily I 
 took something to revenge myself with before I 
 came away." 
 
 And her smile of former days played about the 
 corners of her pale lips. 
 
 The old strolling player listened to it all with 
 deep interest. Notwithstanding his compassion 
 for that poor devil of a Risler, and for Sidonie her- 
 self for that matter, who seemed to him, in theatri- 
 cal parlance, " a beautiful culprit," he could not 
 help viewing the affair from a purely scenic stand- 
 point, and finally cried out, carried away by his 
 hobby : 
 
 " What a first-class situation for a fifth act ! " 
 
 She did not hear him. Absorbed by some evil 
 thought, which made her smile in anticipation, 
 she stretched out her dainty shoes saturated with 
 snow, and her openwork stockings to the fire. 
 
 "Well, what do you propose to do now? " Delo- 
 belle asked after a moment.
 
 346 Fromoiit and Risler. 
 
 " Stay here till daylight. Get a little rest. Then 
 I will see." 
 
 " I have no bed to ofifer you, my poor girl. 
 Mamma Delobelle has gone to bed." 
 
 " Don't you worry about me, my dear Delobelle. 
 I '11 sleep in that armchair. I won't be in your 
 way, I tell you ! " 
 
 The actor heaved a sigh. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, that armchair. It was our poor 
 Zizi's. She sat up many a night in it, when work 
 was pressing. Ah me ! those who leave this world 
 are much the happiest." 
 
 He had always at hand such selfish, comforting 
 maxims. He had no sooner uttered that one 
 than he discovered with dismay that his soup 
 would soon be stone cold. Sidonie noticed his 
 movement. 
 
 " Why, you were just eating your supper, were n't 
 you? Pray go on." 
 
 " Dame ! yes, what would you have? It 's part 
 of the trade, of the hard existence we fellows live. 
 For you see, my girl, I stand firm. I have n't 
 given up. I never will give up." 
 
 What still remained of Desiree's soul in that 
 wretched household in which she had lived twenty 
 years must have shuddered at that terrible declara- 
 tion. He never will give up ! 
 
 " No matter what people may say," continued 
 Delobelle, " it 's the noblest profession in the 
 world. 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. As
 
 The Day of Reckoning. 347 
 
 if you were born to live with all those bourgeois, 
 what the devil ! What you need is the artistic 
 life, the fever of success, the unexpected, intense 
 emotion." 
 
 As he spoke he took his scat, tucked his napkin 
 in his neck and helped himself to a great plateful 
 of soup. 
 
 "To say nothing of the fact that your triumphs 
 as a pretty woman would in no wise interfere with 
 your triumph as an actress. By the way, do you 
 know, you must take a few lessons in elocution. 
 With your voice, your intelligence, your charms, 
 you would have a magnificent prospect." 
 
 Then he added abruptly, as if to initiate her 
 into the joys of the dramatic art: 
 
 " But it occurs to me that perhaps you have not 
 supped ! Excitement makes one hollow; sit there 
 and take this plate. I am sure that you have n't 
 eaten soup an frontage for a long while." 
 
 He turned the closet topsy-turvy to find her a 
 spoon and napkin ; and she took her scat opposite 
 him, assisting him and laughing a little at the diffi- 
 culties attending her entertainment. She was less 
 pale already, and there was a pretty sparkle in her 
 eyes, composed of the tears of a moment before 
 and the present gayety. 
 
 The strolling-actress ! 
 
 All her happiness in life was lost forever : honor, 
 family, wealth. She was driven from her house, 
 stripped, dishonored. She had undergone all pos- 
 sible himiiliations and disasters. That did not 
 prevent her supping with a wonderful appetite and
 
 348 JFromont and Rislcr. 
 
 joyously holding her own under Delobelle's jocose 
 remarks concerning her vocation and her future 
 triumphs. She felt light-hearted and happy, fairly 
 embarked for the land of Bohemia, her true coun- 
 try. What more was going to happen to her? 
 Of how many ups and downs was her new, unfore- 
 seen and whimsical existence to consist? She was 
 thinking about that as she fell asleep in Desiree's 
 great easy-chair; but she was thinking of her 
 revenge, too, her cherished revenge which she held 
 in her hand, all ready for use, and so unerring, so 
 fierce !
 
 The New Clerk. 349 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE NEW CLERK OF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT. 
 
 It was broad daylight when Fromont Jcune 
 awoke. All night long, between the drama that 
 was being enacted below him, and the festivity in 
 joyous progress above, he slept with clenched fists, 
 the deep sleep of utter prostration like that of a 
 condemned man on the eve of his execution or of 
 a defeated general on the night following his de- 
 feat ; a sleep from which one would wish never to 
 awake, and in which one has a foretaste of death in 
 the absence of all sensation. 
 
 The bright light streaming through his curtains, 
 made more glaring by the deep snow with which 
 the garden and the surrounding roofs were covered, 
 recalled him to the consciousness of things as they 
 were. He felt a shock through his whole being, 
 and, even before his mind began to work, that 
 vague impression of melancholy which misfortunes, 
 momentarily forgotten, leave in their place. All 
 the familiar noises of the factory, the dull, panting 
 breath of the machinery, were in full activity. So 
 the world still existed ! and by slow degrees the 
 idea of responsibility awoke in him.
 
 350 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 "To-day is the day," he said to himself, with an 
 involuntary movement toward the dark side of the 
 room, as if he longed to bury himself anew in his 
 long sleep. 
 
 The factory bell rang, then other bells in the 
 neighborhood, then the Angelus. 
 
 " Noon ! Already ! How I have slept ! " 
 
 He felt some little remorse and a great sense of 
 relief at the thought that the drama of settling-day 
 had passed off without him. What had they 
 done downstairs? Why did they not call him? 
 
 He rose, put aside the curtains and saw Risler 
 and Sigismond talking together in the garden. 
 And it was so long since they had spoken to each 
 other! What in heaven's name had happened? 
 When he was ready to go down he found Claire at 
 the door of his room. 
 
 "You must not go out," she said. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Stay here. I will explain it to you." 
 
 "But what's the matter? Did anyone come 
 from the Bank? " 
 
 " Yes, they came — the notes are paid." 
 
 "Paid?" 
 
 " Risler obtained the money. He has been 
 rushing about with Planus since early morning. 
 It seems that his wife had superb jewels. The 
 diamond necklace alone brought twenty thousand 
 francs. He has also sold their house at Asniercs 
 with all it contained ; but as time was required to 
 record the deed. Planus and his sister advanced 
 the money."
 
 The New Clerk. 351 
 
 She turned away from him as slie spoke. He, 
 on his side, hung his head to avoid her glance. 
 
 " Risler is an honorable man," she continued, 
 " and when he learned from whom his wife received 
 all her magnificent things — ■" 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Georges in dismay. " He 
 knows? " 
 
 " All," Claire replied, lowering her voice. 
 
 The wretched man turned pale, stammered 
 feebly : 
 
 "Why then — you?" 
 
 " Oh ! I knew it all before Risler did. Remem- 
 ber that, when I came home last night, I told you 
 that I had heard very cruel things down at Sa- 
 vigny, and that I would have given ten years of 
 my life not to have made that journey." 
 
 " Claire ! " 
 
 Moved by a mighty outburst of affection, he 
 stepped toward his wife ; but her face was so cold, 
 so sad, so resolute, her despair was so plainly 
 written in the stern indifference manifest in her 
 whole bearing, that he dared not take her to his 
 heart as he longed to do, but simply murmured 
 under his breath : 
 
 " Forgive ! — forgive ! " 
 
 " You must think mc very calm," said the brave 
 woman ; " but I shed all my tears ycsterda}'. You 
 may have thought that I was weeping over our 
 ruin; you were mistaken. WMiilc one is j'oung and 
 strong as we are, such cowardly conduct is not 
 permissible. We are armed against want and can 
 fight it face to face. No, I was weeping for our
 
 352 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 departed happiness, for you, for the madness that 
 led you to throw away your only, your true friend." 
 
 She was lovely, lovelier than Sidonie had ever 
 been, as she spoke thus, enveloped by a pure light 
 which seemed to fall upon her from a great height, 
 like the radiance of a fathomless, cloudless sky; 
 whereas the other's irregular features had always 
 seemed to owe their brilliancy, their saucy, insolent 
 charm to the false glamour of the footlights in some 
 cheap theatre. The touch of statuesque immobil- 
 ity formerly noticeable in Claire's face was vivified 
 by anxiety, by doubt, by all the torture of pas- 
 sion ; and like those gold ingots which have their 
 full value only when the Mint has placed its stamp 
 upon tliem, those beautiful features stamped with 
 the effigy of sorrow had acquired since the pre- 
 ceding day an ineffaceable expression which per- 
 fected their beauty. 
 
 Georges gazed at her in admiration. She seemed 
 to him more alive, more womanly, and worthy of 
 adoration by virtue of their separation, of all the 
 obstacles that he now knew to stand between them. 
 Remorse, despair, shame entered his heart simul- 
 taneously with this new love, and he would have 
 fallen on his knees at her feet. 
 
 " No, no, do not kneel," said Claire ; " if you 
 knew what you remind me of, if you knew what a 
 lying face, distorted with hatred, I saw at my feet 
 last night ! " 
 
 " Ah ! but I am not lying," replied Georges 
 with a shudder. " Claire, I implore you, in the 
 name of our child — "
 
 The Nciu Clerk. 353 
 
 At that moment some one knocked at the door. 
 
 " Get up, pray. You see that hfe has claims 
 upon us," she said in a low voice, and with a bitter 
 smile ; then she asked what was wanted. 
 
