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SIDONIE. 
 
 (FROMONT JEDNE ET EISIER A.M.) 
 
 FEOM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 5OSTON: 
 
 copyright, 
 301 ■Washington Steeet. 
 
 1877. ('Oran LL 
 
A\i;'3ay^ 
 
OOH'TEITTS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Chapteb Pagtc 
 
 I. — ^A Wedding-Pabtt at Vefoues 6 
 
 11. — Stokt oV "Little CniBE" — Thbee FiMiLiES on a Floor 17 
 
 ni. — Stokt of "Little ChJibe" — ^Imitation Feakls . . 33 
 
 rV.-<-STOKT OF " Little Chebe " — The Fire-Flies of SATiGsr 46, 
 
 T. — How "Little Chebe's"' Stokt ends .... 68 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 I. — "My Wife's Eeceptios-Dat " 65 
 
 II. — Keal Peakl, and Ijtitation Pearl . ... 15 
 TIL — The Tatekn of the Rue Blondel . . . .83 
 
 IV. — ^At Satignt 96 
 
 V. — SiGisMOND Plands's Feaks for his Cash-Account . 101 
 
 "VI. — Stock-taking . Ill 
 
 TIL — ^A Letter 123 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 I. — The Avenger 124 
 
 II. — ^Explanation 141 
 
 in. — Poor Little Mademoiselle Zizi . . . .154 
 
 IV.— Th? Waiting-Eoom 160 
 
 v.— The Seine 169 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 CnAPTEE Page 
 
 I. — ^Peeplesities . . . .... 19-1 
 
 II. — Revelations . . 199 
 
 III. — Note to meet 211 
 
 IV. — The New Clekk of the House of rROMONT . . 226 
 
 v.— A CoNOEUT-RooM 239 
 
S ID O NIE. 
 
 boob: I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 a wbdding-paett at vef0uk3. 
 
 " Madame Chebe ! " 
 
 " My dear boy ? " 
 
 " I am so happy ! " 
 
 It was certainly the twentieth, time that day that 
 William Hisler had announced his excessive hap- 
 piness. Always, too, in the same words, and in 
 the same heart-felt tone — soft and low — indicating, 
 to a close observer, that he placed a certain restraint 
 on himself lest he should say too much. 
 
 Not for the world would the newly-made hus- 
 band make an exhibition of himself — but his hap- 
 piness choked his utterance, and made it difficult 
 for him to speak. All that day he had, at intervals, 
 whispered in the ear of his mother-in-law, " At last 
 I am a happy man ! " 
 
 For hours the poor fellow had feared that he was 
 dreaming — that he had been fooled by an ecstatic 
 
6 8W0NIE. 
 
 vision^but the hands of the large clock at V6f ours 
 pointed to ten, and he had not yet been roughlj 
 awakened. He lived over the events of the day : 
 he saw himself in his simple bachelor's room ; he had 
 just placed in the pocket of his new coat two pairs 
 of white gloves. A few hours later, the wedding- 
 procession had started. In one of the many car- 
 riages' he beheld a shimmering cloud of silk and 
 'tulle, that betokened the presence of the bride. 
 Then came the entrance into church — two-by-two — 
 following the floating white cloud ; the organ, the 
 priest, the benediction, the wax-candles, the jewels, 
 and the spring t&ilets ! Then the crowd in the 
 vestry-room, where the small, white sylph was 
 kissed and embraced by parents and friends, while 
 he himself was warmly congratulated by the first 
 merchants in Paris, who had assembled to do him 
 honor. 
 
 Then the coming out again into the common 
 world — the la&t triumphant peal of the organ swell- 
 ing tumultuously through the widely-opened . door 
 of the church — the murmm-s and comments of the 
 crowd gathered at the entrance ; even the words of 
 a stout woman, wearing a large white apron — words 
 unnoticed at the time — now returned to Risler. 
 
 " Well, the husband is not much to look at, but 
 the bride is a beauty ! " and the woman was right, 
 he thought. 
 
 Then came a breakfast at the factory, where tb*e 
 huge room was gay with flowers ; the drive in the 
 Bois — a concession to Madame Chebe, so true a 
 
A WEDDINCf-PARTY AT V^FOtTRS. t 
 
 Parisian by birth and education that she would 
 hardly have thought her daughter married without 
 a visit to the cascade, and a glimpse of the lake. 
 
 Finally, the return to a grand dinner just as the 
 street-lamps began to twinkle along the boulevard. 
 He heard again the rattle of the carriages as the 
 bridal procession .drew up with a needless amount of 
 noise and bustle before the private staircase at Ve- 
 fours. 
 
 And now, worn out by happy excitement, Kisler 
 leaned back in his chair and quietly surveyed the 
 large table, in the form of a horseshoe, around 
 which were seated twenty-four familiar faces, in 
 whose joyous eyes he read only the reflection of his 
 own happiness. 
 
 Dessert had been served, and the fruits, flowers, 
 and ices, gave color and light to the gay scene. A 
 buzz of conversation filled the room ; some of the 
 chairs were pushed slightly away from the table, 
 and all was going on well. 
 
 Yes, Kisler was content. With the exception of 
 his brother Frantz, every soul for whom he cared in 
 the world was near him. Opposite sat Sidonie — 
 yesterday "Miss Sidonie," to-day his wife and 
 " madame." She had laid aside her veil, emerged, 
 as it were, from her white ^loud, and her pretty, 
 pale face, crowned by a wreath of orange-blossoms 
 and heavy braids of hair, rose from the severe sim- 
 plicity of her closely-fitting robe of white silk. In 
 her eyes sparkled an air of latent rebellion, and 
 about her mouth lingered an expression of discon- 
 
8 aiDONIE. 
 
 tent ; but newly-made husbands rarely read such 
 signs aright. 
 
 Next to Sidonie and Frantz, the person whom 
 Eisler most loved was Madame Fromont, whom he 
 always called " Madame George," the wife of his 
 partner, and the daughter of the deceased Fromont, 
 his former patron, and his hero and model. He had 
 placed her next himself, and in his way of speaking 
 to her one read at once the deference and tenderness 
 with which he regarded her. She was a very yotmg 
 woman, about Sidonie's age, but of a better style of 
 beauty, more quiet, more refined. She talked very 
 little, feeling somewhat out of place in this mixed 
 circle, though she was perfectly amiable, and well 
 bred in her manner. 
 
 On Eisler's other side sat Madame Chebe, the 
 bride's mother, who was dazzling to behold, in a 
 robe of glossy green satin. All that day the good 
 woman's thoughts had been as brilliant as her dress, 
 and she had said to herself a hundred times, " My 
 daughter marries Fromont and Risler." For to her 
 mind it was not Kisler alone whom her daughter 
 married, it was the firm itseK, so famous in Paris ; 
 and, each time that Madame Ch^be arrived at this 
 conclusion, she drew herself up so erect that the 
 silk of her waist creaked like the harness of a war- 
 horse. 
 
 What a contrast to her husband, who sat farther 
 ofE ! This little man, with his glossy bald head, as 
 round and as empty as a tenpin-ball, looked as furi- 
 ously indignant as his wife was radiant ; this, to be 
 
A WEDDmO-PARTY AT V^FOURS. 9 
 
 sure, was "but his usual expression. This evening 
 he was not so shabby as was his custom, and his 
 new black coat was a proper pendant to his wife's 
 green satin ; but, unfortunately, his thoughts were 
 as sombre as his coat. " Wliy had he not been put 
 next the bride, as was his right? "Why had that 
 place been given to young Fromont ? And why did 
 old Gardinois, the Fromonts' grandfather, sit on the 
 other side of Sidonie ? Of course, every considera- 
 tion must be paid to the Fromonts and none to the 
 Chebes, and yet such people had the face to wonder 
 at revolutions ! " 
 
 Fortunately, as a safety-valve for his indignation, 
 the irate little man had next him his fiiend Dolo- 
 belle, a superannuated actor, who listened to his 
 complaints with a majestic and unmoved counte- 
 nance. A man may have been driven from the stage 
 by the jealous machinations of managers, kept from 
 it for fifteen years, and yet have in reserve many 
 impressive attitudes and magnificent poses. So on 
 this especial evening Dolobelle felt that much was 
 expected of him, and he had adopted a half -smiling, 
 half-serious air, at once condescending and solemn. 
 One would have imagined him at a feast in the 
 first act of a new play, assisting at a banquet where 
 all the meats were of pasteboard. In fact, this 
 absurd Dolobelle had precisely the air of playing a 
 part, feigning to listen to what was said, but really 
 meditating only on his reply. 
 
 Singularly enough, the bride, too, had a little of 
 the same expression. On her young and pretty face 
 
10 SIDONIE. 
 
 was to be detected a certain preoccupation, and occa- 
 sionally a faint smile, as if slie were talking to herself. 
 
 It was with this same faint smile that she re- 
 plied to the not over-refined witticisms of Grandfa- 
 ther Gardinois, who was seated on her right. 
 
 " It is not quite tWo months," continued the good 
 man, with a boisterous laugh, " since this little minx, 
 this Sidonie here, talked of going into a nunnery — a 
 monastery, I fancy, would have suited her better ! " 
 
 Every one applauded this poor joke of the 
 old peasant, whose colossal wealth, as well as na- 
 tive shrewdness, inspired respect. Among the few 
 he fancied was " little Ghebe," as he called her ; he 
 had known her from infancy, and understood her 
 thoroughly, while she in her turn was too recently 
 endowed with wealth not to venerate riches, and 
 treated him always with an odd mixture of venera- 
 tion and coquetry. 
 
 To George Fromont, who sat on her left, how- 
 ever, her manner was very reserved. Their con- 
 versation was simply an exchange of civilities, and 
 seemed like an affectation of indifference. Sud- 
 denly came the flutter and rustle of silks, the half 
 silence, and the general indications of rising from 
 the table, and above all was heard the shrill voice 
 of Madame Ch^be addressing a cousin from the 
 country, who was in an ecstasy of admiration at the 
 calm dignity of the bride, who was at that moment 
 standing, leaning" on the arm of M. Gardinois. 
 
 " I tell you, cousin," exclaimed the proud mother, 
 " no one has ever yet been able to read the thoughts 
 
A WEDDING-PARTY AT V£F0URS. H 
 
 or feelings of my Sidonie ! " Then the guests with 
 much laughter passed into the grand salon. 
 
 While the guests, who were invited only to the 
 ball which was to crown the festivities, were assem- 
 bling, and the orchestra were tuning their instru- 
 ments, while the youths hovering in the doorway 
 were mentally deciding with whom to dance, Eisler 
 took refuge in a smaller, darker, and cooler room, 
 communicating with the salon. Sigismond Planus, 
 his old friend, and the cashier for thirty years of the 
 mercantile house of Fromont, joined him. They 
 were alone, and could say a few words in comfort. 
 
 " Sigismond, old boy ! I am perfectly happy ! " 
 
 Sigismond wished to express his delight, but 
 Eisler gave him no opportunity of doing so. All 
 the joy in the good man's heart bubbled to the sur- 
 face, and he continued : 
 
 " Just think of it, Sigismond 1 Is it not aston- 
 ishing that a pretty young girl like that could ac- 
 cept me? I know quite well that I am old and 
 ugly, for I am forty-four. Many another she might 
 have married, without counting Frantz, who you 
 know worshiped her. But no — she wanted old 
 Risler, and she has got him. 
 
 " It all came about, too, in such an extraordinary 
 fashion. For some time I had fancied her sad and 
 out of spirits. I feared lest some unfortunate love- 
 affair caused this state of things. In vain did her 
 mother and I talk it over together. "We could think 
 of no one whom she could possibly care a sou for. 
 Finally, one morning, in came Madame Chebe, all in 
 
13 siDoms. 
 
 tears, to my oflice. ' It is you, "William, whom she 
 loves ! ' she cried. And so it was. Just think of 
 that, my friend ! And who ever heard of a man 
 having two such strokes of good luck, following so 
 close on one another, as I have had in this year? 
 To be admitted into the house of Fromont, as full 
 partner, with no capital but my brains, and to have 
 Sidonie for my wife ! " 
 
 At this moment a couple floated into the room, 
 a youthful pair, alike handsome, alike young ; wafted 
 as it were on the intoxicating strains of the bewil- 
 dering music. The bride was looking straight into 
 the eyes of her husband's partner, and the lips of 
 both were moving rapidly as they whispered each in 
 the ear of the other. 
 
 " It is false ! " hissed Sidonie, fiercely, but still 
 smiling. 
 
 " I swear it is true ! " answered the young man, 
 even paler than the bride. " My uncle insisted on 
 it ; he was dying, and you had gone. How could I 
 resist ? " * 
 
 From afar off Kisler looked at the pair in ad- 
 miration. " How pretty she is ! How well they 
 dance together ! " But, as the two caught sight of 
 Eisler, they separated, and Sidonie went directly 
 toward her husband. 
 
 " You here ? " she said. " Every one is looking 
 for you. "Why are you not in the ballroom ? " and 
 as she spoke she hastily retied his cravat, while 
 Eisler smiled out of the corner of his eyes at Sigis- 
 mond, and was too delighted with the little hand 
 
^A WEDDmG-PARTy AT VJ^FOUJiS. 13 
 
 fluttering at his throat to notice the trembling of 
 each slender finger. 
 
 " Give me your arm," she said, and they entered 
 the drawing-room together. Her long, white train 
 made his badly-cut, badly-fitting coat appear still 
 more awkward; but a coat cannot be made over 
 like this knot of a cravat, and it was necessary to 
 accept him as he was. Nevertheless, Sidonie had a 
 moment of gratified vanity as she bowed to the right 
 and to the left on their passage up the room. TJn- 
 fortunately, it soon came to an end, for in the cor- 
 ner sat a young and pretty woman whom no one 
 asked to dance. As soon as he perceived her, Kisler 
 at once went to her, and Sidonie found herself com- 
 pelled to take a seat at her side. It is needless to 
 say that this lady was " Madame George." To 
 whom else would he have spoken with this respectful 
 tenderness ? In whose hand but hers would he have 
 placed his little Sidonie' s, as he said : " You will love 
 her, will you not ? You are so good, and she needs 
 your advice so much — ^your knowledge of the world ? " 
 
 "But, my good friend," interrupted Madame 
 George, " Sidonie and I are intimates already. We 
 have every reason to love each other." And her 
 quiet, honest eyes looked frankly into those of her 
 old companion. 
 
 Utterly ignorant of the ways of women, and m 
 the habit of treating Sidonie as a mere child, Eider 
 continued, in the same tone : " Take pattern by her, 
 little one ; there is but one Madame George in the 
 world. She is just like her father, a true Fromont ! " 
 
14 SIDONIE. 
 
 Sidonie, with her eyes east down, bowed with- 
 out reply ; but a slight shiver ran from the tip of 
 her satin shoe to the smallest bud on her wreath of 
 orange-blossoms. But the good Kisler saw nothing. 
 
 The ball, the music, the lights, and the flowers, 
 had intoxicated him ; he thought every one as happy 
 as himself, and knew and suspected nothing of all 
 the rivalries and small hatreds that went on about 
 him. He did not see Dolobelle, with his elbow on 
 the chimney-piece, one hand on his hip holding his 
 hat, waiting for the time to come to utilize his 
 especial talents ; nor did he notice M. Ghebe lean- 
 ing against a pillar of the door, more furious than 
 ever against the Fromonts. 
 
 " Oh, these Fromonts ! "Why should they occupy 
 such a conspicuous position at this wedding ? What 
 had they to do with it ? — and he, the father of the 
 bride, had not even been presented to Madame 
 George ! " — and the Httle man cast enraged glances 
 at his wife, who sat smQing in supreme content. 
 
 At this wedding, as at almost all others, the dis- 
 tinct circles jostled each other, but did not harmon- 
 ize. Finally, one gave way to the other. " Those 
 Fromonts," who so irritated M. Chebe, and who 
 formed the aristocracy of the ball, the president of 
 the Chamber of Commerce, a distinguished solicitor, 
 and the old millionaire Gardinois, all retired about 
 midnight, quickly followed by M. and Madame 
 George Fromont. Then the bride, witli her mother 
 and Kisler, slipped away, leaving M. Chebe, who 
 had recovered his spirits, to do the honors. 
 
A WELDING-FARTY AT VMOUES. 15 
 
 Tkrougli the deserted streets the bridal carriage 
 rolled heavily toward the new home. Madame 
 Chebe talked much, enumerating all the splendors 
 of this memorable day, dwelling especially on the 
 dinner, the commonplace carte of which had been 
 to her the epitome of luxury. Sidonie was half 
 asleep in the corner of the carriage ; and if Kisler, 
 opposite, did not say, " I am happy," it was because 
 his heart was too full to speak. Once he attempted 
 to take in his the little white hand that rested on 
 the window, but it was quickly withdrawn, and he 
 sat lost in silent adoration. Once the carriage 
 stopped to drop Madame Chebe at her own door, 
 too narrow for the voluminous flounces of her mag- 
 nificent dress. A few minutes later the coach drew 
 up before the massive gates of an old hotel in La 
 Kue d»s Yielles Haudriettes, bearing, above the 
 half -effaced coat of arms, a huge sign, on which, in 
 letters of gold and blue, were to be read the words, 
 
 " Wail-Papees, at "Wholesale only." 
 
 The bride leaned forward. Had not all the 
 lights been extinguished in the enormous buildings 
 surrounding the court, Eisler would have seen the 
 smile of triumph that irradiated the pretty, enig- 
 matical, contradictory face. 
 
 The noise of the wheels was deadened by the 
 fine gravel of an avenue which led to the small 
 hotel of two stories. It was there, on the lower 
 floor, that George Fremont lived, and the Rislers 
 were to occupy the second. The house, simple as 
 
16 SIDONIR 
 
 it was, had yet an air of luxury that night, lent by 
 the magnificent flowers and shnibs that lined the 
 hall and staircase. 
 
 While JRisler surveyed his new home in supreme 
 content, Sidonie retreated to her boudoir. By the 
 light of the rose-colored chandelier she first care- 
 fully surveyed herself in the long mirror, and then 
 calmly turned to examine in a leisurely fashion 
 each detail of this, to her, unwonted luxury. This 
 examination over, she threw open a window and 
 stepped out on a balcony. The night was clear 
 and mild. By the waning light of the moon she 
 saw the whole of the manufactory, with its thou- 
 sand windows and numerous chimneys. 
 
 At her feet lay the small but exquisitely-kept 
 garden. All around were black and narrow streets. 
 Suddenly she started. Below, ofE toward the left, 
 in one of the most wretched of all the crowded at- 
 tics, she saw a window in the fifth story thrown 
 widely open. She knew it instantly — it was the 
 staircase window of the floor which her parents 
 inhabited. How well she knew it! How many 
 things the sight of it recalled! How many hours 
 — how many days indeed — had she passed there, 
 leaning from this window M-ithout a railing or a 
 balcony, looking toward the manufactory! She 
 fancied she could at that distance detect " little 
 Chebe's " small head, set in the frame of the win- 
 dow ; and all her past life seemed to unfold before 
 her — ^ber childhood, and, worse than all, the sad 
 youth of a poor girl in the city of Paris. 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 STOEY OF "little CHEBE "— THREE EAinLIES ON A 
 FLOOE. 
 
 In the crowded homes of the poor, the corri- 
 dor and staircase are regarded by them as another 
 apartment. The children play there, while the 
 women gossip and the men smoke. When "little 
 Chebe " made too much noise, her mother would 
 say : " Ton drive me crazy ; go out on the corridor 
 and play ! " The child obeyed her gladly. 
 
 This same corridor was on the upper floor of an 
 ancient dwelling. Economy of space had formed no 
 part of the original plan — ^it was broad, with a high 
 ceiling, and protected on the side nearest the stairs 
 by a heavy iron railing ; at one end it was lighted 
 by a large window that overlooked all the other 
 roofs and chimneys, and a little way off the g];een 
 turf in the garden of the Fromont establishment 
 lay cool and fresh among the dusty old walls and 
 superannuated buildings. 
 
 There was little, to be sure, that was very gay 
 in the prospect ; still, the child liked it infinitely 
 better than the outlook from the windows of her 
 parents' rooms, which were always gloomy and 
 
18 SID NIK 
 
 sunless, and wellnigh intolerable when it rained, 
 and her father could not go out. 
 
 Ferdinand Chebe was indolent, and always form- 
 ing plans to make a magnificent fortune. At first 
 he had imposed on his wife, but after repeated dis- 
 appointments she learned to estimate him at his real 
 value, and refused to attach any importance to his 
 wild dreams. Of the comfortable little dowry, 
 brought by her and wasted by him in foolish specu- 
 lations, there remained but a mere pittance: a 
 camel' s-hair shawl, sacred to great occasions; the 
 laces she wore on her marriage-day ; and two dia- 
 mond buttons, small enough, certainly, but still so 
 brilliant that Sidonie often implored her mother to 
 open the white-velvet case in which they had lain 
 for thirty years or more. 
 
 M. Ch^be had been years seeldng some active 
 employment — ^his health, as he affirmed, not allow- 
 ing him to lead a sedentary life. It must be ac- 
 knowledged that in the early days of his married 
 life, when his business was prosperous and money 
 was plentiful, when he kept his horse and his 
 groom, he was thrown from a carriage and se- 
 vejjely injured. This accident had served ever 
 since as an excuse for all his indolence. One was 
 never five minutes with M. Ch^be that he did not 
 say in a confidential tone, " You remember the ac- 
 cident that happened to the Due d'Orl^ans ? " and he 
 added, invariably tapping his own bald head, " Pre- 
 cisely the same thing happened to me, my friend^— 
 precisely the same thing I " 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CH^BK" 19 
 
 Situation after situation had been abandoned as 
 not lucrative or dignified enough, so that at the 
 time of which we speak he was a burden to him- 
 self and to others. Every one can speak of the ec- 
 centricities of artists and literary men, but who 
 can adequately describe the preposterous follies of a 
 half -educated, imemployed shopkeeper? If a new 
 street was being laid out, he felt called upon daily 
 to inspect the progress of the workmen. No one 
 knew better than he the specialties of the differ- 
 ent shops, and sometimes Madame Chebe, out of 
 all patience at seeing the vacant face of her hus- 
 band pressed against the window-panes, would say, 
 as she ironed the house-linen : " You know the 
 baker's shop, in such a street, where they sell such 
 excellent cakes ? Go and get a couple for dessert." 
 So the husband sallied forth, slowly walked up the 
 boulevard, went to the shop, and passed half the 
 day in the street, returning in triumph, wiping his 
 forehead, as he entered the house with the two 
 cakes under his arm, for which he had spent a few 
 pennies and the whole morning. 
 
 His wife made no complaint, though she hon- 
 estly wished that he would make some money. 
 The poor woman made no more than he, but she 
 so thoroughly understood the art of saving it that 
 absolute poverty had never yet entered their doors. 
 Their rooms were always delicately clean, and the 
 old furniture shone brightly under her care. 
 
 Opposite the Chebe door were too smaller ones. 
 On the first, a card, fastened by four small nails, 
 
20 SIBONIE. 
 
 bore the name of " Eisler, Designer of Patterns for 
 Manufacturers," and on the other was a small sign, 
 with this inscription in gilt letters : 
 
 "MADAME DOLOBELLE. 
 
 BEETLES AND HTTMMING-BIP. DS." 
 
 The Dolobelles' door was always wide open, and 
 showed a large square room, where two women — 
 mother and daughter, the latter almost a child — ^la- 
 bored assiduously at one of the thousand small in- 
 dustries by which Paris supplies the civilized world 
 with articles of taste. 
 
 At that time it was the fashion to ornament hats 
 and ball-dresses with those brilliant beetles from 
 South America, and with those dainty birds whose 
 breasts glitter as if set closely with rubies and em- 
 eralds. This was Madame Dolobelle's specialty. 
 
 A wholesale house, to whom the goods were as- 
 signed from the Antilles, sent them at once on their 
 arrival to Madame Dolobelle. "When the cover was 
 lifted, a dull, dead odor, and a fine arsenical dust, 
 filled the room. The beetles were piled one upon 
 another ; the birds were closely packed, each with 
 its wings stretched on a bit of stiff paper. All these 
 were to be moimted — each beetle must tremble on 
 a bit of wire ; the ruffled plumage of the humming- 
 birds was to be smoothed, and two pearl beads in- 
 serted instead of the eyes that were no longer there ; 
 and each tiny creature must be made to assume a 
 life-like position. The mother did her work under 
 
STOEY OF ''LITTLE OSMK" 21 
 
 her daughter's direction ; for Desiree, though so 
 young, had such exquisite taste, such originahty of 
 invention, that no one could arrange the birds as she 
 could. 
 
 Lame from her infancy, in consequence of an 
 accident that had in no way lessened the beauty 
 of her refined face, Desiree had acquired, in conse- 
 quence of her enforced immobility, a certain high- 
 bred pallor, and her industry was of such a nature 
 that the natural beauty of her white hands was un- 
 injured. Her beautiful hair was always carefully 
 arranged, and she passed her days buried in a large 
 arm-chair, before a table that was covered with 
 fashion-plates and birds of all tints, finding some 
 compensation in the elegance of her employment 
 for the poverty and anxiety of her life. 
 
 She knew that all these little wings would glit- 
 ter at Parisian fetes, and, by the fashion in which 
 she would arrange her birds and her beetles, it was 
 easy to divine her thoughts. On her sad and weary 
 davs the wings were widely spread, as if eager for 
 a flight, fast and furious enough to bear the little 
 creature far away from this poor abode, and petty 
 cares and trials. At other times, when she was 
 happy, the tiny things themselves looked radiant, 
 like a very caprice of fashion. 
 
 Happy or- unhappy, Desiree toiled on with un- 
 flagging energy ; from sunrise until far into the 
 night the table was piled with work. When day- 
 light was gone, and the bell of the factory sounded 
 its dismissal, Madame Dolobelle lighted her lamp. 
 
22 SIB ON IE. 
 
 and, after a light repast, the two resumed their 
 labors. 
 
 The indefatigable women had but one aim — one 
 fixed idea in life — and this was the dramatic success 
 of Dolobelle. 
 
 From the unfortunate day that he had left a pro- 
 vincial theatre, to play comedy in Paris, Dolobelle 
 had expected some manager, cleverer and less igno- 
 rant than others, to discover his genius and offer 
 him a position worthy of his talents. Perhaps, in 
 the beginning, Dolobelle might have found some 
 employment in a third-rate theatre, but to such an 
 idea he would not condescend to listen. He pre- 
 ferred, he said, " to wait, and to struggle ! " And 
 shall we show our readers how he struggled ? 
 
 He passed his mornings in his chamber — often 
 in his bed — reheaitsing his former rdles, and his wife 
 and daughter shuddered with terror, as they heard ■ 
 some tragic speech loudly declaimed. After a late 
 breakfast the actor sallied forth, well brushed and 
 perfumed, and wandered up and down the boule- 
 vards until night, his hat a little on one side, and a 
 toothpick between his lips. 
 
 The matter of costume be regarded as of the hiffh- 
 est importance. "What manager, he asked, would 
 engage him were he shabbily dressed and unshaven ? 
 
 So his womenkind watched carefully that he 
 lacked nothing, and you may imagine how many 
 beetles and humming-birds they mounted daily to 
 keep him in this resplendent condition. 
 
 But the comedian thought it aU right. In his 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE OHEBEV 33 
 
 opinion tlie privations and toil of his wife and 
 daughter were so many sacrifices, not made for him, 
 but laid on the altar of the unknown divinity, the 
 coming manager. 
 
 Between the Dolobelle household and the Chebe 
 there was a certain similarity of position, but it was 
 brighter and gayer with the Dolobelles, for their 
 hopes and faith opened to them a possible future, 
 while the Chebes knew that for them there could be 
 no amelioration of their lot ; then, Madame Chebe 
 no longer believed in her husband, while her neigh- 
 bor had never doubted hers. 
 
 And yet for years and years Dolobelle had in- 
 terviewed all the dramatists of the great city, had 
 waited on one manager after another, but had never 
 succeeded in obtaining an engagement. A friend 
 had succeeded in procuring his appointment as stew- 
 ard of a fashionable club, where good manners were 
 an essential — and Heaven knows the actor had those 
 — but all such propositions Dolobelle received with 
 an heroic denial. 
 
 " I have no right to bid farewell to the theatre," 
 said the great man. 
 
 From the lips of this poor fellow, whose feet had 
 not trod the boards for many a long year, such words 
 were irresistibly comic ; but, after a glance at the 
 pale wife and paler daughter, one lost all desire to 
 smile ; and to hear one or the other say, as they 
 twisted the steel wire of their birds, " l^o, no, M. 
 Dolobelle has no right to relinquish the theatre," 
 was enough to bring tears to one's eyes. 
 
24 SWONIM. 
 
 Happy man ! idolized in his own home, saluted 
 respectfully by the neighbors when he appeared in 
 the street, for Parisians have an extraordinary pre- 
 dilection for the theatre, and a great regard for any 
 one, however remotely, connected with it. And yet 
 this great man contentedly went every Saturday 
 evening to a milliner in La Kue Saint-Denis, a huge 
 paper box under his arm, to carry home the work of 
 his wife and daughter. 
 
 Even in executing this commission his manners 
 and costume were so irreproachable that the young 
 lady whose duty it was to receive him found it ex- 
 tremely embarrassing to hand him the week's wages, 
 so laboriously earned and so small in amount. 
 
 On these evenings the actor did not dine at 
 home ; the ladies never looked for him ; his excuse 
 was always ready : he had met an old friend and 
 invited him to dinner. He brouglit home the re- 
 mainder of the money, to be sure, and sometimes a 
 bouquet to Desiree, or a little gift to his wife. " A 
 mere nothing," he said, loftily. Thus you under- 
 stand how, notwithstanding the industry and the 
 courage of these two women, and the fact that, 
 though their labors were comparatively lucrative, 
 they were often cramped for money, particularly at 
 certain seasons of the year, when the gay world had 
 left Paris, and their particular branch of industry 
 languished. 
 
 Fortimately, Eisler was near at hand, and always 
 ready to serve his friends. 
 
 William Risler, the third tenant on that floor, 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CHSBE." 25 
 
 resided there with Ms younger trother Frantz, young- 
 er by fifteen years than himself. The two were na- 
 tives of Switzerland, and their tall, manly forms 
 find fresh complexions seemed to lend some of their 
 own vitality to the dark and dreary house. The 
 eldest was designer to the Promont manufactory, 
 and paid his brother's expenses at college. 
 
 When "William first arrived in Paris, a stranger, 
 and ignorant of the ways of cities, he gladly availed 
 himself of the kind offers of assistance made to him 
 by his new neighbors, Madame Chebe and the Do- 
 lobelles. They gave him advice and recommended 
 their own tradespeople, and altogether were invalu- 
 able to him. In a few months they all became as 
 one family. 
 
 On fete days the brothers were always asked to 
 the home of one or the other of their new friends ; 
 and it was no small consolation to the two exiles to 
 find themselves welcome at the modest fireside and 
 table. Risler's salary was so large, too, occupying 
 as he did so important a position in the wealthy es- 
 tablishment of the Promonts, that he was enabled to 
 bestow on the Dolobelles many tangible benefits, 
 and to enter the Chebes' room laden with little gifts. 
 This little Sidonie soon understood, and ran to meet 
 him, climbing on his knees and boldly searching his 
 pockets. Occasionally he invited them all to the 
 theatre, and nearly every evening he went with 
 Chebe or Dolobelle to a brewery, where he regaled 
 them with beer, a pipe, and stale Pretzel. 
 
 Pretzels and beer were his only vice, and his 
 2 
 
26 SIDOXIK 
 
 greatest enjoyment was to sit between liis two 
 -friends, joining in the conversation only with an 
 occasional laugh or a nod of the head. Naturally 
 timid and unable to express himself fluently, and 
 conscious of certain provincialisms that clung to him 
 still, he shrank from new acquaintances. His old 
 friends absorbed him, while at the same time im- 
 pressing upon him their immense superiority. Ae- 
 cordinff to M. Chebe, no man who worked ten hours 
 each day could by any possibility have at the end of 
 that time any opinion worth offering to any one on 
 any subject. 
 
 Sometimes the designer came in overwhelmed 
 with care, meaning after an hour's repose to return 
 to the factory and work all night. M. Chebe's air 
 of surprised contempt was an absolute study. 
 
 " I can't imagine a man of sense guilty of such 
 folly," he would say. 
 
 Dolobelle was less fierce, but his supercilious 
 condescension was equally amusing. Eisler was 
 thoroughly convinced of his own inferiority, and 
 gently sought to induce his friends to pardon and 
 overlook it by thoughtful attentions and kindnesses. 
 
 In each one of these three humble homes Sido- 
 nie Chebe was always welcome and equally at ease. 
 At any hour of the day she would rush into the 
 Dolobelles' room, perch herself on the arm of Desi- 
 r^e's chair, and watch the rapid movements of the 
 pale girl's fingers. When tired of this, the child 
 would pounce on some discarded beetle, one which 
 had lost a wing on its long voyage, or a humming- 
 
SrORY OF "LITTLE CIL^SM" 27 
 
 bird wtose feathers were hopelessly damaged ; sucli 
 being always presei-yed for her use. Already more 
 coquettish than playful, the little gii-1 would aiTange 
 them in her clustering curls, while Desiree and her 
 mother smiled to see her standing on tiptoe before 
 the old tarnished mirror. When she had studied 
 herself sufficiently, Sidonie, craving more admira- 
 tion, would gravely go and knock at the Kislers' door. 
 
 During the day only Frantz was there, busy over 
 his books at his table by the window. Sidonie, 
 holding her head very stiffly, lest her tiara should 
 be disai'ranged, appeared on the threshold. Fare- 
 well to study ! Everything must be abandoned to 
 do honor to this princess from fairy-land, who came, 
 crowned with shining jewels, to pay him a visit. 
 It was droll enough to see this tall, overgrown 
 youth absorbed by this eight-year-old girl, yielding 
 to' her caprices and whims ; so that later, when he 
 became madly in love with her, no one could fix tlie 
 date when his passion began. 
 
 Petted as she was in these different rooms, there 
 was yet many an hour when Sidonie gladly took 
 refuge in the large window on the staircase. It was 
 there that she found her greatest amusement ; there 
 that she contemplated a vague future. 
 
 The child watched the glittering windows of the 
 huge factory-buildings, and the heavy smoke that at 
 certain hours rolled from the chimneys and envel- 
 oped the gray walls only added the additional charm 
 of mystery. The Fromont manufactory represented 
 to her the acme of luxury and wealth, while the 
 
28 SIDONIE. 
 
 swaying tops of the trees in the garden seemed to 
 beckon her to the promised land, the country of her 
 dreams. 
 
 She listened with intense interest to all that 
 Eisler would tell her — of his master, of his kind- 
 ness, and his success in his business — and she watched 
 with childish curiosity every detail of M. Fromont's- 
 home-life. The marble steps to the garden, the 
 gilded aviary, the perfectly-appointed coupe in the 
 courtyard, all were constant objects of her admi- 
 ration. She knew the daily habits of the .house- 
 hold ; the hours for the dismissal of the workmen ; 
 the pay-day, when the cashier's lamp burned far 
 into the evening ; and Sundays, when the profound 
 silence about the courtyard brought nearer the voices 
 of Mademoiselle Claire and her cousin George, as 
 they played together in the garden. From Eisler 
 she had acquired much information. "Show me 
 the drawing-room windows," she said ; " and now, 
 which is Claire's sleeping-room ? " 
 
 And Eisler, charmed with this sympathetic in- 
 fatuation for his dear manufactory, explained over 
 and over again to the child the arrangement of the 
 buildings, the position of the different work-rooms, 
 and showed her the especial corner where his own 
 office was situated. 
 
 Finally, one day, Sidonie penetrated to this para- 
 dise. 
 
 Madame Fremont, to whom Eisler had often 
 spoken of the intelligence and sweetness of his little 
 neighbor, begged him to bring her there, on the 
 
STORY OF ''LITTLE CIlkBEP 29 
 
 occasion of a cliildren's ball that she was arranging 
 for Christmas-week. 
 
 At first M. Chebe gave a curt refusal. "He 
 had been humiliated enough," he muttered, "by 
 these Fromonts, whose name was never out of 
 Kisler's mouth. Besides, it was a fancy-dress ball, 
 and he, unfortunately, did not sell wall-papers, and 
 consequently could not afford to dress his daughter 
 in costume." But Hisler begged and entreated, 
 promising to take everything upon himself, and at 
 once proceeded to design a costume. 
 
 It was a memorable evening. 
 