 Monsieur Risler had sent for monsieur to come 
 down to the office. 
 
 " Very well," she said ; " say that he will come." 
 
 Georges stepped toward the door, but she 
 stopped him, 
 
 " No, let me go. He must not see you yet," 
 
 "But—" 
 
 " I wish you to stay here. You have no idea of 
 the indignation and wrath of that poor man, whom 
 you have deceived. If you had seen him last 
 night, crushing his wife's wrists ! " 
 
 As she said it, she looked him in the face with 
 a curiosity most cruel to herself; but Georges did 
 not wince, and replied simply: 
 
 " My life belongs to that man." 
 
 " It belongs to me, too ; and I do not wish you 
 to go down. There has been scandal enough in 
 my father's house. Remember that the whole 
 factory is aware of what is going on. Every one 
 is watching us, spying upon us. It required all 
 the authority of the foremen to keep the men at 
 work to-day, to compel them to keep their inquis- 
 itive looks on their work." 
 
 " But I shall seem to be hiding." 
 
 " And suppose it were so ! That is just like a 
 
 man. They do not recoil from the worst crimes : 
 
 betraying a wife, betraying a friend; but the 
 
 thought that they may be accused of being afraid 
 23
 
 354 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 touches them more nearly than anything. More- 
 over, hsten to what I say. Sidonie has gone, she 
 has gone forever; and if you leave this house I 
 shall think that you have gone to join her." 
 
 " Very well, I will stay," said Georges. " I will 
 do whatever you wish." 
 
 Claire went down into Planus's office. 
 
 To see Risler striding back and forth with his 
 hands behind his back, as calm as usual, no one 
 would ever have suspected all that had taken place 
 in his life since the night before. As for Sigis- 
 mond, he was fairly beaming, for he saw nothing 
 in it all beyond the fact that the notes had been 
 paid at maturity, and that the honor of the firm 
 was safe and sound. 
 
 When Madame Fromont appeared, Risler smiled 
 sadly and shook his head. 
 
 " I thought that you would prefer to come down 
 in his place ; but you are not the one with whom 
 I have to deal. It is absolutely necessary that I 
 should see him and talk with him. We have taken 
 care of the notes that fell due. this morning; the 
 crisis has passed ; but we have to come to an un- 
 derstanding about many matters." 
 
 " Risler, my friend, I beg you to wait a little 
 longer." 
 
 "Why, Madame Chorche? there's not a minute 
 to lose. Oh ! I suspect that you are afraid I may 
 give way to an outbreak of anger. Have no fear, 
 — let him have no fear. You know what I told 
 you, that the honor of the house of Fromont is to 
 be assured before my own. I have endangered it
 
 The N'czu Clerk. 355 
 
 by my fault. First of all, I must repair the evil I 
 have 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 a 
 saint," said poor Sigismond, who, not daring to 
 speak to his friend, was determined at all events 
 to manifest his remorse. 
 
 "But aren't you afraid?" continued Claire, 
 " Human endurance has its limits. It may be that 
 in presence of the man who has injured you so — " 
 
 Risler took her hands, gazed into her eyes with 
 grave admiration, and said : 
 
 " You dear creature, who speak of nothing but 
 the injury done to me ! Do you not know that I 
 hate him as bitterly for his falseness to you? But 
 nothing of that sort has any existence for me at 
 this moment. You see in me simply a business 
 man who wishes to have an understanding with his 
 partner for the good of the firm. So let him come 
 down without the slightest fear, and if you dread 
 an}' outbreak on my part, stay here with us. I 
 shall need only to look at my old master's daugh- 
 ter to be reminded of my promise and my duty." 
 
 "I trust you, my friend," said Claire; and she 
 went up to bring her husband. 
 
 The first minute of the interview was terrible. 
 Georges was deeply moved, humiliated, pale as 
 death. He would have preferred a hundred times 
 over to be looking into the barrel of that man's 
 pistol at twenty paces, awaiting his fire, instead of 
 appearing before him as an unpunished culprit
 
 35^ Frornont and Risler. 
 
 and being compelled to confine his feelings within 
 the commonplace limits of a business conversation. 
 
 Risler affected not to look at him and continued 
 to pace the floor as he talked : 
 
 " Our house is passing through a terrible crisis. 
 We have averted the disaster for to-day ; but this 
 is not the last of our obligations. That cursed in- 
 vention has kept my mind away from the business 
 for a long while. Luckily, I am free now, and able 
 to attend to it. But you must give your attention 
 to it as well. The workmen and clerks have fol- 
 lowed the example of their employers to some 
 extent. Indeed, they have become extremely 
 negligent and indifferent. This morning, for the 
 first time in a year, they went to work at the proper 
 time. I expect that you will make it your business 
 to change all that. As for me, I am going to work 
 at my drawings again. Our patterns are old- 
 fashioned. We must have new ones for the new 
 machines. I have great confidence in our presses. 
 The experiments have succeeded beyond my hopes. 
 We unquestionably have in them a means of build- 
 ing up our business. I did n't tell you sooner 
 because I wanted to surprise you ; but we have 
 no more surprises for each other, have we, 
 Georges? " 
 
 There was such a stinging note of irony in his 
 voice that Claire shuddered, fearing an outbreak; 
 but he continued, quite in his natural manner: 
 
 "Yes. I think I can promise that in six months 
 the Risler Press will begin to show magnificent 
 results. But those six months will be very hard to
 
 The New Clerk. 357 
 
 live through. We must limit ourselves, cut down 
 our expenses, save in every way that we can. We 
 have five draughtsmen now, hereafter we will have 
 but two. I will undertake to make the absence of 
 the others of no consequence by working nights. 
 Furthermore, beginning with this month, I abandon 
 my interest in the firm. I will take my salary as 
 foreman as before and nothing more," 
 
 Fromont attempted to speak, but a gesture from 
 his wife restrained him and Risler continued : 
 
 " I am no longer your partner, Georges. I am 
 once more the clerk that I should never have 
 ceased to be. From this day our partnership 
 articles are cancelled. I insist upon it, you under- 
 stand, I insist upon it. We will remain in that 
 relation to each other until the house is out of 
 difficulty and I can — But what I shall do then 
 concerns me alone. This is what I wanted to say 
 to you, Georges. You must give your attention to 
 the factory diligently, you must show yourself, 
 make it felt that you are master now, and I believe 
 there will turn out to be, among all our misfortunes, 
 some that can be retrieved." 
 
 During the silence that followed, they heard the 
 sound of wheels in the garden, and two great furni- 
 ture vans stopped at the door, 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Risler, " but I must 
 leave you a moment. Those are the vans from the 
 public auction rooms ; they have come to take 
 aw'ay all my furniture from upstairs." 
 
 "What! you are going to sell your furniture 
 too?" asked Madame Fromont.
 
 35^^ Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " Certainly — to the last piece. I am simply 
 giving it back to the firm. It belongs to it." 
 
 " But that is impossible," said Georges. " I can- 
 not allow that." 
 
 Risler turned upon him indignantly. 
 
 "What's that? What is it that you can't 
 allow?" 
 
 Claire checked him with an imploring gesture. 
 
 "True — true," he muttered; and he hurried 
 from the room to escape the sudden temptation to 
 give vent to all that there was in his heart. 
 
 The second floor was deserted. The servants, 
 who had been paid and dismissed in the morning, 
 had abandoned the apartments to the disorder of 
 the day following a ball ; and they wore the aspect 
 peculiar to places where a drama has been enacted, 
 and which are left in suspense, as it were, between 
 the events that have happened and those that are 
 still to happen. The open doors, the rugs lying in 
 heaps in the corners, the salvers laden with glasses, 
 the preparations for the supper, the table still set 
 and untouched, the dust of the ball on all the fur- 
 niture, its odor mingled with the fumes of punch, 
 of withered flowers, of rice powder — all these 
 details attracted Risler's notice as he entered. 
 
 In the disordered salon the piano was open, the 
 bacchanal from OrpJiee aiix Enfers on the music- 
 shelf, and the gaudy hangings surrounding that 
 scene of desolation, the chairs overturned, as if in 
 fear, reminded one of the saloon of a wrecked 
 packet-boat, of one of those ghostly nights of
 
 The Nciv Clerk. 359 
 
 watching when one is suddenly informed, in the 
 midst of a fete at sea, that the ship has sprung a 
 leak, that she is taking in water in every part. 
 
 They began to remove the furniture. 
 
 Risler watched the men at work with an indiffer- 
 ent air, as if he were in a stranger's house. That 
 magnificence which had once made him so happy 
 and proud, inspired in him now an insurmountable 
 disgust. But, when he entered his wife's bedroom, 
 he was conscious of a vague emotion. 
 
 It was a large room hung with blue satin under 
 white lace. A veritable cocotte's nest. There 
 were torn and rumpled tulle ruffles lying about, 
 bows and artificial flowers. The wax candles 
 around the mirror had burned down to the end 
 and cracked the bobeches; and the bed, with its 
 lace flounces and valances, its great curtains 
 raised and drawn back, untouched in the general 
 confusion, seemed like the bed of a corpse, a state 
 bed on which no one would ever sleep again. 
 
 Risler's first feeling upon entering the room was 
 one of mad indignation, a longing to pounce upon 
 the things before him, to tear and rend and shatter 
 everything. Nothing, you see, resembles a woman 
 so much as her bedroom. Even v/hen she is 
 absent, her image still smiles in the mirrors that 
 have reflected it. A little something of her, of her 
 favorite perfume, remains in everything she has 
 touched. Her attitudes are reproduced in the 
 cushions of the couch, and one can follow her go- 
 ings and comings between the mirror and the 
 toilet table among the patterns of the carpet. The
 
 o 
 
 60. Fi'omont and Rislcr. 
 
 one thing above all others in that room that re- 
 called Sidonic was an etagere covered with childish 
 toys, pett}', trivial knick-knacks, microscopic fans, 
 dolls' tea-sets, gilded shoes, little shepherds and 
 shepherdesses facing one another, exchanging cold, 
 gleaming porcelain glances. That etagere was 
 Sidonie's very soul, and her thoughts, always com- 
 monplace, petty, vain and empty, resembled those 
 gewgaws. Yes, in very truth, if Risler, while he 
 held her in his grasp last night, had in his frenzy 
 broken that fragile little head, a whole world of 
 etagere ornaments would have come from it in 
 place of a brain. 
 
 The poor man was thinking sadly of all these 
 things amid the ringing of hammers and the heavy 
 footsteps of the furniture-movers, when he heard 
 an interloping, authoritative step behind him, and 
 Monsieur Chebe appeared, little Monsieur Chebe, 
 flushed and breathless and shooting flames from his 
 eyes. He assumed, as always, a very high tone 
 with his son-in-law. 
 
 "What does this mean? What's this I hear? 
 Ah! so you're moving, are you?" 
 
 " I am not moving. Monsieur Chebe — I am 
 selling out." 
 
 The little man gave a leap like a scalded carp. 
 
 "You are selling out? What are you selling, 
 pray? " 
 
 " I am selling everything," said Risler in a hol- 
 low voice, without even looking at him. 
 
 " Come, come, son-in-law, be reasonable. God 
 knows I don't say that Sidonie's conduct — But, for
 
 The Nczv Clerk. 361 
 
 my part, I know nothing about it. I never wanted 
 to know anything. Only I must remind you of 
 your dignity. People wash their dirty linen in 
 private, deuce take it ! They don't make spec- 
 tacles of themselves as you 've been doing ever 
 since morning. Just see ever}'body at the work- 
 shop windows; and on the porch too! Why 
 you 're the talk of the quarter, my dear fellow." 
 
 " So much the better. The dishonor was public, 
 the reparation must be public too." 
 
 This apparent calmness, this indifference to all 
 his observations, exasperated Monsieur Chebe. 
 He suddenly changed his tactics, and adoi)ted, in 
 addressing his son-in-law, the serious, peremptory 
 tone which one uses with children or lunatics. 
 
 "Well, I say that you haven't any right to take 
 an)-thing away from here. I remonstrate formally, 
 with all my strength as a man, with all my author- 
 ity as a father. Do you suppose I am going to let 
 you drive my child into the gutter? No, indeed. 
 Oh ! no, indeed. Enough of such nonsense as that. 
 Nothing more shall go out of the rooms." 
 
 And Monsieur Chebe, having closed the door, 
 planted himself in front of it with an heroic gesture. 
 Deuce take it ! his own interest was at stake in the 
 matter. The fact was that when his child was once 
 in the gutter he ran great risk of not ha\ing a 
 feather bed to sleep on himself. He was superb 
 in that attitude of an indignant father, but he did 
 not keep it long. Two hands, two vises, seized his 
 wrists, and he founJ himself in the middle of the 
 room, leaving the doorway clear for the workmen.
 
 362 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " Chebe, my boy, just listen," said Risler, leaning 
 over him. " I am at the end of my forbearance. 
 Since this morning I have been making superhuman 
 efforts to restrain myself, but it would take very 
 little now to make my anger burst all bonds, and 
 w^oe to the man on whom it falls. I am quite cap- 
 able of killing some one. Come! Be off 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 Monsieur Chebe was 
 fully convinced. He even stammered an apology. 
 Certainly Risler had good reason for acting as he 
 had. All honorable people would be on his side. 
 And he backed toward the door as he spoke. 
 When he reached it, he inquired timidly if Madame 
 Chebe's little allowance would be continued. 
 
 " Yes," was Risler's reply, " but never go beyond 
 it, for my position here is not what it was. I am 
 no longer a partner in the house." 
 
 Monsieur Chebe stared at him in amazement, 
 and assumed the idiotic expression which led many 
 people to believe that the accident that had hap- 
 pened to him — exactly like the Due d'Orleans's, 
 you know — was not a fable of his own invention ; 
 but he dared not make the slightest observation. 
 Surely some one had changed his son-in-law. Was 
 this really Risler, this species of tiger-cat, who 
 bristled up at the slightest word and talked of 
 nothing less than killing people? 
 
 He took to his heels, recovered his self-posses- 
 sion at the foot of the stairs, and walked acrpss the 
 courtyard with the air of a conqueror.
 
 The New Clerk. 363 
 
 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's office to 
 hand it to Madame Georges. 
 
 " You can let the apartment," he said, " it will 
 be so much added to the income of the factory." 
 
 "But you, my friend ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't need much. An iron bed up 
 under the eaves. That 's all a clerk wants. For, I 
 repeat, I am nothing but a clerk from this time on. 
 A useful clerk, by the way, faithful and courageous, 
 of whom you will have no occasion to complain, I 
 promise you." 
 
 Georges, who was going over the books with 
 Planus, w'as so affected by hearing the poor fellow 
 talk in that strain that he left his seat precipitate!}'. 
 He was suffocated by his sobs. Claire too was 
 deeply moved ; she went to the new clerk of the 
 house of Fromont and said to him : 
 
 " Risler, I thank you in my father's name." 
 
 At that moment Pcrc Achille appeared with the 
 mail. 
 
 Risler took the pile of letters, opened them 
 tranquilly one by one, and passed them over to 
 Sigismond. 
 
 " Here 's an order for Lj'on. — Why was n't it 
 answered at Saint-Eticnnc? " 
 
 He plunged with all his energy into these details, 
 and he brought to them a keen intelligence, due to 
 the constant straining of the mind toward peace 
 and forgetfulness. 
 
 Suddenly, among those huge envelopes, stamped
 
 364 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 with the names of business houses, the paper of 
 which and the manner of folding smelt of the office 
 and of hasty despatch, he discovered one smaller 
 one, carefully sealed, and hidden so cunningly 
 between the others that at first he did not notice it. 
 He recognized instantly that long, fine, firm writ- 
 ing, — To Monsieur Risler — Personal. — It was 
 Sidonie's writing. When he saw it he felt the same 
 sensation he had felt in the bedroom upstairs. 
 
 All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayed 
 husband poured back into his heart with the frantic 
 force that makes assassins. What was she writing 
 to him? what lie had she invented now? He was 
 about to open the letter ; then he paused. He 
 realized that, if he should read that, it would be all 
 over with his courage ; so he leaned over to the 
 old cashier, and said in an undertone : 
 
 " Sigismond, old man, will you do me a favor?" 
 
 " I should think so ! " said the worthy man en- 
 thusiastically. He was so delighted to hear his 
 friend speak to him in the kindly voice of the old 
 days. 
 
 " Here 's a letter someone has written me, which I 
 don't wish to read now. I am sure it would inter- 
 fere with my thinking and living. You must 
 keep it for me, and this with it." 
 
 He took from his pocket a little package care- 
 fully tied, and handed it to him through the 
 grating. 
 
 " That is all I have left of the past, all I have left 
 of that woman. I have determined not to see her 
 nor anything that reminds me of her, until my task
 
 TJic New Clerk. 365 
 
 here is concluded, and concluded satisfactorily, — 
 I need all my intelligence, }'ou understand. You 
 will pay the Chebes' allowance. If she herself 
 should ask for anything, you will give her what 
 she needs. But you will never mention my name. 
 And you will keep this package safe for mc 
 until I ask you for it." 
 
 Sigismond locked the letter and package in a 
 secret drawer of his desk with other valuable 
 papers. Risler returned at once to his correspond- 
 ence ; but all the time he had before his eyes the 
 slender English letters traced by a little hand 
 which he had so often and so ardently pressed to 
 his heart.
 
 366 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE CAFfi CHANTANT, 
 
 What a rare, what a conscientious clerk did that 
 new clerk of the house of Fromont prove to be ! 
 
 Every day his lamp was the first to be lighted 
 and the last to disappear from the windows of the 
 factory. A little room had been arranged for him 
 under the eaves, exactly like the one he had 
 formerly occupied with Frantz, a veritable Trappist's 
 cell, furnished with an iron cot and a white wooden 
 table that stood under his brother's portrait. He 
 led the same busy, regular, retired life as in those 
 old days. 
 
 He worked constantly, and had his meals brought 
 from the same little creamery. But alas ! the dis- 
 appearance forever of youth and hope deprived 
 those memories of all their charm. Luckily he 
 still had Frantz and Madame Chorche, the only 
 two human beings of whom he could think without 
 a feeling of sadness. Madame Chorche was always 
 at hand, always on the watch to minister to his 
 comfort, to console him ; and Frantz wrote to him 
 frequently, without ever mentioning Sidonie, by 
 the way. Risler supposed that some one had written 
 him of the disaster that had befallen him, and he
 
 The Cafe CJmpJant. 367 
 
 too avoided all allusion to the subject in his letters. 
 "Oh! when I can send for him to come home! " 
 That was his dream, his sole ambition : to rehabi- 
 litate the factory and recall his brother. 
 