 In Madame Chebe's apartment Desiree Dolo- 
 belle presided over Sidonie's toilet. The room was 
 littered with bright-colored draperies ; pins and spools 
 of cotton lay on the table. The little girl, in her 
 short skirt of red flannel striped with black, stood 
 grave and erect before the mirror. She was charm- 
 ing. The bodice laced 'with black velvet over a 
 waist of muslin, and her long braids of chestnut 
 hair fell from a broad-brimmed straw-hat. The 
 somewhat ordinary details of Sidonie's costume were 
 refined by the child's intelligent face and by her 
 well-bred air. The little circle of friends were 
 breathless with admiration, and, while some one 
 went to call the actor, Desiree arranged the folds of 
 the skirt, the bow of ribbon on the shoes, and seemed 
 herself to be overjoyed at the thought of an enter- 
 tainment which she should never see. The great 
 man appeared. Ho made Sidonie repeat the pro- 
 found courtesy which he had taught her, and showed 
 
30 SIDONIE. 
 
 her how to enter a "room, aud to pay her respects to 
 her hostess. It was truly droll to see the accuracy 
 with which the child obeyed these instructions. 
 " She has the blood of an actress in her veins ! " 
 cried the old actor, enthusiastically; and, without 
 knowing why, that great blockhead of a Frantz 
 felt ready to cry. 
 
 A year after this happy evening, had any one 
 asked Sidonie what flowers decorated the rooms, 
 the color of the furniture, the name of the waltz 
 that she heard as she entered the house, she could 
 have answered in turn each question correctly. 
 She forgot nothing, not one of the costumes that 
 whirled past her ; she still heard the childish laugh- 
 ter, and the sound of the little feet on the waxed 
 floor. 
 
 For a moment, as she sat on the red-satin sofa, 
 and took an ice from the tray which an attentive 
 servant held before her, she thought of the dark 
 staircase, the small, ill-ventilated home of her 
 parents, and it all seemed to her like a distant 
 country left behind forever. 
 
 Every one thought her charming, and petted and 
 caressed her. 
 
 Claire Fromont, a small marquise, in pink and 
 blue, presented her cousin George, a; magnificent 
 hussar, who turned around every minute or two to 
 see the effect of his sabretache. 
 
 " You understand, George, she is my friend ; she 
 is coming to play with us on Saturday. Mamma has 
 invited her." 
 
STORY OF ''LITTLE CE^BM." 31 
 
 And in the joy of lier happy little heart Claire 
 embraced Sidonie with vehemence. 
 
 ITevertheless, the horn- came to leave. Throiigh 
 the dark street — where the snow was silently falling 
 — np the narrow staircase, and in the dull room 
 where her mother sat waiting, the child still heheld 
 the glittering lights of the ballroom. 
 
 " Was it beautiful ? did you enjoy it ? " ques- 
 tioned her mother, as she unfastened the brilliant 
 costume. 
 
 And Sidonie, overwhelmed with fatigue, slept 
 as she stood, and began an alluring dream then and 
 there that lasted all through the days of her youth, 
 and cost her many bitter tears. 
 
 Claire Fromont kept her word: Sidonie went 
 often to play with her in that lovely garden, and 
 examined at her ease the gilded aviary. She knew 
 each corner of the huge factory, and played there 
 many a game of hide-and-go-seek on a quiet Sunday 
 afternoon. 
 
 Everybody loved her without her ever evincing 
 much affection for any one. As long as she was in the 
 midst of this luxury she was gentle and happy ; but 
 at home again with her parents, looking at the outer 
 walls of the manufactory through the cloudy win- 
 dow on the corridor, she felt a pang of inexphcable 
 anger. 
 
 Sometimes she drove to the Bois in that beauti- 
 ful coupe, and occasionally she was invited for a 
 week to the country-house of Claire's grandfather. 
 Thanks to Kisler, who was very proud of the girl's 
 
32 SIDONIE. 
 
 success, she was always well dressed. Madame 
 Chebe spared no pains, and Desiree was always 
 ready to employ in her little friend's service her own 
 marvelous taste and ingenuity. 
 
 M. Chebe, always hostile to the Fromonts, con- 
 templated with contempt this increasing intimacy. 
 The truth was, that he was never asked himself; but 
 this reason he naturally never gave, and only said to 
 his wife : 
 
 " Can't you see that the girl is always sad when 
 she returns home, and that she passes hour after hour 
 in idleness, looking out of the window ? " 
 
 But poor Madame Chebe, so unfortunate in her 
 marriage, had become improvident. She maintained 
 that one must enjoy the present ; seize happiness as 
 it passes, since often one has in lifp, for support and 
 consolation, nothing but the remembrance of a happy 
 childhood. 
 
 For once M. Chebe was riffht. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 STOEY OF " LITTLE CHEBE " DdlTATION PEAELB. 
 
 Aftee two or three years of intimacy, years in 
 ■whicli Sidonie acquired with marvelous ease luxuri- 
 ous habits, and the gracious manners of the children 
 of wealth, the friendship was suddenly broken up. 
 For some time George had been away at school. 
 Claire, in her turn, was sent, with a wardrobe fit for 
 a queen, to a convent, and at the same time the 
 question was under discussion in the Chcbc domicile 
 as to Sidonie's future. 
 
 The two children promised to love each other al- 
 ways, and to meet every other Sunday. They kept 
 their word, but, as the young girls grew taller and 
 older, Sidonie began to understand the infinite dis- 
 tance that divided them, and her dresses seemed too 
 plain for Madame Fremont's elegant rooms. 
 
 "When the three alone were together, their friend- 
 ship made their social relations equal ; but visitors 
 now often came — a companion from the convent, or 
 some tall girl richly dressed, who was brought by 
 her mother's maid to spend the day with Clau-e. 
 
 -As she watched her ascending the steps, Sido- 
 nie felt a strong desire to run away at once. The 
 stranger soon embarrassed her with questions. 
 
34 SIDONjE. 
 
 Where did she live ? Had she a carriage ? 
 
 Hearing them talk of their conveBt, of their 
 mutual f nends, Sidonie felt that she lived in a world 
 apart — a thousand leagues from theirs ; and a mortal 
 sadness overwhelmed her, above all, when on her 
 return home her mother spoke of entering her as 
 apprentice to a Mademoiselle Le Mire, a friend of 
 the Dolobelles, who had in a neighboring street an 
 establishment for the sale of imitation pearls. 
 
 Kisler thought well of this plan. " Let her learn 
 her trade," said this kind heart, " and by-and-by I 
 will furnish her with capital to start her in business." 
 In fact, Mademoiselle Le Mire talked of retiring in 
 a few years. 
 
 One dreary morning in November, her father 
 took Sidonie to the fourth story of an old house — 
 older and blacker than their own. On the lower 
 door was hung, among twenty other signs, a small 
 glass case, covered with dust ; within were some neck- 
 laces of imitation pearls, yellowed by time, and the 
 pretentious name of Angelina Le Mire surmounted 
 the whole. 
 
 What a forlorn place it was ! — a narrow stairway, 
 and narrower door ; a succession of small rooms, 
 each sunless and cold, and in the last an elderly wom- 
 an with a false front of curls, black-lace mitts, read- 
 ing a tumbled and soiled nun;ber of a magazine, and 
 appearing somewhat out of temper that she had been 
 disturbed in this lively employment. 
 
 Mademoiselle Le Mire received the father and 
 daughter without rising ; spoke at length of her lost 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CUkSEr 35 
 
 social position, of her father, and of a faithless agent 
 who had run away with their fortune. She, there- 
 fore, became extremely absorbing to M. Chebe, who 
 felt a keen interest always in all such incidents. 
 With difficulty he tore himself away, telling his 
 daughter that he would come for her at seven in the 
 evening. 
 
 The new apprentice was shown into the still 
 empty work-room, and was placed before a large 
 drawer of pearl beads, in which needles and scissors, 
 bodkins and cheap novels, were thrown pell-mell. 
 
 Sidonie had only to sort the pearls, and to string 
 them in little bunches of equal length, to sell to 
 small merchants. The other young ladies, ma- 
 demoiselle said, would soon be there, and would 
 show her just what to do ; and mademoiselle re- 
 treated to the farther room, where she spent her life 
 reading romances. 
 
 At nine o'clock the work-women arrived, five 
 tall, pale girls, faded and worn, miserably dressed, 
 but with their hair exquisitely arranged, as is the 
 custom among the working-classes in Paris. 
 
 Two or three talked, between their yawns, rub- 
 bing their eyes, and saying that they were dying for 
 want of sleep. Then they went to work at a long 
 table, where each one had her drawer and her tools. 
 An order had just come in for some mourning-gar- 
 ments, and they must hurry. Sidonie, who had 
 been taught her duties by the head-woman, in a tone 
 of infinite superiority, began to string mechanically 
 a quantity of black pearls. 
 
36 SWONIK 
 
 The others took no notice, other than an inquisi- 
 tive stare, of the new-comer, and were soon deep in 
 gossip over a marriage that was to take place that 
 day at a church round the corner. 
 
 " Let us go," cried one dark-ej'ed girl. " It is at 
 noon exactly ; we shall have time." 
 
 And at that hour the five girls snatched their 
 shawls and rushed down the stairs like a whirlwind, 
 leaving Sidonie to eat from a corner of the long 
 table, the dinner she had brought- with her. The 
 girl thought it dreary enough, and her life intol- 
 erable. 
 
 At one, the work-women returned noisy and gay. 
 "Did you notice the richness of that white silk? 
 And the veil of real point ? What luck for her ! " 
 And they continued to chatter in the work-room, as 
 loudly as they had done in the church, where, un- 
 awed by the solemnity, they had examined each 
 toilet in detail. A rich marriage, jewels, and fine 
 clothes, were the themes of their discourse. But 
 their fingers flew as they talked. The black walls 
 of mademoiselle's close rooms no longer bounded 
 their horizon. Their hopes and wishes had over- 
 leaped them. "If you were rich, what would you 
 do ? " said one. " Do ? Why, I should have apart- 
 ments on the Champs-Jllys6es, and drive in my 
 carriage." 
 
 From her corner, Sidonie listened in silence, 
 handling the black beads with the delicacy and pre- 
 cision of touch she had learned from D^sir^e. 
 When her father appeared at night, he received 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CtlkBE." 37 
 
 many compliments on her industry and skill. 
 Henceforward, one day was like another ; the only 
 difference being, that some days she worked on 
 white instead of black pearls, or she strung red 
 beads that looked like coral, for Mademoiselle La 
 Mire used only imitations and tinsel — and it was 
 thus that " little Chebe " took her first step in life. 
 
 For some time, the new apprentice, younger and 
 better educated than the others, found herself in 
 solitude among them. Later, as she grew older, she 
 was admitted to their friendship and confidence, 
 without ever sharing their pleasures. She was too 
 proud to run through the streets to witness a mar- 
 riage, and, when she heard of their suppers and their 
 dances, she shrugged her shoulders with disdain. 
 Our visions soar higher than that, Sidonie, do they 
 not ? 
 
 Sometimes, toward the end of the year, she was 
 obliged to send her father home again without her, 
 and remain with the others to finish some pressing 
 work. Under the flickering light of the gas, these 
 pale faces bending over their pearls, white as them- 
 selves, gave one the heart-ache. It was the same 
 fragile brilliancy. They chatted of the theatre 
 and masked balls, and the pearls rattled as they 
 talked. 
 
 In summer the work was less hurried, and in the 
 middle of the day the apprentices slept, or one of 
 the girls borrowed a magazine from their mistress, 
 and read aloud to the others. 
 
 But Sidonie cared little for romances ; she carried 
 
38 SIDONIK 
 
 one in her own small head, infinitely more interest- 
 ing than any she could hear read. 
 
 Nothing had obliterated her interest in the fac- 
 tory. Each morning, as she passed on her father's 
 arm, she examined it carefally. At that hour the 
 chimney belched forth thick volumes of black smoke. 
 She heard the busy hum of the laborers, and the 
 strong and rhythmical strokes of the machinery, 
 and all these noises were confused in her memory, 
 with the recollection of fetes and of blue coupes. 
 
 " The child is not looking well, Madame Chebe ; 
 she must have some amusement : next Sunday we 
 will all go into the country ! " 
 
 These parties of pleasure, arranged by the kind- 
 hearted Eisler for Sidonie's especial pleasure, only 
 depressed her. In the first place, she was obliged 
 to rise at four o'clock — for the poor biiy all their 
 pleasures very dearly. There is always something 
 to be ironed at the last moment ; a trimming to sew 
 on ; to rejuvenate the everlasting little lilac muslin, 
 with white stripes, that Madame Chebe conscien- 
 tiously lengthens each year. 
 
 They start all together, the Chebes, and Hislers, 
 and the illustrious Dolobelle. Desired and her 
 mother do not go. The delicate girl, mortified by 
 her infirmity, prefers to remain in her arm-chair, 
 and her mother stays with her child. Besides, she 
 has no toilet in which to appear by the side of that 
 great man, her husband ; she would have destroyed 
 all the effect. 
 
 At first, Sidonie was somewhat gav. Paris in 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CHkBE." 39 
 
 the early mist of a July morning, the stations filled 
 by well-dressed crowds, the country seen from the 
 car-windows, the exercise and the fresh air, the per- 
 fume of flowers, the green turf, all raised the young 
 girl's spirits for a few moments, but her heart soon 
 grew weary as she thought of the triviality of her 
 amusement. 
 
 ''It is always the same thing over and over 
 again ! " she said to herself. In fact, Sidonie found 
 but one pleasure in these Sunday excursions ; and 
 that consisted in feeling herself admired, even by 
 the simple rustics whom she met on the road. 
 
 Sometimes Risler, with his brother and "little 
 Chebe," deserted the rest of their party, and wan- 
 dered into the woods and meadows, to gather flowers 
 and trailing branches ; these were to servo as models 
 for his wall-papers. Frantz, with his long arms, 
 pulled down a spray of hawthorn or climbed on a 
 stone-wall to gather some wandering vino that pleased 
 them by its careless grace. But it was by the side 
 of a river or running stream that they found their 
 richest harvest. For in the damper soil grew tall, 
 flexible plants whose long, slender stems threw out 
 luxuriant masses of leaves ; and reeds of a rich 
 brown, or a wild convolvulus with its bunches of 
 bright-blue flowers. Kisler grouped his leaves, his 
 buds and flowers, as if Nature alone had done it, 
 tying his bouquet with a wide blade of grass, and 
 hung, it over Frantz's shoulder, and on they went, 
 Kisler talking all the time of subjects and combina- 
 tions. 
 
40 BID ON IE. 
 
 "Look," said lie, "at that cluster of lilies of 
 the valley, with its greenish bells, peeping through 
 that branch of wild roses! Don't you think it 
 would have a pretty effect on a ground of pale 
 gray ? " 
 
 Sidonie cared little for lilies or roses. "Wild 
 flowers were but weeds in her eyes. She remem- 
 bered those in the conservatory at Grandfather Gar- 
 dinois's, and thought of the rare plants growing in 
 the majolica vases on the balcony. Those were the 
 only flowers she loved, so you may fancy that she 
 cared little for the country. 
 
 These recollections of the chateau de Savigny 
 came to her at each step. If they passed a park- 
 gate, she cast a lingering glance up the straight 
 avenue. The green lawns, shaded by tall trees, re- 
 called other trees and other lawns. These glimpses 
 of unattainable luxury made these excursions infi-. 
 nitely dreary to her. But returning home utterly 
 overwhelmed her. The small stations in the vicinity 
 of Paris are on such evenings fearfully crowded and 
 uncomfortable. But M. Chobe was in his element ; 
 he bustled about, complained of a train that was 
 delayed for two or three minutes, and threatened 
 loudly to call on one of the directors. " Imagine," 
 he said in a blustering tone, " such a thing happen- 
 ing in America ! " 
 
 And the noble actor answered with a shrug of 
 the shoulders, " Precisely ! " 
 
 The single word, thanks to the wonderful talent 
 of the comedian, conveyed to the gaping spectators 
 
STORY OF ''LITTLE CHSBE." 41 
 
 the idea that the two men had just returned from a 
 voyage around the world. 
 
 Seated by Frantz's side, his enormous bouquet 
 half in her lap, Sidonie remained for a long time 
 absolutely silent ; contemplating the black masses of 
 trees against the skies, a long country road, and the 
 crowd that came and went occasionally through the 
 glass doors of the waiting-room, the young girl 
 caught a glimpse of a train that iiashed by without 
 stopping ; then came the one that her party was to 
 take, and they hastened to find seats. How dusty 
 and uncomfortable it all was ! — the tumbled, soiled 
 dresses of the women, the men red and warm. A 
 thick white dust obscured the one lamp, and hung 
 like a mist over everything. Sidonie pushed up the 
 window at her side, and fixed her eyes on the long 
 rows of trees as they glided past. Soon, like count- 
 less stars, they saw before them the street-lamps of 
 Paris. This melancholy day of pleasure was at last 
 over, and each member of the now silent party be- 
 gan to think of to»morrow's toil. Sidonie rebelled 
 at this contemplation, and envied the rich, to whom 
 each day brought fresh amusements ; and vaguely, 
 as in a dream, peopled the fair avenues she had 
 seen, with a crowd of well-dressed men and women, 
 who were amusing themselves by watching the 
 citizens who, in the face of heat and dust, and so 
 much discomfort, had persisted in seeking a holi- 
 day. 
 
 From her thirteenth to her seventeenth birth- 
 day, such was Sidonie's monotonous life. Madame 
 
43 SWONIE. 
 
 Cli^be's cashmere shawl was a trifle more woiti, 
 and the lilac dress was irretrievably shabby ; these, 
 and an additional inch to Sidonie's height, were all 
 the changes. Frantz now treated the girl with 
 silent adoration, which she alone, of all their little 
 circle, failed to detect. Nothing interested her ; she 
 performed all her duties silently and mechanically. 
 
 Frantz, on the contrary, worked with singular 
 energy ; it was easy to see that he proposed to him- 
 self some end and aim, and succeeded so well that 
 at twenty-four he received a government appoint- 
 ment. 
 
 On the evening of that day Risler invited all the 
 Chebe family to go to the theatre. He and Madame 
 Chebe exchanged a constant succession of nods and 
 signs. On coming out, Madame Chebe resigned 
 Sidonie to the care of Frantz with an air that seemed 
 to say, " Now, settle it all between you — it is your 
 own affair." 
 
 And the young lover was quite ready. The 
 walk was a long one, so Frantz began by speaking 
 of the play. "I like those," he said, "in which 
 there is some sentiment; don't you, Sidonie?" ho 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't care," she answered, "what the play is, 
 if the dresses are pretty." 
 
 In tmth, at the theatre she thought of little else, 
 and the scene simply inspired her with a wild long- 
 ing for wealth and power, and she took away with 
 her only new models for a dress, or for the arrange- 
 ment of her hair. 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CHMBE." 43 
 
 The exaggerated toilets of the actresses, their 
 very walk and attitudes, ahsurdlj conventional, 
 seemed to her the perfection of elegance and dis- 
 tinction. The crowded house,. the carriages at the 
 door, all delighted her. 
 
 Her lover continued : 
 
 " How well they played that love-scene ! " — 
 and, as he uttered these words, he bent tenderly 
 over the pretty little head in its white hood. 
 
 Sidonie sighed : " Ah ! yes, the love-scene. The 
 actress wore superb diamonds." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Poor Frantz 
 had some diBBculty in explaining himself. The 
 words he sought came not at his bidding, and he 
 felt himself growing very cowardly. 
 
 " I will speak," he said to himself, " before we 
 turn the next corner." 
 
 But Sidonie began to talk on such indifferent 
 subjects that his declaration froze on his lips. 
 
 At last he said suddenly : 
 
 " Listen to me, Sidonie^-I love you — ■" 
 
 This same night the Dolobelles had sat up very 
 late. It was the habit of these courageous women 
 to make their hours of toil as many as possible, and 
 their lamp was the last to be extinguished in their 
 qniet street. They always waited for the return 
 of their hero, for whom they kept a small, comfort- 
 . ing supper hot. 
 
 When he was playing — ^years before — naturally 
 and wisely enough this habit had been adopted, for 
 
44: SIDONIE. 
 
 he was obliged to dine early and lightly. But Dolo- 
 belle had not played for a long time ; yet, having 
 no right, as he said,, to relinquish the theatre, he 
 carefully retained the habits it necessitated, of which 
 this hot supper was by no means the least agree- 
 able. To retire without it would have been to 
 admit himself conquered — to relinquish the strug- 
 gle ! The night of which we speak, the actor had 
 not yet made his appearance. The two women were 
 at work, and talldng cheerfully, notwithstanding the 
 lateness of the horn*. All the evening they had 
 talked of nothing but Frantz, of his success, and of 
 their joy therein, and of the future that opened so 
 brilliantly before him. 
 
 " And now," said Madame Dolobelle, "we must 
 look np a nice little wife for him." 
 
 Such was also Desiree's idea. "His happiness 
 would be quite certain should he marry a good little 
 . woman who is not afraid of work, and who would 
 devote herself to him." And Desiree spoke as if 
 she knew such a woman intimately. " She is only 
 a year younger than he," she added, meditatively. 
 
 "Pretty?" 
 
 "No, not precisely," answered the girl, slowly. 
 " But no one knows save myself how much this wom- 
 an loves Frantz, and how slie has thought of him for 
 years and years ; while he, stupid boy, had only eyes 
 for that little foolish kitten, Sidonie. But it will all 
 come right some day ; love is never tlirown away." 
 
 And the lame girl smiled softly to herself as she 
 bent over her work, and started off on one of those 
 
STORY OF ''LITTLE OH^BE." 45 
 
 marvelous journeys to an imaginary world, whence 
 she always returned a happy wife on the arm of 
 Frantz. Even her fingers shared the radiance of 
 her dream, and the little bird whose wings she was 
 spreading looked as if he had just arrived from a 
 tropical land of fruit and flowers. 
 
 The door suddenly opened. 
 
 " Do I disturb you ? " asked a triumphant voice. 
 
 The mother, half asleep, started up. 
 
 "Ah! It is only Frantz — come in. You see 
 we are waiting for papa. These artists, you know, 
 are always irregular in their hom's. You will wait 
 and sup with him ? " 
 
 "No — thanks," answered the youth, whose lips 
 were still white with emotion, " I will not wait ; I 
 saw your light, and came only to tell you — to inform 
 you of a great piece of news, because I know you 
 love me — in short, I have come to tell you that 
 Frantz Eisler and Sidonie are engaged." 
 
 " Just as I was saying to Desiree that you only 
 needed now a little wife to be perfectly happy," 
 cried Madame Dolobelle, congratulating the young 
 man heartily. 
 
 Desiree could not speak. She bent her head 
 lower over her work, and as Frantz was absorbed in 
 his own happiness, and her mother had eyes only 
 for the clock, no one saw the young girl's emotion, 
 nor her sudden pallor, nor noticed the violent trem- 
 bling of the little bird in her fingers, whose wings 
 drooped and head fell on one side like a creature 
 wounded to death. 
 
CHAPTER TV. 
 
 STORY OF " LITTLE CHEBE " THE FEBE-FLIES OF 
 
 SAVIGNT. 
 
 " Satignt. 
 
 " Dbae Sidonie ; Yesterday we were at table, 
 in tlie large dining-room you once knew so well. I 
 was out of spirits ! Grandpa had been out of tem- 
 per all tbe morning, and mamma hardly dared to 
 speak. I was thinking that it was a great pity to 
 be alone there, in such a lovely spot. 
 
 " George comes only occasionally, and then very 
 late— merely to dinner — and returns the next morn- 
 ing with my father before I am up ; besides, my 
 cousin has become a man of business in these days. 
 
 " Suddenly grandpa turned to me — ' What has 
 become of that little Sidonie ? ' he asked, abruptly ; 
 'I should like to see her here again.' You may 
 imagine my delight! How much I have to tell 
 you — ^how much to show you ! You will cheer us 
 up, my dear, and I assure you we all need some- 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 " Savigny is only a lovely desert. In the morn- 
 ing I make my toilet with the greatest care — and 
 for what ? That the swans may admire me, or the 
 cows, feeding in the distant meadows. Then I rush 
 to my room, throw off all my finery, put on a linen 
 dress, and feed the chickens and ducks. Happily 
 the hunting-season is near at hand, and I look for- 
 ward to that as some amusement. George and my 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE ClikBE." 47 
 
 father will both be here morej and you too — for yoii 
 are going to answer at once, and tell mc what day 
 to expect you. M. Risler said you were not at all 
 well, and the air here will do you a world of good. 
 
 " Every one expects you, and I am dying with 
 impatience. 
 
 "Claieb ." 
 
 Her letter was finished, and Claire Fremont put 
 on her wide-brimmed hat, for the August sun was 
 very hot, and went herself to place it in the little 
 box on the park-gate, from which the postman 
 would take it the following morning. No kindly 
 breeze whispered in the girl's ear a warning to pre- 
 vent her sending that fatal letter, and she hurried 
 back to the house to prepare for Sidonie a pretty 
 room next to her own. 
 
 The letter reached its destination, arriving in 
 Paris the next morning, and was duly delivered to 
 Sidonie. "What an event it was ! They all read it 
 over and over again, and for the next week it lay 
 on the chimney-piece with Madame Chebe's more 
 precious relics of the past. To Sidonie it was like 
 a romance full of enchantment and of promise. 
 There was no talk of her marriage now — every one 
 was absorbed in her toilets for the chateau ; every 
 one was busy in cutting and sewing, while she her- 
 self was all the time occupied in trying on her new 
 dresses. Unfortunate Frantz ! How all these prep- 
 arations made his heart ache ! This visit to Savigny 
 would postpone his marriage. It was in vain for 
 him to oppose the plan, and he saw Sidonie slipping 
 
48 SIBONIK 
 
 each day, as it were, from his grasp. Once at Sa- 
 viguy, who could say when she would return ? 
 
 It was to the Dolobelles that the unhappy lover 
 went with his melancholy forebodings ; and he never 
 noticed how Desir^e, as soon as he entered, made a 
 place for him at her work-table, with eyes cast down 
 and scarlet cheeks. 
 
 For several days the beetles and birds had been 
 laid aside. The mother and daughter were em- 
 broidering some rose-colored flounces for a dress of 
 Sidonie's, and never had the lame girl sewed more 
 diligently, for she inherited much of her father's 
 hopeful heart and powers of self-deception. 
 
 While Frantz told her of his disappointment and 
 of his fears, Desiree thought only that, were Sidonie 
 once far away, he would fall into the habit of com- 
 ing to her for consolation. Perhaps, too, a happy 
 night would come when, as they sat alone waiting 
 for "papa," Frantz would realize the difference be- 
 tween a woman who adored him and one who mere- 
 ly permitted herself to be adored. 
 
 Consequently, the impatience she felt for Sido- 
 nie's departure lent to her needle such extraordi- 
 nary velocity that Frantz watched the ruffles and 
 ruches piling up about her with almost a feeling of 
 hatred — for Sidonie's departure was only delayed 
 until the rose-colored dress was finished. When the 
 last stitch was taken. Mademoiselle Chebe left for 
 Savigny. The chateau, built in the time of Louis 
 XV., had an air of sombre magnificence. It stood 
 in the centre of a large park, and the trees surround- 
 
SrORY OF "LITTLE CH&BE." 49 
 
 ing it were superb ; but the -chief charm of the spot 
 ■was a lovely river that ran through the grounds. 
 Unfortunately, the manners and appearance of the 
 present proprietors did not correspond with the 
 aristocratic air of the chateau. 
 
 The wealthy tradesman, after bjiying the estate 
 from its impoverished owners, cut down many of 
 the trees " to open a view," and then built a high 
 wall to teop out intruders. But his tenderest solici- 
 tude was lavished on his vegetable-garden. 
 
 Of the salon, whose white panels were finished 
 in a masterly manner by the greatest painters of tlie 
 day ; of the lake, whitened by water-lilies ; of the grot- 
 toes and bridges, he thought nothing, save when his 
 guests went into ecstasies over them. Advanced in 
 years, he could neither hunt nor fish, and passed his 
 time in superintending the most minute details of 
 this enormous property. The grain with which the 
 poultry was fed, the number of bundles of straw 
 piled in the barn, served hun to scold about for a 
 long summer's day. And certainly, when one be- 
 held from afar ofE this beautiful spot, the shining 
 river and green turf, the trees and the flowers, one 
 would never have suspected the meanness and nar- 
 row mind of its owner, who lived there throughout 
 the year, the Fromonts spending only their summers 
 with him. 
 
 Madame Tromont was of a gentle nature, but 
 dull and without cultivation, intimidated from her 
 birth by her father's brutal disposition. She was 
 afraid, too, of her husband, whose goodness and eon- 
 
50 swoms. 
 
 stant indulgence had never sncceeded in winuinj 
 the entire confidence of his wife. Having alwayi 
 been Icept in utter ignorance of business-matters 
 they had grown rich almost without her knowledge 
 and without the smallest desire on her part to profii 
 by it. Her superb apartments in Paris and hei 
 father's chAteau were equally a burden to her 
 She always gathered her skirts about her closely 
 and made it her study to take up as little space as 
 possible. She had but one passion, one pursuit in 
 life: she was simply deranged on the subject oJ 
 cleanliness and order, and brushed and dusted, pol- 
 ished and rubbed, everything she could get hold of. 
 
 "When she could find nothing else to clean, 
 this singular \\omau took out her rings and chains, 
 rubbed* down her cameos and loosened her jewels 
 from their settings. At Savigny she amused her- 
 self by picking np the twigs in the avenue, by dig- 
 ging out the moss between the stones with the point 
 of her umbrella, and would have liked to dust the 
 very leaves on the trees. 
 
 M. Fremont had no attachment for Savigny, 
 and only Claire loved the beautiful park. She 
 knew its every corner, and had her favorite walk, 
 her own tree, imder the shade of which she read oi 
 sewed. She spent the whole day in the air, and 
 went into the house only when summoned by a bell 
 to her meals. In the folds of her dress linsered 
 the freshness of the summer's day; and her soft, 
 limpid eyes seemed to reflect the sparkle and glittei 
 of the lake near which she had wandered in solitude. 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CHMe." 51 
 
 The beauty of the iplace elevated her thoughts 
 above the vulgar routine of the day. Her grand- 
 father might fret and fume before her for hours to- 
 g-ether ; he might tell her anecdotes of the duplicity 
 and indolence of the servants and tradespeople. 
 Her mother might enumerate all her griefs, and 
 •complain of the ravages made by moths and mice, 
 by dust and dampness ; but not a syllable was re- 
 membered by Claire. An hour by the river-side, or 
 a rapid walk on the turf, and her mind was again 
 calm and 'her temper unsoured. 
 
 Her grandfather regarded her as a creature 
 totally out of place in his family. When a mere 
 . child, she annoyed him by a certain steadfast look 
 in her big gray eyes, and by a way she had of set- 
 tling every subject by the question, " Is that right ? " 
 
 " She is just like her father," he said to himself 
 one day, " just as haughty and eccentric as he." 
 
 "Little Chebe" was very much more to his 
 taste. In her he recognized a kindred soul, a 
 nature a's ambitious and unscrupulous as his own. 
 The young girl flattered him in a hundred adroit 
 ways. Her frank adoration for his wealth, her out- 
 spoken longings for riches, were a constant delight 
 to him. She amused the old man, too, by certain 
 slang phrases, reserved for his hearing alone, and 
 which acquired additional piquancy heard from her 
 dainty lips. 
 
 When Sidonie arrived, after a long absence 
 from Savigny, with her fresh and simple costumes, 
 her hair dressed in the extreme of the mode, her 
 
52 SIDONIE. 
 
 pretty figure and intelligent, mobile face, she had a 
 gi'eat success. Old Gardinois Avas astonished to see 
 this tall young girl, instead of the child he had ex- 
 pected, and thought her infinitely more attractive 
 than Claire. Sidonie had both grace and style; 
 but she lacked the calm beauty of her friend, the 
 purity of expression, the sweetness and repose of 
 manner, that characterized Claire. 
 
 Sid^onie's grace, like her costume, was of inferior 
 quality. The material was often imitation, always 
 cheap, but made up in the newest style. 
 
 The girl was radiant as she drove up the avenue. 
 She had been in a dream of delight all the morning. 
 She took in each luxurious detail. The liveried ser- 
 vant who opened the carriage- door, the glitter of 
 the dinner-table with its silver and glass, the hot- 
 house flowers, even Madame Fremont's indolent 
 way of giving orders to the obsequious maid, de- 
 lighted her. 
 
 Ah ! yes ; this was living, indeed ! This was 
 the existence for which she was made ! In a day 
 or two she almost forgot that she was a stranger, 
 and looked on this luxury as her own. Suddenly, 
 to arouse her from her dream, came a letter from 
 Frantz, that recalled her to the reality of her posi- 
 tion, and to the fact that she was about to marry 
 a poor man who would install her in a dark and 
 dreary home. 
 
 Should she break ofi her marriage ? 
 
 She could do so, of course, but might she not 
 regret the step afterward ? 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE OE^BK" 53 
 
 In that small head many singular ideas had 
 taken firm root. Sometimes she contemplated 
 Grandpa Gardinois, who in her honor had aban- 
 doned a certain old vest and gaiters, with a very 
 singular expression. " Ah ! if he were only some 
 twenty years younger ! " she said to herself. But 
 this notion of becoming Madame Gardinois did not 
 last long. A new person and a new hope entered 
 upon the scene. 
 
 Since Sidonie's arrival, George Fromont, who 
 before had visited Savigny only on Sundays, had 
 ■ taken up the habit of coming daily to dinner. 
 
 He was a tall, slender fellow, distinguished in 
 appearance and manners ; an orphan, he had been 
 brought up by his uncle, M. Fromont, who in- 
 tended that he should be his successor in business, 
 and also that he should marry Claire. This future, 
 so carefully arranged for him, deprived him of all 
 Ambition. From the first he disliked the manufac- 
 tory ; as to his cousin,- there existed between them 
 a certain intimacy, arising from common tastes and 
 interests, to say nothing of early companionship. 
 But there was no love — on his side, at all events. 
 
 With Sidonie he felt at once timid and anxious 
 — anxiojis to produce a good impression, and too 
 timid to succeed. She was precisely the person, 
 with her studied graces, to please a nature like his ; 
 and it was not long before she understood the cards 
 she held in her bands. 
 
 When the two young girls sat on the bank of 
 the river, it was always Sidonie who listened for 
 
54 SIDONIE. 
 
 the whistle of the coming train, and George's first 
 look was for her who remained a little in the hack- 
 ground, but who, by her studied attitude and con- 
 spicuous costume, seemed to demand attention. 
 There was no word of love between the two, but 
 eveiy smile and glance was full of silent avowals 
 and encouragement. 
 
 One heavy, lowering evening — the air was full 
 of rain and the heat very oppressive — the two 
 friends left the table as soon as dinner was over, ajid 
 paced up and down the avenue. George joined 
 them and the three chatted on indifferent subjects, 
 while the sand and pebbles grated under their slow 
 steps. Madame Fremont called Claire, and George 
 and Sidonie were left alone. They continued to 
 walk together in the darkness, their only guide be- 
 ing the white gravel of the path. They did not 
 speak to each other. 
 
 A damp soft wind blew in their faces. The lit- 
 tle lake rippled and dashed in minute waves against 
 the arches of the stone bi'idge. The acacias and 
 lime-trees filled the air with their perfume, and a 
 cloud of their blossoms fell around them. The air 
 was full of electricity; they felt it, too, within 
 themselves ; their eyes flashed, as did the lightning 
 on the distant horizon. 
 
 " Look at those lovely fire-flies ! " cried the young 
 gii-1, embarrassed by the long silence. 
 
 All over the lawn glittered the small, greenish 
 lights. She stooped to take one on her finger. 
 
 He came and knelt at her side ; close together 
 
STORY OF ''LITTLE Ciri!£M" 55 
 
 they bent over tlie turf, and looked at eacli other by 
 the L'ght of the fire-flies. How strange and lovely 
 she was in that singular reflection which illuminated 
 her forehead and rippling hair ! He threw one arm 
 around her, and, suddenly feeling that she yielded 
 to his embrace, he pressed a long kiss on her lips. 
 - " What are you looking for ? " asked Claire from 
 the deep shadow behind them. 
 
 George could not speak-, but Sidonie rose from 
 her knees with the greatest calmness, saying, as she 
 shook out her skirts : 
 
 "Fire-flies only — see how many there are to- 
 night, and how they glitter ! " 
 
 Her eyes glittered, too, with extraordinary brill- 
 iancy. 
 
 " It is the coming storm, probably," murmured 
 George, still struggling to restrain his emotion. 
 
 In fact, the storm was close at hand. In a 
 moment a whirlwind of dust and dead leaves flew 
 from one end of the avenue to the other. All three 
 ran into the house. 
 
 George tried to read a paper, while Madame 
 Eromont cleaned her rings ; the young ladies occu- 
 pied themselves with their embroidery; and M. 
 Gardinois played a game of billiards in the next 
 room with his son-in-law. 
 
 How long this evening seemed to Sidonie ! She 
 had but one desire, and that was to be alone, free to 
 think her own thoughts. But in the silence and 
 darkness of her own room what transports of joy 
 filled her soul ! George loved her — George Fro- 
 
56 SIDONIS. 
 
 mont, the heir of the great firm ! They would be 
 married, and shs shonld be rich. For in this little 
 venal nature the first kiss of love had awakened 
 only thoughts of ambition and luxury. 
 