 Meanwhile the days succeeded one anoth.er, al- 
 ways the same to him in the restless activity of 
 business and the hcartrendinc^ solitude of his f^rief. 
 Every morning he went down and walked through 
 the workshops, where the profound respect he 
 inspired, his stern, silent countenance had re-estab- 
 lished the orderly conditions that had been mo- 
 mentarily disturbed. In the beginning there had 
 been much gossip, and various explanations of 
 Sidonie's departure had been put forward. Some 
 said that she had fled with a lover, others that Ris- 
 ler had turned her out. The one fact that upset 
 all conjectures was the attitude of the two partners 
 toward each other, apparently as unconstrained as 
 before. Sometimes, however, when they were talk- 
 ing together in the office, with no one by, Risler 
 w^ould suddenly start convulsively, as a vision of 
 the crime passed before his eyes. 
 
 Thereupon he would feel a frantic longing to 
 leap upon the villain, seize him b)" the throat, 
 strangle him without pity; but the thought of 
 Madame Chorchc was always there to hold him 
 back. Should he be less courageous, less master 
 of himself than that young wife? Neither Claire 
 nor Fromont nor anybody else suspected what was 
 taking place within him. They could barely de- 
 tect a severity, an inflexibility in his conduct, 
 which were not habitual with him. Risler awed
 
 368 Fromont and Rislcr. 
 
 the workmen now; and those of them upon whom 
 his white hair, whitened in one night, his drawn, 
 prematurely old features did not impose respect, 
 quailed before his strange glance — a glance from 
 eyes of a bluish-black like a gun-barrel. Whereas 
 he had always been very kind and affable with the 
 workmen, he had become pitilessly severe in regard 
 to the slightest infraction of the rules. One would 
 have said that he was taking vengeance upon him- 
 self for some indulgence in the past, blind, culpable 
 indulgence, for which he blamed himself 
 
 Surely he was a marvellous clerk, was this new 
 clerk of the house of Fromont. 
 
 Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstanding 
 the quavering of its old, cracked voice, had very 
 soon resumed its authority ; and the man who 
 guided the whole establishment denied himself the 
 slightest recreation. Sober as an apprentice, he 
 left three-fourths of his salary with Planus for the 
 Chebes' allowance, but he never asked any ques- 
 tions about them. Punctually on the last day of 
 the month the little man appeared to collect his 
 little income, stiff and majestic in his dealings with 
 Sigismond, as became an annuitant on duty. Ma- 
 dame Chebe had tried to obtain an interview with 
 her son-in-law, whom she pitied and loved ; but 
 the bare appearance of her palm-leaf shawl on the 
 steps put Sidonie's husband to flight. 
 
 In truth the courage with which he armed him- 
 self was more apparent than real. The memory 
 of his wife never left him. What had become of 
 her? What was she doing? He was almost angry
 
 77/6 Cafe Chaiitant. 369 
 
 with Planus for never mentioning her. That letter 
 above all things, that letter which he had had the 
 courage not to open, disturbed him. He thought of 
 it constantly. Ah! if he had dared, how he would 
 have liked to ask Sigismond for it ! 
 
 One day the temptation was too strong. He 
 was alone in the office. The old cashier had gone 
 out to lunch, leaving the key in his drawer, a most 
 extraordinary thing. Risler could not resist. He 
 opened the drawer, lifted the papers and searched 
 for his letter. It was not there. Sigismond must 
 have put it away even more carefully, perhaps with 
 a prevision of what had actually happened. In his 
 heart Risler was not sorry for his discomfiture ; for 
 he well knew that, if he had found the letter, it 
 would have been the end of the resigned and active 
 life which he imposed upon himself with so much 
 difficulty. 
 
 Through the week it was all very w^ell. Exist- 
 ence was endurable, absorbed by the innumerable 
 duties of the factory, and so fatiguing that, when 
 night came, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless 
 mass. But Sunday was long and painful. The 
 silence of the deserted yards and workshops opened 
 a far wider field to his thoughts. He tried to work ; 
 but he missed the encouragement of the others' 
 work. He alone was busy in that great, empty 
 factory whose very breath was arrested. The 
 locked doors, the closed blinds, the hoarse voice 
 of Pere Achille playing with his dog in the deserted 
 courtyard, all spoke of solitude. And the quarter 
 
 also produced the same cftcct. In the streets, 
 24
 
 2,JO: Fromojit and Rislcr. 
 
 which seemed wider because of their emptiness, 
 and where the passers-by were few and silent, the 
 bells ringing for vespers had a melancholy sound, 
 and sometimes an echo of the uproar of Paris, 
 rumbling wheels, a belated hand-organ, the click 
 of a toy-peddler's clappers, broke the silence, as if 
 to make it even more noticeable. 
 
 Risler would try to invent new combinations of 
 flowers and leaves, and as he handled his pencil, 
 his thoughts, not finding sufficient food there, 
 would escape him, would fly back to his past hap- 
 piness, to his ineradicable misfortunes, would suffer 
 martyrdom, and then, on returning, would ask the 
 poor somnambulist, still seated at his table : " What 
 have you done in my absence ? " Alas ! he had 
 done nothing. 
 
 Oh ! the long, heartbreaking, cruel Sundays ! 
 Consider that there was mingled with all these per- 
 plexities in his mind the superstitious reverence of 
 the common people for holy days, for the twenty- 
 four hours of rest, wherein one recovers strength 
 and courage. If he had gone out, the sight of a 
 workingman with his wife and child would have 
 made him weep, but his monkish seclusion reserved 
 for him other forms of suffering, the despair of 
 recluses, their terrible outbreaks of rebellion when 
 the god to whom they have consecrated themselves 
 does not respond to their sacrifices. Now, Risler's 
 god was work, and as he no longer found comfort 
 or serenity therein, he no longer believed in it but 
 cursed it. 
 
 Often in those hours of combat the door of the
 
 The Cafe Chan taut. 
 
 0/ 
 
 draughting-room would open gently and Claire 
 Fremont would appear. The poor man's loneli- 
 ness throughout those long Sunday afternoons 
 filled her with pity, and she would come with her 
 little girl to bear him company, knowing by expe- 
 rience how contagious is the sweet joyousness of 
 children. The little one, who could now walk 
 alone, would slip from her mother's arms to run to 
 her friend. Rislcr would hear the little hurried 
 steps. He would feel the light breath behind him, 
 and instantly he would be conscious of a soothing, 
 rejuvenating influence. She would throw her 
 plump little arms around his neck with affectionate 
 warmth, with her artless, causeless laugh, and a 
 kiss from her little mouth which had never lied. 
 Claire Fromont, standing in the doorway, would 
 smile as she looked at them. 
 
 " Risler, my friend," she w^ould say, "you must 
 come down into the garden a while, — you work 
 too hard. You will be sick." 
 
 " No, no, madame, — on the contrary, work is 
 what saves me. It keeps me from thinking." 
 
 Then, after a long pause, she would continue : 
 
 " Come, my dear Risler, you must try to forget." 
 
 Risler would shake his head. 
 
 "Forget! Is that possible? There are some 
 things beyond one's strength. A man may forgive, 
 but he never forgets." 
 
 The child almost always succeeded in dragging 
 him down to the garden. Willy-nill)', he must 
 play ball or in the gravel with her ; but her play- 
 fellow's awkwardness and lack of enthusiasm soon
 
 372 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 impressed the little girl. Then she would become 
 very sedate, contenting herself with walking gravely 
 between the rows of box, with her hand in her 
 friend's. After a moment Risler would entirely 
 forget that she was there ; but, although he did 
 not realize it, the warmth of that little hand in his 
 had a magnetic, softening effect upon his diseased 
 mind. 
 
 A man may forgive, but he never forgets ! 
 
 Poor Claire herself knew something about it; 
 for she had never forgotten, notwithstanding her 
 great courage and the conception she had formed 
 of her duty. To her, as to Risler, her environment 
 was a constant reminder of her sufferings. The' 
 objects amid which she lived pitilessly reopened 
 the wound that was ready to close. The staircase, 
 the garden, the court-yard, all those witnesses, 
 those dumb witnesses of her husband's crime, as- 
 sumed on certain days an implacable expression. 
 Even the care, the precautions her husband took 
 to spare her painful reminders, the way in which 
 he called attention to the fact that he no longer 
 went out in the evening, and took pains to tell her 
 where he had been during the day, served only to 
 remind her the more forcibly of his wrong-doing. 
 Sometimes she longed to ask him to forbear, — to 
 say to him : " Do not do too much." Faith was 
 shattered within her, and the horrible agony of 
 the priest who doubts and seeks at the same time 
 to remain faithful to his vows, betrayed itself in 
 her bitter smile, her cold, uncomplaining gentleness. 
 
 Georges was wofully unhappy. He loved his
 
 The Cafe Chan taut. 272> 
 
 wife now. The nobility of her character had van- 
 quished him. There was admiration in his love, 
 and — why not say it? — Claire's sorrow filled the 
 place of the coquetry which was contrary to her 
 nature, and the lack of which had always been a 
 defect in her husband's e)'es. He was one of that 
 strange type of men who love to make conquests. 
 Sidonie, capricious and cold as she was, responded 
 to that whim of his heart. After parting from her 
 with a most tender farewell, he found her indiffer- 
 ent and forgetful the next day, and that incessant 
 need of wooing her back to him took the place of 
 genuine passion. Serenity in love wearied him as 
 a voyage without storms wearies a sailor. On this 
 occasion he had been very near shipwreck with 
 his wife, and the danger had not passed even yet. 
 He knew that Claire was alienated from him and 
 entirely devoted to the child, — the only link be- 
 tween them thenceforth. Their separation made 
 her seem lovelier, more desirable, and he put forth 
 all his powers of fascination to recapture her. He 
 felt how hard a task it would be, and that he had 
 no ordinary, frivolous heart to deal with. But he 
 did not despair. Sometimes a vague gleam in the 
 depths of the mild and apparently impassive glance 
 with which she watched his efforts, bade him hope. 
 As for Sidonie, he no longer thought of her. 
 And let no one be astonished at that abrupt 
 mental rupture. Those two superficial beings had 
 nothing to attach them securely to each other. 
 Georges was incapable of receiving lasting impres- 
 sions unless they were constantly renewed ; Sidonie,
 
 374 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 for her part, had no power to inspire any noble or 
 durable sentiment. It was one of those cocotte- 
 dandy intrigues, compounded of vanity, of wounded 
 self-love, which inspire neither devotion nor con- 
 stancy, but tragic adventures, duels, suicides which 
 are rarely fatal, and which end in a radical cure. 
 Perhaps, if he had seen her again, he might have 
 had a relapse of his disease ; but the hurricane of 
 flight had carried Sidonie away so swiftly and so 
 far that her return was impossible. At all events, 
 it was a relief for him to be able to live without 
 lying; and the new life he was leading, a life of 
 hard work and self-denial, with the goal of success 
 in the distance, was not distasteful to him. Luckily ; 
 for the courage and determination of both partners 
 were none too much to put the house on its feet 
 once more. 
 
 The poor house of Fromont was taking in water 
 on all sides. So Pere Planus still had wretched 
 nights, haunted by the nightmare of notes maturing 
 and the ominous vision of the little blue man. 
 But, by dint of economy, they always succeeded 
 in paying. 
 
 Soon four Risler presses were definitively set up 
 and used in the work of the factory. People began 
 to take a deep interest in them, in the wall-paper 
 trade. Lyons, Caen, Rixbeim, the great centres of 
 the industry, were greatly disturbed concerning 
 that marvellous " rotary and dodecagonal " ma- 
 chine. Then one fine day the Prochassons appeared 
 and offered three hundred thousand francs simply 
 for an interest in the patent rights.
 
 The Cafe Chaniant. 375 
 
 "What shall wc do?" Fromont Jciinc asked 
 Risler Ainc. 
 
 The latter shrugged his shoulders with an indif- 
 ferent air. 
 
 " Decide for yourself. It does n't concern me. 
 I am only a clerk." 
 
 The words spoken coldly, without anger, fell 
 heavily upon Fromont's bewildered joy, and re- 
 minded him of the gravity of a situation which he 
 was always on the point of forgetting. 
 
 But, when he was alone with his dear Madame 
 Chorche, Risler advised her not to accept the 
 Prochassons' offer. 
 
 "Wait, — don't be in a hurry. Later you will 
 get a better price." 
 
 He spoke only of them in that affair in which his 
 share was so glorious. She felt that he was already 
 preparing to cut himself adrift from their future. 
 
 Meanwhile orders came pouring in, accumulated 
 on their hands. The quality of the paper, the 
 fall in price because of the improved methods of 
 manufacture, made competition impossible. There 
 was no doubt that a colossal fortune was in store 
 for the house of Fromont. The factory had re- 
 sumed its former flourishing aspect and its loud, 
 business-like hum. Intensely alive were all the 
 great buildings and the hundreds of workmen who 
 filled them. Perc Planus never raised his nose 
 from his desk ; you could see him from the little 
 garden, leaning over his great ledgers, jotting 
 down in magnificently moulded figures the profits 
 of the Risler press.
 
 276 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Risler still worked as before, without change 
 or rest. The return of prosperity brought no 
 alteration in his secluded habits, and it was from 
 the highest window on the topmost floor of the 
 house that he listened to the ceaseless roar of 
 his machines. He was no less gloomy, no less 
 taciturn. One day, however, it became known at 
 the factory that the press, a specimen of which had 
 been sent to the great Exposition at Manchester, 
 had received the gold medal, whereby its success 
 was definitively established. Madame Georges 
 called Risler into the garden at the luncheon hour, 
 wishing to be the first to tell him the good news. 
 
 For the moment a proud smile relaxed his pre- 
 maturely old, gloomy features. His inventor's 
 vanity, his pride in his renown, above all the idea 
 of repairing thus magnificently the wrong done to 
 the firm by his wife, gave him a moment of true 
 happiness. He pressed Claire's hands and mur- 
 mured, as in the old happy days : 
 
 " I am very happy. I am very happy." 
 
 But what a difference in tone ! He said it with- 
 out enthusiasm, hopelessly, with the satisfaction 
 of a task accomplished, and nothing more. 
 
 The bell rang for the workmen to return and 
 Risler went calmly upstairs to resume his work 
 as on other days. 
 
 In a moment he came down again. In spite of 
 all, that news had excited him more than he cared 
 to show. He wandered over the garden, prowled 
 around the counting-room, smiling sadly at Pere 
 Planus through the window.
 
 The Cafe CJumtaiit. ^yy 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" the old cashier 
 wondered. " What does he want of me? " 
 
 At last, when night came and it was time to 
 close the office, Risler summoned courage to go 
 and speak to him. 
 
 " Planus, my old friend, I would like — " 
 
 He hesitated a moment. 
 
 " I would like you to give me — the letter, you 
 know, the little letter and the package." 
 
 Sigismond stared at him in utter amazement. 
 In his innocence he had imagined that Risler 
 never thought of Sidonie, that he had entirely 
 forgotten her. 
 
 " What — you want — ? " 
 
 " Ah ! look you, I have well earned it, I can 
 think of myself a little now. I have thought 
 enough of the others." 
 
 "You are right," said Planus. "Well, this is 
 what we '11 do. The letter and package are at my 
 house at Montrouge. If you choose we will go 
 and dine together at the Palais-Royal, as in the 
 good old times. I will stand treat. We '11 water 
 your medal with a bottle of wine, something 
 choice ! Then we '11 go to the house together. 
 You can get your trinkets, and if it's too late for 
 you to go home, Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, 
 shall make up a bed for you, and you shall pass 
 the night with us. We're very comfortable there 
 — it's in the country. To-morrow morning at 
 seven o'clock we '11 come back to the factory by 
 the first omnibus. Come, old fellow, give me this 
 pleasure. If you don't, I shall think you still 
 bear your old Sigismond a grudge."
 
 37S Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Risler accepted. He cared but little about com- 
 memorating his medal, but he wanted to gain a 
 few hours in opening the little letter he 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 the past six 
 months. And what an event in the factory ! 
 Madame Fromont was informed at once. 
 
 "Madame, Madame! Monsieur Risler 's going 
 out ! " 
 
 Claire looked at him from her window, and that 
 tall body, bowed by sorrow, leaning on Sigismond's 
 arm, aroused in her a profound, unusual emotion 
 which she remembered ever after. 
 
 In the street people bowed to Risler with great 
 interest. Even their greetings made him warm 
 about the heart. He was so in need of kindness ! 
 But the noise of vehicles made him a little dizzy. 
 
 " My head is spinning," he said to Planus. 
 
 " Lean hard on me, old fellow — don't be afraid." 
 
 And honest Planus drew himself up, escorting 
 his friend with the artless, unconventional pride of 
 a peasant of the South bearing aloft his village 
 saint. 
 
 At last they arrived at the Palais-Royal. 
 
 The garden was full of people. They had come 
 to hear the music, and one and all were trying to 
 find seats amid clouds of dust and the scraping of 
 chairs. The two friends hurried into the restau- 
 rant to avoid all that turmoil. They established 
 themselves in one of the large salons on the first 
 floor, from which they could see the green trees,
 
 TJie Cafe Chan taut. 379 
 
 the promcnadcrs, and the water spurting from 
 the fountain between the two melanchol}' flower- 
 gardens. To Sigismond it was the ideal of magnifi- 
 cence, that restaurant, with gilding everywhere, 
 around the mirrors, in the chandelier and even on 
 the figured wall-paper. The white napkin, the 
 roll, the menu of a table d'hote dinner filled his 
 soul with joy. 
 
 "We are comfortable here, are n't we?" he said 
 to Risler. 
 
 And he exclaimed at each of the courses of that 
 banquet at two francs fifty, and insisted on filling 
 his friend's plate. 
 
 " Eat that — it's good." 
 
 The other, notwithstanding his desire to do 
 honor to the fete, seemed preoccupied and kept 
 his eyes always out-of-doors. 
 
 " Do you remember, Sigismond? " he said, after 
 a pause. 
 
 The old cashier, engrossed in his memories of 
 long ago, of Risler's first employment at the factory, 
 replied : 
 
 "I should think I do remember — listen! The 
 first time we dined together at the Palais-Royal was 
 in February, '46, the year we put in the planchcs- 
 platcs at the factory." 
 
 Risler shook his head. 
 
 " Oh ! no — I mean three years ago. It was in 
 that room just opposite that we dined on that 
 memorable evening." 
 
 And he pointed to the great windows of the 
 salon of Cafe Vefour, gleaming in the rays of the
 
 380 Fror.iont and Risler. 
 
 setting sun like the chandeliers at a wedding 
 feast. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, true," murmured Sigismond, abashed. 
 What an unlucky idea of his to bring his friend to 
 a place that recalled such painful things ! 
 
 Risler, anxious not to cast a gloom upon their 
 banquet, abruptly raised his glass. 
 
 " Come ! here 's your health, my old comrade." 
 
 He tried to change the subject. But a moment 
 later he himself led the conversation back to it 
 again, and asked Sigismond, in an undertone, as 
 if he were ashamed : 
 
 " Have you seen her? " 
 
 " Your wife? No, never." 
 
 " She has n't written again? " 
 
 " No — never again." 
 
 " But you must have heard of her. What has 
 she been doing these six months? Does she live 
 with her parents ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Risler turned pale. 
 