 In order to assure herself of her lover's sinceri- 
 ty, she tried to remember each detail of the brief 
 scene in the avenue — ^the expression of his eyes, 
 the ardor of his embrace, and the words that he ut- 
 tered as he pressed his lips to hers. Ah ! why had 
 not the fire-flies shown her his heart as well as his 
 eyes? AH night they danced before her closed 
 eyes; the park was full of them. Sleepless she 
 looked from the window — the very air was radiant 
 with the tiny creatures, and she fancied them fairy 
 torclies assembled to do honor to the marriage of 
 George and herself. 
 
 The next day when she rose her plans were 
 complete. George loved her — that much was cer- 
 tain. Would he marry her? Of that our little 
 worldling was by no means sure ; but that doubt 
 did not alarm her. She understood the nature with 
 which she had to deal, and was convinced thatjhe 
 proper amount of resistance would enable her to 
 manage the affair much as she pleased. 
 
 For some days she was cool and absent — volun- 
 tarily blind and deaf. He wished to speak to her, 
 but she avoided him. At last he wrote. 
 
 He should hope, he said, to find a reply in a fis- 
 sure in a rock at the extreme end of the park. 
 
 Sidonie found this idea delightful. That even- 
 ing it was necessary for her to equivocate and ma- 
 
STORY OF "LITTLE CUEBEy 5? 
 
 ncEuvre so tliat she might go alone to the designated 
 spot, where she hoped to find a note instead of de- 
 positing one. 
 
 She was not mistaken. She found a letter damp 
 with the dews of the evening, and so white in the 
 darkness that she hid it quickly lest she should be 
 surprised. 
 
 Then, when she was alone, what joy to open it — 
 to decipher its minute characters, to see the words 
 that to her dazzled yision seemed to be surrounded 
 with blue and yellow circles, as when one gazes at 
 the sun in noonday ! 
 
 " I love you ! — Love me ! " wrote George. 
 
 At first she did not answer ; but, when she felt 
 that the game was hers, she wrote simply, " I will 
 love no man but my husband." 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 HOW "little chebe's" stoet esds. 
 
 Septembee arrived, and with it a large niiinber 
 of guests at the chateau. They were mostly vulgar 
 rich people, and among them no one who especially 
 interested Sidonie. TJtie days were beginning to 
 shorten perceptibly, and the evenings were damp 
 and chilly, so that the sportsmen were glad to drive 
 back in their carriages, and, after a hurried toilet, 
 assembled in the well-lighted drawing-rooms. 
 
 Claire Fromont was very reserved and quiet, 
 annoyed by the distasteful assembly in which she 
 found herseK. But Sidonie was quite in her ele- 
 ment. Her complexion and eyes were more than 
 ordinarily brilliant, and the admiration of the people 
 about her was very openly displayed. Her success 
 finished George's infatuation ; but the more he ad- 
 vanced the more she retreated. From that moment 
 he swore she should be his wife. He swore it to 
 himself with that exaggeration of repetition which 
 characterizes those weak natures who determine to 
 fight in advance with.those objections to which they 
 are conscious that one day they will yield. 
 
 This was the most glorious moment ■ of " little 
 
BOW "LITTLE OH^BE'S" STORY ENDS. 59 
 
 Cliebe's " life. For, above and beyond her ambitious 
 projects, her insincere and coquettish natwre prized 
 this clandestine love-affair that she was bringing to 
 so triumphant a conclusion. 
 
 ISo one suspected anything of it. Claire was at 
 that healthy and charming season of youth when 
 the mind, but half developed, sees only what is 
 spread widely open, and suspects no concealments 
 or treachery. M. Fromont thought of his business, 
 his wife'of the dust among her jewels. It was only 
 M. Gardinois whom Sidonie feared, and, " after 
 all, if he were to suspect anything," she said to her- 
 self, " he is not the man to betray me." She tri- 
 umphed, when suddenly a catastrophe, totally un- 
 foreseen and iinsuspected, came to destroy all her 
 hopes. 
 
 One morning M. Fromont was brought in mor- 
 tally wounded ; he had received the full charge of 
 his own fowling-piece in . his temple. The chateau 
 was in confusion, and the party dispersed in every 
 direction. Claire, crazy with grief, was in her father's 
 room, when Kisler, informed of the catastrophe, 
 came to take Sidonie away. On this last evening 
 she had a final interview with George — an inter- 
 view saddened and solemnized by the near presence 
 of death. They promised to love each other always, 
 and agreed on some plan of correspondence, and 
 then they separated. 
 
 Sidonie returned home under the care of Eisler, 
 who was in despair; for the death of his master 
 and. friend was to him an irretrievable loss. She 
 
60 BIDONIR 
 
 was compelled to give to her mother and the Dolo- 
 belles each detail of her visit, to emimerate the fetes 
 and the toilets, and, finally, to describe the sad dis- 
 aster at the end. The pain and agony this cost 
 her no one ever knew, nor her longing for silence 
 and solitude. 
 
 Frantz took his old place at her side, and his 
 words and tender looks drove her nearly mad ; 
 for the youth naturally claimed certain rights as 
 her accepted and impatient lover, and Sidonie 
 shrank from even the touch of his hand. The day 
 arrived at last, however, when indecision was no 
 longer possible'. She had promised to marry Frantz 
 when his salary was raised. He came to announce 
 that this was now done. She must marry him, or 
 give him a reason for her refusal. In this dilemma 
 she thought of D^siree. Although the lame girl had 
 never opened her heart to her, Sidonie thoroughly 
 comprehended her love for Frantz. Had the cir- 
 cumstances been different, the knowledge, perhaps, 
 that another woman loved her fiance would have 
 made him more endurable to Mademoiselle Chebe. 
 Just as we place statues on tombs to render them 
 less sad, so did the pale, pretty face of Deshee on the 
 threshold of Sidonie's dismal future make it appear 
 less dreary and hopeless. 
 
 But now she grasped at this, as furnishing an 
 easy pretext for releasing herself from her promise. 
 
 " It is impossible, mamma," she said, one day ; 
 " I will never consent to make Desu-<^e so unhappy. 
 Have you not noticed that, ever since vaj return, 
 
now "LITTLE CBEBE'S"' STORT EN'DS. 61 
 
 she has been pale and sad, and that she watches me 
 with eyes full of entreaty and reproach? ISTo, I 
 will not do her this wrong. Poor Desir^e ! " Al- 
 though Madame Chebe admired her daughter's kind 
 and generous heart, she thought the sacrifice too 
 great for her to make. 
 
 " Take care, my child ! we are poor, and a 
 man like Frantz does not present himself every 
 day." 
 
 " So much the worse, then, for me ! At all events 
 I will not marry him," cried Sidonie, and repeated 
 her words without wavering to Frantz himself. He 
 grew angry, as she would give no reasons, either to 
 him or to his brother, though her mother whispered 
 mysteriously to the elder brother that she was 
 proud of her daughter, and aided, under a promise 
 of secrecy, that it was on Desiree's accoun^t. 
 
 " Do not utter a word of reproach, my boy," 
 said Kisler to Frantz ; " she is an angel." 
 
 " Yes, an angel ! " sighed Madame Chebe, in 
 sucb a way that the poor fellow decided to leave 
 Paris, and he immediately sought and obtained a 
 position at Isma'ilia', on the works at the isthmus of 
 Suez. He departed, knowing nothing of Desiree's 
 affection, and yet, when he went to bid her farewell, 
 her love was plainly to be read in her clear blue 
 eyes. Fortunately, some sufiering souls are endowed 
 with infinite patience. Her friend gone, the lame 
 girl, with the courage and hope inherited from her 
 father, toiled on industriously, saying to herself 
 with a gentle smile, " I will wait ! " and from that 
 
63 8ID0NIK 
 
 moment her birds' wings were widely spread, as if 
 they were about to take flight to Egypt them- 
 selves. 
 
 From Marseilles Frantz wrote to Sidonie a last 
 letter — a letter at once comical and touching; a 
 singular combination of reproaches and tenderness, 
 mixed with the most commonplace details of the 
 vessel in which he was to sail. 
 
 Sidonie, however, cared little for this ; she nei- 
 ther laughed nor cried at this letter, for many other 
 things filled her head. She had become very anx- 
 ious over George's silence. Since she had left Sa- 
 vigny, she had not received one line from him ; her 
 own letters elicited no response. It was true that 
 she had learned from Kisler that George was occu- 
 pied day and night, for his uncle's death had thrown 
 more responsibility upon him than he was prepared 
 for ; but not to write one word — ! 
 
 From the window in the corridor, where she had 
 again resumed her silent watches (for she had re- 
 linquished her position at Mademoiselle La Mire's), 
 Sidonie caught many a glimpse of her lover ; she 
 saw him going in and out of the manufactory, and 
 ia the evening watched him enter his carriage to be 
 driven to the train that was to take him to Savigny, 
 where his aunt and cousin were passing the first 
 months of their mourning. 
 
 All this terrified her ; and, above all, the prox- 
 imity of the factory rendered her more sensible of 
 the real distance between herself and her lover. 
 She could almost make him hear the sound of her 
 
BOW ''LITTLE CHEBE'S" STORY ENDS. 63 
 
 voice ; only a few stone-walls divided them ; and 
 yet, how far off he was ! 
 
 One snowy night that winter Kisler entered 
 Madame Chebe's apartment. " News ! " he said, 
 " great news ! " George Fromont had just informed 
 him that, in obedience to his uncle's last wishes, he 
 was about to marry his cousin Claire, and that, as it 
 was impossible for him to carry on the business 
 alone, he had resolved to take him into partnership, 
 giving to the new firm the name " Fromont & Eis- 
 ler." 
 
 Sidonie never knew whence came' the strength 
 that enabled her to keep her secret, when she learned 
 that the manufactory had eluded her grasp, and that 
 another woman was about to take her place. What 
 a miserable evening ! Madame Chebe sat at the 
 table before a huge basket of household linen, while 
 her husband was in front of the fire. The lamp 
 burned badly ; the room was cold, and an odor of 
 cooking hung about it ; but Eisler was gay, intoxi- 
 cated, in fact, with joy. 
 
 For many a long day SidoAJe lay ill, dangerous- 
 ly ill. As the sick girl lay in her bed and heard 
 her windows rattle behind her curtains, she fancied 
 that the carriages rolling past were bearing Claire 
 and George to their wedding. This fancy brought 
 on paroxysms of nervous weeping, which puzzled 
 her nurses and physicians. 
 
 Finally, her youth and good constitution tri- 
 umphed, and, thanks to the tender care of her 
 mother and Desiree, who by this time had learned 
 
64 SIBONIE. 
 
 the sacrifice that had been made for her, Sidonie 
 rose from her siek-bed ; but the girl was out of spir- 
 its and weary of her life. Sometimes she talked of 
 traveling, of leaving Paris ; at other times she de- 
 cided to enter a convent. All her friends watched 
 her tenderly, more anxious about her now than they 
 had been when her ailment had been merely physi- 
 cal. Suddenly she acknowledged her secret to her 
 mother. She loved the elder Eisler ; she had never 
 dared to say so, but it was he whom she had always 
 loved, and not his brother. Everybody was wonder- 
 struck at this, Bisler more than any one else ; but the 
 young girl was so pale and so pretty, she looked at 
 him with such tender eyes, that it was not long be- 
 fore the good fellow worsliiped the very ground on 
 which she stood. Perhaps, too, this affection had 
 only lain dormant in the dim recesses of his heart. 
 
 And now, dear reader, you understand why, on 
 the evening of her marriage-day, Madame Kisler, in 
 her glistening white raiment, looked forth with a 
 smile of triumph at the window where for the last 
 ten years she had passed so many sad and lonely 
 hours. That haughty, contemptuous smile was evi- 
 dently bestowed on the poor child whom she fancied 
 she saw opposite through the darkness of the night 
 and of the past. 
 
 " What are you saying, little Chebe ? " mur- 
 mured Sidonie. " You see I am here, after all." 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 "MT wife's EECEPTI02T-DAT." 
 
 The manufactory-bell h^s just rung ; it is noon, 
 and mothers hurry home to their babies, having an 
 hour of leisure, while Eisler and his young partner, 
 George Fromont, stroll leisurely through the gar- 
 den toward the pretty home they occupy under the 
 same roof. Thoy are talking earnestly on their 
 business-afiairs. 
 
 " You must look out," said Fromont, " or we 
 shall find the Prochassons dangerous riTals." 
 
 Pisler had no fears ; he knew his own strength, 
 and had had vast experience. " Then, too," he add- 
 ed — " but this is confidential — I am on the track 
 of a new invention that will be a fortune in itself." 
 By this time they had crossed the carefully-kept 
 garden, with its acacias almost as old as the house 
 itself, and its superb ivies that veiled the heavy 
 walls. 
 
 By Fremont's side Pisler looked like a clerk ren- 
 dering an account of the day's transactions. He 
 stopped every few steps, to finish a sentence, for his 
 
66 SIDONIE. 
 
 words came slowly. He had no idea that a pretty 
 face was looking at him through the curtains of a 
 window in the upper story. 
 
 Madame Eisler was waiting for her husband to 
 come to lunch, and was very impatient at his delay. 
 She beckoned to him, but Eisler did not see her. 
 He was occupied with the Fremont baby, who was 
 taking the air in the arms of her nurse, a mass of 
 lace and ribbons. How pretty the little creature 
 was ! " Your very image, Madame George ! " 
 
 " Do you think so ? And yet ahnost every one 
 thinks her more like her father ! " 
 
 " She resembles him, of course ; but — " and all 
 of them — father, mother, Eisler, and the nurse — 
 gravely examine the atom of humanity, who looks 
 at them, in turn, with wide-open, wondering eyes. 
 Sidonie bends from her open window, to see what 
 they are all doing, and why her husband does not 
 come up. 
 
 Eisler liad just taken the infant into his own 
 arms, and stood, enveloped in the floating robes and 
 blue ribbons, trying to win a smile or a coo of do- 
 light from the child. He looked like its grand- 
 father. " How old the poor man is growing ! " • 
 thought Sidonie ; " and how absurd he looks play- 
 ing with that baby ! " At last, tired of waiting, she 
 sent her maid to say that lunch was waiting. Risler 
 consigned the infant to its nurse with evident re- 
 gret, and ran up the staircase, laughing like a school- 
 boy. He laughs still as he enters the dining-room, 
 but one look at his wife checks his merriment. She 
 
"MT WIFJE'S JHECJi'PTIOJV^-DAY:' 67 
 
 was seated at the table, a chafing-dish in front of 
 her ; he knew that she was thoroughly out of tem- 
 per by her martyr-like air. 
 
 " You decided to come, then. It is very fortu- 
 nate ! " Eisler seated himself somewhat abashed. 
 
 " I could not help it, my dear ; that child is so — " 
 
 " How often am I to beg you not to call me ' my 
 dear?'" 
 
 " But if we are alone ? " 
 
 " You can never understand anything," answered 
 his wife, impatiently; "and the result is that no 
 one respects me here. Even the gardener, Achille, 
 hardly lifts his hat when I pass him. To be sure, 
 I am not a Fromont, and I have no carriage ! " 
 
 " But, my dear — I beg your pardon — I mean — 
 you can always use Madame George's coupe. She 
 has told you that it is always at your disposal." 
 
 " And how often am I to tell you that I will not 
 place myself under any obligations to that woman ? " 
 
 « Sidonie ! " 
 
 " Yes, I understand. I must not breathe a word 
 against this doll. I must allow her to tread me 
 under her feet ! " 
 
 " My child ! " and poor Kisler tries to soothe his 
 Mafe, and to say a few words in favor of his dear 
 Madame George. His success was not enviable ; for 
 suddenly Sidonie burst out in a torrent of indignant 
 words 
 
 " I tell you, in spite of her tranquil air and saint- 
 like expression, that woman is haughty and mali- 
 cious. She detests me, and I know it. When I was 
 
63 BIDONIK 
 
 little Sidonie, to whom she could toss her broken 
 playthings and cast-off clotlung, I was all very well. 
 But now that I have a good position, and need no 
 assistance from her, too, she wishes to humiliate me 
 at every turn. She presumes to volunteer her ad- 
 vice, and to criticise my every act. She was kind 
 enough, too, to express her astonishment at my en- 
 gaging a maid — naturally — for had I not always 
 been accustomed to waiting on myself? She seeks 
 every opportunity to hurt and wound me. "When I 
 present myself on her reception-day, you should 
 hear the condescending tone in which she asks for 
 dear Madame Chebe ! Ah, well ! Yes, I am a 
 Chebc, and she a -Fromont. My grandfather was a 
 druggist, and hers a money-lender and a-peasant ! 
 I shall tell her so some fine day, and shall also take 
 occasion to mention that the little girl of whom she 
 is so proud is the living image of old Gardinois, and 
 Heaven knows that he is no beauty ! " 
 
 " My child ! " gasped Eisler, who could find no 
 words to answer such a tirade. 
 
 "Yes, admire that baby if you choose! It is 
 always ill, and cries half the night, and keeps me 
 awake. In the morning the mother's piano beo-ins." 
 
 Eisler adopted the wisest course — he said not 
 one syllable in reply. But after a while, when he 
 saw that his wife was calmer, and looking a little 
 ashamed of her outbreak, he began to say a few 
 complimentary words to her. 
 
 " That is a very pretty costume. Are you going 
 to pay visits to-day ? " 
 
''MY WIFE'S REOEFTION-DAY." 69 
 
 "ISTo, I am not going out," answered Sidonie. 
 " On the contrary, I receive. This is my day." 
 
 Seeing her husband's look of utter astonishment, 
 she continued : " Yes, it is my day. Why should I 
 not have a day as well as Madame Fromont % " 
 
 " Without doubt — certainly," muttered poor Eis- 
 ler, looking about him anxiously. " That is the reason, 
 then, that there are so many flowers in the rooms ? " 
 
 "Yes. This morning, when I sent Justine into 
 the garden — I am wrong again, then, am I ? You 
 do not say so, but I can see that you think I had no 
 right to send Justine for flowers. I thought the 
 garden belonged to us as well as to the Fromonts ? " 
 
 "It does, certainly; but it would have been 
 better — " 
 
 " To ask for them — I suppose — of course. Pile 
 on the humiliations, I beg of you ! A few miser- 
 able chrysanthemums, and some green branches, are 
 worth asking for, are they not ? At all events, I 
 took them openly, and when she comes up by-and- 
 by I will show them to her." 
 
 '•' She is coming, then ? How good of her ! " 
 
 Sidonie started up in a rage. 
 
 " Good of her ! And M'hy, pray ? Do I not go 
 every Wednesday to her rooms, where I am bored 
 to death by her attitudes and affectations ? " 
 
 Madame Kisler omitted to state that these same 
 Wednesdays had been of immense service to her — 
 that they were like a weekly journal des modes, 
 where she had been taught how to enter and leave a 
 room — how to receive and dismiss a guest — where 
 
70 siDomE. 
 
 to place her flowers. Nor did Sidonie say that 
 Claire's friends, of whom she had spoken so disdain- 
 fully, were the persons whom she had begged to 
 come to her on her day. 
 
 But would they come? That remained to be 
 proved. And would young Madame Fromont her- 
 seK fail to make her appearance? Sidonie grew 
 more and more disturbed and anxious as the day 
 went on. " Hurry ! " she cried, impatiently ; " how 
 long you are to-day over the lunch-table ! " 
 
 One of Kisler's habits was to eat slowly, and 
 smoke his pipe at' table over his coffee. But to-day 
 he was robbed of these dear delights. His pipe 
 must not be taken from its case, on account of its 
 villainous odor, and his last mouthful was swallowed 
 in a violent hurry, as he must change his dress, so 
 that he might present himself to the ladies, in his 
 wife's salon, later in the day. 
 
 What a sensation in the factory, when Eisler was 
 seen to enter on a week-day in a black coat and white 
 tie! 
 
 " Are you going to a wedding ? " cried the cashier, 
 Sigismond. And Risler answered, not without pride : 
 
 " Not at all. It is my wife's day ! " 
 
 Soon every one knew that it was Sidonie's re- 
 ception-day; and Achille, the gardener, was thor- 
 oughly out of temper because the laurel at the gate 
 had been robbed of its best branches. 
 
 Seated at his drawing-board, under the high 
 window, Risler had thrown aside his coat and turned 
 up his fresh cuffs. But the consciousness that his 
 
"MY WIFE'S REOEPTION-D AY." 71 
 
 wife expects company disturbs him, and occasion- 
 ally he puts on his coat and mounts the private stairs 
 to ascertain how things are going. 
 
 " No one here yet ? " he asks, timidly. 
 
 " ~Eo one, sir." 
 
 In the red drawing-room— for they have a salon 
 furnished in red dapaask — Sidonie is installed on a 
 low couch — several arm-chairs in front of her, a 
 small table at her side, on which lie a book or two, 
 a work-basket, and a bunch of violets. All is ar- 
 ranged exactly as at the Fromonts', on the story 
 below. But the indefinable good taste which char- 
 acterizes all Claire's belongings is lacking in Si- 
 donie's rooms. The mistress of the house is too 
 elaborately dressed ; her costiune is too new — she 
 has rather the air of paying a visit than of receiving 
 one. But, in Kisler's eyes, everything is superb. 
 He began to say so as he entered the room, but his 
 wife's frown intimidated him. 
 
 " You see," she . said, pointing to the clock, an- 
 grily, " it is four o'clock — no one will come now. 
 But Claire's impertinence is unpardonable ; she is 
 at home, for I heard her come in ! " 
 
 In fact, ever since noon Sidonie had heard every 
 sound in the house — the child's cry, and the lullaby 
 of the nurse. Not a door had opened or shut with- 
 out Madame Eisler's perceiving it. Eisler wished 
 to retreat, and thus avoid hearing the old com- 
 plaints, but his wife objected. 
 
 " You, -at least," she said, " might remain, since 
 all the rest of the world shuns me ! " So the. poor 
 
73 SID ONI E. 
 
 fellow, miserable and nervous, stood glued at a 
 window, feeling very mucb like a person who 
 dares not move during a thunder-shower lest he 
 should attract the lightning to his own defenseless 
 head. 
 
 Sidonie moves about restlessly, shifts a chair, 
 and finally pulls the bell violently. " Ask Achilla 
 if no one has come for me to-day." As the ser- 
 vant turned to obey her, Madame Hisler continued 
 to her husband, " Achilla is so stupid, and so 
 hateful, that he has probably told people that I 
 am out." 
 
 But no, Achille had seen no one. 
 
 Silence and consternation fall on the inmates of 
 tha pretty, flower-scented room. Sidonia follows 
 her husband's example and takes up a position in 
 another window. Both look down on the garden, 
 dimly seen through tha gathering twilight. Sigis- 
 mond's lamp is already lighted, and his long shadow 
 wavers on tha ceiling of the counting-room. 
 
 Suddenly a coupe drives up to the door — ^from 
 it emerges a mass of lace and velvet, jet and 
 furs — and Sidonie recosrnizes one of Claire's most 
 fashionable friends. A visitor at last ! So tha 
 little household falls into position. The gantla- 
 man leans idly on tha mantel, and tha lady in her 
 low chair carelessly turns over tha leaves of a new 
 book. 
 
 The attitudes were thrown away ; the visit was 
 not for Sidonie — the lady's call was for the floor 
 below ! 
 
'' MY WIFE'S RECEPTION-DAT." 73 
 
 All ! if Madame George could but have heard 
 the denunciations of herself and her friend ! 
 
 At this moment, the door was thrown open, and 
 Mademoiselle Planus was announced. This lady- 
 was the cashier's maiden sister — a sweet and gentle 
 old lady, who came as a matter of duty to pay a 
 visit to the wife of her brother's employer, and who 
 was overwhelmed with amusement at the warmth 
 of the welcome she received. Sidonie was very gra- 
 cious, happy to show herself in all her glory to a 
 former acqxiaintance. She talked and laughed gayly, 
 that Madame George might know that she had vis- 
 itors ; and, when the lady went away, Sidonie ac- 
 companied her to the head of the stairs, with a 
 great rustling of flounces and a sharp click of high- 
 heeled boots, and called out loudly that she was al- 
 ways at home on Fridays. 
 
 Now it is night. In the next room the table is 
 being laid for dinner. Madame Fromont will not 
 come, and Sidonie is-white with indignation. " We 
 are too insignificant for your idol to visit," she said, 
 " but I will revenge myself in some way ! " And, 
 as she raised her voice angrily, her intonation lost 
 its refinement, and betrayed Mademoiselle La Mire's 
 apprentice. 
 
 Eisler murmured : " Who can tell what the rea- 
 son is ? The child may be ill." 
 
 She turned fiercely upon him. 
 
 " It is your fault entirely," she cried ; " you have 
 taught your friends to ngglect and insult me." And 
 the door of her sleeping-room was shut with such 
 4 
 
74 SIDONIE. 
 
 violence that the crystal globes rattled, and all the 
 trifles on the etagere danced about. Poor Kisler, 
 left alone in the middle of the sahn, contemplated 
 his varnished boots and black coat with disgust, and 
 murmured, mechanically : 
 " My wife's day ! " 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 EEAX PEAHL, AND IMITATION PEAEL. 
 
 " What is tlie matter ? "What have I done to 
 her 1 " asked Claire of herself, as she thought of 
 Sidonie. She was absolutely ignorant of all that 
 had passed between her friend and George at Sa- 
 vigny. With her straightforward nature, it was 
 impossible for her to imagine the jealousy and low 
 ambitions that had grown up at her side, and yet 
 her former friend's cold and disdainful air disturbed 
 the calmness of her daily life. 
 
 To a polite reserve, singular enough from a per- 
 son whom she had known so intimately, suddenly 
 succeeded an air of angry contempt, before which 
 Claire stood as helpless and silent as before a mathe- 
 matical problem. Sometimes, too, a vague presenti- 
 ment assailed her — a suggestion of possible unhap- 
 piness — ^for women are always more or less clear- 
 sighted, and even those most innocent and unsus- 
 picious have wonderful intuitions. Occasionally, 
 Madame Fromont would wonder at Sidonie's con- 
 duct, but her own life was so full of tender cares for 
 husband, child, and mother, that she had little time 
 to spare for Sidonie's caprices. Had she been still 
 
76 SID ON IE. 
 
 unmarried, this sudden destruction of an old friend- 
 ship would have pained her intensely ; but now all 
 was changed ; even Sidonie's marriage had not 
 astonished her. Kisler was too old, certainly ; but 
 what did it matter, if his wife loved him ? 
 
 As to being vexed that " little Chebe " had 
 reached her present position, such an idea had never 
 entered Claire's mind. Her nature was too gener- 
 ous for such baseness. She had, on the contrary, 
 hoped sincerely that this young woman, who had lived 
 imder the same roof as herself, would be happy and 
 contented in her new position. In the most affec- 
 tionate manner she sought to advise her, and to in- 
 struct her in the ways of the world to which she 
 was as yet a stranger. 
 
 Between two women, equally pretty and equally 
 young, advice is easily exchanged. When Madame 
 Fromont, on the day of a great dinner, took Madame 
 Kisler into her dressing-room, and said in a caress- 
 ing tone, " Too many jewels, dear ; and then, you 
 know, with a high-necked dress, one should never 
 wear flowers in the hair," Sidonie colored, thanked 
 her friend, but in her heart of hearts inscribed a 
 new grief against her. 
 
 In Claire's circle Sidonie had been coolly re- 
 ceived. The Faubourg St.-Germain has its preten- 
 sions, but, if you imagine that the mercantile com- 
 munity are without them, you are greatly mistaken. 
 
 These wives and daughters of rich merchants 
 knew little Ch^be's story, and, had they not known 
 it, they would have guessed it from her way of pre- 
 
REAL PEARL, AND IMITATION PEARL. tt 
 
 Benting herself to their notice. She was too eager 
 and too humble, and about her lingered something 
 of the air of a shop-girl ; and her occasional disdain- 
 ful attitudes recalled the young women in black 
 silk, in a millinery establishment, who are absolutely 
 imposing from the height of the puffs and curls on 
 their heads, and who look with utter contempt on 
 the ignorant persons who attempt to make a bargain. 
 
 Sidonie felt herself criticised and examined, and 
 she prepared for battle. The names pronounced in 
 her presence — the fetes — and the books of which 
 they talked — were equally unknown to her. 
 
 Claire did her best to place her at her ease. 
 
 Among these ladies, several thought Sidonie 
 very pretty, too pretty to belong to their circle; 
 others, proud of their wealth, and of the success of 
 their husbands, found it easy to be insolently con- 
 descending to the little parvenue. Sidonie, however, 
 included them all in her sweeping phrase : " If they 
 are Claire's friends, they arc my enemies," she said, 
 with infinite bitterness. 
 
 The two men suspected -nothing of what was 
 going on between their wives. Risler — absorbed in 
 his new invention — sat half the night at his draw- 
 ing-board. Fromont passed his days out of his 
 house, breakfasted and often dined at his club, and 
 was rarely seen at the factory. In fact, Sidonie's 
 vicinity troubled him. The passionate caprice he 
 had had for her, and which he had relinquished at 
 his uncle's bidding, still haunted his memory ; and, 
 feeling his own weakness, ho sought safety in flight. 
 
78 SIDONIE. 
 
 The night of Eisler's mariiage, when he himself 
 was a bridegroom of but a few months, he had found 
 that he could not meet Sidonie with impunity. 
 From that moment he avoided her society, and never 
 by any chance did her name pass his lips. 
 
 Unfortunately, as they lived in the same house, 
 as the ladies exchanged a dozen visits each day, the 
 prospect of meeting her was always before him. 
 Thus it came to pass that the young husband, de- 
 termined to do no wrong, felt compelled to leave 
 his home, and seek a refuge elsewhere. Claire ac- 
 cepted this life as inevitable ; her father had accus- 
 tomed her to incessant though shoi-t "trips on 
 business;" and during her husband's absence she in- 
 vented for herself new pursuits and home duties. 
 
 Sidonie went out a good deal. Often, toward 
 night, just as she was entering her garden-gate in 
 a superb toilet, George's carriage would dash past 
 her. Shopping, for the mere pleasure of spending 
 money, was one of her favorite amusements, and so 
 occupied her that she was often detained much later 
 than she had intended. They exchanged a cool bow 
 at the turn of the staircase, and George hurried into 
 his own rooms, hiding his emotion under the caresses 
 he lavished on the little girl who stretched forth 
 her arms to greet him. Sidonie seemed to have 
 totally forgotten the past ; or, if she recalled it at 
 times, it was with a natural contempt for a character 
 so unlike her own. Her time, too, was entirely oc- 
 cupied. After some hesitation, she had decided to 
 take lessons in singing, thinking that it was rather 
 
REAL FEAEL, AND IMITATION PEARL. 79 
 
 late in life to begin the piano ; and, twice each 
 week, Madame Dobson, a pretty, sentimental blonde, 
 gave her a lesson, from twelve to one o'clock. This 
 lesson heard through the open windows, andtlie con- 
 stant practice of scales, gave to the house something 
 of the air of a boarding-school ; but Sidonie had 
 said to herself : " Claire plays the piano ; she passes 
 for an elegant and distinguished woman ; I am de- 
 termined that the world shall say as much for me." 
 The poor child did not dream of study, or of real 
 improvement in any way ; she passed her life in the 
 shops, and with her milliner and dress-maker. 
 
 Of those imitation pearls which she had handled 
 for so long a time, something still climg to her — a 
 little of their brilliancy without depth, of their pale 
 lustre, and of their fragility. She was herself an 
 imitation pearl, fair and brilliant; but Claire Fro- 
 mont was a real jewel, a deep-sea pearl, and, when 
 the two women were together, it was easy to dis- 
 tinguish the Parisian imitation from the natural 
 growth. 
 
 Of all Claire's surroundings, the one which Si- 
 donie most envied her was her infant — a dainty 
 mass of ribbons and lace. She had no thought of 
 sweet maternal duties— no knowledge of Claire's 
 long hours of wakefulness — of anxious watches and 
 tender hopes. She never longed for the touch of 
 dimpled fingers, or dreamed of glad awakenings, 
 merry shouts, and splashing water. No mother-in- 
 stinct was aroused within her empty heart ; she sim- 
 ply regarded the child, with its flowing robes, in the 
 
80 SIDONIE. 
 
 arms of its tall-capped nurse, as a charming acces- 
 sory to her morning walks and spring toilets. 
 
 She had only her parents or her husband as 
 companions, consequently she preferred to go out 
 alone. Her husband mortified her by his awkward 
 caresses, and a habit he had of tapping her hke a 
 child on her cheek, or of taking her by the chin. 
 His very way of sitting and looking at her enraged 
 her — ^it was so like an affectionate dog ! Her parents 
 she had managed to dispose of for the . time being, 
 by inducing her husband to rent for them a little 
 house at Montrouge. This had- put an end to M. 
 Chebe's frequent invasions, and to the interminable 
 visits of her mother, who, cheered by her daughter's 
 good fortune, was gradually falling into idle habits. 
 Sidohie would have much liked to get rid of the 
 Dolobelles ; she was annoyed by their living so near 
 her. But the old actor was not easily moved from 
 a situation that he liked, having the theatres and 
 the boulevards so close at hand. Then Desir^e was 
 attached to their rooms, and their dingy court — dark 
 at four o'clock — ^was to her like the familiar face of 
 a friend. Sidonie rarely saw her old neighbors, 
 however, and her life would have been solitary 
 enough if it had not been for the amusements that 
 Claire procui-ed for her. Each of these, however, 
 was a new injury, and she said to herself, "Must I 
 always be indebted to her ? " ^ 
 
 And when, at the dinner-table, they sent her 
 tickets for the theatre, or an invitation for the even- 
 ing, even while she hurried to dress, she thought 
 
REAL PEARL, AND IMITATION PEARL. 81 
 
 only of crushing her rival. These occasions, how- 
 ever, became more and more infrequent, for Claire 
 was much occupied with her child. "When her 
 grandfather came to Paris, he never failed to bring 
 them all together. He invited them to dine at 
 some famous restaurant, expended a vast ' deal of 
 money, and then took them to the theatre. 
 
 lie talked familiarly to the waiters at the res- 
 taurant, laughed loudly at the theatre, and made 
 their party as conspicuous as possible. On the oc- 
 casion of these somewhat vulgar festivities, which 
 George contrived sometimes to avoid, Claire dressed 
 very quietly, and thus escaped observation ; Sidonie, 
 on the contrary, made a gorgeous toilet, took a 
 front-seat in the box, and enjoyed the coarse jests 
 of the old peasant. She looked at herself in the 
 miiTors, and, with an air of proprietorship, placed her 
 opera-glass, handkerchief, and fan, on the red velvet 
 in front of her. The commonplace glitter of these 
 public places enchanted her, and she accepted them 
 as the epitome of liixury ; she bloomed therein, like 
 a pretty paper flower in a filigree garden. 
 
 One evening at the Palais Koyal, when a great 
 crowd assembled to witness a new play, among all the 
 women present — painted celebrities, with powdered 
 hair and enormous fans — Sidonie attracted the most 
 attention. All the operarglasses in the house, influ- 
 enced by a certain magnetism, were one by one 
 directed to her box. Claire was infinitely annoyed, 
 and finally relinquished her chair to her husband 
 and took refuge in the back of their box. 
 
82 SIDONIE. 
 
 George, young and very distinguislied in appear- 
 ance, had, at Sidonie's side, the air of her husband ; 
 while Kisler, older and graver, looked as if he be- 
 longed to Claire, who in her dark and quiet costume 
 had the air of a woman who desired to escape obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Going out, each took the aim of her neighbor, 
 and a little grisette, commenting loudly on Sidonie's 
 appearance, used the words "her husband" — and 
 the foolish little woman was in a glow of delight. 
 " Her husband ! " These simple ^Yords sufficed to 
 awaken a crowd of wicked thoughts and plans, that 
 for some time had slept quietly in the recesses of 
 her nature. She looked at Ilisler and at Claire as 
 they walked in front. Madame Fremont's quiet 
 elegance seemed dowdiness to her distorted vision. 
 She said to herself, " IIow vulgar I must look when 
 I have my husband's ai-m ! " and her heart beat 
 more quickly as she thought of the distinguished- 
 looking pair she and George Fremont would have 
 made. And when she saw Claii'e and her husband 
 enter the well-known blue coupe, she allowed her- 
 self to dwell on the idea that Claire had stolen her 
 place, and that she had a right to take it again if 
 she could. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TAVEEK OF THE EUE BLONDEL. 
 
 EvEE since liis marriage, Eisler had given up go- 
 ing to the brewery. Sidonie would have no objec- 
 tion to an elegant club, but the idea of his spending 
 an evening over his pipe with Dolobelle, and Sigis- 
 mond his cashier, humiliated and annoyed her. 
 Consequently he never went, and this was somewhat 
 of a sacrihce for him. It was almost like a country 
 inn, this quaint brewery in a remote corner of old 
 Paris, for La Hue Blondel bore a slight resemblance 
 to a street in Ziirich or Basel. A Swiss kept the 
 brewery, and when the door opened it was like a 
 reminiscence of his boyhood to Eisler. A long, 
 low room, hams hanging from the ceiling, huge 
 casks of beer ranged against the wall^ and on the 
 counter an enormous bowl of potato-salad and a 
 gigantic basket of pretzels, made up the scene. 
 For twenty years Kisler had smoked his pipe there ; 
 he had his own table and his own corner, where two 
 or three of his compatriots joined him, and listened 
 in solemn silence to the interminable but amicable 
 disputes of Dolobelle and Chebe. When Risler 
 left the brewery, the others deserted it also. M. 
 Chebe, to be sure, had excellent reasons for doing 
 
84 SIDONIK 
 
 SO, as he now resided at too great a distance ; for, 
 thanks to his children's generosity, he had at last 
 realized the dream of his whole life.. 
 
 " When I am rich," he had always said, " I 
 will have a little house of my own just out of Paris, 
 and a garden that I shall take care of myself. It 
 will be better for my health than Paris ; the life here 
 is too exciting." 
 
 Ah, well! he had his house and his garden, 
 but after all he was not amused by them. It 
 was at Montrouge that he resided, in a square box 
 of a cottage — glaringly white — with a grape-vine on 
 one side. Next to him was another house precisely 
 similar, which was occupied by the cashier, Sigis- 
 mond Planus, and his «ister. To Madame Chebe 
 these neighbors were invaluable. When the good 
 
 woman was tired of herself, she took her knitting, 
 and enlivened the quiet old maid with anecdotes of 
 past splendors. Unfortunately, her husband did not 
 appreciate these same resources. 
 
 At first all went well. It was midsummer, and 
 M. Chebe was very busy arranging the house. 
 Each nail led to endless discussions. In the garden 
 it was the same thing. He wanted the turf to be 
 always green, and insisted on an orchard. "My 
 dear," said his wife, "you forget that time is neces- 
 sary for that." " True ! " said the little man, and 
 for lack of an orchard he planted a vegetable-gar- 
 den, lie dug and weeded morning after morning, 
 and wiped his brow ostentatiously, so that his wife 
 would say : 
 
THE TAVERN OF THE RUE BLOND EL. 8.5 
 
 "Eest, uiy dear; you will certainly kill your- 
 self!" 
 
 "While the fine weather lasted, the worthy people 
 admired the sunsets, and talked of the good, healthy 
 air. But when the autumn rains came, how dismal 
 they were ! Madame Ch^be, a thorough Parisian, 
 regretted her old home, and remembered with a 
 pang her daily excursions to market. 
 
 She sat near the window, and contemplated the 
 dreary prospect : the rain fell in straight lines, the 
 vines drooped from the wall, and the dead leaves lay 
 in damp, sticky masses on the little path. And a 
 short way oflE' was the omnibus-station, with the 
 well-known names of Parisian streets painted on 
 their varnished sides. Each time that one of these 
 omnibuses started on its return she followed it with 
 longing eyes, in the same way that a convict at 
 Cayenne v/atches the vessel that sets sail for France 
 ■ — made the journey in her imagination — ^knew just 
 where it would stop, and through which gay streets 
 it would clumsily roll along. 
 
 Under these circumstances M. Chebe became 
 unendurable. He had no one to listen to his long 
 stories, no new listener to the history of the acci- 
 dent, "like that of the Due d'Orleans." Conse- 
 quently, the poor man reproached his wife. 
 
 " Your daughter has exiled us — your daughter 
 is ashamed of us ! " For, in his indignation, the 
 angry man threw the whole responsibility of this 
 unnatural, heartless daughter on his wife. The 
 poor woman was happy only when she saw him 
 
86 SIDONIE. 
 
 start ofE for Paris, to narrate his wrongs to Dolo- 
 belle. 
 
 This illustrious man had his own injuries, in his 
 turn. He had meant to form an important part of 
 the new inenage, to organize fetes, and to occupy 
 tlie post, in fact, of general adviser. Instead of 
 that, Sidonie received him very coolly, and Kisler 
 gave him no more invitations to the brewery ; nev- 
 ertheless, the actor did not complain too openly, and 
 when he met his old friend overwhelmed him with 
 flattery, for he meant to make use of him. 
 
 Tired at last of expecting the intelligent man- 
 ager, Dolobelle had conceived the extravagant idea 
 of purchasing a theatre, and becoming a manager 
 himself. He looked to Hisler for the necessary 
 funds. Just at this time he had found a small 
 theatre that was to be sold, in consequence of the 
 failure of the manager. Dolobelle spoke of it to 
 Eisler, at first indifEerently. 
 
 '• It would be an excellent speculation," he said. 
 
 Bisler listened quietly, saying, "It would be a 
 good thing for you." 
 
 Then to a direct appeal, to which he dared not 
 say " No," Eisler took refuge behind " I will see — 
 perhaps," and finally uttered the unfortunate words 
 " I must see the estimates." 
 
 For eight days the old actor had figured indus- 
 triously — had added up long columns, seated be- 
 tween two women who watched him admiringly. 
 Throughout the house rang the enchanting words, 
 " M. Dolobelle is going to buy a theatre ! " His 
 
THE TAVERN OF THE RUE BLONDEL. 87 
 
 fi'iends on tlie boulevards, and at the cafes, talked 
 only of his good luck. Dolobelle frankly stated 
 that he ha'cl found some one who would furnish him 
 with money, and he was soon surrounded by a circle 
 of actors without engagements, who whispered in . 
 his ear, " Do not forget me, my boy ! " 
 
 He promised everything that was asked of him, 
 breakfasted and dined at the cafe, wrote his letters 
 there, and received his friends; and already two 
 needy authors had brought him plays for his " open- 
 ing night." He said, "My theatre," and ordered 
 his letters to be addressed to him, " M. Dolobelle, 
 manager." 
 
 "When he had composed his prospectus, and made 
 his estimates, he went to meet Kisler at the brew- 
 ery, for his friend was too busy to receive him dur- 
 ing office-hours. 
 
 Dolobelle reached the brewery first, installed 
 himself at their old table, called for two glasses of 
 beer, and waited. Eisler did not come ; the actor 
 took out his papers and read them over. 
 
 " Tes, it was a splendid thing ; success was cer- 
 tain." Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe 
 entered. He was as annoyed and surprised to see 
 Dolobelle as Dolobelle was to see him. He had 
 written to his son-in-law, that morning, that he 
 wished to have a long and serious conversation with 
 him, and would see him at the brewery. 
 
 The truth was, M. Ghebe had relinquished the 
 lease of the little cottage at Montrouge, and had 
 hired a shop and entre-sol in La Hue de Mail. Hav- 
 
8ID0NIE. 
 
 ing done all this,, his courage forsook him, and he 
 was very anxious to know how his daughter would 
 look at the matter, particularly as the shop was 
 more expensive than the cottage, and would besides 
 require quite a sum of money to be expended in 
 repairs before they could take possession. Know- 
 ing by long experience the good-nature of his son- 
 in-law, M. Chebe preferred to make the disclosure 
 to him, and thus leave to Eisler the responsibility 
 of making to his wife the announcement of this 
 domestic coujp-Wetat. 
 
 Instead of Eisler, it was Dolobelle whom he 
 saw. They examined each . other, like two dogs at 
 the same platter. Each understood who it was that 
 the other expected. 
 
 " Is not my son-in-law here % " asked M. Chebe, 
 looking at the papers spread out on the table, and 
 emphasizing the words " my son-in-law," as if to 
 indicate that Kisler belonged to him, and to no one 
 else. 
 
 "I am expecting him momentarily," answered 
 Dolobelle, coolly, as he gathered up his estimates. 
 Then, with a theatrical, mysterious air, he added, 
 " "We have important business together." 
 
 "So have we," answered M. Chebe, whose 
 scanty hair began to bristle, like the quills of the 
 fretful porcupine. He, in his turn, called for two 
 glasses of beer, and drew up a chair to the table. 
 
 Risler did not appear, and the two men grew 
 very impatient. Each hoped that the other would 
 leave. At last their ill-temper could no longer be 
 
THIS TAVERN OF THE RUE JBLONDEL. 89 
 
 restrained, and, naturally, it "was their friend who 
 was attacked. M. Dolobelle began first : " I be- 
 lieve the fellow is mocking me ! " 
 
 " The fact is — " said M. Chebe, and then the two 
 put their heads together and whispered : " Kisler 
 was close, Eisler was selfish, as well as a parvenu." 
 They laughed at his accent and his manners. But 
 Chebe went still further : " My son-in-law had bet- 
 ter be cautions. If he sends away his wife's father 
 and mother, he must guard her more carefully him- 
 self. You understand ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Dolobelle, " certainly. I am 
 told, too, that Sidonie is somewhat reckless. But 
 what could one expect ? A man of that age — 
 Hush ! here he comes." 
 
 Eisler excused himself as well as possible, but 
 was evidently not at ease. He could not leave home 
 until late ; his wife had guests. And, all the time 
 that he was speaking, the poor fellow was wonder- 
 ing to which of the two men he ought to listen 
 first. 
 
 Dolobelle was generous. " You v,'ish to talk 
 with each other, gentlemen. Do not let me disturb 
 you;" and then he whispered to Risler, "I have 
 the papers." 
 
 " The papers ! " said the other, in amazement. 
 
 "Yes; the estimates, you know," answered the 
 actor. Thereupon, with a great , affectation of dis- 
 cretion, he turned his back. 
 
 The two others conversed at first in a low voice, 
 but finally Ch^be's wrath could no longer be re- 
 
90 SIDONIE. 
 
 strained. He did not mean to be buried alive, he 
 said. 
 
 " But wliat can you do with a shop ? " asked E.is- 
 Icr, timidly. 
 
 " What can I do with a shop ? " repeated Chebe, 
 as red as an Easter-egg. " You forget, sir, I think, 
 that I am a merchant, and the son of a merchant. 
 I have no capital, it is true, but whose fault is that ? 
 If the person who exiled me from Paris — " 
 
 Here Eisler enjoined silence, and disjointed 
 words only were now to be distinguished : " A most 
 convenient shop — a magnificent enterprise," etc. 
 
 At last, when M. Chebe was exhausted by his 
 own energy, his son-in-law turned toward Dolobelle 
 with a sigh. Chebe drew his chair closer, that he 
 might join in the conference. Seeing this, the actor 
 folded up his papers, and said in a dignified tone, 
 " Another time, if you please." 
 
 But M. Chebe was not to be thus rebuffed ; he 
 said to himself, "My son-in-law is so weak that 
 there is no telling how much that buffoon can get 
 out of him." So he remained to watch. 
 
 Dolobelle was furious, for it was impossible to 
 postpone the purchase for more than a day or two, 
 and Risler had just told him that on the following 
 morning he should go to Savigny for a month. 
 
 " For a month 1 " exclaimed M. Chebe, aghast. 
 
 " Oh ! I shall come up to town every day. But 
 M. Gardinois is determined to have Sidonie there." 
 
 M. Chebe shook his head. " Business is busi- 
 ness," said he ; "a master should always be on hand 
 
THE TAVERN OF THE RUE BLONDEL. 91 
 
 to stand ia the breach. "What if the factory should 
 talte fire some night ? " 
 
 Finally the last omnibus bore away the trouble- 
 some father-in-law, and Dolobelle could speaK freely. 
 
 "First the prospectus," he said, not wishing to 
 begin v/ith figures, and, placing his eye-glasses on 
 Ms nose, he began in this way : 
 
 " When we consider calmly the decrepitude into 
 which the theatres of France have fallen ; when we 
 recall the days when Molicre — " There were a good 
 many pages like this ; Eisler smoked and listened. 
 
 Unfortunately, just at this point, the waiters be- 
 gan to put out the lights. They must depart — ^they 
 would read as they went along. The actor stopped 
 at each street-lamp and deciphered his own figures 
 — so much for this — so miich for that — so much for 
 the salary of the actors. 
 
 On this point he became eloquent. " You must 
 remember that y^ shall not have to pay our star 
 anything, for I, of course, will take all the first 
 parts ; this, therefore, is a clear saving, and just the 
 same as putting the money in your own pocket." 
 
 Kisler did not reply ; his thoughts were evident- 
 ly wandering. At last Dolobelle put the question 
 squarely. " Will you, or will you not, lend the 
 money \ " 
 
 " Frankly, then," answered Hisler, with a cour- 
 age that came as he saw the black walls of his fac- 
 tory before him, " I will not." 
 
 Dolobelle was stupefied ; he was so certain of the 
 money that he could hardly believe his ears. 
 
92 SWONIE. 
 
 " No," continued Eisler ; " I say no because it is 
 absolutely impossible for me to do what you ask. I 
 will tell you why." 
 
 And the honest man explained that he was not 
 rich ; although a partner in so wealthy a house, he 
 had but little money at his own disposal. George 
 and he each month drew a certain sum, and at the 
 end of the year divided their profits. His expenses 
 were large — besides, how could he be sure that the 
 theatre would succeed ? 
 
 " It certainly would," answered the actor, gran- 
 diloquently, " for I should bo there — " 
 
 To all poor Dolobelle's entreaties Eisler would 
 only answer : " Wait two or three years ; at present 
 I have no right to speculate ; my name is not my 
 own — it belongs to the firm. Would you see me a 
 bankrupt ? " he continued, passionately, and then, 
 more calmly, added : " Come to me again a year 
 from now, and I will aid you if <I can. And now 
 good-night. Here is Achille at the gate." 
 
 It was after two o'clock when the actor reached 
 home ; he found his wife and daughter at work and 
 waiting for him — but they were not so calm as of 
 yore ; a brighter color glowed on Desiroe's fair face, 
 and Madame Dolobollo held her big scissors with 
 trembling hands. The birds on the table were more 
 brilliant than usual, as if Hope had touched them 
 with her life-giving fingers. 
 
 ]\[adame Dolobelle watched the clock. " Ah ! " 
 she said, "if your father only succeeds, how happy 
 we shall bo ! '' 
 
THE TAVERX OF THE RUE BLONBEL. 93 
 
 "He will, I am sure — M. Kisler is so kind- 
 hearted ; and then Sidonie loves us dearly, though 
 since her marriage she has seemed to neglect us. 
 We must take into consideration the great difference 
 in our positions ; but I shall never forget all she has 
 done for me." 
 
 " The mother was about to ask what she meant, 
 and what Sidonie had done, but her thoughts again 
 wandered to her husband. 
 
 " If your father should have a theatre he would 
 play every night, as he did when you were little — 
 you do not remember it, but at Alengon he had an 
 immense success. Ah ! how handsome and gay he 
 was in those days ! but misfortune has sadly changed 
 him, and yet I feel that a little happiness and free- 
 dom from care would make him quite young again. 
 At Alengon the manager had a carriage — just think 
 of our having a carriage ! it would be such a good 
 thing for you, my dear! you could go out every 
 day and drive into the country ; you could see the 
 water, and the trees—" 
 
 The little lame girl drew a long breath. At 
 this moment the door below shut violently, and M. 
 Dolobelle's heavy step was heard on the staircase. 
 The two women dared not look at each other. 
 
 The poor fellow had certainly received a cruel 
 blow. The humiliation of a refusal, the ridicule of 
 his associates, the debt that he had incurred at the 
 cafe, all weighed on his soul as he slowly mounted 
 the long flights of stairs. ITis heart was nearly 
 broken, but the dramatic instinct was so strong in 
 
94 SID ONI E. 
 
 his nature that he could not tell his tale of woe In a 
 natural manner. He entered, looked about him at 
 the table covered with work, at his little supper in 
 the corner, at the two anxious faces. Then he took 
 three steps forward, waited a full minute — and you 
 know if at the theatre a minute of silence is not 
 long — and then fell on a chair, clapping his hands 
 over his heart. 
 
 " I am doomed to eternal perdition 1 " he hissed 
 betwfeen his set teeth. And he gave the table a tre- 
 mendous thump with his closed list — so tremendous 
 that the poor little birds and beetles flew away to 
 the four corners of the room. His terrified wife 
 ran to his side, while Desiree half rose from her 
 chair in mute distress. 
 
 The actor throw back liis head, permitted his 
 arms to fall limp and lifeless at his side, while he 
 began a dismal monologue, interrupted by sighs and 
 sobs, by threats and imprecations against the selfish 
 'parvenus for whose benefit the true artist poured 
 out his life-blood. Then he lightly sketched his 
 whole life : the triumphs of his debut, his success 
 at Alengon, his marriage to the " sainted woman " — 
 and he pointed a trembling finger at the poor creat- 
 ure who stood bathed in tears, nodding a weak as- 
 sent to each one of her husband's propositions. He 
 recalled his arrival in Paris, dwelt on his misery and 
 privations. Alas ! he had not endured many, as 
 one could see who turned from the picture he pre- 
 sented, of well-dressed comfort, to the two frail, 
 worn beings at his side. 
 
TSE TAVERN OF THE RUE BLONDEL. 95 
 
 " All ! " he continued, " for fifteen years I liave 
 fought and struggled ; for fifteen years I have owed 
 every mouthful I have swallowed to the exertions of 
 these two angels ! " 
 
 " Dear father ! " cried Desiree, pleadingly. 
 
 " Yes, every mouthful ! nor am I ashamed to 
 confess it, since the sacrifices that they have made 
 have been laid on the altar of my sacred art. But 
 now all is over ; I renounce my vocation ! " 
 
 His wife uttered a little shriek. "What are 
 you saying % " she cried. 
 
 " Leave me to my misery ! " he answered, in se- 
 pulchral tones. " My strength is gone ; I can endure 
 this unequal contest no longer." 
 
 Could you then have seen the two pale women im- 
 plore him with tears and embraces to still cherish the 
 hopes that had been his sole joy ; could you have heard 
 them entreat him to have courage and struggle yet 
 a little longer, you would have wept with them. 
 
 At last he made the asked-for concession, and 
 promised them not to despair, not to take any des- 
 perate steps ; and fifteen minutes later our comedian 
 was seated at the table eating his supper with an 
 excellent appetite — an appetite improved possibly by 
 his exertions, and by the sympathy of his little f am- 
 ' ily. The only indications of the stormy hour he had 
 passed were to be found in a certain lassitude, com- 
 mon to all great actors who have played a long and 
 dramatic rdle. Desiree and her mother paid a 
 heavier penalty, however, for they never closed their 
 eyes until daybreak. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AT SAYIGNY. 
 
 It was most unfortunate that Sidonieand George 
 ever found themselves together again at Savigny. 
 The trees that had heard his vows and protestations 
 two short years before still stood there, and, as their 
 leaves rustled in the wind, seemed to laugh at his 
 inconstancy. As to Claire, she had never been so 
 happy ; her child walked on the turf which her own 
 feet had trod at the same age. She looked about 
 her in serene content, and thanked God in her heart 
 that he had placed her in so fair a world, and poured 
 so many blessings upon her. Sidonie was in a very 
 different frame of mind ; she declared that the 
 child's noise fatigued her, and appealed to M. Gar- 
 dinois to know if children were not always bores. 
 He laughingly told her that he had never heard of 
 but one who was not. Sidonie was caressed and 
 flattered by the old man to her heart's content. 
 The carriages, that had been shut up for so many 
 months that the spiders had woven their webs over 
 the silk cushions, were now brought out and placed 
 at her disposal. She drove out two or three times 
 each day. Every one in the house followed the gay 
 
AT SAVIGNT. 97 
 
 example : the gardener took better care o£ his flow- 
 ers, because Madame Eisler wished to wear them 
 in her hair ; suppers and dinners were arranged, 
 where Claire, of course, presided, but of which Si- 
 donie was, in fact, the real life. 
 
 Occasionally Claire was compelled to excuse her- 
 self at the last moment, and allow Sidonie to go 
 alone to the station to meet the gentlemen on their 
 return from the city in the afternoon. "Excuse 
 me," Claire -would say ; " my child is not well, and 
 needs me." 
 
 Then Sidonie, with the air of a grande dame, 
 would seat herself in the superb carriage, and order 
 the coachman to drive like the wind. She lay back, 
 wrapped in her soft laces, with her eyes half closed, 
 and was only aroused from her luxurious dreams by 
 hearing the voices of some poorly-clad people out 
 for a- holiday. She looked at them with a shiver of 
 disgust, for they recalled too vividly her miserable 
 past, with its mortifications and miseries. 
 
 But the carriage reached the station, and Sidonie 
 heard with ill-disguised pleasure the murmur that 
 greeted her appearance. "It is young Madame 
 Fromont," she heard in a whisper from more than 
 one person. The mistake was hardly sui-prising to 
 any one who saw the three drive away : the pretty, 
 gay little woman looked certainly as if she were the 
 wife of the elegant ^man at her side ; while Eisler, 
 opposite, sedate and calm, looked as if he belonged 
 to a different world. 
 
 While the chdteau was thus transformed by the 
 5 
 
98 SIDONJR 
 
 caprices of a yoang woman, old Gardinois looked 
 on quietly. He was of an extremely inquisitive 
 nature, believing tliat " knowledge is power." He 
 spared no pains to get at a secret whenever and 
 wherever he suspected one ; he had always been 
 more or less of a spy. The goings and doings of 
 his servants interested him hugely ; not a basket of 
 vegetables came into his kitchen without a prelimi- 
 nary examination from himself. He took the great- 
 est pleasure in finding fault, and in bringing up an 
 ofiiender to justice. All this gave him some occu- 
 pation, and served him again in the evening, when 
 he repeated all the morning occurrences to his 
 guests. 
 
 In order to carry out his plans of constant sur- 
 veillance over his people, he spent the greater part 
 of his days seated on a bench near the entrance to 
 the grounds, where he could see every one who 
 came in or out. At night he had invented another 
 arrangement : he had an acoustic tube placed in the 
 vestibule, and leading to his bedroom just above; 
 in this way he thought he should hear every whis- 
 per uttered on the balcony and on the wide stone 
 steps. 
 
 Unhappily, this arrangement, perfect as it was, 
 exaggerated the sounds — confused and prolonged 
 them ; and sometimes, when M. Gardinois put his 
 ear to the tube, he could hear nothing but a shrill 
 scream from the parrot on his perch, or the loud 
 ticking of the clock, and the voices reached him only 
 in a confused buzz. So he abandoned this invention, 
 
AT 8AVIGNY. 99 
 
 and it lay nearly forgotten, concealed in the window- 
 curtains. 
 
 One night the old man was aroused, just as he 
 was falling into his first sleep, by the creak of a 
 door. This was very odd, for the whole house had 
 retired. The old man had a happy thought. When 
 could his tube be used to better advantage? He 
 placed his ear to its mouth. He was right ; first 
 one door was gently opened and shut ; then the 
 chain, on the larger hall-door slightly rattled. " But 
 why do not the dogs bark ? " Gardinois muttered 
 to himself. " I thought so ! " — and, drawing his 
 curtains slightly aside, he looked out. 
 
 A tall, masculine form stood below, with his arm 
 thrown around a slender figure, all wrapped in shawls 
 and laces. It was a glorious summer night ; soft, 
 fleecy clouds floated over, the full moon ; the blue 
 depths of the lake slept undisturbed by a single 
 ripple; and here and there in the deep shadows 
 glittered the greenish splendor of a fire-fly. 
 
 With cautious steps the pair stole down the 
 avenue, and were quickly hidden by intervening 
 trees from the inquisitive eyes above. 
 
 "I thought so!" repeated old Gardinois, who 
 knew them — as well he might, for he had had his 
 suspicions for some little time ; and now, full of tri- 
 umph, the old man returned to his couch. 
 
 The temptation of Sidonie's constant presence 
 had been too much for George's weak nature. He 
 adored her now with a mad and reckless passion. 
 For her sake he deceived his wife — his best friend. 
 
100 siBomE. 
 
 He deceived Risler, his partner, his faithfiil adviser, 
 and constant companion. Sidonie became his ever- 
 present thought, and he reah'zed that he had never 
 loved until then. As to her, her love like herself "was 
 full of vain triumphs. Ah ! if she could but have 
 said to Claire, " He loves me-r-me alone ! " her hap- 
 piness vi^ould have been far greater. As to Risler, 
 she said to herself with a shrug of her shoulders, and 
 in her shop-girl jargon, " What could he expect, an 
 old fellow like that, whom I only married for his 
 money ? " 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 SIGISMOND PLANUS'S FEAES FOK HIS CASH-ACCOUNT. 
 
 " A CAKEiAGE ! and wliat should I do witli a car- 
 riage ? " said Eisler, in a tone of profound amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I assure you," answered George, uneasily, " that 
 one is absolutely indispensable. The coupe is not 
 sufficient. Our business relations are daily extend- 
 ing ; and, besides, it is really not the thing to see one 
 of the firm always going about on foot, and the other 
 in his carriage. It does not look well, I assure you. 
 It is a necessary expense, and I shall so consider it, 
 and enter it among tlie expenditures of the firm ; so 
 you may as well make up your mind to it." 
 
 It seemed to Kisler as if this new expense was a 
 robbery »f some one ; but, as George was so urgent, 
 he felt himself compelled to yield; thinking, besides, 
 " How happy Sidonie will be ! " 
 
 The poor man did not know that a month before 
 Sidonie had herself chosen a coupe which George 
 could not present to her openly, and had consequent- 
 ly invented this ingenious method of advising its 
 purchase. 
 
 Eisler was easily deceived. Frank and honest 
 
102 SIDONIE. 
 
 himself, he never suspected duplicity in others. At 
 this time his attention was totally absorbed by his 
 new invention, with which he hoped to revolutionize 
 the manufacture of wall-papers. Thoughtful and 
 anxious, he entered his home for dinner, and was 
 too thankful to be received with smiles. He did 
 not ask himself the reason of this change, nor yet 
 why Sidonie never nowadays made any objection to 
 his spending an occasional evening at the brewery. 
 Their home, too, grew daily prettier, and comfort 
 had given place to luxury. The simple jardinieres 
 had departed, and Sidonie now cared only for the 
 latest caprices of the day — old carvings and rare 
 china. Her boudoir was hung with a delicate shade 
 of blue, the silk quilted in diamonds hke the lining 
 of a jewel-casket. A grand piano stood in the 
 drawing-room instead of the old one, and the sing- 
 ing-lesson was a daily affair. 
 
 Madame Dobson, the teacher, was an American, 
 whose lemon-colored hair was parted over a high 
 forehead. Her husband prevented her from going 
 on the stage, but she gave lessons and sang at private 
 concerts. In spite of her steel-blue eyes and sharp 
 features, she had a languishing, sentimental air that 
 was positively exasperating. Uttered by her lips, 
 the words love and passion seemed to have twenty 
 syllables, and to be indefinitely prolonged ; and Ma- 
 dame Dobson would raise her eyes to the ceiling 
 with the expression of a dying swan. To this point 
 Sidonie never arrived, though she made conscien- 
 tious efEorts in that direction. Her full ripe lips 
 
SIGISMOND PLANUS' S CASE-ACCOUNT. 103 
 
 and mischieTOUs eyes were never made for such sen- 
 timentalities. Offenbach or Herve, whose music 
 she could have aided by a gesture, a nod of the 
 head, or an arm akimbo, would have suited her 
 much better, but she dared not mate such an igno- 
 minious avowal. Sidonie, without intimate friends 
 or relations, had by degrees made a friend of her 
 music-mistress. She kept her to luncheon, took her 
 to drive with her in the new coujpe, and asked her 
 aid in her shopping-excursions. The sentimental 
 and sympathizing tone of Madame Dobson won her 
 confidence. Sidonie spoke to her of George, of 
 their love, and excused herself for her infidelity to 
 her husband by complaining of the cruelty of her 
 parents, who had compelled her to marry him, 
 though he was 80 much older than herself. Ma- 
 dame Dobson was willing to aid her, not so much 
 from lack of principle as from a desire for excite- 
 ment and a romance. In her opinion, all husbands 
 were tyrants; for she herself, poor little woman! 
 was married to a dentist, who amused himseK by 
 beating her whenever he was out of temper with 
 the world or himself. Two or three times each 
 week she brought Sidonie tickets for the theatre 
 or for the opera. Eisler supposed they were prfe 
 sented to the music-teacher ; little did he know that 
 George had requested her to purchase them, and 
 that the tickets were not for seats, but represented 
 the best private boxes in the house. 
 
 To deceive a man like Eisler required but little 
 ingenuity. His credulity was boundless. Besides, 
 
104 SISONIE. 
 
 he knew nothing of the world in which his wife 
 was already only too well known. He never went 
 with her. Occasionally, in the early days of their 
 married life, he had taken her to witness a new 
 play, but had himself slept peacefully throughout 
 the evening. Not enjoying the theatre, he was 
 only glad to relinquish his seat to -Madame Dobson. 
 
 Evening after evening, when his wife left him, 
 he would frankly express his admiration at her 
 superb toilets, not having the least idea of their 
 expense or the source whence they came, and then, 
 with a heart free from jealousy or doubt, spend the 
 evening in solitude over his drawings. 
 
 Below, in the Fromont apartments, the same 
 farce was enacted — but the roles were reversed. 
 There it was "the wife who was" deserted. Each 
 evening, a half-hour before Sidonie's departure, M. 
 Eromont's coupe came to the door to take George 
 to the club. Claire was told that many an impor- 
 tant business-afEair had been brought to a prosperous 
 conclusion over a game of billiards. And she, poor 
 child ! believed that only the interests of the firm 
 could take him away from his home so constantly. 
 Her spirits flagged for a time after he went out, for 
 each night she hoped to retain him, or that he would 
 propose that she should go to some place of amuse- 
 ment with him. But the loving arms of her child 
 soon took the slight ache from her heart. 
 
 George and Sidonie met at the theatre. Their 
 first heart-throb was one of vanity, for they attracted 
 much attention. She was very pretty, and each new 
 
SrOISMOND PLANUS'S CASH-ACCOUNT. 105 
 
 caprice of fashion seemed to have been invented to 
 lend a fresh charm to her coquettish face. Before 
 long Madame Dobson was left the sole occupant of 
 the box at the theatre, and Sidonie with George 
 sallied forth in search of adventures. With un- 
 paralleled audacity they visited ballrooms and restau- 
 rants most frequented by the demi-monde, in re- 
 gard to which class Sidonie felt a morbid curiosity. 
 - From these excursions, Sidonie, who seemed 
 actuated by a determination to mate amends for the 
 enforced monotony of her girlhood by a series of ex- 
 travagances and excitements, returned to her hour- 
 geois home with odd phrases and gestures, and new 
 ideas for her toilet, which seemed strangely out of 
 place in that quiet spot. 
 
 Doubts and suspicions were beginning to be ex- 
 cited in regard to her within the manufactory-walls. 
 Women, even the poorest and most menial of their 
 sex, have an instinctive perception of the cost of a 
 feminine costume. When Madame Kisler went out 
 every afternoon about three, fifty pair of curious 
 eyes scanned her enviously from the huge windows 
 of the factory. These sharp eyes penetrated her 
 velvet coat and her cuirass of jet, and detected the 
 guilty conscience they covered. The operatives 
 laughed conteniptuously as they looked. " She 
 does not put on those fine clothes to go to church ! " 
 "And," said another, "it is not more than three 
 years since she used to go out with a water-proof 
 cloak, and two cents' worth of chestnuts in her 
 pocket, to keep her from starving ! " And, in the 
 
106 SJDONIE. 
 
 dust and turmoil of those hot rooms, more than, one 
 poor girl thought of the strange chance that had so 
 transformed the life of this woman, and began to 
 dream vaguely of possibilities for herself. 
 
 All this little world regarded Kisler as grossly 
 deceived by his wife. Some one professed to have 
 seen madame at the theatre, accompanied by a gen- 
 tleman, who carefully secluded himself from obser- 
 vation in the back of the box, Achille, too, had 
 wonderful tales to tell, for the old gardener did not 
 love Madame Ilisler. That Sidonie had admirers, 
 or even several, all these people were quite prepared 
 to believe ; but, oddly enough, no one as yet had 
 connected her name with that of George. 
 
 And yet Sidonie was anything but cautious in 
 her relations with him. In fact, a certain ostenta- 
 tious bravado characterized them. Many a time 
 had she stopped him on the staircase, to make 
 some arrangement for the evening, and had often 
 sadly disturbed his nerves by whispering to him 
 before the whole of them. The first shock over, 
 George was amused, and looked upon these impru- 
 dences as a proof of the strength of her passion. In 
 this notion, however, he deceived himself greatly. 
 
 The simple truth was," that Sidonie was deter- 
 mined to arouse Claire's jealousy and suspicions. 
 All her efforts in this direction were useless : Claire 
 saw nothing, suspected nothing ; her own pure na- 
 ture and innocent heart, like Eisler's, remained un 
 disturbed. 
 
 Sigismond, the cashier, was the only one whose 
 
SIGISMOND PLANUSES CASB-ACOOUNT. 107 
 
 peace was troubled. But it was not of Sidonie that 
 he thought, as he sat looking out on the little 
 garden, with eyes that saw not. He thought of his ' 
 master, and of the enormous sums he was spending. 
 
 " Have you a little money for me to-day, Planus ? 
 I was thoroughly cleaned out at cards last night." 
 And Planus would open his safe with a groan as he 
 thought of the day when the young man came to his 
 uncle to confess some enormous gambling-debts. 
 Suddenly the good man conceived a violent hatred 
 for the club and all its members. One of them be- 
 ing in the office one day, Planus expressed this ha- 
 tred in very strong terms : 
 
 " Confound your club ! In the last two months 
 M. George has wasted thousands there ! " 
 
 The other laughed. " Thousands indeed ! " he 
 said ; " why, we have not seen him there for cer- 
 tainly three months." The cashier said not another 
 word, but a terrible fear had taken possession of 
 his heart. If George did not go to the club, where 
 did he pass his evenings, and how did he spend so 
 much money ? Evidently there was some woman 
 connected with this mystery. 
 
 And, with this interpretation, Sigismond feared 
 more than ever for his dear cash-box,, for to this old 
 Swiss all women were appalling, more particularly 
 a Parisian. His first duty evidently was to warn 
 Kisler. 
 
 " H. George spends a good deal of money," said 
 he, one day. 
 
 But Kisler was not disquieted. " What do you 
 
108 SIDOmE. 
 
 wish me to do about it, Sigismond ? He has surely 
 the right to do as he pleases with his own ! " 
 
 And the good fellow thought as he spoke. In 
 his eyes young Fremont was the absolute master of 
 the house, and he himself only a designer connected 
 with it. The cashier said no more, until one day 
 a bill came for a thousand-dollar cashmere shawl, 
 lie went to George. " Am I to pay this, sir ? " he 
 asked. George Fromont was a little startled : Sidonie 
 had forgotten to advise him of this new purchase. 
 
 " Pay it — ^pay it. Planus," he said, in some em- 
 barrassment ; " you will pass it to my private ac- 
 count. It is a commission that I executed for a 
 friend." 
 
 That evening, just as Sigismond was lighting his 
 lamp, he saw Hisler passing through the garden, and 
 called him. " It is a woman," he said, in a hoarse 
 whisper, " and I have the proof of it ; " and the poor 
 cashier felt that the manufactory was on the high- 
 road to destruction — all for a woman. 
 
 Eisler laughed, and refused to believe it. He 
 knew this old mania of the cashier's, who always at- 
 tributed all misfortunes to the evil influence of the 
 sex. Nevertheless the words of his friend returned 
 to Risler in the evening, as he sat alone after Sido- 
 nie's departure with Madame Dobson. The room 
 looked strangely empty. Candles burned in front 
 of the mirror, a forgotten bouquet lay on a chair, 
 and a thousand expensive trifles were thrown care- 
 lessly about. Eisler saw nothing of this, but, when 
 he heard George's coupe roll away, he felt a cold 
 
SWISMOND FLANUS'S CASH-ACCOUNT. 109 
 
 chill at his heart as he thought of the solitary wife 
 on the floor below. " Poor thing ! if what Planus 
 said is true — if George is faithless to her — oh, it 
 would be terrible ! " 
 
 Then, instead of going to work, he went down- 
 stairs to ask if Madame George was visible, for he 
 thought it his duty to stay with her awhile. 
 
 The little girl had gone to bed, but a pair of 
 small blue shoes lay on the hearth-rug, with some 
 playthings. Claire was reading, while near her sat her 
 mother, occupied in rubbing her watch, breathing on 
 the crystal and wiping it. Pisler was not the liveliest 
 companion in the world, but Claire received him with 
 the greatest cordiality. She knew all that was said of 
 Sidonie, and, though she did not believe the half of 
 it, she yet felt the most profound compassion for 
 this man, whose wife left him so often in solitude. 
 A mutual pity drew these two kind hearts together, 
 and nothing could have been more touching than to 
 see each consoling the other. Seated at this little 
 table, Kisler was very happy ; the genial warmth 
 of the fire, the sight of the furniture that for twenty 
 years he had known so familiarly, the portrait of his 
 old master, and his dear Madame George bending 
 over her sewing, seeming yoimger and lovelier than 
 ever, among these old surroundings — all seemed to 
 render the doubts suggested by Planus alike improb- 
 able and fantastic. Occasionally she rose to go into 
 the next room to look at her sleeping child. With- 
 out knowing precisely why, Eisler found it more 
 agreeable in these rooms than in his own ; for some- 
 
110 SIDOmE. 
 
 times Ms apartments seemed like a place where his 
 wife came to make a fresh start for some new scene 
 of gajety. There it was like an encampment, here 
 like a home ; a careful hand and watchful eye main- 
 tained order and elegance. The chairs were disposed 
 at the right angles ; the fire burned with a clear 
 flame and pleasant noise ; while the baby's half-worn 
 shoe brought a choking sensation to his throat. 
 