 He hoped that Sidonie would have returned to 
 her mother, that she would have worked, as he had 
 done, to forget and atone. He had often thought 
 that he would arrange his life according to what he 
 should learn of her when he should have the right 
 to speak of her; and in one of those far-off futures, 
 which have the vagueness of a dream, he some- 
 times fancied himself living in exile with the 
 Chebes in some unknown land, where nothing 
 would remind him of his past shame. It was not 
 a definite plan, to be sure ; but the thought lived
 
 The Cafe Chatitant. 381 
 
 in the depths of his mind like a hope, caused by 
 the need that all human creatures feel of finding 
 their lost happiness. 
 
 " Is she in Paris? " he asked, after a few moments* 
 reflection. 
 
 " No. She went away three months ago. No 
 one knows where she has gone." 
 
 Sigismond did not add that she had gone with 
 her Cazaboni, whose name she now bore, that they 
 were making the circuit of the provincial cities 
 together, that her mother was in despair, never saw 
 her, and heard of her only through Delobellc. 
 Sigismond did not deem it his duty to mention all 
 that, and after his last words, " She has gone 
 away," he held his peace. 
 
 Risler, for his part, dared ask no further questions. 
 
 While they sat there, facing each other, both 
 embarrassed by the long silence, the military band 
 began to play under the trees in the garden. They 
 played one of those Italian operatic overtures which 
 seem to have been written expressly for public 
 open-air resorts ; the swiftly-flowing notes, as they 
 rise into the air, blend with the *' psst ! psst ! " of 
 the swallows and the silvery plash of the fountain. 
 The blaring brass brings out in bold relief the mild 
 warmth of the closing hours of those summer days, 
 so long and enervating in Paris; it seems as if one 
 could hear nothing else. The distant rumbling of 
 wheels, the cries of children playing, the footsteps 
 of the promenaders are wafted away in those 
 resonant, gushing, refreshing waves of melody, as 
 useful to the people of Paris as the daily watering
 
 382 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 of their pavements. On all sides the faded flowers, 
 the trees white with dust, the faces made pale and 
 wan by the heat, all the sorrows, all the miseries 
 of a great city, sitting dreamily, with bowed head, 
 on the benches in the garden, feel its comforting, 
 refreshing influence. The air is stirred, renewed by 
 those strains that traverse it, filling it with harmony. 
 
 Poor Risler felt as if the tension upon all his 
 nerves were relaxed. 
 
 " A little music does one good," he said, with 
 glistening eyes. " My heart is heavy, old fellow," 
 he added, in a lower tone ; " if you knew — " 
 
 They sat without speaking, their elbows resting 
 on the window-sill, while their coffee was served. 
 
 Then the music ceased, the garden became 
 deserted. The light that had loitered in the cor- 
 ners crept upward to the roofs, cast its last rays 
 upon the highest window-panes, followed by the 
 birds, the swallows, which saluted the close of day 
 with a farewell chirp from the gutter where they 
 were huddled together. 
 
 " Well, where shall we go ? " said Planus, as they 
 left the restaurant. 
 
 " Wherever you choose." 
 
 On the first floor of a building on Rue Mont- 
 pensier, close at hand, there was a cafe cJiantajit, 
 to which many people seemed to be going. 
 
 "Suppose we go up?" said Planus, desirous of 
 banishing his friend's melancholy at any cost, " the 
 beer is excellent." 
 
 Risler acceded to the suggestion ; for six months 
 he had not tasted beer.
 
 The Cafe Chaiilaut. t^^t^ 
 
 It was a former restaurant transformed into a 
 concert hall. There were three large rooms, 
 separated by gilded pillars, the partitions having 
 been removed ; the decoration was in the Moorish 
 style, bright red, pale blue, with little crescents and 
 turbans for ornament. 
 
 Although it was still early, the place was full; 
 and even before entering one had a feeling of 
 suffocation, simply from seeing the swarms of 
 people sitting around the tables, and at the farther 
 end, half-hidden by the rows of pillars, the white- 
 robed women crowded on a raised platform, in the 
 heat and glare of the gas. 
 
 Our two friends had much difficulty in finding 
 seats, and had to be content with a place behind a 
 pillar from which they could see only half of the 
 platform, then occupied by a superb monsieur in 
 black coat and yellow gloves, curled and waxed 
 and oiled, who was singing in a vibrating voice : 
 
 Mes beaux lions aux crins dor^s, 
 Du sang des troupeaux alt^rds, 
 Halte li ! — Je fais scntinclld ! i 
 
 The audience — small tradesmen of the quarter 
 with their wives and daughters — seemed highly 
 enthusiastic ; especially the women. He repre- 
 sented so perfectly the beau ideal of the shop- 
 keeper imagination, that magnificent shepherd of 
 the desert, who talked to the lions with such an air 
 
 1 My noble lions with golden manes 
 Who thirst for the blood of my flocks, 
 Stand back ! — I am on sentry-go I
 
 384 Fromoiit and Risler. 
 
 of authority and tended his flocks in full evening 
 dress. And so, despite their bourgeois bearing, 
 their modest costumes and their expressionless 
 shopgirl smiles, all those ladies, putting out their 
 little mouths toward the hook of sentiment, cast 
 languishing glances upon the singer. It was truly 
 comical to see that glance at the platform suddenly 
 change and become contemptuous and fierce as it 
 fell upon the husband, the poor husband tranquilly 
 drinking a glass of beer opposite his wife : " You 
 would never be capable of doing sentry duty in the 
 very teeth of lions, and in a black coat too, and 
 with yellow gloves ! " 
 
 And the husband's eye seemed to reply : 
 
 " Ah ! dame, yes, he 's quite a buck, that 
 fellow." 
 
 Being decidedly indifferent to heroism of that 
 stamp, Risler and Sigismond were drinking their 
 beer without paying much attention to the music, 
 when, at the end of the song, amid the applause 
 and yells and uproar that followed it, Pere Planus 
 uttered an exclamation : 
 
 "Why, that's funny; one would say — but no, 
 I 'm not mistaken. It is he, it's Delobelle ! " 
 
 It was, in fact, the illustrious actor, whom he had 
 discovered in the front row near the platform. His 
 gray head was turned partly away from them. He 
 was leaning carelessly against a pillar, hat in hand, 
 in his grand make-up as leading man : dazzlingly 
 white linen, hair curled with the tongs, black coat 
 with a camellia in the buttonhole like the ribbon 
 of an order. He "lanced at the crowd from time
 
 The Cafe Cliajiiant. 385 
 
 to time with a patronizing air: but his eyes were 
 most frequently turned toward the platform, with 
 encouraging little gestures and smiles and pre- 
 tended applause, addressed to some one whom 
 Pere Planus could not see from his seat. 
 
 There was nothing very extraordinary in the 
 presence of the illustrious Delobclle at a cafe con- 
 cert, as he spent all his evenings away from home ; 
 and yet the old cashier felt vaguely disturbed, 
 especially when he discovered in the same row a 
 blue cape and a pair of steely eyes. It was Madame 
 Dobson, the sentimental singing teacher. The 
 conjunction of those two faces amid the pipe-smoke 
 and the confusion of the crowd, produced upon 
 Sigismond the effect of two ghosts evoked by the 
 coincidences of a bad dream. He was afraid for 
 his friend, without knowing exactly why; and sud- 
 denly it occurred to him to take him away. 
 
 " Let 's go, Risler. The heat here is enough to 
 kill one." 
 
 Just as they rose — for Risler was no more 
 anxious to stay than to go — the orchestra, consist- 
 ing of a piano and several violins, struck up a 
 peculiar refrain. There was a flutter of curiosity 
 throughout the room, and cries of " Hush ! hush ! 
 sit down ! " 
 
 They were obliged to resume their seats. Risler 
 too was beginning to be disturbed. 
 
 " I know that tunc," he said to himself. " Where 
 have I heard it? " 
 
 A thunder of applause and an exclamation from 
 
 Planus made him raise his eyes. 
 25
 
 386 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " Come, come, let us go out," said the cashier, 
 trying to lead him away. 
 
 But it was too late. 
 
 Risler had already seen his wife come forward to 
 the front of the platform and courtesy to the 
 audience with a ballet-dancer's smile. 
 
 She wore a white dress, as on the night of the 
 ball ; but her whole costume was much less rich 
 and shockingly immodest. 
 
 The dress was hardly caught at the shoulders ; 
 her hair flew about in a blonde mist over her eyes, 
 and about her neck was a necklace of pearls too 
 large to be real, spaced with bits of tinsel. Delo- 
 belle was right : the Bohemian life was best suited 
 to her. Her beauty had gained an indefinably reck- 
 less expression, which was its most characteristic 
 feature, and made her a perfect type of the woman 
 who has escaped from all restraint, placed herself at 
 the mercy of every accident, and is descending stage 
 by stage to the lowest depths of the Parisian hell, 
 from which nothing is powerful enough to lift her 
 up and restore her to the pure air and the light. 
 
 And how perfectly at ease she seemed in her 
 strolling life ! With what self-possession she walked 
 to the front of the platform ! Ah ! if she could 
 have seen the desperate, terrible glance fixed upon 
 her down there in the hall, concealed behind a 
 pillar, her smile would have lost that equivocal 
 placidity, her voice would have sought in vain 
 those wheedling, languorous tones in which she 
 warbled the only song Madame Dobson had ever 
 been able to teach her:
 
 T/ie Cafe Chantant. 2^^"] 
 
 Pauv' pitit Mamz'elle Zizi, 
 C'est ramou, I'amou qui tourne la tete ii H. 
 
 Risler had risen, in spite of Planus's efforts. 
 " Sit down ! sit down ! " the people shouted. 
 The wretched man heard nothing. 
 He was looking at his wife. 
 
 C'est I'amou, I'amou qui tourne la tete \ li, 
 
 Sidonie repeated affectedly. 
 
 For a moment he wondered if he should not 
 leap on the platform and kill her. Red flames shot 
 before his eyes and he was blinded with frenzy as 
 it were. 
 
 Then, suddenly, shame and disgust seized upon 
 him and he rushed from the hall, overturning chairs 
 and tables, pursued by the terror and imprecations 
 of all those scandalized bourgeois.
 
 388 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 VI. 
 
 SIDONIE'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 Never had Sigismond Planus returned home so 
 late without giving his sister warning, during the 
 twenty years and more that he had lived at Mont- 
 rouge. Consequently Mademoiselle Planus was 
 terribly worried. Living as she did in community 
 of ideas and of everything else with her brother, 
 having but one mind for herself and him, the old 
 maid had felt for several months the rebound of all 
 the old cashier's anxiety and indignation ; and the 
 effect was still noticeable in her tendency to trem- 
 ble and become agitated on slight provocation. 
 At the slightest tardiness on Sigismond's part, she 
 would think : 
 
 "Ah! mon Dieu! If only nothing has happened 
 at the factory ! " 
 
 That is why, on the evening in question, when 
 the hens and chickens were all asleep on their 
 perches, and the dinner had been removed un- 
 touched, Mademoiselle Planus was sitting in the 
 little ground-floor living-room, waiting, in great 
 agitation. 
 
 At last, about eleven o'clock, some one rang. 
 A timid, melancholy ring, in no wise resembling 
 Sigismond's vigorous pull.
 
 Sidonics Vengeance. 389 
 
 " Is it you, Monsieur Planus? " queried the old 
 maid from behind the door. 
 
 It was he ; but he was not alone. A tall, bent 
 old man accompanied him and, as they entered, 
 bade her good-evening in a slow, hesitating voice. 
 Not till then did Mademoiselle Planus recognize 
 Risler Aine, whom she had not seen since the days 
 of the New Year's calls, that is to say, some time 
 before the dramas at the factory. She could hardly 
 restrain an exclamation of pity; but the grave 
 taciturnity of the two men told her that she must 
 hold her peace. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Planus, my sister, you will put 
 clean sheets on my bed. Our friend Risler does 
 us the honor to pass the night with us." 
 
 The old maid hastened away to prepare the bed- 
 room with an almost affectionate zeal ; for, as we 
 know, outside of " Monsieur Planus, my brother," 
 Risler was the only man excepted from the general 
 reprobation in which she enveloped the whole 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 his body 
 strained to the utmost. At that moment he had 
 no thought of going to Montrouge to get the letter 
 and the package. 
 
 "Leave me — go away," he said to Sigismond. 
 "I must be alone." 
 
 But the other knew better than to abandon him 
 thus to his despair. Unnoticed by Risler, he led 
 him away from the factory, and as his affectionate 
 heart suggested to the old cashier what he had best
 
 390 Fromo7it and Risler. 
 
 say to his friend, he talked to him all the time of 
 Frantz, his little Frantz whom he loved so dearly. 
 
 "That was genuine afifection, genuine and trust- 
 worthy. No treachery to fear with such hearts as 
 that ! " 
 
 While they talked they left behind them the 
 noisy streets of the centre of Paris, They walked 
 along the quays, skirted the Jardin des Plantes, 
 plunged into Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Risler 
 followed where the other led. Sigismond's words 
 did him so much good ! 
 
 In due time they came to the Bievre, bordered 
 at that point with tanneries whose tall drying-houses 
 with open sides were outlined in blue against the 
 sky; and then the ill-defined plains of Montsouris, 
 vast tracts of land scorched and stripped of vegeta- 
 tion by the fiery breath that Paris exhales around 
 its daily toil, like a monstrous dragon, whose breath 
 of flame and smoke suffers no vegetation within its 
 range. 
 
 From Montsouris to the fortifications of Mont- 
 rouge is but a step. When they had reached that 
 point. Planus had no great difficulty in taking his 
 friend home with him. He thought, and justly, 
 that his tranquil fireside, the spectacle of a placid, 
 fraternal, devoted affection, would give the wretched 
 man's heart a sort of foretaste of the happiness that 
 was in store for him with his brother Frantz. And, 
 in truth, the charm of the little household began to 
 operate as soon as they arrived. 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are right, old fellow," said Risler, 
 pacing the floor of the living-room, " I must n't
 
 Sidonies Vengeance. 39 1 
 
 think of that woman any more. She 's like a dead 
 woman to me now. I have nobody left in the 
 workl but my little Frantz ; I don't know yet 
 whether I shall send for him to come home or go 
 out and join him ; the one thing that 's certain is 
 that we are going to stay together. Ah ! I longed 
 so to have a son ! Now I have found one. I want 
 no other. When I think that for a moment I had 
 an idea of killing myself! Nonsense! it would 
 make Madame What-d' ye-call yonder too happy. 
 On the contrary I mean to live, to live with my 
 Frantz and for him, and for nothing else." 
 
 " Bravo ! " said Sigismond, " that 's the way I 
 want to hear you talk." 
 
 At that moment Mademoiselle Planus came to 
 say that the room was ready. 
 
 Risler apologized for the trouble he was causing 
 them. 
 
 "You are so comfortable, so happy here. 
 Really it's too bad to burden you with my 
 melancholy." 
 
 "Ah! my old friend, you can arrange just such 
 happiness as ours for yourself," said honest Sigis- 
 mond with beaming face. " I have my sister, you 
 have your brother. What do we lack? " 
 
 Risler smiled vaguely. He fancied himself al- 
 ready installed with Frantz in a quiet little qiiaker- 
 ish house like that. 
 
 Decidedly that was an excellent idea of Pere 
 Planus. 
 
 " Come to bed," he said triumphantly. " We '11 
 go and show you your room."
 
 392 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Sigismond Planus's bedroom was on the ground- 
 floor, a large room simply but neatly furnished, 
 with cottonade curtains at the windows and the 
 bed, and little squares of carpet on the polished 
 floor, in front of the chairs. The dowager Madame 
 Fromont herself could have found nothing to say 
 as to the orderly and cleanly aspect of the place. 
 On a shelf or two against the wall were a few 
 books : Manual of Fishing, The Perfect Coimtry 
 Housewife, Bareme's Book-keeping. That was 
 the whole of the intellectual equipment of the 
 room. 
 
 Pere Planus glanced proudly around. The glass 
 of water was in its place on the walnut table, the 
 box of razors on the dressing-case. 
 
 "You see, Risler. Here's everything you need. 
 And if you should want anything else, the keys are 
 in all the drawers — you have only to turn them. 
 Just see what a beautiful view you get from here. 
 It *s a little dark just now, but when you wake up 
 in the morning, you '11 see ; it 's magnificent." 
 
 He opened the window. Great drops of rain 
 were beginning to fall, and lightning flashes rend- 
 ing the darkness disclosed the long silent line of the 
 fortifications, with telegraph poles at intervals, or 
 the frowning door of a casemate. Now and then 
 the footsteps of a patrol making the rounds, the 
 clash of muskets or swords, reminded them that 
 they were within the military zone. 
 
 That was the outlook so vaunted by Planus, — a 
 melancholy outlook if ever there were one. 
 
 ** And now good-night. Sleep well."
 
 Sidoiiics Vengeance. 393 
 
 But, as the old cashier was leaving the room, his 
 friend called him back : 
 
 " Sigismond." 
 
 " Here ! " said the goodman, and he waited. 
 
 Risler blushed slightly and moved his lips like a 
 man who is about to speak ; then, with a mighty 
 effort, he said : 
 
 "No, no — nothing. Good-night, old man." 
 
 In the dining-room the brother and sister talked 
 together a long while in low tones. Planus de- 
 scribed the terrible occurrence of the evening, the 
 meeting with Sidonie; and you can imagine the 
 " Oh ! these women ! " and " Oh ! these men ! " At 
 last, when they had locked the little garden door, 
 Mademoiselle Planus went up to her room, and 
 Sigismond made himself as comfortable as possible 
 in a small cabinet adjoining. 
 
 About midnight the cashier was aroused by his 
 sister 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 
 room below." 
 
 They listened. Without, the rain was falling in 
 torrents, with the dreary rustling of leaves that 
 makes the country seem so lonely and so vast. 
 
 " It's the wind," said Planus. 
 
 " I am sure not. Hush ! Listen ! " 
 
 Amid the tumult of the storm, they heard a wail-
 
 394 Fromo7it and Risler. 
 
 ing sound, like a sob, in which a name was pro- 
 nounced with difficulty : 
 
 " Frantz ! Frantz ! " 
 
 It was horrible and pitiful. 
 
 When the Christ on the Cross sent up to heaven 
 through the empty void his despairing cry : Eli, 
 eli, lama sabachthani, they who heard him must 
 have felt the same species of superstitious terror 
 that suddenly seized upon Mademoiselle Planus. 
 
 " I am afraid," she whispered ; " suppose you 
 go and look — " 
 
 "No, no, let us let him alone. He is thinking 
 of his brother. Poor fellow ! It 's the very 
 thought of all others that will do him the most 
 good." 
 
 And the old cashier went to sleep again. 
 
 The next morning he woke as usual when the 
 drums beat the reveille in the fortifications ; for the 
 little family, surrounded by barracks, regulated its 
 life by the military calls. The sister had already 
 risen and was feeding the hens. When she saw 
 Sigismond she came to him in some agitation. 
 