 Thus, while Claire compassionated this kind, 
 good soul, who merited a better wife, Eisler, ab- 
 sorbed in admiration of her gentle ways and tender 
 eyes that looked on him so kindly, asked himself if 
 it were possible that George could be so foolish as 
 to tire of such a charming companion. 
 
CHAPTER YI. 
 
 STOCK-TAKING. 
 
 The house at Montrouge occupied by blie cash- 
 ier Plamis was next the one vacated by M. Chebe. 
 Planus lived there with his sister. He took the 
 early omnibus to town every morning, and returned 
 home to a late dinner. On Sundays he watered his 
 flowers, tied up his vines, and fed his poultry. His 
 sister kept the house, and sewed. Neither had 
 married, and both entertained a like horror of the 
 opposite sex, regarding each other as the only ones 
 to be trusted, and as the great exception to the gen- 
 eral rule. 
 
 In the eyes of these timid natures, Paris was in- 
 habited by monsters, who were busy only with evil ; 
 and, when the tidings of some one of . those miser- 
 able conjugal dramas penetrated to their seclusion. 
 Mademoiselle Planus would say : " "What can one 
 expect ? It is all the fault of the husband ! " while 
 Sigismond would groan, " Women — women ! " 
 
 For some little time the discussions between 
 the brother and sister had been singularly lively. 
 Mademoiselle Planus pitied Claii-e, and wondered 
 at her husband's neglect ; while the cashier could 
 
112 SWONIE. 
 
 find no words to express his indignation at tlie un- 
 known person who had drawn the price of a thou- 
 sand-dollar cashmere from his iron safe. " "What 
 will become of us if this goes on ? " he said, indig- 
 nantly; for he had at heart the honor and well- 
 being of the firm, where he had been for so many 
 years. 
 
 One day Mademoiselle Planus sat knitting by 
 the fire. She was becoming anxious, as her brother 
 was an hour later than usual. The door opened, 
 and he came and took a seat without speaking. 
 This being contrary to his usual habit, his sister 
 looked at him in terror. 
 
 " I know," he said, hoarsely, " who the woman 
 is who means to ruin us ! " and then, in a whisper, 
 he uttered a name so unexpected that his sister 
 begged him to repeat it two or three times over be- 
 fore she was quite sure that she understood it. 
 
 " It is impossible ! " she cried. 
 
 " It is true ! " said he, in a tone half of grief 
 and half of triumph. Thereupon he related how 
 old Aehille had seen Sidonie and George, as they 
 came out from a restaurant together, and the man 
 never lied. Besides, other people knew other things. 
 In fact, no one at the factory was in ignorance save 
 Eisler himself. 
 
 " Cut you must tell him," said his sister. 
 
 The cashier hesitated. " It is a most delicate 
 affair. He would not believe me ; and then, be- 
 tween the two partners, I should lose my situation I 
 And Eisler might have been so happy if he had 
 
STOCK-TAKING. 113 
 
 not married ! When lie came to tliis country he 
 had not a cent, and now he is at the head of one of 
 the, most substantial firms in Paris. "What need 
 had he of a wife ? And then nothing would do for 
 him but a little Frenchwoman — any one of whom 
 is enough to ruin a man — and now where are 
 we ? Every day I must hand out money to M. 
 George. I haye warned Kisler over and over again, 
 all to no purpose. Kisler shrugs his shoulders and 
 says, ' It is not my affair ! ' He will sing another 
 son'g, I fancy, now, however." And the cashier re- 
 lapsed into silence. 
 
 His sister was overwhelmed with consternation. 
 " Had they only known this sooner, when Madame 
 Chebe was their neighbor — she was such a thor- 
 oughly honorable woman — and she could have 
 spoken to Sidonie ! " 
 
 " That is a good idea," cried Sigismond. " To- 
 morrow you had better call on her. I thought of 
 writing to Frantz ; he has always had much influ- 
 ence over his brother, and is really the only person 
 who would ever dare to tell him certain things. 
 But Frantz is so far off, and it would take him so 
 long to get here ! Poor Eisler ! I am sorry for 
 him. No ; the best way is to warn Madame Ch^be, 
 and you must do that." 
 
 This commission was of so' unpleasant a nature 
 that his sister rebelled, but finally consented — first 
 because she rarely resisted her brother, and secondly 
 because she had a real desire to serve Kisler. 
 
 Thanks to his son-in-law's generosity, M. Chebe 
 
114 SIDONIE. 
 
 had been able to gratify his last fancy. For three 
 months he had been installed in his empty shop, 
 throwing the whole neighborhood into a state of 
 wonder, as they saw the shutters taken down every 
 morning, and as carefully put up at night as if the 
 shelves had been covered with the rarest and most 
 precious goods. A new counter and show-case, with 
 a set of glittering scales, were all that was to be 
 seen. In short, M. Chebe had not yet made up his 
 mind what branch of trade he should select ! 
 
 He thought of it all day long, as he stood in his 
 doorway with his pen behind his ear. The noise of 
 the street, the hurry, and the bustle, enchanted the 
 little man. He watched the unloading of the huge 
 bales at the shop near by, and amused himself in 
 wondering what their contents could be; and he 
 went to bed at night exhausted with the superin- 
 tendence of the labors of others, and said to his 
 wife as he wiped his forehead, " Yes, this active 
 life is just what I needed ! " 
 
 Madame Ch^be smiled gently, but made no re- 
 ply. "Worn out with her husband's caprices, she 
 quietly settled herself in the back-shop that looked 
 out on a dark court, arranged her household gods as 
 best she could about her, and consoled herself by 
 thinking of her former prosperity, of her girlhood, 
 and of her daughter, and, always well dressed and 
 industrious, soon earned the respect and liking of 
 the neighborhood. Her room was always exquisite- 
 ly clean. During the day the bed had the look of a 
 wide sofa, and a screen concealed the cooking-uten- 
 
STOCK-TAKING. 115 
 
 sils in the corner. The poor woman was thankful 
 for a little peace and quiet, and hoped that her hus- 
 band would long be as contented as at present. 
 
 M. Chebe hung over his door the sign " Com- 
 mission Merchant ; " but he made no mention of any 
 particular line of goods. His neighbors sold linens, 
 silks, and laces ; he was disposed to sell any or all 
 of these. " To be sure," he said to his wife, " I do 
 not know much about linens ; but, as regards silks, 
 i am perfectly at home. But, to be successful, I 
 ought to employ a traveling-agent. But I will sleep 
 on it!" 
 
 After three or four months of this existence M. 
 Chebe began to find it slightly monotonous. The 
 old pain in his head returned by degrees. The street 
 was unhealthful ; besides, there was no trade there. 
 It wJs in the height of these complaints that Made- 
 moiselle Planus made her visit. The simple old 
 maid said to herself, as she tm-ned the corner of the 
 street, " I will break it to them by degrees." But, 
 like all timid natures, she disembarrassed herself of 
 her burden as soon as she entered the doors. Ma- 
 dame Chebe rose in her wrath — she had never heard 
 anything to equal this. Her poor Sidonie to be the 
 victim of frightful calumnies like these ! 
 
 M. Chebe took an equally high position. How 
 dared any one come to him with such slanders? 
 How could any one suppose that his daughter, the 
 child of an honorable merchant, could be guilty of 
 such conduct ? 
 
 Mademoiselle Planus shook her head sadly, but 
 
116 BID ON m. 
 
 insisted on the truth of her words. They refused to 
 listen, and regarded her as a gossip, a bringer of 
 evil reports. 
 
 " But," said the poor little woman, '■ every one 
 knows it at the factory ; and if yon would represent 
 to her—" 
 
 " What ? " interrupted M. Chebe, violently, fu- 
 rious at her persistence. " "What shall I represent 
 to Sidonie? She is married, and lives away from 
 us. It is for her husband, who has both age and 
 experience, to advise her and control her. Go to 
 him, if you choose ! " 
 
 And here the little man went off into long com- 
 plaints of his son-in-law, the stupid Swiss, who spent 
 his life in his office, and thought of nothing but 
 making money, and who would never accompany 
 his wife into the world, but preferred to her s(Jciety 
 that of his pipe, and his old associates at the brew- 
 ery. And you should have seen the look of con- 
 tempt with which M. Chebe uttered the words 
 " the brewery." His wife had grown very silent, 
 as incidents crowded on her memory of Sidonie's 
 reckless acts. What would not the poor woman 
 have given to have been deaf, dumb, and blind? 
 Like every one who has been sorely disappointed in 
 life, she felt as if ignorance was the most desirable 
 thing in the world. 
 
 Mademoiselle Planus rose to go. M. Chebe 
 lighted a burner in his empty shop, and his. wife 
 cried quietly in her dark back-room. When Sigis- 
 mond reached. home, his sister was there to receive 
 
STOCK-TAKING. 117 
 
 him, and told him of her visit, with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " They refused to believe me," she said. 
 
 Her brother patted her kindly on the shoulder. 
 " We did it for the best, my dear, and fpr the honor 
 of our dear old master's firm." 
 
 From this time forth Sigismond was sad and 
 silent. His cash-box was kept very low by constant 
 applications for money from young Fremont. "My 
 confidence is shaken," he said to himself, in a low 
 voice. And in the middle of the day, when he saw 
 Sidonie, in gorgeous raiment, coming down the wide 
 stone steps of the house, he grew hot with indigna- 
 tion as he looked at her. "Was it for such a mass of 
 frippery as that, that the honor of a great mercan- 
 tile house was imperiled ? 
 
 Madame Eisler never s'uspected that in that old 
 cashier, behind the wire grating, was her bitterest 
 enemy, who watched her every act, knew the hour 
 that her singing-mistress arrived, and how many 
 times in the week her milliner and dress-maker, both 
 laden with boxes, appeared. Sigismond counted 
 the packages that came from the stores, and peered 
 curiously in at all the windows of the Kisler apart- 
 ments. The rich coverings of the furniture, the 
 baskets of rare fiowers, the tall china vases, did not 
 escape his observation. But he studied Kisler's face 
 more than anything else. Could it be possible that 
 this man accepted his dishonor quietly — that he 
 knew it ? To be sure, there was something abso- 
 lutely monstrous in such a supposition in regard to 
 
118 SIDONIE. 
 
 his friend — the best, the most generous, the most 
 sincere of men 1 But it is a singular fact that un- 
 suspicious natures, once aroused to a certainty of 
 evil, go afterward always too far. Once convinced 
 of the treason of George and Sidonie, it was easy 
 for the cashier to accept Kisler's. Besides, how 
 could one understand otherwise his singular indif- 
 ference to the increased and enormous expenditures 
 of the firm ? 
 
 Sigismond had little comprehension of Eisler's 
 nature. Although the latter was a thorough busi- 
 ness-man, he had much of the temperament of tlje 
 artist, the inventor. Sigismond could not under- 
 stand that a man on the point of a wonderful dis- 
 covery, that would revolutionize their business, lived 
 entirely within himself, and had neither eyes nor 
 ears for anything else. Such people are like som- 
 nambulists — though their eyes are wide open, they 
 see nothing. 
 
 But in Sigismoud's opinion Eisler saw all. This 
 false idea rendered the old man extremely unhappy. 
 He watched lus friend's face whenever they were 
 together, and gave his own solution to each fleeting 
 expression; finally, discouraged by the absorption 
 he saw there, he turned away in disgust, busied him- 
 self with his papers and accounts, and hardly deigned 
 to answer a question. 
 
 No more pleasant little chats over the books ; no 
 more friendly smiles. Kisler vaguely felt the change, 
 and finally spoke of it to his wife. For some time 
 she had perceived the growing dislike of those about 
 
STOCE-T'AKma. 119 
 
 her. Sometimes, in passing through the court, she 
 felt annoyed at the cold, menacing glances east upon 
 her by the cashier at hjs little window. The present 
 disagreement between the old friends alarmed her. 
 She took her measures at once. 
 
 "Do you not see," she said to her husband, 
 " that he is horribly jealous of you — of your posi- 
 tion ? Formerly you were equals ; now you are his 
 superior, and he is beginning to dislike you. As to 
 myself, I am accustomed to that sort of thing." 
 
 Eisler opened his eyes in astonishment. " You ? " 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, certainly. All these people detest me, 
 for they do not fancy seeing ' little Chebe ' elevated 
 to the position of your wife. Heaven knows what 
 hideous things they say about me — ^your cashier's 
 tongue is, I fancy, quite as long as the others. He 
 is a very bad man." 
 
 These words had their effect. Eisler was indig- 
 nant, and, too proud to complain, returned coldness 
 for coldness. These two good men, distrusting 
 each other, and finding themselves uncomfortable in 
 each other's presence, ended by rarely meeting. 
 
 Sidonie's time was fully occupied in managing 
 all the details of her luxurious life. She must have 
 a country-house. To be sure, she utterly abhorred 
 trees and fields. " There is nothing more dreary in 
 the world," she said. 
 
 Eut Claire passed the summer at Savigny. "With 
 the first warm weather her trunks were packed; 
 cui'tains and carpets were shaken and put up in 
 
130 SIDONIE. 
 
 camphor ; and the baby's cradle, with its blue rib- 
 bons, figured on the top of a great furniture-wagon 
 that might have ^ been seen ^lowly creeping along 
 the highway in the direction of Savigny. 
 
 The family followed a few hours later, and then 
 Sidonie considered Paris deserted ; and, although 
 she loved it even in July and August, when it was 
 like a fiery furnace, she was nevertheless annoyed 
 and envious when she thought that all the world of 
 fashion were wandering by the sad sea-waves, under 
 huge white umbrellas. 
 
 " Sea-bathing ? " But Risler could not leave town. 
 
 " Then a house in the country ? " 
 
 "But I have not the means," said Sidonie to 
 herself. 
 
 George would have gladly come to the rescue, 
 and at once gratified this new caprice. But a coun- 
 try-house is not so easily concealed as a diamond 
 bracelet or an India shawl. Still, Eisler was of so 
 simple a nature that they might try the experiment 
 with him possibly. 
 
 So, to prepai-e the way, his wife spoke to him 
 over and over again of her longing for a little place 
 in the country, not too far away from Paris. Pisler 
 listened with a pleased smile. He thought of the 
 gi-een grass, of an orchard with trees loaded with 
 fruit ; but, as he was prudent, he said : " We will 
 see, we will see ! Wait until the end of the year." 
 
 The end of the year means so much to men of 
 business! Then the books are all balanced, the ac- 
 counts all made out; and even the errand-boys in 
 
STOCK-TAKING. 121 
 
 the establishinent are interested, for on the happy 
 results of those long columns of figures depends, 
 perhaps, their own gift. 
 
 Sigismond Planus is, for the time being, master 
 of the situation, and the house of Fromont & Eis- 
 ler hangs on his words. The old cashier has a fear- 
 ful air of importance, ensconced behind his iron 
 grating. There he sits, day after day, turning over 
 the heavy folios. 
 
 Toung Fromont would come in on tiptoe, with his 
 cigar in his mouth. " Well, how are you getting on ? " 
 
 The solo response from Sigismond would be a 
 groan. 
 
 This, George tnew only too well, indicated that 
 things were not looking very promising. In fact, 
 since the days of the French Kevolution, when the 
 paving-stones of the court were torn up for a barri- 
 cade, no such unsatisfactory accounts had been seen. 
 The general expenses had absorbed all the profits 
 and more, for young Fromont found that he had 
 overdrawn his account. He received this statement 
 from the cashier pleasantly enough. " Things will 
 be better the coming year," he said ; and, to re- 
 store the cashier to good-humor, George handed him 
 a much larger sum than usual as a New- Year's gift, 
 and bade him say nothing to Eisler. '" I will teU 
 him myself," added George. 
 
 When he entered the little office, lighted from 
 above like a studio, and saw his partner bending 
 over his drawing, George had a moment of shame 
 and hesitation. 
 6 
 
123 8ID0NIE. 
 
 "Is that you?" cried Kisler, gayly. "My in- 
 vention is nearly perfected, and it will not be long 
 before, with its aid, we shall distance all competitors." 
 
 " That is all very well for the future," answered 
 Fromont, " but of the present you do not seem to 
 think." 
 
 " True — true," said Kisler ; " and these accounts, 
 how are they ? Not very satisfactory, I imagine." 
 
 He said this because he discovered in George's 
 face an expression of annoyance. 
 
 "Extremely so," answered the young man, "for 
 the first year : we have each of us ma^e a handsome 
 sum ; and, as I thought you might want some 
 money to-day to purchase some gift for your wife — " 
 and, without looking at the honest man, upon whom 
 he was thus imposing, George laid upon the table a 
 pile of bank-notes and of gold. 
 
 Risler was for a brief moment quite delighted. 
 All that money for him — for him alone ? He thought 
 first of the liberality of these Fromonts, who had 
 done so much for him, and then of his little Sidonie, 
 whose often-expressed wish he could now venture to 
 gratify. Tears rose to his eyes ; a sweet and tender 
 smile hovered on his lips ; he extended both hands 
 to his partner. 
 
 " I am happy — very happy ! " he murmured. — 
 This was his phrase on all great occasions. — Then, 
 rustling the crisp notes before him, he said : " Do 
 you know what these are? A country-house for 
 Sidonie.'' And the good n^an smiled with an air of 
 triumph, 
 
CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 A LETTEE. 
 
 " To M. Feantz Eislee, Engineer of La Gompagnie 
 
 FranQaise, Ismmlia, Egypt. 
 
 " Frantz, my boy, it is old Sigismond wlio writes 
 to you, to tell you, very abruptly, that strange things 
 are going on in your brother's house. His wife 
 deceives him grossly, and the end will be that the 
 world will regard him as a rascal. You must come 
 at once ; no one but yourself can make your brother 
 do what he ought to do without delay. His friends 
 here he will not believe. You have no time to lose, 
 and must come home immediately. I know that 
 you are earning your daily bread, that you have 
 your future to create; but I know, too, that the 
 honor of the • name bequeathed to you by your 
 parents is of more importance in your eyes than 
 anything 51se. I tell you, therefore, in solemn 
 earnest, that, if you are not here soon, your name 
 of Eisler will be shamed and disgraced ! 
 
 "Sigismond Planus." 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE AVENGER. 
 
 Those persons whose lives are sedentary, either 
 from infirmities or from the nature of their daily 
 labors, become interested in the opposite windows 
 and in the passers-by, to a degree that is not easily 
 understood by those whose existences are of a totally 
 different character. 
 
 Madame Dolobelle and her daughter lived a 
 very secluded life, and had, therefore, learned to 
 feel a keen interest in the outside world that flowed 
 on through their little street with a certain regu- 
 larity. As the window was small, the mother, 
 whose eyes were growing dim from advancing 
 years and constant labor, sat nearest it, close behind 
 the muslin curtains ; her daughter's arm-chair was a 
 little farther off, and the mother announced each 
 passer-by : this gave food for much discussion, and 
 shortened the long hours. There were two young 
 sisters ; a gentleman in a gray coat ; a child attended 
 by a servant, on its way to and from school. If it 
 
THE AVENGER. 125 
 
 rained, Madame Dolobelle would lament: "They 
 will certainly be wet! Tlaey will not get in be- 
 fore the shower ! " 
 
 And when the spring sun shone in all its glory, 
 or the snow whitened the pavements in December, 
 they only knew the change of the season by some 
 new article of dress worn by one of their friends. 
 
 JSTow, on a certain day of which we write, the 
 air was soft and mild; every one seemed to be 
 anxioas to be out-of-doors; every window was 
 thrown, wide open. Desiree and her mother, how- 
 ever, only sewed the faster, as they wished to make 
 use of each ray of daylight, ^he voices of children 
 playing in the street, the jingle of pianos, and the 
 cries of some little merchant vaunting his goods, 
 filled the air with an indeiinable sense of spring. 
 Madame Dolobelle at last put down her work, and 
 stood at the window in the gathering darkness. 
 " There is M. Sigisraond ! How early he leaves 
 the factory to-night ! The days are long now, how- 
 ever, and it must be after eight o'clock. Who is it 
 with him ? " she continued, to her daughter, without 
 turning around. " Can it be — Yes, it certainly is 
 Frantz ! Look, vaj child ! " 
 
 But the young girl did not move ; her eyes were 
 fixed, and her hands fell at her side. Her thoughts 
 had taken wing to a far-distant land. The very 
 name of Frantz, pronounced so carelessly by her 
 mother, in consequence of a fancied resemblance 
 borne by some stranger, was to her like throwing 
 wide open the portals of her past and of her fu- 
 
126 SIDONIE. 
 
 ture. Hopes, as fleeting as the color on her cheeks, 
 came to whisper delusive words in her ear. She 
 remembered, too, how in days that seemed so far 
 away she had learned to know his step on the 
 stair ; to hear him as he drew his table nearer to the 
 window. Alas ! what quiet pain she had suJBEered, 
 as he sat there on that low chair, and talked of 
 Sidoniel The vei-y tone of his voice returned to 
 her; the soft and tender look in his eyes, as he 
 spoke of his future happiness. The young girl's 
 heart gi-ew very heavy. The gathering darkness 
 left only the square of the open window visible, 
 near which still sat her mother. Suddenly the door 
 opened : some one was there, though no one was to 
 be distinguished. The Dolobelles rarely had visitors, 
 and the mother thought it was some one from tl.eir 
 employers. 
 
 " My husband has just taken our work home," 
 said Madame Dolobelle. 
 
 The man came forward, still silent; the last 
 faint rays of light from the window fell upon his 
 bronzed face and long, h'ght beard. 
 
 "Do you not know me?" said a familiar voice. 
 
 " I knew you at once," answered D^siree, in a 
 cold and measured tone. 
 
 "Good Heavens, it is Frantz!" cried Madame 
 Dolobelle, running to light her lamp. " And you 
 have come back to your old friends ! — D6sir6e, what 
 an icicle you are ! "Why do you not tell him how 
 glad you are to see him again ? " 
 
 An icicle, indeed ! and she was as white as one, 
 
THE AVENGER. 137 
 
 wliile the little hand, now held by Frantz, was as cold 
 as snow. He thought her prettier than ever, while 
 she looked up at his tall figure, full of admiration 
 for his height and strength; but in his eyes she 
 read a new expression, one of sadness and anxiety. 
 
 This anxiety came from Sigismond's letter, which 
 had brought him at once. He came without wait- 
 ing for permission from his employers, thus risking 
 the loss of his position. His sadness was of an ear- 
 lier date, and took possession of his whole nature at 
 the time when the woman who had refused to marry 
 him became the wife of his brother. It is true that 
 before this marriage Eislcr had written to ask per- 
 mission to be happy, and that in words so touching 
 and so tender, that the violence of the blow was 
 somewhat softened ; but the wound was, neverthe- 
 less, very deep, and Erantz threw himself with vio-' 
 lence into his profession, and hoped, by breathless 
 toil all day, to win sleep and forgetfulness at night. 
 But, in. the anger and indignation that he now feels 
 against his brother's faithless wife, there lingers no 
 trace of his former love — contempt has taken its 
 place. It was not as a lover, but as an avenger, 
 that he. came, and Sidonie must be on her guard ! 
 Instantly on his arrival the young man went to the 
 manufactory, but no one was there. The shutters 
 of the house at the end of the garden had been 
 closed for two weeks. The gardener, Achille, in- 
 formed him that the two ladies were in the country, 
 and that their respective husbands went out of town 
 every night. Frantz decided to speak to Sigismond, 
 
128 SIDONIE. 
 
 but it was Saturday, pay-day, and he must wait 
 until the. crowd of operatives had left. Although 
 impatient and out of spirits, Frantz experienced a 
 keen pleasure in again finding himself in the whirl 
 of life in the great city of Paris. In all these faces 
 — some honest, others vicious — ^he read the same 
 contentment, the same joy, at seeing the end of the 
 week's labors. For them, Sunday evidently began 
 at the cashier's desk, on Saturday evening, at seven 
 o'clock. 
 
 The operatives turned away from the desk, 
 rattling the money that glittered in their palms. 
 There were murmurs and complaints sometimes, as 
 they were informed of certain fines, or of hours that 
 they had omitted; and above the tumult rose the 
 calm, clear tones of Sigismond, as he defended the 
 interests of his masters. Frantz linew the scene all 
 by heart ; he knew that those fiitting shadows out- 
 side the door were the wives or daughters, waiting 
 to lead their husbands or fathers home past the 
 tempting wine-shops. 
 
 Sigismond was at last free. The two friends 
 met cordially, and in the silent factory — now silent 
 and empty for twenty-four hours — the cashier ex- 
 plained fully the existing state of things. Sidonie 
 — her lavish expenditures, the honor of her home 
 lost and sacrificed — he fully dwelt upon. Eisler 
 had just purchased a country-house at Asnieres, the 
 former dwelling of an actress, and they were there' 
 installed in the most luxurious fashion. They had 
 carriages and horses, and numerous sei"vant8, and, 
 
THE AVENGER. 129 
 
 in short, lived like people of enormous wealth. 
 But what occasioned old Sigismond the greatest 
 uneasiness was the fact that for some time George 
 had not applied to him for money, and yet Sidonie 
 spent more than ever. 
 
 "My confidence is gone," said the unhappy 
 cashier, shaking his head ; " my confidence is gone ! " 
 Then, lowering his voice, he added: "But your 
 brother, Frantz — your brother ! "Who will explain 
 to us what he is thinking about ? He seems to be 
 in a dream the greater part of the time. He thinks 
 of nothing, cares for nothing, but this invention of 
 his. Shall I tell you the question that every one is 
 asking — ' Is the man a rascal or a fool ? ' " 
 
 The two men were walking in the gai-den. 
 Frantz believed himself to be the sport of a bad 
 dream. His hurried voyage ; the sudden change of 
 climate and surroundings ; Sigismond's rapid words ; 
 the entire revolution of his preconceived ideas of 
 Sidonie, the womai^ he had so loved ; of his brother, 
 the man whose honor had always hitherto been un- 
 suspected — all these things utterly bewildered him. 
 
 It was late. Sigismond proposed that he should 
 go home with him ; but Frantz refused, preferring 
 to be alone. Mechanically he turned to his old 
 quarters, and on the door saw the placard, " To be 
 let." It was the same room where he and his 
 brother had lived together for so many years, and 
 opposite glistened the Dolobelles' little sign. Their 
 door was half open. Should he go in? In the 
 whole of Paris he could not have found a safer 
 
130 SIDONIK 
 
 shelter; it was like a harbor of refuge— a shore 
 radiant with sunshine and peace, where women sat 
 and worked, and children played ; where the waters 
 were calm and clear, while outside tempests roared 
 and waves ran mountain-high ; and, more than all, 
 without his knowing it, D6sir6e'8 love for him cre- 
 ated about her an atmosphere of gentle tenderness, 
 that to his wounded, sore heart was inexpressibly 
 grateful. DesLree, the little icicle, gradually thawed. 
 They were talking with much animation, while Ma- 
 dame Dolobelle spread the table. 
 
 " You will take supper with us, Frantz," she said. 
 " My husband has gone to carry our work home, but 
 he will return soon." 
 
 The poor wife said this with a certain air of pride ; 
 for, in truth, ever since the melancholy disappoint- 
 ment attending his theatrical project, M. Dolobelle 
 had taken all his meals in his own apartments, for 
 he owed so large a bill at the restaurant that he 
 really dared not return there. But he never failed, 
 on Saturdays, to bring home with him one or two 
 unexpected guests; so in a few moments he ap- 
 peared, accompanied by two actors — one, wrinkled 
 and shriveled, with an unmistakable air of the foot- 
 lights ; the other, buttoned closely to the chin, with- 
 out the smallest evidence of linen visible. Dolo- 
 l)elle announced his visitors pompously at the door, 
 but interrupted himself in the middle of his pres- 
 entation by catching sight of Frantz. " Frantz 1 
 my Frantz ! " cried the old player, in a melodramatic 
 -tone, rushing forward with extended arms. 
 
THE AVENGER. 131 
 
 ' Desir6e made a little face as she saw their vis- 
 itors. It would have been so mxich more agreeable 
 to have had no strangers there that evening; but 
 her father cared little for this. His first thought 
 was to empty his pockets. He drew out a superb 
 pate — "for the ladies," he said, forgetting that it 
 was he himself who adored it. Then appeared a lob- 
 ster and a huge sausage, some marrons glaces, and 
 some early cherries. 
 
 Meanwhile one of the guests pulled up an invisi- 
 ble shirt-collar, and the other furtively watched the 
 preparations for supper with hungry eyes. But 
 Desiree thought with terror of the immense hole 
 made by this improvised repast in their week's 
 earnings, and Madame Dolobelle was at her wits' 
 ends to find the requisite number of plates and 
 knives. 
 
 The supper was gay enough for the actors, but to 
 the two women and Frantz the worn-out anecdotes of 
 the theatre had an odor of extinguished lamps and 
 empty benches. The three men recalled their enor- 
 mous successes, for in their own opinion they had 
 been the greatest men on the stage ; and while 
 they talked they ate as actors eat — ^three-quarters 
 turned to the audience, a napkin spread on one knee, 
 alternate mouthfuls and phrases, expressing joy, 
 terror, or surprise, by adroit management of the 
 knife and fork. 
 
 Madame Dolobelle listened with a smile, for a 
 woman cannot be the wife of an actor for thirty years 
 without sympathizing somewhat in his eccentricities. 
 
132 8ID0NIE. 
 
 But at the comer of the stable sat Frantz and 
 Desiree. They talked in whispers, and heard little 
 of what went on abont them. EememBrances of 
 their childhood, which were of little value, save that 
 they gave them a past in common, made up the sub- 
 stance of their conversation. Suddenly Dolobelle 
 interrupted them : 
 
 " Tou have not seen your brother," he said to 
 Frantz, "nor his wife yet, have you? There you 
 will see a grands dame, and such toilets and' such 
 style ! They have a superb establishment at Asni^res. 
 They are quite beyond us in these days — never a 
 word ! never a visit ! A& for me, you understand 
 that I am totally indifferent, but for these ladies it 
 is somewhat humiliating." 
 
 " O papa ! " said D(5siree, eagerly. " Tou know 
 that we love Sidonie too much not to excuse her ! " 
 
 The actor struck the table with his fist. " And 
 that is precisely where you are in the wrong. If 
 people insult you and humiliate you, you should not 
 excuse them." 
 
 For the fancied wrongs of the old comedian still 
 rankled in his soul. 
 
 " If you knew," he said to Frantz, " how close 
 and grasping your brother has grown ! I asked him 
 to lend me a small sum of money, which sum, small 
 as it was, would have made my fortune. I offered 
 him the best security ; but, if you will credit my 
 words, he refused me point-blank. His wife, for- 
 sooth, must have it all ! She rides horseback, 
 drives her pony-wagon, and altogether queens it 
 
THE A VENQER. 133 
 
 bravely ! Between ourselves, my dear boy, I doubt 
 if they are a very happy pair. That little woman 
 will make him turn all the colors of the rainbow 
 yet, if I am not mistaken." 
 
 And the old actor winked at his friends. 
 Frantz was thunderstrack. The horrible cer- 
 tainty was presented to him on all sides. Sigismond 
 had spoken from his point of view, Dolobelle from 
 his, but the result was the same. 
 
 Supper was over at last, and the three actors ad- 
 journed to the brewery to smoke. Frantz remained 
 a while longer with the two women. 
 
 Seeing him there at her side, Desiree felt her 
 heart swell with gratitude to Sidonie. "Was it not 
 to her generosity that she owed even this semblance 
 of happiness, this poor, fleeting pleasure ? And this 
 thought enabled her to defend her rival and old 
 friend. 
 
 " It is not necessary to believe all that my father 
 has said of your sister-in-law, Frantz. He is some- 
 times given to exaggeration, you know. As for me, 
 I am quite sure that Sidonie is incapable of the 
 things of which she is accused. Her heart is the 
 same as of old, and she loves her friends, even if she 
 appears to neglect them a little. That is only nat- 
 ural, after all. Do you not think so, Frantz ? " 
 
 How pretty he thought her as she was speaking I 
 Her delicate, high-bred face, her pure coloring, and 
 soft, tender eyes, charmed him. And, while she 
 thus warmly defended her friend, Frantz Eisler 
 thought, with a throb of manlike selfishness, that 
 
134 SIDONJE. 
 
 this girl liad loved him, loved him still, perhaps, and 
 that her heart was a refuge for him when tossed 
 and wounded by the storms of the outer world. 
 
 All night in his old room, still rocked by his 
 ocean-voyage, by the noise of waves and strong 
 winds, ho dreamed of the far-away days of his youth, 
 of " little Chebe," of Desir^e, of their plays, and his 
 school-days. 
 
 Then, when the morning sun glanced through 
 his curtainless windows, and partially awakened 
 him, he dreamed that it was the hour foi- his school, 
 and that his brother opened the door on his way to 
 the factory, and cried : 
 
 " Up with you, lazy-bones ! " 
 
 That good, kind voice, too real for a dream, 
 made him open his eyes wide, and start up. 
 
 There stood Risler, watching him tenderly, who 
 in his joy at again seeing his brother could find no 
 other words than the old ones, " I am so happy ! " 
 
 Although the day was Sunday, Kisler had come 
 to the quiet factory, unable to keep longer away 
 from the model of his beloved invention, and was 
 there met by AchUle, with the intelligence of the 
 arrival of Frantz. He started off to the youth's old 
 quarters, a little vexed that he had not been in- 
 formed in advance by letter, and, above all, that 
 Frantz had not gone out to Asnieres instantly on 
 reaching Paris. This vexation he at once expressed 
 to his brother, who offered the excuse of excessive 
 fatigue, and also a certain pleasure he had in again 
 occupying their old room. 
 
THE AVENGER. 135 
 
 " I understand all that," interrupted Eisler ; 
 " but no-w you are going home with me. Won't 
 Sidonie be sui-prised ? We often talk of you, and of 
 our regret that yon were so far away." 
 
 And the poor man, overwhelmed with joy, be- 
 came silent, and looked with admiring eyes on the 
 well -grown, broad-shouldered man before him. 
 While Kisler was thus occupied, Frantz, in his turn, 
 examined the gentle, serious, and contemplative face 
 of his brother. 
 
 " No ; it" is impossible," he said to himself. " He 
 is the soul of honor, as he always was." Then recall- 
 ing all the cruel suspicions of the people about him, 
 his anger concentrated on that vain woman who de- 
 ceived her husband so grossly that she ended by giv- 
 ing the world the right to look upon him as her 
 accomplice. What a terrible explanation be should 
 have with her ! how severely he should speak to her ! 
 N"o subterfuges, but the stern, unvarnished truth 
 would come from his lips. He thought of all this 
 as they went their way on that lovely Sunday morn- 
 ing. The car was crowded. Eisler sat opposite, and 
 talked without stopping. He spoke of the manu- 
 factory, and of the fortune they were maldng ; and 
 how, wJien his invention was perfected, their profits 
 would be quadrupled. 
 
 "But," said Frantz, uneasily, "are you quite 
 sure of the success of your invention ? " 
 
 " Sure ? of course I am sure. I will show you 
 all my plans ; and next week, under my own eyes, 
 the manufacture of my machine will begin. In 
 
136 SWONIK 
 
 three months I shall have obtained my patent, and 
 my invention will be at work. Ton will see, my 
 boy, how money will pour in on me, and how happy 
 I shall be to have it in my power to recompense 
 young Fromont for all the kindness lavished on me 
 by his father ! " 
 
 Then he began to talk of his domestic happiness. 
 Sidonie was the best of wives. They had a happy 
 home, and had gathered a small but select circle 
 about them. His wife sang like a nightingale, 
 thanks to her teacher, Madame Dobson, who was 
 a charming little woman. In fact, he had but one 
 anxiety, one annoyance in the world, and that was a 
 certain coolness that had arisen between himself and 
 Sigismond ; whence it came, or its cause, he knew 
 not. Frantz, perhaps, would assist him in clearing 
 up the mystery. 
 
 "Certainly I will," answered Frantz through 
 his close-shut teeth ; for he grew hot with rage that 
 any one should venture to suspect a baseness hidden 
 under such childlike frankness. 
 
 As they drew near Asnieres, Frantz perceived a 
 small house built like a miniature castle, all turrets 
 and towers. The clear, crystal panes of the win- 
 dows were shaded by rose-colored curtains ; and on 
 the green lawn glittered a huge metal ball. The 
 river ran very near, and at the little wharf lay a 
 flock of small boats, with the dust of the road on 
 their pretentious names. From her windows Sido- 
 nie could see several restaurants, closed and silent 
 during the week, but on Sundays running over with a 
 
THE AVENGER. IS? 
 
 noisy crowd. The newly-grown grass was worn and 
 yellow under their feet, and" the whole aspect of tlie 
 spot was thoroughly vulgar. Sidonie, a cockney in 
 all her feelings, was delighted with it, for she had 
 always heard Asnieres spoken of as the most desira- 
 ble of all country-places in which to reside ; for the 
 number of trains permitted one to go into Paris 
 every evening and return after the theatres. " Lit- 
 tle Chebe" had beard this from childhood, and 
 Sidonie- Kisler was determined to fulfill all " little 
 Chebe's" dreams. 
 