 "It's very strange," she said, "I hear nothing 
 stirring in Monsieur Risler's room. But the win- 
 dow is wide open." 
 
 Sigismond, greatly surprised, went and knocked 
 at his friend's door. 
 
 "Risler! Risler!" 
 
 He called in great anxiety : 
 
 "Risler, are you there? Are you asleep?" 
 
 There was no reply. He opened the door. 
 
 The room was cold. It was evident that the
 
 Sidonies Vengeance. 395 
 
 damp air had been blowing in all ni^ht throii;;h 
 the open window. At the first glance he cast at 
 the bed, Sigismond thought: " He hasn't been to 
 bed " — for the clothes were undisturbed and the 
 condition of the room, even in the most trivial 
 details, revealed an agitated vigil : the still smok- 
 ing lamp, which he had neglected to extinguish, 
 the carafe, drained to the last drop by the fever of 
 insomnia; but the thing that filled the cashier with 
 dismay was to find the commode drawer wide open 
 in which he had carefully bestowed the letter and 
 package intrusted to him by his friend. 
 
 The letter was no longer there. The package 
 lay on the table, open, revealing a photograph of 
 Sidonie at fifteen. With her high-necked dress, her 
 rebellious hair parted over the forehead, the em- 
 barrassed pose of a gawky girl, the little Chcbe of 
 the old days, Mademoiselle Le Mire's apprentice, 
 bore little resemblance to the Sidonie of to-day. 
 And that was why Risler had kept that photograph, 
 as a souvenir, not of his wife, but of the " little 
 one." 
 
 Sigismond was in dire dismay. 
 
 "It's my fault," he said to himself "I ought 
 to have taken away the keys. Hut who would have 
 supposed that he was still thinking of her? — He 
 had sworn so many times that that woman no 
 longer existed for him." 
 
 At that moment Mademoiselle Planus entered 
 the room with consternation written on her face. 
 
 " Monsieur Risler has gone." she exclaimed. 
 
 " Gone? Why, was n't the garden gate locked? "
 
 396 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 " He climbed over the wall. You can see his 
 footprints." 
 
 They looked at each other, terrified beyond 
 measure. 
 
 " It was the letter ! " thought Planus. 
 
 Evidently that letter from his wife must have 
 made some extraordinary revelation to Risler ; 
 and, in order not to disturb his hosts, he had made 
 his escape noiselessly through the window like a 
 burglar. Why? With what end in view? 
 
 " You will see, sister," said poor Planus, as 
 he dressed himself with all haste, "you will see 
 that that hussy has played him still another trick." 
 And when the old maid tried to encourage him, 
 the goodman recurred to his favorite refrain : 
 
 " / haf 710 gonjidcnce ! " 
 
 As soon as he was dressed, he darted out of the 
 house. 
 
 Risler's footprints could be distinguished on the 
 rain-soaked ground as far as the gate of the little 
 garden. He must have gone before daybreak, for 
 the squares of vegetables and the flower-beds were 
 trampled down at random by deep footprints with 
 long spaces between ; there were marks of heels 
 on the garden-wall and the mortar was crumbled 
 slightly on top. The brother and sister went out 
 on the road skirting the fortifications. There it 
 was impossible to follow the footprints. They 
 could tell nothing more than that Risler had gone 
 in the direction of the Orleans road. 
 
 " After all," Mademoiselle Planus ventured to 
 say, " we are very good to torment ourselves about
 
 Sidonies Vengeance. 397 
 
 him ; perhaps he has simply gone back to the 
 factory." 
 
 Sigismond shook his head. Ah ! if he had said 
 all that he thought ! 
 
 " You go back to the house, sister. I will go 
 and see." 
 
 And the old " I kaf 710 gojijidcncc" started off 
 like a hurricane, his white mane standing even 
 more erect than usual. 
 
 At that hour, on the road skirting the fortifica- 
 tions, there was an endless procession of soldiers 
 and market-gardeners, guard-mounting, officers' 
 horses out for exercise, sutlers with their parapher- 
 nalia, all the bustle and activity that is seen in the 
 morning in the neighborhood of forts. Planus was 
 striding along amid the tumult, when suddenly he 
 stopped. At the foot of the bank, on the left, in 
 front of a small square building, with the inscription : 
 
 CITY OF PARIS, 
 
 ENTRANCE TO THE QUARRIES, 
 
 on the rough plaster, he saw a crowd assembled, 
 and soldiers' and custom-house officers' uniforms, 
 mingled with the shabby, dirty blouses of barrier- 
 loafers. The old man instinctively approached. 
 A customs officer, seated on the stone step below 
 a round postern with iron bars, was talking with 
 many gestures, as if he were acting out his narrative. 
 " He was where I am," he said. " He had 
 hanged himself sitting, by pulling with all his 
 strength on the cord ! It 's plain that he had made
 
 398 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 up his mind to die, for he had a razor in his pocket 
 that he 'd have used in case the cord had broken." 
 
 A voice in the crowd exclaimed : " Poor devil ! " 
 Then another, a tremulous voice, choking with 
 emotion, asked timidly : 
 
 " Is it quite certain that he 's dead? " 
 
 Everybody looked at Planus and began to laugh. 
 
 " Well, here 's a greenhorn," said the officer. 
 " Don't I tell you that he was all blue this morning, 
 when we cut him down to take him to the Chas- 
 seurs' barracks ! " 
 
 The barracks were not far away ; and yet Sigis- 
 mond Planus had all the difficulty in the world in 
 dragging himself so far. In vain did he say to 
 himself that suicides are of frequent occurrence in 
 Paris, especially in those regions ; that not a day 
 passes that a dead body is not found somewhere 
 along that long line of fortifications, as upon the 
 shores of a tempestuous sea, — he could not escape 
 the horrible presentiment that had oppressed his 
 heart since early morning. 
 
 " Ah ! you have come to see the man that hanged 
 himself," said the quartermaster-sergeant at the 
 door of the barracks. " See ! there he is." 
 
 The body had been laid on a table supported by 
 trestles in a sort of shed. A cavalry cloak that 
 had been thrown over it covered it from head to 
 foot, and fell in the shroud-like folds which all 
 things assume that come in contact with the rigidity 
 of death. A group of officers and several soldiers 
 in duck trousers were looking on at a distance, 
 talking in whispers as in a church ; and an assistant-
 
 Sidoiiics Vengeance. 399 
 
 surgeon was writing a report of the death on the 
 sill of a high window. To him Sigismond ad- 
 dressed himself. 
 
 " I would like very much to see him," he said 
 softly. 
 
 " Go and look." 
 
 He walked to the table, hesitated a minute, 
 then, summoning courage, uncovered a swollen ' 
 face, a tall, motionless body in its rain-soaked 
 garments. 
 
 *' She has killed you at last, my old comrade," 
 murmured Planus, and fell on his knees, sobbing 
 bitterly. 
 
 The officers had come forward, gazing curiously 
 at the body, which was left uncovered. 
 
 "Look, surgeon," said one of them. " His hand 
 is closed, as if he were holding something in it." 
 
 "That is so," the surgeon replied, drawing 
 nearer. " That sometimes happens in the last 
 convulsions. You remember at Solferino, Com- 
 mandant Bordy held his little daughter's miniature 
 in his hand like that? We had much difficulty in 
 taking it from him." 
 
 As he spoke he tried to open the poor, tightly- 
 closed dead hand. 
 
 " Look ! " said he, " it 's a letter that he is hold- 
 ing so tight." 
 
 He was about to read it ; but one of the officers 
 took it from his hands and passed it to Sigismond, 
 who was still kneeling. 
 
 " Here, monsieur. Perhaps you will find in this 
 some last wish to be carried out."
 
 400 Fromont and Risler. 
 
 Sigismond Planus rose. As the room was dark, 
 he walked with faltering step to the window, and 
 read, his eyes dimmed by tears: 
 
 " Well, yes, I love you, I love you, more than 
 ever and forever ! What is the use of struggling 
 and fighting against fate? Our crime is stronger 
 than we are. . . ." 
 
 It was the letter which Frantz had written to his 
 sister-in-law a year before, and which Sidonie had 
 sent to her husband on the day following their 
 scene, to revenge herself on him and his brother 
 at the same time. 
 
 Risler could have survived his wife's treachery, 
 but his brother's treachery had killed him on the 
 spot. 
 
 When Sigismond understood, he was petrified 
 with horror. He stood there, with the letter in 
 his hand, gazing mechanically through the open 
 window. 
 
 The clock struck six. 
 
 Yonder, over Paris, whose muffled roar they 
 could hear although they could not see the city, a 
 cloud of smoke arose, heavy and hot, moving slowly 
 upward, with a fringe of red and black around its 
 edges, like the powder-smoke on a field of battle. 
 Little by little, steeples, white buildings, a gilded 
 cupola, shook themselves clear of the mist, and 
 burst forth in a splendid awakening. Then the 
 thousands of tall factory chimneys, towering above 
 that sea of clustered roofs, began with one accord 
 to breathe forth their quivering vapor, with the 
 energy of a steamer about to sail. Life was be-
 
 Sidonies Vengeance. 40 1 
 
 ginning anew. Forward, ye wheels! And so 
 much the worse for him who lags behind ! 
 
 Thereupon old Planus gave way to a terrible 
 outburst of wrath. 
 
 "Ah! harlot — harlot!" he cried, shaking his 
 fist; and no one could say whether he was ad- 
 dressing the woman or the city. 
 
 26

 
 "^i^°^S\iS \ \1\ 11 11 
 
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