 The two brothers let themselves in at the gar- 
 den-gate. They passed the billiard-room, a few 
 rods away from the house, and the conservatory — 
 looking, the whole of them, like a toy villa that 
 comes, for a child's amusement, in various bits that 
 take apart and can be packed in a box — ^the whole 
 affair light and airy, as if it would blow away in the 
 first puff of wind. 
 
 Frantz looked about him. The long, broad win- 
 dows, opening on a wide piazza, gave him a full 
 view of the interior ; while a low, American rocking- 
 chair, a table with a coffee-equipage upon it, and a 
 cane-seated sofa, stood on the piazza. A piano was 
 heard from within. 
 
 " Sidonie will be somewhat astonished," said her 
 husband, as they carefully walked over the gravel ; 
 " she does not expect me until night, and is practis- 
 ing with Madame Dobson." Just as he reached 
 the door, he shouted loudly, "Guess who is with 
 me!" 
 
138 BJDONIE. 
 
 Madame Dobson started up, while George and 
 Sidonie appeared suddenly on the threshold of the 
 boudoir. 
 
 " How you frightened me ! " she cried, running 
 to meet her husband. 
 
 The ruiBes and flounces of her white peignoir, 
 with its bows and floating ends of blue ribbon, rus- 
 tled and waved as she moved. Already recovered 
 from her brief embarrassment, she said, with her 
 ever-ready little smile, to Frantz, ""Welcome, my 
 brother ! " 
 
 Kisler left them to each other, and turned to 
 George, whom he was somewhat surprised to see. 
 
 "What! George, you here? I thought you 
 were at Savigny." 
 
 " Yes, I wanted to see you ; and I supposed 
 you would be here to-day," stammered the young 
 man. 
 
 Sidonie disappeared, and Madame Dobson con- 
 tinued at the piano, the half-subdued tones of which 
 reminded one of the music that, at the theatre, 
 occasionally accompanies or heralds critical situa- 
 tions. 
 
 Kisler, with his customary good-humor, apolo- 
 gized to his partner, and took Frantz on a tour of 
 inspection over the house. They went from the 
 drawing-room to the stable, and to the conservatory ; 
 all was new and bright, but cramped and inconven- 
 ient. 
 
 '* But," said Kisler, with a certain pride, " it cost 
 an enoi'mous sum of money." 
 
THE A VENGER. 139 
 
 He insisted on showing liis brother everything 
 — gas and water on each floor, the automatic hells, 
 and the English billiard-table — and all this with 
 constant references to his young partner, who, in 
 taking him into the firm, had opened such a brill- 
 iant future to him. 
 
 At each new effusion of Kisler's, George Fro- 
 mont felt his very brow burn under the singular 
 expression of Frantz's eyes. 
 
 At table, Madame Dobson was almost the only 
 one who spoke ; knowing, or rather believing that 
 she knew, the entire history of her friend and host- 
 ess, she thought she understood the sulky anger of 
 Frantz, an old lover, furious at being replaced ; and 
 the anxiety of George, disturbed by the unlooked-for 
 appearance of a rival, appeared but natural to the 
 sentimental singing-mistress. She looked first at 
 one and then at another with an encouraging smile, 
 and was filled with admiration of Sidonie's compos- 
 ure, and reserved her contempt and disdain for 
 " that old Risler, that abominable tyrant ! " 
 
 As soon as lunch was over, George announced 
 his intention of returning at once to Savigny. Eis- 
 ler did not venture to detain him, as he thought of 
 his dear " Madame George " all alone, but went to 
 the station to see him off. 
 
 Sidonie and Frantz sat in a little arbor covered 
 with clustering roses, while Dobson returned to her 
 piano. 
 
 Sidonie sat in silence, looking off at the 
 water. 
 
140 SIDONIE. 
 
 Frantz, too, was silent. Suddenly, just as she 
 opened lier lips to speak, lie said : 
 
 " I must talk to you." 
 
 " Precisely," she answered, gravely ; " but come 
 this way, we shall be less likely to be interrupted." 
 And they entered a small summer-house at the foot 
 of the garden. 
 
CIIAPTEE II. 
 
 EXPLANATION. 
 
 It was most fortunate that the hour had come 
 for some stop to be put to Sidonie's reckless con- 
 duct. Her defiance of all les convenances — the lux- 
 ury that she afEected— the enormous sums of money 
 that she lavished — all announced that the end could 
 not he far away ; that she would soon sink from the 
 surface of the whirlpool in which she had been in- 
 gulfed to the dark depths below ; and that with her 
 she would drag the honor of he;r husband, and per- 
 haps the name and fortunes of a respectable house. 
 Her present surroundings hastened her ruin. In 
 Paris she was compelled to pay a certain regard to 
 appearances, but in this village she was, as it 
 were, utterly alone. A pistol-shot in a neighboring 
 house — the melancholy ending of an intrigue as silly 
 as it was disgraceful — only caused her to smile, and 
 to long for "adventures." The days on which she 
 was not to be seen going or coming from Paris she 
 spent in absolute indolence, wrapped in a white 
 dressing-gown, never occupying herself with the 
 details of her house. The servants robbed her 
 constantly, but she knew nothing of it. Little by 
 
143 8ID0NIE. 
 
 little, she lost all ambition.; she descended to her 
 former shop-girl level, and even below it. From 
 the respectable mercantile circles to vrhich her mar- 
 riage had raised her, slie fell to the position of the 
 women she saw about her. She imitated them in 
 her dress and her manners, cut her .hair short over 
 her forehead like a Skye terrier, and for two months 
 flourished as an absolute blonde, greatly to Risler's as- 
 tonishment, who looked as if he had changed his doll. 
 
 As to George, these freaks amused him, and it 
 was he who was the real master of the house. 
 
 To amuse Sidonie, he had procured for her a 
 semblance of society, some bachelor friends, but no 
 women — women have too good eyes. Madame Dob- 
 son was the only lady who crossed Sidonie's thresh- 
 old. 
 
 Picnics, dinners, and water-parties, were arranged. 
 Each day Eisler's position became more" ridiculous, 
 more shocking. When he arrived at night; tired, 
 heated, and badly dressed, he must go at once and 
 dress for dinner. 
 
 " Hurry ! " his wife would say. 
 
 He obeyed her injunctions, coming in perhaps 
 after the soup had been sent away. The guests he 
 hardly knew ; they were George's friends, who had 
 come to talk business at Kisler's table. This magic 
 word " business " explained and justified everything 
 in Eisler's eyes. The constant presence of George, 
 the choice of the guestSj and Sidonie's exquisite toi- 
 lets, were all in the interest of the great firm with 
 which it was his pride and joy to be connected. 
 
EXPLANATION. 143 
 
 George, however, watched the increasing coquet- 
 ry and recklessness of Sidonie with growing dis- 
 trust and uneasiness. He njade his appearance al- 
 most daily at her house, fearing to leave this art- 
 ful, unprincipled nature too much to her own de- 
 vices. 
 
 " Where is your husband, Claire ? " her grand- 
 father would say. " Why does he not come here 
 oftener ? " 
 
 Claire -excused George, but she herself had at 
 last begun to grow very anxious. The tears came 
 to her eyes when she received the brief letters with 
 which her husband coolly announced his detention 
 in town : " Do not expect me to-night or to-morrow. 
 Perhaps, the day after, I can get away." 
 
 She dined sadly, opposite a vacant chair, and, 
 without knowing the worst, felt that her husband 
 was drifting away from her. He was out of spirits 
 and absent-minded when he was compelled by cir- 
 cumstances to appear at Savigny. Claire, sustaining 
 with Sidonie only the coolest relations, knew nothing 
 of what was going on at Asnieres, and, when George 
 hurried off, followed him with eyes that in vain 
 sought to discover the secret that drew him so con- 
 stantly from herself and their child. Her husband 
 was in no degree happier than she, for Sidonie 
 seemed to take a perverse pleasure in tormenting 
 him. She received the most compromising atten- 
 tions from several persons. One Casaboni, an Ital- 
 ian tenor, introduced by Madame Dobson, went to 
 sing with her every day. George appeared, too. 
 
144 SID ON IE. 
 
 every afternoon, and began to tliink that Eisler did 
 not take sufficient care of his ■wife. 
 
 Had she been his wife, George thought to him- 
 self, he would have kept her in better order. But 
 he had no right to control her, and from him she 
 would not bear one word. Sometimes, too, with ' 
 that invincible logic that makes itself felt even by 
 fools, he argued tliat, as she had deceived her hus- 
 band, so might she deceive him in his turn. 
 
 He spent his time in going from jeweler to jew- 
 eler, to procure some novelty, some surprise. How 
 well he knew her, after all ! He realized that he 
 could retain her interest and her affection, such as 
 they were, only so long as he could amuse her. 
 
 That day, however, had not yet arrived. She 
 was living the life that precisely suited her — had all 
 the happiness she was capable of feeling. In her 
 love for George lingered no element either of pas- 
 sion or romance. He was merely a second husband, 
 younger, but above all richer, than the other. Just 
 before the arrival of Frantz, startled by some whis- 
 pers that reached her ear, she had estabhshed her 
 parents at Asnieres, in her vicinity; and with a 
 father willfully blind,' and a mother tenderly unsus- 
 picious, she gave herself an air of respectability, of 
 the advantages of which she was beginning to be 
 conscious. 
 
 Everything was thus arranged to her satisfac- 
 tion, when suddenly Frantz Eisler appeared on the 
 scene, and she saw at once that her repose was 
 threatened, and that war was to be declared between 
 
EXPltANATION. 145 
 
 them. In a minute her plan was formed, and the 
 time had now arrived to put it in action. 
 
 The summer-house they entered was a circular 
 room with windows on four sides. It was fur- 
 nished for those warm days when th? heat of the 
 garden would be unendurable. A large divan ran 
 round the whole wall, and a small lacquered table 
 occupied the centre, covered with books and pa- 
 pers. 
 
 The walls were delicately frescoed, and the de- 
 sign was so exquisite — birds among pale pink and 
 white roses — that it was like a dream of summer in 
 itself; the windows were shaded with masses of 
 green vines, so that the interior was delightfully 
 cool and dark. The sound, too, of water — the river 
 lapping the shores with a gentle ripple — added to 
 the charm of the apartment. Sidonie threw her- 
 self carelessly on the divan, the soft folds of her 
 white drapery swelling like sea-foam about her. 
 Her head was slightly bent forward, and she looked 
 up at Frantz with eyes that were openly rebellious 
 — almost threatening in expression. 
 
 Frantz stood erect and very pale. 
 
 " Accept my congratulations, madame," he said, 
 as he looked about him. " You understand the full 
 meaning of the word comfortable, I see." And 
 immediately^ as if afraid to allow the conversation 
 to wander from the point to which he wished to lead 
 it, he said quickly : " To whom are you indebted 
 for all this luxury — to your husband or your ad- 
 mirer ? " 
 
 7 
 
146 SWONIE. 
 
 Witliout moving, and without turning her eyes 
 away, Sidonie answered : 
 
 " To both." 
 
 He was utterly disconcerted by this unexpected 
 coolness. 
 
 "You admit, then, that George Fremont is — ?" 
 
 " I admit nothing." 
 
 Frantz looked at her ,• notwithstanding her calm- 
 ness, she was frightfully pale, and her eternal little 
 smile no longer hovered about her lips. 
 
 " Listen to rae, Sidonie. My brother's name, the 
 name he gave to his wife, belongs also to me. Eisler 
 is blind and weak, and just for that reason it be- 
 comes my duty to defend him from the consequences 
 of your attacks on his happiness and honor. There- 
 fore I bid you say to M. Fremont that he shall not 
 again enter these doors ; if he does — " 
 
 " If he does \ " asked Sidonie, after a moment's 
 pause, looking up from her rings, with which she 
 had been playing. 
 
 " If he does, I shall most assuredly inform my 
 brother of all tha,t is going on. My revelation will 
 kill him, perhaps, but you may be sure that he will 
 kill you first ! " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, . 
 
 " Let him kill me !— what of that ? " 
 
 These words were said in so dreary a tone that 
 Frantz, in spite of himself, felt an emotion of pity 
 for this beautiful young creature who had so thrown 
 away her life, who spoke of dying as if it were the 
 end of all things, 
 
EXPLANATION. 147 
 
 " You love him, then," he said, in a tone slight- 
 ly softened — " you love him, since you prefer death 
 to ^ving him up ? " 
 
 She threw her head back haughtily. 
 " I ? Do you think I could love a man like that 
 — a man without intellect or force i No ; I accepted 
 his attentions as I would have done those of the first 
 man who came in my way." 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because it was necessary — ^because I was mad 
 — ^because I had in my heart, and have still, a crimi- 
 nal love that I desire to uproot — ^it matters not at 
 what price ! " 
 
 She had risen and stood in front of him, her 
 eyes looking into his. 
 
 A criminal love ! "What did she mean ? 
 Frantz was afraid to ask, for he understood by 
 her look, by her attitude, that something terrible 
 was in store for him ; but his self-assumed function 
 of judge compelled him to ask. 
 " Who is it ? " he said, slowly. 
 She answered in a low, dull voice : 
 " You know very well that I mean yourself ! " 
 She was his brother's wife. For two years he 
 had thought of her only as his sister. To him, too, 
 this wife of his brother bore not the smallest resem- 
 blance to his former ^awcee, and in his eyes it would 
 have been a crime to recognize in her a single feat- 
 ure of the young girl to whom he had so often 
 whispered the words, " I love you." And now it 
 was she who said she loved him ! 
 
148 SWONIE. 
 
 The unhappy, bewildered judge stood silent. 
 She, opposite, waited for him to speak. 
 
 It was one of those warm, damp days of spring, 
 when the air is laden with the perfume of flowers 
 and shrubs; the sweet voice of Madame Dobson 
 floated through the open windows on the soft spring 
 air, and from below came the gentle lapping of the 
 waves. 
 
 " Yes, Frantz, I have always loved you," said 
 Sidonie ; " I renounced this love in girlish igno- 
 rance, but it has grown with my years and with the 
 wisdom that came with them. When I found that 
 Desir^e loved you also, I thought of the glory of 
 self-sacrifice, and of her misfortunes, and I deter- 
 mined to make her happy, and I repulsed you that 
 you might turn to her. But as soon as you were 
 gone, I found that I had over-estimated my own 
 strength. Poor little D^siree I will you beheve that 
 I have hated her ever since 1 The very sight of her 
 occasioned me such keen anguish that I have never 
 been near her in all these months." 
 
 " But if you loved me," asked Frantz, in low, 
 half -frightened tones — "if you loved me, why did 
 you marry my brother ? " 
 
 She did not wince. 
 
 " To marry Eisler was to bring myself nearer 
 you. I said to myseK : ' I cannot be his wife, but I 
 can be his sister ; in that way I may love and care 
 for him, and shall not live a life utterly apart from 
 his.' Alas ! these were the simple struggles of a 
 young girl, the folly of which only experience can 
 
EXPLANATION. 149 
 
 demoBstrate ta us. I could not love you with sis- 
 terly affection, Frantz ; neither could I forget you ; 
 with another husband than Kisler I might have done 
 so. But he talked to me constantly of you — of your 
 prospects — of your success and plans. And then, 
 worse than all, your brother spolse to me in your 
 voice ; in his step, in his ways, there is a strange 
 family resemblance, that haunts and bewilders me. 
 I determined to seek some distraction. I offer no 
 apology for myself — I simply state the bare fact of 
 my utter misery. I listened to George in a moment 
 of desperation, hoping that through him I could be 
 drawn out of my hf e, which was monotonous, and 
 gave me too much time for thought. But I swear 
 to you, Frantz, that in this whirlpool of excitement 
 and amusement, by which I have been ingulfed, I 
 have never ceased to think of you ; and, if any one 
 had the right to come here as an accuser, it was cer- 
 tainly not yourself, who has made me, unconscious- 
 ly, it is true, precisely what I am." 
 
 She was silent, choked by her tears. 
 
 Frantz dared not look at her. The miserable 
 man felt that his former passion iiad resumed its 
 sway over his heart. ITeither did he dare speak, 
 for he felt that, did he open his lips, words of pity 
 and of passion would escape. 
 
 He turned- away in silence. ^ As he reached the 
 door, Sidonie darted after him — snatched his hand — 
 hers was soft and warm — his icy cold. At that mo- 
 ment Eisler's tall form passed the window. " They 
 must be here, M. Chebe," he said, gayly ; " for we 
 
150 SIDONIE. 
 
 looked in the arbor." So saying, lie entered the 
 room, accompanied by his father- and mother-in- 
 law. 
 
 Madame Chebe, for whom Frantz had always 
 had a certain charm, welcomed him cordially ; and 
 her husband said, in a most patronizing tonp, " And 
 how is the canal at Suez getting on ? " — while Kis- 
 ler talked loudly of killing the fatted calf for the 
 returned prodigal, and then shouted to the singing- 
 mistress : 
 
 "Madame Dobson — ^Madame Dobson! do, pray, 
 sing something more cheerful, or play us a waltz, 
 for my mother-in-law and I are perishiug for a 
 ■dance ! " 
 
 " Kisler, are you quite crazy ? " cried Madame 
 Chebe, as her son-in-law drew her along the alley in 
 a wild dance, for the good man was really intoxi- 
 cated with joy. 
 
 For Frantz the day was one interminable series 
 of agonies. Suez and his brother's invention were 
 talked of until he failed to grasp the meaning of a 
 single sentence. Sidonie was very silent, and seemed 
 wrapped in her own thoughts ; and Frantz, without 
 daring to look at her, watched her blue-sUk wm- 
 brella, and the undulations of her white drapery. 
 How she had changed in these last two years ! But 
 had she improved ? . Then a horrible idea occurred 
 to him. It was a race-day at Longchamps, and a 
 constant succession of carriages rolled past, filled 
 with women ; or a low pony-wagon, driven by a 
 woman with rouged cheeks, who sat stiffly forward, 
 
EXPLANATION. 151 
 
 her veil drawn tightly back, and her little sun-shade 
 and whip held in her hand. She looked like a doll 
 that was wound up for. a certain length of time ; 
 nothing seemed really living about her, save her 
 charcoaled eyes, that were immovably fixed on her 
 horses' heads. Sidonie looked like these creatures — 
 Sidonie could have driven George's horses in that 
 same way. Frantz started! "Was he not at that 
 moment in George's can-iage ? Had he not drunk 
 his wine ? And did not all this luxury, by which 
 he was at this moment surrounded, come from 
 George ? 
 
 It was shameful, revolting ! He owed it to him- 
 self to expose the whole tissue of deceptions to his 
 brother. Had he not come for that ? But his cour- 
 age was gone. 
 
 That evenin'g, after dinner, Kisler urged his 
 wife to sing. He was anxious that she should ex- 
 hibit all her new accomplishments to his brother. 
 
 Sidonie begged to be excused, but madame tossed 
 her long English curls, and seated herself at the 
 piano to play the accompaniment. 
 
 " But I know nothing — what do you wish me to 
 sing ? " She ended by deciding for herself. Pale 
 and absorbed — in the flickering light of the candles, 
 which seemed to exhale perfume with their light — 
 so intense was the odor from the garden of lilacs 
 and lilies — Sidonie sang a strange httle creole mel- 
 ody, with quaint, provincial words, very popular in 
 Louisiana, whence it had been brought and set to 
 music by Madame Dobson : 
 
152 SIDONIK 
 
 " Pauvre petit Mam'zelle Zlzi, 
 O'est I'amou', I'amou', qui tourne la tfete I " — 
 
 and in narrating tlie fate of tlie poor little Zizi, who 
 had been driven mad by love, Sidonie herself as- 
 sumed the air of a woman carried away by passion. 
 With the pathetic cry of a wounded dove, she took 
 up the melancholy refrain in the colonial ^a^o^ : 
 
 " C'est I'amon', I'amou', qui tourne la tite." 
 
 The siren had not been judicious in her choice 
 of a Bong. The very name of Zizi transported 
 Frantz to the quiet room wliere sat Ddsiree Dolo- 
 belle — she who had loved him so patiently and so 
 long. In her childhood she had been called Zizi, 
 and the singer seemed to be extolling her charms 
 and her fidelity. Again he was at her side, waiting 
 for the tardy coming of her father. Yes, it was 
 there and only there, Frantz said to himself, that 
 he could find a safe shelter from the temptations 
 that assailed him in this enervating, unwholesome 
 atmosphere. 
 
 In Desir6e's love he would take refuge. Ho 
 would go to her and say, " Help me, save me ! " 
 And who knows that a pure and innocent affection 
 would not fill his heart, to the exclusion of hispres- 
 ent guilty passion ? 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Kisler, seeing 
 his brother rise abruptly as soon as the last bar of 
 the song had come to an end. 
 
 " I am going away — it is late." 
 
 " What of that ? You will sleep here, of course." 
 
EXPLANATION. 153 
 
 He refused. His presence in Paris was abso- 
 lutely necessary for certain matters of business in- 
 trusted to him by his employers. Again they en- 
 treated him, but he hurried through the garden, 
 and soon took his seat in the train. 
 
 When he had gone, his brother went to his own 
 room, but Sidonie and Madame Dobson lingered be- 
 low. The music from a neighboring casino came to 
 them broken by the regular, distant song of the boat- 
 men on the river. 
 
 " A regular spoil-sport ! " said Madame Dobson. 
 
 "Frantz, you mean?" asked Sidonie; "but I 
 have checkmated him, I fancy : only, we must be 
 very careful, for he is of an extremely jealous tem- 
 perament. I must write at once to Casaboni, to tell 
 him not to come here for some time. And you must 
 go the first thing in the morning to see George ; 
 tell him to depart at once to Savigny, and to stay 
 there for a fortnight." 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 POOE LITTLE MADEMOISELI,E ZIZI. 
 
 Ah ! liow happy Desiree was in those days I 
 Frantz came every evening regularly, and he rarely 
 mentioned Sidonie. 
 
 In the morning, as soon as she was seated at her 
 work, a gentle tap was heard. " Good-morning, 
 Mademoiselle Zizi ! " for so he always now called 
 her. 
 
 In the evening they waited together for the old 
 actor; and, while she worked, he told her of the 
 strange new country which was to be his future 
 home. 
 
 "What is it, my dear, that has so waked you 
 up ? " said her mother ; for the lame girl, instead of 
 sitting all day long, as had been her habit, now 
 moved up and down the room, held herself very 
 erect, and asked " if it showed when she was not 
 walking." 
 
 Her simple dress was now rarely without its 
 knots of dainty ribbon, and her beautiful hair was 
 arranged with the greatest care. Every one noticed 
 the change, and even her birds and beetles partook 
 of its results, and had an entirely different air. 
 
POOR LITTLE MADEMOISELLE ZIZL 155 
 
 Yes, the young girl was very happy. For some 
 days Frantz had spoken of an excursion into the 
 country ; and as the papa, always good, always gen- 
 erous, made no objection, they started early one 
 Sunday morning. 
 
 You may imagine the anxiety with which Desi- 
 ree retired the night before. "When the girl opened 
 her window at six o'clock, and saw the sweetness 
 and freshness of the morning, and thought of the 
 trees, the fields, and the flowers, that she had not 
 seen for so long a time, and that she was to be- 
 hold that day again, on the arm of the person dear- 
 est to her in the world, tears filled her eyes. 
 
 The evening befoi'e, Frantz had brought her a 
 dainty silk umbrella with an ivory handle ; and the 
 girl had carefully arranged every detail of her sim- 
 ple costume. The result was altogether charming. 
 
 At nine o'clock precisely, Frantz appeared in a 
 carriage. He sprang lightly up the stairs to sum- 
 mon his guests. Zizi came down without any assist- 
 ance save that of the railing. Madame Dolobelle 
 followed close behind, watching her daughter care- 
 fully. Dolobelle himself, a new overcoat folded on 
 his arm, stood at the door of the carriage. 
 
 What a charming drive thatr was! The pure 
 air, the waving trees, and brilliant flowers, filled the 
 girl's heart with joy. Do not ask where they went. 
 Desiree never knew. She could only have told you 
 that no sun ever shone so brightly, no birds ever 
 sang so sweetly, as those she heard that day. Wlien 
 she was much younger she had had an occasional 
 
156 SIDONIE. 
 
 day of country pleasure ; but, as she grew older, ever- 
 increasing pain aggravated by motion, the necessi- 
 ty of economizing every moment as well as every 
 penny, had held her as by invisible bonds to that old 
 quarter of Paris inhabited by her parents. Distant 
 roofs, and the new red bricks of the Fromont man- 
 ufactory, bounded her horizon, but the girl was not 
 discontented. Therefore, for some time she had 
 seen no flowers save what grew in pots on her win- 
 dow-sill ; no trees save the acacias waving in the 
 summer wind in the Fromont garden. Thus what 
 joy swelled her heart as she looked on the beautiful 
 turf bejeweled with tiny flowers ! She clapped her 
 hands in childlike ecstasy. Frantz kept near her, 
 /ready to aid her at every turn ; and this wonder- 
 ful day passed like a heavenly vision. The great, 
 blue sky seemed to float above the green branches ; 
 the narrow glades with perhaps a gleam of the 
 horizon in the distance, the flowers, and the vines, 
 ravished and bewildered her. 
 
 Toward evening, when the sun was setting, and 
 ghe saw the long lines of tremulous light on the 
 river, and far away, between two hills, a thick, fog- 
 like mass of roofs and steeples, and was told that 
 there lay Paris, she cast one look at the lovely scene 
 about her, and laid away in her ^memory all the ex- 
 quisite landscape with its odor of hawthorn, as if 
 never, never should she see it again. 
 
 The flowers that the young girl took away with 
 her perfumed her room for days and days. The 
 hyacinths and violets, the fair blossoms of the thorn, 
 
POOR LITTLE MADEMOISELLE ZIZL 157 
 
 were mingled with a crowd of smaller flowers, of 
 which even the names were unknown to her. 
 
 In looking at them, how many times did little 
 Zizi live over again each occurrence of that memo- 
 rable day ! The violets reminded her of the bed of 
 moss where she had found them, and where, kneel- 
 ing at the side of Frantz, she had gathered them. As 
 she thought, she worked, and a gleam of sunshine, 
 coming through a half-opened window, touched the 
 breasts of the humming-birds on the table, and trans- 
 formed the tiny feathers to glittering jewels. Spring 
 and youth, hope and love, glorified this poor little' 
 work-room on the fifth floor. 
 
 Frantz by this time was equally happy. Desi- 
 ree, by degrees, had won his heart completely. Even 
 the remembrance of Sidonie, he fancied, had de- 
 parted. He had never gone to Asnieres again. 
 " Come home with me," his brother had said; " Si- 
 donie insists on your dining with us to-day." Eut 
 Frantz pretended to be overwhelmed with business. 
 It was easy, too, to induce Kisler to accept this ex- 
 cuse. Each time that Frantz left his brother's office, 
 he was intercepted by old Sigismond, his pen behind 
 his ear, and his knife in his hand. He kept the 
 young man inlbrmed of all that wenton. George, 
 he said, came regularly to his office, and went out 
 to Savigny every night. ]^o more bills had been 
 presented to him for payment. 
 
 " You see," said the cashier, triumphantly, " I 
 was quite right in sending for you to come home ; 
 but, all the same," said the good man, " I feel as 
 
158 SIDONIE. 
 
 if we were all treading on the edge of a quick- 
 sand." 
 
 " Have no fear," answered the engineer ; " I am 
 on the lookout." 
 
 "You will be here for some time longer, I 
 hope ? " asked the cashier, anxiously. 
 
 " Not for long. I have a matter of the highest 
 importance to arrange before I go, however." 
 
 This matter was Frantz's marriage to Desiree. 
 He had spoken of it to no one, not even to her, bat 
 little Zizi had no doubts, evidently, for she was as 
 ' happy and as gay as a lark. 
 
 They were alone one Sunday afternoon — Madame 
 Dolobelle had just gone out, proud and happy to 
 show herself oniier husband's arm, carefully dressed. 
 Frantz had a certain festal air, and a look of sup- 
 pressed excitement ; and from the very way in which 
 he drew his chair toward her sofa Desiree under- 
 stood that he was about to say something of the 
 gravest importance. Their conversation began by 
 indifferent phrases ; then came a long silence. At 
 this moment a gentle tap at the door. 
 
 " Come in ! " said Desiree, impatiently ; and 
 Sidonie appeared, beautifully dressed — smiling and 
 gracious. She had just run in for a moment to see 
 her little Desiree. 
 
 The presence of her brother-in-law seemed to 
 astonish her greatly ; but, amid her coaxing words 
 to her friend, she had neither eyes nor ears for 
 him. After a time, however, she askod to see the 
 windoAV on the staircase and the room where the 
 
POOR LITTLE MADEMOISELLE ZIZL 159 
 
 brothers bad lived. It pleased ber, she said, half 
 sadly, to recall tbose days of ber youtb. 
 
 " Do you remember, Frantz, wben tbe princess 
 came to call on yon, wearing on ber little bead a 
 diadem of feathers ? " 
 
 Frantz did not reply ; he was too disturbed. 
 Something told him that this woman had come there 
 for him alone — that she wished to fascinate and in- 
 toxicate him — and he felt, with an emotion of min- 
 gled despair and rage, that he should fall into tbe net 
 she thus spread. D^siree suspected nothing — Sido- 
 nie's air was so gentle and friendly ; besides, they 
 were brother and sister ; of course, there could be 
 no question of love between them. 
 
 ITevertheless, the lame girl bad a vague presen- 
 timent of coming sorrow, wben Sidonie turned on 
 the threshold, and said to her brother-in-law, care- 
 lessly : 
 
 " By-the-way, Frantz, Eisler bade me bring you 
 out to dinner ; the carriage is at the door, and we 
 will take him up as we pass his office." 
 
 Then, with a half smile, she added : 
 
 " You will let us have him, Zizi, will you not ? 
 We will return him to you." 
 
 And be went with her — without once looking 
 back, swept away by his passion as by a furious sea ; 
 and neither that day nor the following one did 
 poor little Zizi hear the words which had been on 
 ber lover's lips. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE WAITING-EOOM. 
 
 " I LOVE YOU — I love you more than ever — and 
 forever ! Why struggle longer ? Our passion is 
 stronger than ourselves. We were destined for 
 each other ; is it a crime to fulfill our destiny ? 
 Come, then. To-morrow night, at the Lyons sta- 
 tion, I shall expect you ; be punctual — ten o'clock 
 — the tickets will be taken, and I shall watch for 
 you. Feantz." 
 
 For a whole month Sidonie had expected this 
 letter — for a month she had sought to induce her 
 brother-in-law to place on paper this written expres- 
 sion of his passion. It was not easy to pervert this 
 young heart, natui'ally so frank and honest. When 
 she believed him nearly subjugated, his sense of 
 right conquered, and he was ready to fly from her 
 forever. Therefore, when this letter was handed to 
 her one morning, she was very triumphant. Ma- 
 dame Dobson was there ; she had come laden with 
 complaints from George. 
 
 " Ah, the poor fellow ! " said the sentimental 
 American ; " if you cotild but see how unhappy he 
 is ! " And while she spoke she untied her music, 
 
THE WAITINO-ROOM. 161 
 
 where slie had carefully hidden his letter, only too 
 delighted to have any part in this love-afEair, where 
 a tyrant of a husband was to be outwitted and pun- 
 ished. Singularly enough, while Madame Dobson 
 had no objection to carrying love-letters to and fro, 
 she had never written or received one herself. 
 
 When Sidonie showed her brother-in-law's letter 
 to Dobson, the latter said, " And what did you an- 
 swer ? " 
 
 " ' Yes ' — neither more nor less ! " 
 
 " What ! Do you mean to run away with this 
 madman \ " Sidonie laughed contemptuously. 
 
 " ]S"ot precisely. I said ' Yes,' so that he might 
 wait for me at the railway -station. He deserves at 
 least a half-hour of suspense. He has made me 
 miserable for a month. I have changed all my daily 
 life and habits. I closed my doors on my friends — 
 beginning with George and finishing with yourself ; 
 for you know, my dear, that he was even out of 
 conceit with you." 
 
 But Sidonie did not say that her strongest rea- 
 son for her growing dislilce of her brother-in-law 
 was, that he had terrified her by threats of expos- 
 ure to her husband. Ever since that day in the 
 summer-house, she had felt ill at ease in his presence, 
 and was haunted by a constant wonder as to what 
 he would do should he ever learn the truth in regard 
 to her. These cold, fair men often have fearful 
 tempers — not tempers that are easily aroused, per- 
 haps, but they remind one of those dangerous ex- 
 plosive mixtures, without color or odor, that one 
 
162 SIDOmM. 
 
 fears to meddle with, because no one knows their 
 full power. She shivered with dread as she thought 
 that the evil day might be near at hand. Of her 
 former life she had preserved various strange tales 
 of dishonored homes, enraged husbands, and deeds 
 of revenge. Yisions of death haunted her waking 
 hours as well as her dreams ; and death, its eternal 
 repose, its profound silence, terrified this poor, shrink- 
 ing little creature, absorbed in pleasure, mad for 
 excitement and amusement. This unfortunate let- 
 ter put an end to all these fears ; now it was impos- 
 sible for Frantz to denounce her, even in a moment 
 of rage, for he had placed a powerful weapon in her 
 hand. The moment he opened his lips, that mo- 
 ment she would produce his letter, and all his accu- 
 sations would seem to Eisler the merest calumnies. 
 She was radiant with delight ; she threw her win- 
 dows wide open to the sun and air, and at once 
 issued multitudinous orders to cook and gardener. 
 Her house must be made delightful, for was not 
 George coming again ? She made her arrangements 
 for a large dinner at the end of the week. One 
 would have thought that she had returned home 
 after a month's seclusion in a convent, so eager was 
 she for movement and life. 
 
 The next evening, Sidonie, her husband, and 
 Madame Dobson, were together in the salon. E,is- 
 ler sat drawing at the table, while his wife sang at 
 the piano to Madame Dobson's accompaniment. 
 Suddenly she stopped in the middle of a bar and 
 laughed aloud. The clock was striking ten. Eisler 
 
THE WAITINQ-ROOM. 163 
 
 looked up in astonishment. " What is it that you 
 find so amusing ? " he asked. 
 
 " My thoughts ! " answered his wife, gayly, as 
 she directed the attention of her teacher to the 
 clock. It was the hour named for the rendezvous 
 at the station ; and she was thinking of Frantz pac- 
 ing the long platform in vain expectation of her 
 coming. 
 
 From the moment that the messenger had taken 
 to Frantz Sidonie's " Yes," his restless anxiety left 
 him. The die was cast, and no retreat was now 
 possible. He argued no more with himseK ; his 
 conscience seemed hardened and seared. He calmly 
 made all his arrangements — emptied his wardrohe, 
 sent off his trunks, and then sat down in the vacant 
 room, >vithout one thought or pang for the young 
 girl who would weep such bitter tears, without one 
 thought of his brother's horror and despair. All 
 this was to come later, but was now of minor con- 
 sideration. 
 
 His mind was now concentrated on the anticipa- 
 tion of meeting Sidonie at the station. She would 
 come closely veiled and in black, quiet and unob- 
 trusive. He thought of the train flying through 
 the darkness ; of a small, graceful head and fair face 
 lying among cushions, and two eyes that shone like 
 stars ; and still the train sped on. Later still, and 
 a vision of the blue sea, of an unknown tropical 
 land where they themselves were unknown, came 
 to intoxicate and bewilder him. Two hours before 
 the time for his train, Frantz was at the station 
 
164 SIDONIE. 
 
 — the dreariest of all in Paris, the Lyons. He 
 seated himself in the darkest corner, and sat as if 
 carved out of stone; but his brain was as ac- 
 tive as ever, although he asked himself several 
 times where he was goin?, and for whom he M^as 
 waiting. Mechanically he looked about, though far 
 too early vet to expect Sidonie. In a half-liour, in 
 fifteen minutes, he might begin to watch for her. 
 Then began that horrible expectation that racks the 
 nerves of the strongest. Poets have written of it, 
 most of us have felt it. But to pass such moments 
 in a dreary railway-station, with a uoise of opening 
 and shutting doors, a constant tramp of feet ! The 
 sense of the hurry and confusion is inexpressibly 
 depressing. Frantz stood watching the carriages as 
 they stopped at the platform. The doors were 
 opened and noisily closed, while the faces of the oc- 
 cupants of the carriages were momentarily visible 
 under the light of the lantern that hung from above. 
 A lady closely veiled, a young girl with her fa- 
 ther, an elderly woman with her maid, but no Si- 
 donie. Then he went outside, not being able to en- 
 dure the heated atmosphere within. It was a damp 
 evening in September ; a light fog imparted to the 
 carriage-lamps a far-away look ; but none of the 
 carriages contained Sidonie. The hour for the de- 
 parture of the train was close at hand. He ran to 
 the ticket-office. " Two tickets for Marseilles !" Ob- 
 taining them, he returned to his post of observation. 
 At last he saw her ; yes ! in black — it was her figure ; 
 and with her was another woman, still smaller — 
 
THE WAITINQ-IiOOM. 165 
 
 Madame Dobson, of course. But a second look un- 
 deceived him : it was a lady bearing a certain re- 
 semblance to Sidonie ; a young man joined her ; it 
 was evidently a marriage-trip ; the father and mother 
 were there to see them on the train. They passed 
 Frantz, and he saw them enter the ear wherein were 
 his seats. At this moment a heavy hand was laid 
 on his shoulder : he turned, and saw M. Gardinois. 
 
 " I am right," said the old man ; " you are going 
 to Marseilles by this train, are you not ? I shall start 
 with you, but am not going very far." He then ex- 
 plained to Frantz that he had missed the train he 
 wished to take : " For," he added, " I was detained 
 by the great failure of to-day, by which I hope ' Fre- 
 mont & Eisler' won't suffer. Eut young people 
 are never very careful. I must be off — they are 
 going to shut the gate ! " 
 
 Frantz hardly heard these disconnected sentences. 
 The ruin of his brother, the utter demolishment of 
 the whole world, would not have disturbed him at 
 that precise moment. 
 
 , The ten-o'clock train puffed out of the sta- 
 tion. He tried to think calmly — evidently she 
 had missed the connection from Asnieres — would 
 she come later ? He would wait. The young 
 man seated himself. The book- stall was being 
 put in order for the next day. Frantz recognized 
 some volumes that he had in his room at Ismailia, 
 or had read on board ship. But the book-stall 
 is shut and locked, and he is deprived of this re- 
 Bom-ce. Then the woman who sells her toys at the 
 
166 SIDONIE. 
 
 comer wraps herself in an old shawl and goes away. 
 The day was over for all these people. The thought 
 of the long hours of wakefulness to come reminded 
 him of the well-known room whose shaded light 
 fell on a table covered with minute birds ; but this 
 vision comes and goes — and leaves no sign behind. 
 Suddenly he found that he was dying of thirst. The 
 cafe was open ; he went in ; but, just as he lifted 
 his glass to his lips, the notion that Sidonie was 
 waiting for him, alone in the darkness outside, took 
 such violent possession of his mind, that he rushed 
 out, leaving his money and the xmtouched glass on 
 the table. 
 
 She will not come. What had happened ? "Who 
 had detained her ? Was she ill, or was she over- 
 whelmed by remorse ? But in that case she would 
 have sent Dobson. Perhaps Eisler had found the 
 letter, Sidonie was so careless. 
 
 While buried in these reflections the night wore 
 on ; the distant buildings whitened, and became dis- 
 tinct. What should he do ? He would go at once to 
 Asnieres, and find out the truth. The morning was 
 chilly, and, as he hurried across the city, he saw a 
 little crowd of working-people gathered about a 
 placard on the wall. Ah ! had he but stopped to 
 read it, he would have been saved many a pang of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 Two or three hours later, when he reached As- 
 nieres, the sun had risen. The bridge and the wharf 
 all had that fresh, clean look that gives one the 
 indefinable impression of a new day. He saw his 
 
THE WAITING-ROOM. 167 
 
 brother's house, witli its open windows and flowers 
 on the balcony. He wandered about some time, 
 before he ventured to enter the grounds. 
 
 Suddenly, some one spoke to him. It was Sido- 
 nie's coachman. "Good-morning, Master Frantz. 
 You are up bright and early this morning ! " 
 
 " Any news at the house 2 " asked the yoimg 
 man, trembling. 
 
 " No, sir ; nothing." 
 
 " Is my brother at home ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; my master slept in town." 
 
 " Is there anybody ill ? " 
 
 " Nobody that I know of," answered the coach- 
 man, somewhat astonished. 
 
 Then Frantz rang at the small door. He heard 
 Sidonie's voice, notwithstanding the early hour. 
 
 She spoke eagerly. 
 " No — no cream — ^let the sherbet be well frozen, 
 and be punctual — seven o'clock precisely." She was 
 evidently deep in considtation with her cook ; but 
 the unexpected apparition of her brother-in-law did 
 not disturb her in the least. 
 
 " Ah ! Frantz ! " she said, tranquilly. " I shall be 
 at liberty in a few moments. We have a large dinner- 
 party to-morrow ; you have no objection, I tnist ? " 
 
 Fresh and smiling, in her loose white dressing- 
 gown and dainty lace cap, she continued to arrange 
 her dinner. On her face was not the slightest trace 
 of anxiety or of sleeplessness. Her smooth brow 
 and half-parted rosy lips offered a strange contrast 
 to her lover's haggard face. 
 
168 sisoJsriK 
 
 At last they were alone, and lie could speak. 
 
 " You did not receive my letter ? " lie asked. 
 
 " Certainly I did ; what then ? " She had risen 
 to arrange before the mirror some of her numerous 
 frills and ribbons, and continued, as she turned tow- 
 ard him : " I received your letter, and was delighted 
 to receive it. Now, if you feel any inclination to 
 carry to your brother any of the reports with which 
 you have frightened me, I will prove to him that 
 you are impelled to do so by your mad jealousy — by 
 a love that I rejected with horror and contempt. Be 
 warned, my dear — and farewell ! " 
 
 Happy as an actress who has made a great hit, 
 Sidonie left the room, a half smile on her lips. 
 
 And he did not kill her ! 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE SEINE. 
 
 The night of tlae unfortunate episode of the 
 Lyons station, a few minutes after Frantz had qui- 
 etly left his apartment, the illustrious Dolobelle went 
 home, and threw himself into a chair, in that loose, 
 disjointed fashion which he always adopted when 
 things went wrong with him. 
 
 • " Good Heavens ! " cried his wife, whom twenty 
 years of exaggeration had not yet hardened, " what 
 is the matter 2 " 
 
 Before answering, the actor, who never failed to 
 precede his smallest words with some play of his 
 countenance, drew down his mouth as if he had 
 swallowed some atrociously bitter morsel. 
 
 " It is certain," he said, " that these Eislers are 
 selfish and ungrateful, to say nothing of their ill- 
 manners. . What do you think I have just heard ? 
 That Erantz Kisler has gone — left Paris without a 
 word of farewell to me-r-without a word of thanks 
 for all the -hospitality that he has received under 
 this humble roof ! What do you think of that ? " 
 
 Madame Dolobelle uttered an exclamation of 
 regret and surprise, while poor Desiree neither 
 
170 SIDONIE. 
 
 spoke nor moved. The wire she held did not trem- 
 ble. 
 
 " Why have I deserved this last humiliation ? " 
 asked her father, for it was one of his pleasures to 
 believe that he was hated and insulted by the world 
 in general. 
 
 Gently, and with almost maternal tenderness, 
 Madame Dolobelle consoled her husband — petted 
 him, and added some little dainty to their dimier. 
 In fact, the poor fellow was this time sincere ; he 
 was really hurt by young Eisler's abrupt departure. 
 But beside this surface sorrow burned and throbbed 
 an anguish so deep — a pain so keen — ^that words fail 
 to describe it ; and yet the mother did not -dream 
 of it. Look at your child, Madame Dolobelle ! Look 
 at that transparent cheek — those brilliant, tearless 
 eyes ! Draw your child's head to your loving breast ! 
 Let her weep in your arms, so that her eyes, veiled 
 by tears, cannot distinguish the distant object on 
 which she has fixed her despairing gaze ! 
 
 There are some women in wbom the mother ex- 
 tinguishes the wife ; with others, the wife extin- 
 guishes the mother. Madame Dolobelle belonged 
 to this latter class. Worshiping her husband, she 
 fancied tbat her daughtei-'s mission in life was to 
 minister with equal unselfishness to his numerous 
 whims. The two h^d but one aim in life — to toil 
 for the glory of this great man, to console him for 
 his wasted and unappreciated talents. Never had 
 her mother seen the rosy flusb that tinted Zizi's 
 cheek when Prantz entered their work-room ; all 
 
THE SEINE. 171 
 
 the sweet subterfuges of lier daughter to insure the 
 utterance of his name over their morning's work 
 had been unnoticed. Never had the mother watched 
 in anxiety the long hours of silence, the tears that 
 came unbidden to the eyes of the young girl ; and if 
 sometimes Madame Dolobelle said, " What are you 
 thinking about ? " it was in a mechanical sort of 
 way, that hardly merited the often-unheard reply. 
 
 Selfish natures like Dolobelle's exercise an ex- 
 traordinary influence over their family circles ; each 
 member learns to suppress his own emotions, to en- 
 dure silently rather than annoy the idol by his 
 useless complaints ; and may I ask how, in this case, 
 the sad drama that darkened the life of poor Zizi 
 could interest that great man, her father? For 
 more than a month (since the Sunday, in fact, that 
 Sidonie had borne Frantz away in triumph) Desiree 
 knew that she was no longer loved, and knew, too, 
 who her rival was. She uttered no complaints of 
 either, she only asked herself with weary question- 
 ings the reason of his return, and why he had lin- 
 gered at her side. Like a condemned criminal in a 
 dark cell, she had become accustomed to the sad ob- 
 scurity of her daily life. A sudden gleam of sun- 
 shine showed her all that she had endured; and, 
 when that sunshine faded away again, her days were 
 intolerable. How many tears had dimmed the brill- 
 iancy of her birds' wings, and how many hours had 
 they rendered less burdensome, for her daily toil 
 was the girl's salvation ! Had her mind and hands 
 been unoccupied, the misery in her heart would 
 
172 SIDONIE. 
 
 have driyen her to desperation. But, while Frantz 
 was in Paris, hope did not altogether desert her. 
 She heard his step in the corridor, and sometimes, 
 even, through her half-open door, caught a glimpse 
 of him, as he hurried up or down the stairs. He did 
 not look happy. Why should he? she thought; 
 did he not worship a woman whom it was a sin for 
 him even to think of? That he would return to 
 her again as a lover she knew was impossible, but 
 she thought it very probable that he would come to 
 her some day, sore and crushed, and ask her to pour 
 some oil into his wounds. 
 
 But n"ow she had been told that Frantz had gone ; 
 gone without a look or a word. He had been guilty, 
 first, of a lover's treachery, and now of a friend's 1 
 Where could she turn for aid in this terrible hour ? 
 Tier mother would not understand her, and would 
 beg her not to disturb her father. 
 
 Sidonie ! Alas ! she knew now that she had bet- 
 ter hope for consolation from her little birds, whose 
 expressionless eyes drove her mad with their glassy 
 stare. Her work no longer interested her; her 
 hands were as weaiy as her heart ! Who but her 
 Father above could aid her now ? Alas ! she did 
 not even think of him. 
 
 In Paris — in those narrow, dingy streets — the 
 blue heavens seem so far away ; between the sad, 
 uplifted eyes and the sky intervene fogs and clouds, 
 and life is so hard for the greater part of these peo- 
 ple, that, if the thought of a watchful Providence 
 occurs to them, it is as an avenger and a tyrant. 
 
THS SEINE. 173 
 
 This is wliy tliere are so many suicides in Paris. 
 These people; who know not how to pray, are never- 
 theless ready to die. Death seems to them a deliv- 
 erer and a consoler. 
 
 It was thus that the little lame girl thought. 
 She would die — but how? Motionless in her 
 chair, while her mother prepared dinner, and her 
 father recited a long monologue against the ingrati- 
 tude of human nature, Zizi decided on what she 
 should do. 
 
 ISTever alone, it was useless to resort to charcoal, 
 l^ever going out, it was in vain for her to think of 
 purchasing a little package of white powder, that she 
 could carry about with her for days, in her pocket, 
 with her handkerchief and thimble. There was, to 
 be sure, the window opening on the street ; but the 
 thoTight of giving her parents the shock of seeing 
 her mangled remains — the remembrance of the in- 
 quisitive crowd — all decided her to relinquish tbat 
 plan. Ifothing, then, was left but the river, whose 
 waters might carry her so far off that she would 
 never be seen again. 
 
 She shivered as she thought of the river, but it 
 was not with fear of the deep, black waters ; a Pa- 
 risian grisette thinks little of that : she could throw 
 her shawl over her head, and she would not see it. 
 But she would have to go through the streets alone, 
 and at night, and that thought tei'rified her. 
 
 While little Zizi sat in silence, with her soft eyes 
 distended and fixed on vacancy, her father dined 
 comfortably, and then sallied forth to the theatre, 
 
174 siDoms. 
 
 first ascertaining that he had some money about him 
 for emergencies. 
 
 " The dear man made a good dinner," said his 
 wife, " and I am glad of it, for he needed it." 
 
 " Yes, that will be terrible to go alone into the 
 street ; I must wait mitil the gas is Ml out in the 
 corridors, and when my mother is asleep I will creep 
 down the stairs, and out into the street, where I 
 shall meet men that will stare at me, and perhaps 
 speak to me ! " 
 
 This timidity D6sir^e had felt since childhood. 
 For, when she was little, and was sent of an errand, 
 the children in the street had mocked her, and fol- 
 lowed her as she limped along. Now, she feared 
 the omnibuses and carnages ; the river was so far 
 off — how tired she would be ! But there was no 
 other thing for her to do. 
 
 " I am going to bed, my child — ^how much lon- 
 ger do you mean to sit up ? " 
 
 "With her eyes on her work, Desiree answered 
 that she must finish her twelfth bird. 
 
 " Good-night, then," said her mother, v.hose fail- 
 ing sight could not bear the bright light. " I have 
 put your father's supper by the fire — look at it the 
 last thing." 
 
 Desiree had told the truth. She meant to finish 
 the dozen, so that her father could take the work 
 home in the morning ; and no one would have sup- 
 posed, who looked in on that peaceful scene, that 
 within that little blond head so fatal an idea was 
 developing itself. 
 
THE SEINE. 175 
 
 The bird was finislied^-a wonderful bird — whoso 
 wings were green, like the deep sea, and whose 
 breast glowed like a living sapphire.- She carefully 
 placed it with the others in the paper box. Each 
 needleful of silk was gathered up — the pins and 
 needles placed in the cushion. She turned the dish 
 that held her father's supper, and lowered the lamp, 
 so that everything should wear its ordinary look. 
 Finally, Desiree took a small shawl from the ward- 
 robe, and went calmly forth, without one look at 
 her sleeping mother; for at last, in this supreme 
 moment, she fully understood to what a selfish 
 love her childhood and her youth had been sac- 
 rificed. She knew, only too well, that a word 
 from her father would console her mother. When 
 one voluntarily chooses death, it is with a cry 
 against the injustice of man, and the pitilessiiess of 
 Fate. 
 
 At last, she is in the street. All is quiet in this 
 secluded quarter ; but on the boulevards there are 
 still noise and lights. Desiree walked quickly, with 
 her shawl drawn about her slight figure. Without 
 looking to the right or the left, she went straight 
 on. The wind blew in her face, and the air felt 
 damp as if it came from the river, which seemed 
 itself to recede as little Zizi advanced. 
 
 Did you ever see a wounded bird running along 
 on the ground, dragging its broken wing, seeking 
 only some shelter where it may die in peace ? De- 
 siree's little figure and hesitating walk would have 
 recalled involuntarily to your mind the image of 
 
176 siDosm. 
 
 this wounded bird. And to think that, on the same 
 night, almost at the same hour, and among the same 
 streets, anothet person wandered, equally unhappy, 
 equally desperate! If they could have met — if 
 she, without looking up, had stopped him, and said, 
 " Tell me, if you please, sir, the way to the Seine ? " 
 and he would have exclaimed, " Mademoiselle Zizi ! 
 in the name of wonder, why are you out at this hour ? " 
 — she would have burst into tears, and he would 
 have wrapped her about with his strong arms, and 
 told her that he needed her for a comforter and a 
 guide. But meetings like these, in spite of all that 
 poets say, do not often happen in real life, and real 
 life is a hard mistress ; and when sometimes such a 
 very slight thing would turn bitterness into joy, she 
 sternly refuses to grant that trifle. In this melan- 
 choly truth is to be found the reason why romances 
 of real life are always sad. 
 
 Street after street, then a square, and, finally, a 
 stone bridge and the rivei* — an autumnal fog hung 
 over it — and it was here that she meant to die. She 
 felt so little, so desolate; in this great city, it seemed 
 to Desiree that she was already dead. She went 
 toward the bridge, when suddenly an odor of fresh 
 flowers, of wet moss, and damp earth, came to her. 
 She stood still. On the very edge of the sidewalk 
 lay a bundle of shrubs, their roots tied up in moss; 
 and a number of flower-pots, each in its paper, 
 showed that they were in readiness for the early 
 market. The women sat by, enveloped in shawls, 
 and half asleep. Chrysanthemums of all colors. 
 
THE SEINE. 177 
 
 mignonette, and roses, filled the air with their deli- 
 cate perfume. 
 
 Poor little Desir^e ! The rare joys of her youth, 
 the memory of her brief happiness with her lover, 
 all rushed over her. She walked softly through 
 these flowers. She remembered the day in the 
 country with Erantz: that breath of Nature, that 
 she enjoyed for the first time that day, came again 
 to her as she was about to die. " Do you remem- 
 ber?" the flowers seemed to say, as they swayed 
 gently toward her. " Ah, yes, I remember ! " she 
 answered, with a vague smile on her girlish lips. 
 
 She remembered only too well. At the end of 
 the wharf the little figure stops at the steps which 
 lead down to the boats. 
 
 Presently loud erics were heard — steps ran up 
 and down the wharf. " Quick ! a boat ! " A police- 
 man and a sailor appear as by magic on the scene. 
 A boat, carrying a lantern, is pushed off. 
 
 The flower-merchants are roused. And when 
 one of them asks, with a yawn, what the matter is, 
 the woman at the coffee-stall answers calmly, "It 
 is a woman who has just been fished out of the 
 water." 
 
 It is true — ^the river refused even its protection 
 to the poor child. Look where in the light of the 
 lanterns a little group is gathered — she is saved ! 
 By degrees the people disperse, the flower-merchants 
 return to their seats and doze again, and on the de- 
 serted wharf the chrysanthemums shiver in the cool 
 night-wind. 
 
178 STDONIE. 
 
 Ah, poor girl ! Ton thought it an easy, simple 
 thing to disappear out of life. You did not know 
 that, instead of bearing you swiftly away, the river 
 would reject you, and condemn you to all the shame 
 and suspicion that must necessarily belong to your 
 future life. First came the police-station, with its 
 dirty benches, and its floor as wet and muddy as the 
 streets themselves. There Desiree must spend the 
 night. They had placed her on a camp-bed, before 
 the fire, charitably replenished on her account, the 
 excessive heat of which soon made her wet clothing 
 steam. "Where was she ? She hardly knew. Men 
 were asleep all about, and the frightful oaths of two 
 drunken prisoners in the next room horrified her. 
 I^ear her crouched a woman in rags — she was mad — 
 a poor creature who harmed no one, but who nodded 
 h^ head constantly, and kept saying: "Ah, yes, 
 misery — you may well say so ! Ah, yes, misery — " 
 And this melancholy refrain, uttered in such a scene, 
 made the poor child feel as if she should go mad 
 herself. She closed her eyes, that she might; not see 
 this melancholy personification of her own despair. 
 
 At last daylight pervaded the large room. Zizi 
 awoke suddenly, threw off the covering, and rose, 
 determined, notwithstanding hef fatigue and a burn- 
 ing fever, to escape from this place and from the 
 eyes that watched her. 
 
 " Gentlemen," she said, timidly, " let me go 
 home to my mother." 
 
 Hardened, as they were, by the constant occur- 
 rence of such dramas, the good men understood 
 
THE SEINE. 179 
 
 tliat they now had to deal with a case totally out of 
 the common way. But they could not take her 
 home yet — they must first obtain permission. A 
 carriage was ordered, out of pity for her; for a 
 curious crowd had gathered at the door, to see the 
 little lame girl appear. She was driven to the po- 
 lice-court, and entered the dingy room shivering, 
 but with cheeks red with shame and fever. The 
 judge hardly looked up froin his paper. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, to Desiree, " it is you, then ? " 
 
 The policeman began to read his report : " At a 
 quarter before twelve the aforesaid Dolobelle, aged 
 twenty-four, a maker of artificial flowers, residing 
 with her parents, at No. — Kue de Braque, at- 
 tempted suicide by throwing herself into the Seine, 
 from which river she was rescued by Gregoire 
 Parchemint," etc., etc. 
 
 The judge divided his attention between tliis 
 report and his finger-nails, which he was carefully 
 trimining, gave an occasional shrug of his shoulders 
 with the air of a man who says, " What else could 
 one expect ? " At the end he turned sharply on the 
 aforesaid. Dolobelle, and admonished her in well- 
 turned periods. "It was infamous," he said, "it 
 was cowardice, to do what she had done ! "What 
 had driven her to such madness ? " 
 
 Desiree could not answer. How could she have 
 told, in such a pi-esence, the sad story of her love 
 and her sorrow ? She murmured, with purple lips, 
 still shivering with cold, " I do not know." 
 
 Out of all patience with what he regarded as 
 
180 SIDONIE. 
 
 willful obstinacy, the judge finally gave lier permis- 
 sion to go home, first extorting from her the prom- 
 ise that she would not repeat her attempt at suicide. 
 She entered the carriage, hut her martyrdom was 
 not yet over. The policeman who was with her 
 was too kind, and, when he took her hand, the 
 frightened girl retreated to the corner of the vehi- 
 cle in tears ; and, when she reached her Jiome, she 
 saw a crowd about the door. The startling intelli- 
 gence had preceded her, and the neighborhood was 
 in a wild state of excitement. At first they had 
 heard only of her disappearance. Had she eloped 
 with Frantz Kisler? Dolobelle himself had run 
 down the street at an early hour, without any hat ; 
 and the concierge, going up at once to their room, 
 found Madame Dolobelle half crazy. In vain had 
 the poor mother looked for some trace of her 
 daughter — something, however trifling, that would 
 throw a light on her departure. 
 
 She remembered, too late, her child's silence and 
 lassitude ; the depression of the last month, follow- 
 ing so quickly on her previous gayety ; and she re- 
 membered that for days she kid not spoken of 
 Frantz. 
 
 " Do not weep," her husband said ; " I will find 
 her." 
 
 And the poor woman wandered through her 
 rooms, and out into the corridor, to look from the 
 window ; she preferred to stand there and watch, 
 for Desiree's vacant chair seemed to breathe silent 
 reproaches. 
 
THE SEINE. 181 
 
 Suddenly a carriage stopped, and voices from 
 below called to her : " Your daughter is here, Ma- 
 dame Dolobelle, safe and sound ! " 
 
 It was indeed Zizi whom she met ascending 
 the stairs, pale and half fainting, assisted by an un- 
 known man. Seeing her mother, the girl smiled 
 vacantly. 
 
 " Do not be frightened," she said, " it is nothing." 
 Her mother ran toward her, lifted her child in her 
 arms, as if she had been a baby, covered her with 
 kisses, and overwhelmed her with loving reproaches. 
 
 "My darling!" cried the mother, "tell me that 
 it is not true that you tried to kill yourself. What is 
 your secret sorrow ? Trust yoiir mother, my child ! " 
 
 And, looking at her, D^siree saw that Madame 
 Dolobelle had aged by ten years. The anxiety and 
 soiTow of the last few hours had told sadly on her 
 feeble frame. And Zizi thought herself unloved ! — 
 and that she could slip out of the world unnoticed 
 and unmissed ! 
 
 " When I saw your bed undisturbed this morn- 
 ing," said her mother between her hysterical sobs, 
 " and then found you were not in. the work-room, I 
 fainted away. Are you warm now ? Do you feel 
 better?" And she took the slender, ice-cold feet 
 into her bosom to warm them. 
 
 Desiree, in the long days of delirium that fol- 
 lowed, lived over and over again each event of that 
 horrible night : if she fell asleep, she woke with a 
 start, and cried aloud to her mother, " Hide me ! 
 mamma, hide me — I am ashamed ! " 
 
182 8ID0NIK 
 
 The judge, had he been there, would have been 
 quite certain that Zizi would never make a second 
 attempt at suicide. But a longing for death, rest, 
 and peace, was to be read on her pale face, and 
 " the aforesaid Dolobelle " knew that she would not 
 have long to wait. 
 
 The physicians called the disease of wliich she 
 would die pneumonia ; but the girl knew better : 
 yet it was not a broken heart that killed her. ISo ; 
 since that night the girl had thought no more of 
 Frantz, and considered herself alike unworthy of 
 loving or of being loved ; for her pure life was 
 stained and soiled. 
 
 Each feature of that frightful tragedy stood out 
 clear in her memory. Her being dragged from the 
 water amid that crowd of rough men ; her sleep of 
 exhaustion at the poUce-station ; the vulgar songs she 
 had heard ; the melancholy words of that mad woman 
 sitting in the red light of the stove ; the worthless 
 creatures with whom she had mingled ; the sneers of 
 some, the impertinences of others, and the familiar- 
 ities of the policeman who had brought her home — 
 all had forever destroyed her maidenly reserve and 
 womanly purity. Even her lameness was another 
 feature in her martyrdom, and she fancied the judge 
 in the court-room saying to himself as he looked at 
 her, " The idea of a girl like that having the pre- 
 sumption to love any man, and to kill herself because 
 he would not love her in return ! " 
 
 She was simply dying of shame. In tlie long 
 nights of feverish delirium, she repeated, without 
 
THE SEINE. 183 
 
 a moment's cessation — "I am so ashamed I — so 
 ashamed ! " And, when she was somewhat calmer, 
 she would cower under the coverings, as if to hide 
 or bury herself from all human eyes. 
 
 Near D&iree's bed, or at the window, sat Ma- 
 dame Dolobelle, busily at work, for it is one of the 
 miseries of the poor that they have not time to 
 grieve. They must toil on, even in the shadow of 
 the death that is hourly drawing nearer to those they 
 love. The rich can encompass themselves about 
 with their sorrows; but the poor cannot. I once 
 knew an old woman who in the same year lost her 
 daughter and her husband — two terrible blows, the 
 one after the other ; but she had a large family to 
 care for, and a farm to manage. From sunrise to sun- 
 set she was busy, overseeing and directing. " But, 
 Sundays," said the widow to me — " Sundays, I am 
 happy." And what was this woman's idea of hap- 
 piness ? It was that in the loneliness of her room she 
 could pass the day on her knees, praying and weep- 
 ing for her lost husband and child. 
 
 But Madame Dolobelle had not even her Sun- 
 day. Kemember that she was the only one to earn 
 bread for her family, and her fingers were not so 
 dexterous as her daughter's. Medicines were expen- 
 sive, and she could not deprive her husband of one 
 of his comforts. Thus, at whatever hour the gii-l 
 opened her eyes, she beheld her mother at work ; and 
 when the curtains of her bed were drawn, she heard 
 the little metallic click of the scissors as they were 
 laid on the table. 
 
184 SIDONIK 
 
 Seeing lier motlier's fatigue was one of D^sir^e's 
 greatest sorrows. " Give me some work," she would 
 say, trying to raise herself in her bed. Her mother, 
 seeing in this wish an indication of returning inter- 
 est, gladly drew the pillows up to sustain the fragile 
 fonn ; but the needle was too heavy, the eyes too 
 weak, and the street-cries brought back to the girl 
 the memory of the narrow lanes through which she 
 had wandered " that night." 
 
 No, she bad no wish to live. 
 
 The mother looked at her pale child. " Are you 
 comfortable ? " she asked. 
 
 " Perfectly so," said the girl, and a faint smile 
 flickered over her sad face, showing all the ravages 
 made by her illness and grief, as the ray of sunlight, 
 creeping into the dwellings of the poor, instead of 
 brightening them, only brings out their desolation 
 and discomforts. The mother dared not speak lest 
 she should weep aloud ; and the daughter, stupefied 
 by fever, was already wrapped in the shadow of ap- 
 proaching death. 
 
 The illustrious Dolobelle was rarely there. He 
 had not changed his daily habits in the smallest 
 degree. Nevertheless, he knew that his daughtev 
 was dying ; the physician had told him so. Had he 
 loved his child — but in this singular nature the 
 truest and most natural emotions acquired a certain 
 meretricious air ; in the same way that, if a placard 
 is fastened crookedly on a wall, every word on it 
 looks crooked too. 
 
 Dolobelle aired his grief, and played with sue- 
 
THE 8EINM. 185 
 
 cess the part of a broten-hearted father.- He was 
 seen at the theatre, and at the cafe, with tumbled 
 hair, red eyes, and a pale face ; and liked to be met 
 by sympathizing questions, to which he replied by 
 compressed lips, by closed eyes, and by a melancholy 
 shake of the head. 
 
 But he was full of thoughtful attentions for his 
 child during her illness. Pie brought her flowers, 
 but was not content with the simple violets that are 
 to be found at every street-comer. In these gloomy 
 autumnal days nothing would content him but roses 
 and pinks, or white lilacs, bleached under glass, 
 leaves and flowers alike white and ghostly. 
 
 "It is too much! too much!." said the sick girl 
 each day as he appeared, bouquet in hand ; but he 
 replied in so lofty a tone that she soon ceased to 
 remonstrate. I!^evertheless, it was a great expense, 
 the burden of which fell on Madame Dolobelle. 
 But, far from complaining, the poor woman thought 
 this extravagance very noble on the part of her 
 husband. This contempt for money filled her with 
 admiration, and she was more impressed than ever 
 with a belief in his talents. 
 
 He also, even amid all the mournful lessons of 
 his wasted life, never doubted his own genius ; but 
 a little hot hand was to lift the veil from his eyes. 
 
 One night, Desiree awoke in a singular state ; 
 but the physician had found her, some hours before, 
 very much better — with her fever all gone. He did 
 not attempt to account for the change, nor did he 
 say that the improvement was more than temporary. 
 
186 SIDONIE. 
 
 " Let us wait," he said, gravely, hoping that it might 
 be one of those singular efEorts made by Nature and 
 youth. Had he looked under Desiree's pillow, he 
 would have found a letter post-marked " Cairo " — 
 four pages, signed by Frantz — four pages of con- 
 fession and explanation. 
 
 It was a letter such as the sick girl had dreamed 
 of in past days. Had she herself dictated its words, 
 she could not have found any so tender and loving. 
 Evei-ything that could soothe her wounds, and spare 
 her delicacy, was there. He implored her pardon, 
 narrated to his faithful little friend the temptations 
 to which he had been exposed, and all his struggles. 
 He bade Desiree to distrust Sidonie ; and, with a 
 clearness of perception born of his fonner passion, 
 he described her heartlessness, her untruthfulness, 
 and her total lack of principle. 
 
 Had that letter reached Zizi but a few days 
 earlier ! Now all its tenderness was like food brought 
 too late to a man dying of hunger: he sees it. 
 smells it, but cannot swallow it. Over and over 
 again the sick girl read this letter. She drew it 
 from the envelope, kissed it lovingly, and, even 
 through her closed lids, saw its eveiy word, and the 
 color of the stamp. Frantz had not forgotten her! 
 and she fell asleep, as if her head had been on his 
 shoulder. Suddenly she awoke, and, as we said 
 before, in a most extraordinary state ; she felt all 
 nerves, and yet as if she held on to life M'ith but the 
 slenderest thread. It was night, and the room in 
 which she lay was in shadow. The lamp, half turned 
 
THE SEINE. 187 
 
 down, lighted only the scattered -work-table, and 
 poor Madame Dolobelle's sleeping face. " 
 
 D^siree's whole past came back tojier : forgotten 
 incidents of her childhood; scenes that, at the time, 
 she had not understood ; words heard as in a dream 
 ^all returned. 
 
 The child was bewildered, but not terrified. She 
 did not know that, very often, death is heralded by 
 just such excessive excitement of sleeping facul- 
 ties. 
 
 She saw her father through the open door. Her 
 mother lay back in her chair, utterly worn out, and 
 all the traces of years of misery and of toil were 
 visible on her worn face. During the day they 
 were, in a measure, masked by the will and by con- 
 stant occupation ; but sleep brought them out. The 
 deep wrinkles and reddened eyelids, the scanty hair 
 ■ — already white on the temples — were all to be seen, 
 and Desiree saw them all. How she longed for 
 strength and power to kiss away all those wrinkles ! 
 Dolobelle ojffered the strongest possible contrast. 
 With a napkin thrown over his knee, he sat eating 
 his supper, and at the same time reading his news- 
 paper. For the first time in her life, Desirde noticed 
 this contrast between her father and mother: her 
 mother in her scanty black dress, thin and haggard ; 
 her father, wearing a fiew coat, hale and hearty: 
 and she understood the difEerence in their lives and 
 natures. The atmosphere of habit, which weakens 
 the vision of children, had vanished for her ; she 
 -'udged her parents as if she were not their daughter. 
 
188 SIDONIE. 
 
 What woiild become of her mother when she was 
 gone ? Would she patiently toil on, until worn out, 
 and then would her selfish companion, too indolent 
 to work himself, permit her to starve \ And yet he 
 was not cruel ; he was only absorbed in himself and 
 in his futile ambition. Should she try to arouse 
 him % Should she try and tear away the thick band- 
 age with which her father had for so many years 
 covered his eyes ? It was only a loving hand like 
 her own that could attempt such a delicate opera- 
 tion. She alone had the right to say to him : 
 
 " Give up these foolish dreams of a theatrical 
 career. "Work, through the day, and, if it must be, 
 part of the night too, at sonie honest trade." 
 
 Then, as if she were bidden to hasten by some 
 invisible lips, she summoned all her courage, and 
 called him softly : 
 
 " Papa, papa ! " 
 
 At the sound of her voice, the old actor hurried 
 to her side. He had been at the first representation 
 of a new play, and had come away enchanted and 
 excited. He entered his daughter's room with a 
 beaming face, and a camellia in his bTitton-hole. 
 
 " Xot asleep yet, Zizi 'I " 
 
 And his words were said so lightly that they 
 resounded strangely in that sad and silent room. 
 Desiree made a sigh to him to be quiet, and pointed 
 to her sleeping mother. 
 
 " Come here, I want to spsak to you," she whis- 
 pered. Her voice trembled, iind her widely-opened 
 eyes had a strange, far-away look. 
 
THE SEINE. 189 
 
 Somewhat startled, he bent over her, with his 
 camellia in his hand. 
 
 " What is it, my dear ? Do you feel worse ? " 
 
 Desiree shook her head, but beckoned him to come 
 ■nearer; she laid her hot hand on his, and whispered 
 that she was ill, and had not long to live. " Then, 
 papa, you will be alone with mamma. Do not trem- 
 ble — I am not afraid for myself, but I dread lest 
 mamma should not be strong enough to do every- 
 thing. Look, how pale she is ! " 
 
 The actor tm-ned, and seemed astonished at the 
 sad face he saw. 
 
 " She has never been very strong," he said, 
 calmly. 
 
 This selfish reply, and, above all, the tone in 
 which it was made, confirmed D6siree in her in- 
 tention. 
 
 " What wiU become of you both when I am not 
 here 1 Yes, I know, you have great hopes and ex- 
 pectations, but they will never be realized. Dear 
 father, I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but it 
 seems to me that, at your age, with your intelligence, 
 you ought to be doing sopiething. Mr. Eisler, I am 
 sure, would — " She spoke slowly, choosing her 
 words with care, and waiting a moment after each 
 sentence ; but the actor did not yet grasp her mean- 
 ing. He listened intently, with a vague consciousness 
 that he was being accused of something; but of 
 what, he had no idea. 
 
 " I think," continued Desir^e, timidly, " that it 
 would be far wiser to relinquish — " 
 
190 SIDONIE. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 She stopped, astonished at the effect of her 
 words ; for tears, real tears, rose to her father's 
 eyes. He understood her now. Of the only two 
 admirers left to him hy a cruel fate, one had now 
 deserted him! His child no longer beKeved in 
 him ! It was not possible ! Before the mute en- 
 treaty of his gaze, Desiree's courage fled ; besides, 
 her strength was exhausted. 
 
 She murmured, " Give up — ^give up — " Her head 
 fell back on her pillows, and she died, without hav- 
 ing dared to say what she wished him to give up. 
 
 The " aforesaid Dolobelle " is dead. Sir Judge ! 
 She told you that she would never again mate an 
 attempt at suicide, and she did not break her word. 
 This time Death came to her, and took her away. 
 And now, incredulous judge^ you may accept the 
 evidence of four stout oak-planks instead of her 
 childish assurances. 
 
 Desiree's death made a sensation in the neigh- 
 borhood. Not that she was so great a favorite, for 
 she went out rarely, and was comparatively little 
 known. But, of course, at her burial, there would 
 be a great many actors, and Paris adores that class. 
 It likes to see them in the street, off the stage ; 
 it likes to see what is real, and what is artificial, 
 about them ; so that, when that narrow door on La 
 Hue de Braque was seen hung with a white scarf, 
 the curious had much to say. 
 
 To do them justice, actors, if not always harmo- 
 
THE SEINE. 191 
 
 nions, have a certain external sympathy which they 
 gladly demonstrate on all public occasions — balls, 
 concerts, and fnnerals. 
 
 Although Dolobelle's name had entirely disap- 
 peared from the play-bills, and was thoroughly un- 
 known to the rising generation of theatre-goers, it 
 only needed a couple of lines in an obscure paper — 
 " M. Dolobelle, formerly attached to the principal 
 theatres of Alengon and Metz, informs his friends 
 and associates," etc. — to bring out the actors of 
 Paris in full force. 
 
 Famous or not famous, unknown or celebrated, 
 they were all there : those who had played with 
 Dolobelle in the provinces ; those who had met him 
 in the cafes, where he was always to be seen, among 
 the hundred others, to whom it would be difficult 
 to give a name, but whom one recalls, because one 
 sees them constantly, and they form a portion of the 
 scene. 
 
 All these people expected to see their names in 
 the list of those present at the funeral. They live 
 in such constant fear of being forgotten by a fickle 
 public, that they grasp every opportunity of thrust- 
 ing themselves into notice. 
 
 The day arrived. All the windows in the neigh- 
 borhood were filled with faces. A crowd was gath- 
 ered in the Eue de Braque, waiting for the coming 
 of the funeral guests. Here they are, some on foot, 
 others in can-iages, easily to be recognized by their 
 weU-shaven faces and exaggerated gestures. The 
 different manner in which these good people mani- 
 
19a SWONIE. 
 
 fested their emotion on this painful occasion was 
 very remarkable. Each entered the hall as if going 
 on the stage ; one dashed a tear from the corner of 
 his eyes with his gloved finger ; another stood still 
 for a moment, the left foot thrown slightly forward 
 and the hand pressed on his breast. "Be qniet, 
 heart ! " this one seemed to say. This was acting, 
 and yet was sincere. 
 
 As soon as they were in the rooms, the actors 
 separated into two distinct classes ; those who were 
 of a certain celebrity gathered together and looked 
 with contempt at the unknown comedians, who in 
 their turn whispered quite audibly : " Do you see 
 how So-and-so has changed ? How old he has 
 grown ! " 
 
 Dolobelle vibrated between these two groups ; 
 the poor fellow was half broken-hearted, but his 
 grief did not prevent him from carefully cm-ling 
 his hair, or being anxious in regard to the fit of his 
 gloves. Had any one been able to look into his 
 very soul, it would have been impossible to say 
 where his real sorrow ended and where his pretense 
 began, so closely were they interwoven. 
 
 M. Chebe darted about, more important than 
 ever, while his wife remained above with the poor 
 mother. 
 
 Sidonie did not appear, but her husband was 
 there — the good friend who had defrayed aU the ex- 
 penses of this last ceremony, and who seemed as 
 overwhelmed by grief as the father himself. The 
 carriages were superb, and the hearse was a bank 
 
THE SEINE. 193 
 
 of roses and white violets. The funeral procession 
 started: at its head walked Dolobelle, shaken by 
 sobs ; thinking more of his own sorrows, of the fa- 
 ther burying his only child, thaii of the child her- 
 self. Far below his sincere grief lay his intolerable 
 personal vanity, as at tlie bottom of a river lies a 
 huge rock, motionless in spite of storms and waves. 
 The pomp of the ceremony, the long procession, the 
 closed carriages, and Sidonie's coupe, all flattered 
 and excited him, in spite of the gnawing pain at his 
 heart. Dear little Zizi, so good and so simple ! — all 
 this was for her. 
 
 Happily, above, at the window of the old work- 
 room, stood Madame Dolobelle, who could not be 
 prevented from watching the procession depart. 
 Behind the closed blinds she waved her thin hand. 
 " Farewell," murmured the mother, almost to her- 
 self — " farewell, my darling ! " and, softly as the 
 words were spoken, Desir6e heard them. 
 
BOOK I Y. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 PEEPLEXITIES. 
 
 One night, toward the end of tlie following 
 January, Sigismond Planus sat in his little home at 
 Montrouge. " It is of no use," he said to himself, 
 " for me to go to bed, for I cannot sleep." And in 
 truth the old cashier had an excellent reason for 
 anxiety — two large payments to be made, and no 
 funds on hand. What was to be done? Sigismond 
 had tried several times to speak of the matter to 
 young Fromont; but George avoided all responsi- 
 bility, and only appeared in his office at intervals, 
 and then was always in a hurry. To the anxious 
 questions of the cashier, he would only answer, pull- 
 ing his mustache, " Don't trouble yourself, Planus, 
 it will be right " — and had the air at the same time 
 of not knowing what he said, of thinking of some- 
 thing else. The report gained ground in the factory 
 that Sidonie was as faithless to him ae she had been 
 to her husband, and that this made him very un- 
 happy. In fact, he was more occupied by Sidonie's 
 
PERPLEXITIES. 195 
 
 follies than by liis business difficulties. As to Eis- 
 ler, he was rarely seen ; he passed his life watching 
 the manufacture of his new machines. This in- 
 difference of the firm to their own interests disor- 
 ganized the whole manufactory. "Workmen and 
 clerks took their ease, came late in the morning, and 
 left early, paying little attention to the bell. Much 
 business was still transacted, it is true, because a 
 large house like that can go alone for some time 
 after it has had a good start ; but what disorder and 
 rottenness under the apparent prosperity ! 
 
 Sigismond knew all this. But what could he 
 do ? Where could he get the money ? He must 
 collect all outstanding debts — ^humiliating as it 
 would be to do so, and dangerous in one way, as 
 such a step would show that their house stood in 
 dire need of every penny. But this was better than 
 to have their notes protested. 
 
 " I will start to-morrow earlj^," sighed the cash- 
 ier. While the poor man tosses and turns on his 
 sleepless couch, we will take a look at an attic in the 
 Boulevard Beaumarchais, where for some little time 
 the Dolobelles have been living. 
 
 Alas! Desiree had not been mistaken in her 
 predictions. Her mother had not been .able to con- 
 tinue her employment. Her eyes were weakened 
 by tears, and her birds all had a doleful air, as if 
 they had been rained on. She gave them up, and 
 took to sewing; she repaired laces, and "did -up 
 muslins." But her earnings grew smaller and 
 smaller, and Dolobelle finally got into a habit of 
 
196 SIDONIE. 
 
 running up little bills. lie owed his tailor, too, and. 
 his bootmaker ; but he was more anxious in regard 
 to his still unpaid account at the restaurant, which 
 he had assured his creditor should be paid on the 1st 
 of February. If he did not keep his word, every- 
 thing would be seized and sold. 
 
 The furniture was poor enough, to be sure, but 
 it had been theirs ever since their marriage. For 
 twenty years he had eaten his supper on the end of 
 that long table ; and to see Zizi's arm-chair carried 
 off would break his wife's heart — that chair, about 
 which seemed to linger still something of their child, 
 and at which neither father nor mother could look 
 without tears. The poor actor did not know where 
 to turn for aid ; and before his eyes he saw Desiree's 
 face of tender entreaty. She had never told him 
 what it was that she wished him to renounce, but 
 he had guessed all the same, and the thought that 
 he had not fulfilled his daughter's dying wishes did 
 not lighten his heart. 
 
 George Fromont this same night sat in his cheer- 
 ful library, but he was far from cheerful himself. 
 His head was buried in his arms, and he thought 
 of Sidonie, who was at that moment sleeping quiet- 
 ly on the floor above. For a long time he had im- 
 plored her not to receive the tenor, Casaboni ; but 
 Sidonie would not yield, and that very day had told 
 him that she should certainly invite the man to a ball 
 that she was about to give. 
 
 " Is he your admirer 1 " cried George, looking 
 her in the eyes. 
 
PERPLEXITIES. 197 
 
 She did not deny it, nor did she say yes ; she did 
 not even turn away. She merely, in her cool, pas- 
 sionless tone, informed him that no human being 
 had the right to control or influence her acts ; that 
 she was tree ; that she meant to remain so, and 
 would submit to no interference from either Kisler 
 or himself. They had spent an hour in this way. 
 
 And it was for this woman that he had sacrificed 
 everything ; it was for her that he had thrown aside 
 the love of his wife ! He was filled with shame and 
 humiliation. He rose from his chair and walked 
 restlessly about the room. His eyes happened to fall 
 on an almanac, and he saw the day of the month. 
 Good Heavens ! Was there not a large sum of 
 money to be paid in a few days, and he had allowed 
 all recollections of business-matters to be swallowed 
 up in his own ignoble personal alfairs ! But now he 
 saw all the impending disaster ; he had not a penny. 
 For six months he had lost at cards regularly ; enor- 
 mous sums had gone in this way ; he literally had 
 nothing left, except the factory ; and at this thought 
 the unhappy man uttered a deep groan. 
 
 " George, I am here — what is the matter ? " and 
 his wife stood before him. It had been her habit 
 for some -time to wait for him to return from the 
 club, where she supposed his evenings were passed ; 
 but this night she had gone to her child. She heard 
 her husband come in, and heard him walking to and 
 fro in the room, and his groan summoned her to 
 his side. What remorse tore his heart as he saw her. 
 
198 SIDONIE. 
 
 felt lier tender arms as she drew Ms. head to her 
 breast ! Fortunately, he could not speak, or he would 
 have told her all. 
 
 " You have been playing cards, have you not ? 
 and you have had heavy losses ? " 
 
 He made a sign in the affirmative, and, when he 
 had regained his self-control, told her that he had 
 a large sum of money to pay in a few days, and did 
 not know where to procure the first penny. 
 
 She uttered not one word of reproach. She was 
 one of those few women who can face a misfortune 
 without a word of recrimination. Possibly, at the 
 bottom of her heart she was grateful for the disaster 
 that brought him nearer to her. She reflected a 
 moment, then with a great effort she said : " Nothing 
 is yet lost ; I will go to Savigny and ask my grand- 
 father for the requisite amount." He himself would 
 never have dared to make such a suggestion ; the 
 thought even would never have occurred to him. 
 She was so proud, and her grandfather so hard ! It 
 was an enormous sacrifice that she made, and a 
 strong proof of her love that she offered. He felt 
 strengthened and encouraged by her words and by 
 her tenderness. 
 
 " Claire ! " he cried, " how good you are ! " 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 EEVELATIONS. 
 
 " Ah ! here is Sigismond. How do you do, and 
 how is business in these days ? " 
 
 The old cashier smiled, and shook hands with 
 the master of the shop, with his wife, and his 
 brother, and looked about with some curiosity. It 
 was a shop for the sale of wall-papers in the Fau- 
 bourg St.-Antoine. They were old customers of the 
 Fromont manufactory. They had begun in a small 
 way, and been accommodated with long credits by 
 the Fromonts, and were now indebted to them to a 
 very large amount; the Fromonts neglecting to 
 call in their money, as they knew it to be per- 
 fectly safe. 
 
 Sigismond looked about with keen, inquisitive 
 eye. The increasing business and prosperity of the 
 establishment were plainly to be seen. At the cash- 
 ier's desk, behind the grating, sat. the wife of one of 
 the sons, with an air of authority on her fair young 
 face. The old man ground his teeth with rage as 
 he thought of the difference at the Maison Fromont ; 
 but the tiling that annoyed him the most was, in 
 
200 SIDONIE. 
 
 wliat way he could ask for tlie debt they owed with- 
 out betraying the pressing needs of his masters. 
 With an air of indifference he began: "Business 
 was good," he said, "but he liked to steal away 
 sometimes and see old friends." Then, catching a 
 glimpse of concealed amusement in the faces of his 
 hearers, he became confused, and took up his hat to 
 go away. On the threshold he stopped. " Since I 
 am here," he said, " you might as well settle our old 
 account." The two brothers and the woman at the 
 desk exchanged a look. 
 
 " Wliat account ? " And they laughed at Sigis- 
 mond's joke, as they considered it. He laughed, too 
 — but what a laugh was his ! 
 
 Then they explained to him that young Fromont 
 had given them a receipt in full, and taken all the 
 money they owed the firm, six months before. Sigis- 
 mond had hardly the strength to stammer : " To be 
 sure — I had forgotten, good friends. Sigismond 
 Planus is certainly growing old." And with these 
 words the old man departed. The young people 
 looked at each other, and shook their heads sadly, 
 for they understood the affair perfectly. 
 
 Sigismond walked down the street as if he were 
 moving in a di*eam. This, then, was the reason why 
 George never came to him now for money ! Evi- 
 dently, wherever he might go now, he would find 
 that George had preceded him. He would try, how- 
 ever. He went to another of their customers ; he 
 haK opened the door. " A thousand pardons," he 
 cried, " but will you oblige me with the date of yom* 
 
REVELATIONS. 301 
 
 last payment to our house? I forgot to inscribe it 
 on my books." 
 
 They told him that, five months previous, they 
 had paid everything. He closed the door, and pur- 
 sued his weary pilgrimage. At that moment, Ma- 
 dame Fromont's carriage swiftly passed him ; but 
 Claire, busy with her own miserable thoughts, had 
 no eyes for him. 
 
 The task she had taken on herself was by no 
 means an easy one — to ask for a large sum of money 
 from a man who boasted loudly that never in his 
 life had he either borrowed or lent a single penny, 
 and who declared that while he lived no member of 
 his family should receive anything from him! True 
 to his nature, he had given his daughter no dowry 
 on her marriage, and had always been more or less 
 annoyed that her husband had succeeded in acquir- 
 ing wealth without once coming to him for assist- 
 ance. 
 
 When his son-in-law entered his presence, happy 
 and successful, the old man would say, with a ma- 
 licious smile, " Wait awhile, the end is not yet ! " 
 and sometimes, at Savigny, would look at the house, 
 the stables, and conservatories, and say, " I am con- 
 soled, when I think of dying, by the remembrance 
 that no member of my family is rich enough to keep 
 up this establishment when I am gone ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, with a certain tenderness that is 
 not uncommon in a grandfather who is hard to every 
 one else, old Gardinois would have petted Claire ; 
 but she, even when little, was afraid of him. His 
 
202 SWONIE. 
 
 roughness repulsed and his selfishness disgusted her, 
 so that, on her marriage, the old man said to Ma- 
 dame Fromont : 
 
 " If your daughter wishes, she may have from 
 me a princely gift, but she must ask me for it." 
 
 But Claire received nothing, for she never would 
 ask for anything from him. Therefore, the morti- 
 fication she endured, three years later, when she 
 found herself on her way to implore a favor from 
 him, is more easUy imagined than described. Poor 
 Claire ! her grandfather would certainly try her 
 temper and her patience by attacks on her hiisband ; 
 reproaches and sneers would be lavished upon him. 
 This thought, however, and the one that quickly 
 followed, that she could at least defend the being 
 she loved best in the world, gave her a certain 
 amount of courage. 
 
 It was noon when the train reached Savigny ; 
 and, as she had sent no notice of her coming, the 
 carriage was not waiting at the station. She was 
 therefore obliged to walk to the house. 
 
 The cold was excessive — the ground frozen and 
 uneven. The chill north wind blew sharply from, 
 the river, through the bare and leafless woods ; the 
 lake was black, reflecting the leaden skies above ; 
 while the house seemed to frown her away ; and, in 
 the rough creaking of the weathercock on the sta- 
 bles, she fancied she detected the inhospitable re- 
 frain — " Don't come here ! don't come here ! " 
 
 Had poor Claire but listened to this advice, she 
 might have preserved her peace of mind ; but she 
 
REVELATIONS. 203 
 
 did not, and was shown into the presence of her 
 grandfather, who was in a small room that he called 
 his office. Seeing his granddaughter pale and shiv- 
 ering, in spite of all her velvets and furs, the old 
 man at once understood that some matter of grave 
 importance required his attention. "What is the 
 matter ? " he said, pleasantly enough, 
 
 Claire went toward the fire, and, seating herself 
 without even lifting her veil, proceeded at once to 
 lay before her grandfather the occasion of her unex- 
 pected visit. She dared not even attempt the ordi- 
 nary exchange of courtesies, lest she should lose all 
 courage. 
 
 He did not interrupt her while she spoke, in a 
 calm, cold voice ; but in his eyes could have been 
 read, by an acute observer, a gleam of malicious joy. 
 He thought to himself, " So, these proud Fromonts 
 are humbled at last, and have felt the need of old 
 Gardinois ! " "When she had finished, he began, of 
 course, with the words, " I told you so ! I knew 
 things must come to this tennination-; " and then, 
 in a hard, severe tone, continued to express his sur- 
 prise that, when his sentiments were so well known 
 in his family, she should have ventured to apply to 
 him ; and finished by flatly refusing to lend her one 
 cent. 
 
 Then- Claire spoke of her child, who would have 
 to bear the dishonor of her father's failure ; but the 
 old man remained unmoved, and even- sought to 
 humiliate her still further, for his was that hard, 
 peasant nature that likes to leave the marks of the 
 
204 8ID0NIE. 
 
 nails in his wooden shoes on the face of his fallen 
 enemy. 
 
 " All I can say, my dear, is, that you can have a 
 home at Savigny. Your hushand may come, too, 
 for I need a secretary, and will pay him a small 
 salary — tell him so," 
 
 She rose in indignation. She came as his grand- 
 child, and he received her as if she had been a beg- 
 gar. God be praised! she had not reached that 
 point ! And Claire turned toward the door. 
 
 " Take care ! " said the old man ; " it is for 
 your sake that I have offered to receive your hus- 
 band here. You have no idea of the life he leads 
 in Paris, or you certainly would not ask me to assist 
 him with my money. But I am pretty well ac- 
 quainted with the doings of that scamp your hus- 
 band. I know where he passes his nights and his 
 days." 
 
 Claire's eyes grew larger with terror, for her 
 heart told her that she was about to hear some ter- 
 rible intelligence. 
 
 The old man continued: "Sidonie has good, 
 strong teeth ! " 
 
 " Sidonie ? " cried Claire. 
 
 " Precisely : and Sidonie has crunched up every 
 bit of your husband's property, with the full con- 
 sent of her own good-man, be it understood I " 
 
 And coldly and without remorse her grandfather 
 related to Claire whence came the money for the 
 purchase of the country-house at Asni^res, for the 
 horses and carriages, and for the jewels worn by 
 
REVELATIONS. 205 
 
 Sidoiiie — not a detail did he soften — and it was ex- 
 traordinary liow he could have learned so much. 
 
 Claire listened with a smile of incredulity, and 
 this smile exasperated the old man. " Ah ! you do 
 not believe me — you want proofs ! Very well, then, 
 go to Darche's, the jeweler in La Eue de la Paix. 
 A fortnight ago George bought tliere a necklace for 
 which he paid five thousand dollars — five thousand 
 dollars on the eve of failure ! " 
 
 He might have gone on talking for the whole 
 day without any interruption from Claire. She 
 dared not speak,-lest her trembling voice should be- 
 tray her emotion, and the brave woman wished to 
 smile on to the end. At last he stopped. She bowed 
 and turned to the door again. 
 
 " Are you going ? Why are you in such a hur- 
 ry?" asked her grandfather, following her out. 
 " Wait for the carriage to take you to the station." 
 
 Claire shook her head and walked on, with her 
 grandfather following her. 
 
 Erect, and apparently composed, she crossed the 
 lawn so well kno-\vn to her from her childhood. 
 Her favorite seat under the tree still stood there, 
 but she had not a thought nor a look for them, nor 
 even for the old dog who ran to greet her. She had 
 entered the house as if she had some claim to kind- 
 ness and protection. She left it like a stranger, 
 wrapped in her own cares and sorrows. 
 
 " Good-by, grandfather." 
 
 " Good-by ! " and the gate was closed violently 
 behind her. She stood for a moment and turned to 
 
206 8ID0N1E. 
 
 look back at a spot once so dear to her ; as slie did 
 so she caught sight of the little post-box on the 
 wall, and was instantly overwhelmed by one of those 
 sudden gleams of memory which sometimes bring 
 to us each act of our lives bearing on our present 
 joys and sorrows. It was here, three short years be- 
 fore, that she had placed in that box the fatal letter 
 summoning Sidonie to visit her for a month. Why 
 had not something warned her? "Had I but 
 known," she said — " had I but known ! " And she 
 seemed stUl to hold in her hand that satin envelope. 
 Then, as she thought of her child, she felt a mo- 
 mentary indignation against the injustice of life. 
 But suddenly she said," " No, it is not true ! " and 
 as she hurried toward the station the unhappy wom- 
 an continued to do battle with her own doubts and 
 fears. She at last imderstood the constant absence 
 of her husband, his preoccupied air and evident 
 anxieties. As Claire reached the deserted station 
 she felt a touch on her hand ; it was the old dog, who 
 bad followed. At the sight of this one faithful 
 friend — at his humble and loving caresses, her tears 
 broke theii* boundaries ; she knelt down on the fro- 
 zen ground, and, laying her head on his rough coat, 
 wept convulsively. Suddenly ashamed of herself, 
 she rose and sent him home again, with an air so 
 imperative that the poor creature obeyed without 
 delay. 
 
 Claire's first thought, on leaving the train in 
 Paris, was to go to the jeweler's who her grand- 
 father said had sold George the necklace. If that 
 
REVELATIONS. 207 
 
 story were true, the others would be also. But her 
 fear lest these details should be confirmed was so 
 great, that she hardly dared enter the establish- 
 ment. At first she looked at some jewels in their 
 velvet cases, and one would have supposed her, in 
 her elegant dress, as she bent over the ornaments, a 
 happy woman, whose only anxiety was to make a 
 becoming selection, instead of a miserable wife, 
 about to learn a truth that would darken all her 
 future life. J'or five minutes she suffered . pangs 
 worse than the agoTi^es of death. 
 
 At last she spoke. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, madame — perfectly — M. Fromont. 
 "We can make you one precisely similar for five 
 thousand dollars." 
 
 " Thanks," said Claire ; " I will think about it." 
 
 A mirror opposite reflected the frightful pallor 
 of her face, and she hurried away, lest she should 
 faint. 
 
 She had but one idea — to be alone. Suddenly, 
 without knowing how she had reached it, she beheld 
 the dark walls of the factory before her. By what 
 road had she come ? had she walked ? She never 
 knew. But the stem reality of her life and her 
 sorrows returned to her as she ascended the broad 
 stone steps of her home. Eisler himself was there, 
 superintending the arrangement of the ornamental 
 plants in the hall. It was the night of Sidonie'a 
 ball. 
 
 This atmosphere of luxury and/efes pursued her, 
 then, to her own home ; it was too much, and she 
 
208 SIDONIE. 
 
 lost her temper; and, ■when Kisler bowed to her 
 with his usual deference, she looted him full in the 
 eyes, and, with an expression of utter contempt, 
 swept past without one word. 
 
 From that moment the course she would take 
 appeared plainly before her. 
 
 She hastily kissed her child, and then ran to her 
 mother's room. 
 
 "Hurry, mamma!" she cried — "hurry, for we 
 are going away." 
 
 The old lady rose slowly from her arm-chair, 
 where she had been nibbing her watch-chain with 
 iniinite care ; her daughter restrained her impa- 
 tience and looked about the apartment, and all at 
 once realized the full depth of her own loneliness. 
 Her mother's mind was nearly gone, her husband 
 faithless, and her child too young to sympathize 
 with her ! 
 
 In a moment the whole household was busy in 
 preparations for this abrupt departure. Claire, per- 
 fectly self-possessed, directed all their movements. 
 She determined to depart before George's return, 
 so that when he came he should be greeted by a va- 
 cant home and an empty cradle. Where should 
 she go ? She had not decided — perhaps to an aunt 
 at Lj'ons — possibly to Savigny. It mattered little ; 
 her first care must be simply to leave this atmosphere 
 of falsehood and treachery. 
 
 As she bent over a trunk, each article that she 
 placed in it seemed to be full of memories — there 
 is so much of ourselves in all the trifles which we 
 
REVELATIONS. 209 
 
 see constantly. Sometimes, the perfume of a sachet, 
 or the design on a bit of lace, brings the tears to 
 our eyes. Suddenly, a heavy step was heard in the 
 salon, the door of which was open — then. a slight 
 cough. She supposed it was Eisler, for he alone 
 had the right to enter thus familiarly. The idea of 
 seeing that hypocritical smile, that lying face, dis- 
 turbed her hardly-won equanimity, and she sprang 
 to the door to close it. But Sigismond appeared. 
 " Madame," he said, mysteriously, " I have come 
 for the money." 
 
 ""What money?" asked Claire, who had utterly 
 forgotten why she had gone to Savigny. 
 
 " Why, the money for to-morrow's payments — ^M. 
 George told me that you would hand it over to me." 
 
 " True, very true ; but I have not got it." 
 
 " Then," said the cashier, in a low voice, as if 
 speaking to himself, "there is nothing for us but 
 absolute bankruptcy ! " 
 
 Claire started at this fatal word, and staggered, 
 half fainting, to a chair. 
 
 Eor the last few hours her mind had been so ab- 
 sorbed in the ruin of happiness and hopes that she 
 had paid little heed to the ruin of the firm. 
 
 But this bitter recollection overwhelmed her 
 now ; George would return to find his home de- 
 serted, his wife and child gone ! And then Claire 
 asked herself what would become of that weak and 
 erring nature, left to face the storm alone ? 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, and her heart with 
 compassion, notwithstanding the wrongs she had re- 
 
210 8ID0NIE. 
 
 ceived at his hands. " He will have the right to 
 say," she thought, " that his wife deserted him when 
 poverty and misfortunes wete crowding upon him ! " 
 He might say, ""Were I still rich, she would 
 have forgiven me." A few minutes' quiet reflection 
 showed Claire the path of duty clear before her ; 
 and, when her servants came for further instruction, 
 the sad wife answered gently that she had changed 
 her intentions, and was not then going away. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 NOTE TO ME ET. 
 
 It was inidniglit. A fine snow was falling fast, 
 and Eisler, wrapped in his cloak, was on his way- 
 home from the brewery, where he had supped, for 
 the first time for weets. His invention had been 
 pronounced, that yery day, a great success, and the 
 good man was overjoyed that, with its aid, he could 
 hope to return to the firm some portion of the obli- 
 gations that his old master, the uncle of George 
 Fromont, had placed him under. His thoughts 
 were happy thoughts, and his step was light. He 
 should exchange Asnieres for a larger place farther 
 away from Paris, for Sidonie was growing tired of 
 the toy. Then, Prantz must come home ; this won- 
 derful invention of his would quadruple the profits 
 of the house, while diminishing the labors of the 
 operatives ; and should Frantz remain in that un- 
 healthy -country when his brother was living in 
 luxury at home — remain, too, in the power of ty- 
 rannical masters, who gave their employes a leave 
 of absence only to cut it short when they pleased, 
 without affording any explanation of their conduct ? 
 for Eisler had always felt very sore over the sudden 
 
213 SIDONIE. 
 
 departure of Frantz, -who by his brief visit Lad 
 revived all the affection of his older brother. Yes, 
 his invention once in thorough running order, and 
 it would not be difficult to find some nominal em- 
 ployment for Frantz in the establishment. As of 
 yore, Hisler thought only of the happiness of those 
 about him. Thus thinking, he reached the comer 
 of his own street. A long line of carriages before 
 the house, the group of coachmen sheltering them- 
 selves in the neighboring porches from the fast-fall- 
 ing snow, brought to the memory of the good man 
 the fact that Sidonie gave a large ball that night, 
 from which ehe had graciously permitted her hus- 
 band to absent himself, on account of " that incessant 
 business." In the midst of all his generous plans 
 for her happiness, the music of ^hisfete pleased him, 
 and he had an emotiop of gratified vanity, as he saw 
 the second story of the house blazing with lights. 
 Shadows passed and repassed — they were dancing. 
 For one moment Kisler watched the crowd through 
 the lace curtains that but half shaded the windows, 
 and then, turning away, caught sight of Sidonie's 
 shadow in a small room off the salon. She was 
 standing, as if in front of a mirror. Behind her 
 was a smaller figure, evidently Madame Dobson, 
 who was apparently busy in repairing some disorder 
 of her dress. All this was vague, but Kisler recog- 
 nized the graceful outlines of his wife's figure. 
 
 On the lower floor all was dark, with the exception 
 of the glimmer of a night-taper in the sleeping-room. 
 As the baby had not been very well, Kisler was 
 
NOTE TO MEET. 213 
 
 startled, and immediately thought of the singular 
 agitation shown by Madame George, and turned 
 back at once to find Achille, and discover from him 
 if anything was wrong. 
 
 The gardener's lodge was full, for the coachmen 
 had crowded around Achille's stove to smoke and 
 warm themselves. 
 
 " Is the little girl ill « " asked Eisler. 
 
 " No, sir, it is not the child ; it is M. George. 
 He was taken when he came home this evening. I 
 went for a doctor, who came, but said there was 
 nothing to be done, and nothing needed, except rest 
 and quiet."- And, as Ilisler went out and closed the 
 door behind him, Achille added with a half sneer : 
 
 " They are not quite so merry on the first floor 
 as on the second ! " 
 
 "When young Fromont, on returning home that 
 evening, saw his wife, he knew at once by her face 
 that something had happened. He had been so ac- 
 customed for two years to seeing his ti-eachery go 
 unpunished, that at first the idea that Claire had 
 discovered his conduct did not occur to him. Claire 
 spoke only of Savigny. " I could do nothing with 
 my grandfather," she said, sadly. 
 
 George grew frightfully pale. " I am ruined — 
 I am ruined ! " he said over and over again. His 
 sleepless nights, his anxiety of mind, and a terrible 
 scene that he had had with Sidonie, who persisted 
 in giving this ball at this time — this unexpected re- 
 fusal on the part of M. Gardinois — all combined to 
 prostrate the poor fellow. He had a frightful ner- 
 
214 SWONIE. 
 
 voTis attack, and Claire gently and compassionately- 
 persuaded liim to go to bed, and installed herself at 
 his side. She tried to speak to him as nsual, but 
 her voice lacked its wonted tenderness. In the very 
 air -with which she arranged his pillows and dropped 
 Lis medicines there was an indefinable change — an 
 indifferent coldness — that her husband felt. 
 
 " I have ruined you," said George more than 
 once, as if to disturb this coldness that he felt so 
 keenly. She with a disdainful gesture seemed to 
 say, " That is a trifle." 
 
 At last he fell asleep, and she sat near, watching 
 him. " It is my duty," she said. Her duty ! There 
 she s&t, hour after hour, by the side of the being 
 whom she had so blindly worshiped. 
 
 The ball above had begun, and the ceiling was 
 jarred by the rapid steps of the dancers, and the 
 half-sad, half-merry strains of the German dance- 
 music came to the sad wife. 
 
 Claire was buried in thought. She knew that 
 the melancholy logic of life was immutable. She 
 did not ask herself why- this man had so deceived 
 her, nor yet why for a mere caprice he had thrown 
 away happiness and honor. Sufficient for her was 
 the fact that he had done so. It was not the past 
 that occupied aU her thoughts — it was the future. 
 
 A new life slowly unrolled itself before her 
 weary eyes — dark and severe, full of privation and 
 of ton — and, singularly enough, this future did not 
 terrify her. What a task would be hers — the care 
 of three children — her mother, her child, and her 
 
NOTE TO MEET. 215 
 
 husband — for both mother and husband were chil- 
 dren ! And the longer she dwelt on the responsibil- 
 ities that would be hers in the future the less she 
 thought of her own sorrows, and the better she un- 
 derstood the full meaning of the word sacrifice — a 
 word so vague from indifferent lips, so full of so- 
 lemnity when it becomes the rule of one's life. 
 
 These' were the reflections of poor Claire in that 
 dimly-lighted room, whose one single taper, like a 
 spark fallen from the brilliant chandelier in the 
 ballroom above, had attracted Kisler's attention, 
 Heassured by Achille's words, the good man deter- 
 mined to steal quietly into the house, and, avoiding 
 his guests, go to bed and to sleep, if possible. To 
 do this, he was obliged to return to his office to make 
 use of a private staircase. He passed through two 
 or three of the large rooms. The pale moon, now 
 occasionally emerging from the clouds, shone fitfully 
 through the unshaded windows. A strong smell of 
 oil and varnish still lingered there, and the huge 
 rolls of paper gleamed white like shrouded ghosts. 
 Suddenly he caught sight of a ray of light from 
 under the door of the cashier's office. Could old 
 Planus be still at work at one o'clock in the morn- 
 ing % It was very extraordinary ! Could a burglar 
 have effected an entrance ? At this last idea Kisler, 
 moving with great caution, softly opened the door, 
 and was inclined to retreat as softly 
 
 Since Eisler's inexplicable break with Sigismond 
 he had carefully avoided being alone with him. His 
 wounded pride prevented him from asking an ex- 
 
216 SWONIE. 
 
 planation of the singular coldness that had so hurt 
 him. But this evening llisler was so happy and so 
 hopeful that he felt disposed to make some advances 
 to his old friend. 
 
 The cashier was seated at bis desk, a pile of 
 books in front of him, and more on the floor at his 
 side. llisler went to the grating. " Sigismond," 
 he said, in a gentle tone. 
 
 The old man looked up, and tears — the first he 
 had shed since he was a boy — stood in his eyes. 
 "You are in trouble, my friend. "What is the 
 matter ? " and Eisler held out his hand, but Sigis- 
 mond drew back hastily. This movement was so 
 sudden, and evidently so instinctive, that all Eisler's 
 sympathy changed to indignation. 
 
 He straightened himself up. " I offered you 
 my hand, Sigismond Planus." 
 
 " And 1 refused to give you mine," answered 
 Planus, rising. 
 
 A long silence ensued ; neither of the two men 
 spoke ; the distant music of the ballroom came in 
 gusts, as it were, of melody. 
 
 " Why do you reject my hand ? " at last asked 
 Risler, slowly and sternly ; the iron grating, against 
 which he leaned, shaking with the yiolence of the 
 man's repressed emotion. 
 , " Why ? Because you have ruined this honor- 
 able house ; because in a few hours a messenger will 
 come from the bank, and, standing just where you 
 stand, will present to me notes which, thanks to 
 you, I cannot pay ! " 
 
NOTE TO MEET. 217 
 
 Eisler stood utterly confounded. 
 
 " I ruined the house ? I?" 
 
 " Yes, you, sir ! and worse than that, you have 
 ruiaed it through your wife, and you have arranged 
 between you two to profit by our disgrace. I under- 
 stand your game. The money out of which your 
 vfife has cajoled George Eromont, her diamonds, 
 the house at Asnieres, all stand in her name — out of 
 reach of all danger — and you will in some way 
 manage to evade all liabilities." 
 
 Eisler's lips parted, as if to speak ; all his feat- 
 ures contracted with an expression of anguish ; he 
 swayed heavily forward, dragging with him the iron 
 grating, and fell on the floor. , He did not" utterly 
 lose consciousness ; probably the blood that streamed 
 from a wound on his head relieved the pressure on 
 his brain. Sigismond helped him to the low bench 
 where the workmen sat on pay-day, loosened his 
 cravat, and bathed his temples. When Eisler, at 
 last, opened Ms eyes, he saw Madame George, who 
 had been summoned by Sigismond, leaning over 
 him. " Is it true, madame, is it true \ " said the 
 poor fellow, as soon as he could speak. Claire could 
 not answer, and turned away sadly. " So," he con- 
 tinued, "it is true that the firm is ruined, and 
 through me?" 
 
 " ISTo, my dear old friend, not through you ! " 
 " Then through my wife ? Ah ! this is terrible, 
 and that is the way I have paid my debt of gratitude ! 
 But you, Madame George, you have not really be- 
 lieved me an accomplice in such villainy ? " 
 10 
 
218 SJDONIE. 
 
 " No, my friend, be calm — I know you to be the 
 most honest man in the world ! " 
 
 He looked at her for a moment, his lips trem- 
 bling, and his clasped hands extended imploringly ; 
 for all his ways and expressions were singularly sim- 
 ple and childlike. " To think," he murmured, " that 
 I have brought these misfortunes upon you ! " Sud- 
 denly he rose. ""We must not waste our time in 
 this way," he cried ; " I must settle my accounts ! " 
 Madame Fromont was terrified, for she thought he 
 meant that he must see George, and cried in an 
 agonized tone, " Kisler ! " 
 
 He turned; looking at her, he understood her 
 fears. " Be at ease, madame ; your husband may sleep 
 tranquilly ; I have something to attend to first, of 
 more importance than my impaired honor. Wait for 
 me — I will return shortly." 
 
 He hurried up the narrow staircase, and Claire 
 sat opposite Planus in silence. Some twenty minutes 
 elapsed, when a noise of hurried footsteps was 
 heard, and the rustling of silks. 
 
 Sidonie came first, in ball-dress, but so deadly 
 pale that the jewels that sparkled on neck and arms 
 seemed more alive than herself. She was trembling 
 with emotion of some kind ; whether this emotion 
 was fear or anger, remained to be seen. Kisler was 
 behind her, laden with papers, jewel-cases, and a 
 writing-desk. "When he entered his wife's room, 
 he went at once to her escritoire, and emptied it of 
 its contents. He found jewels, the deed of the house 
 at Asnieres, and some certificates of stocks ; then, 
 
NOTE TO MEET. 219 
 
 on the threshold of the ballroom, he called his wife 
 loudly — 
 
 " Madame Eisler ! " 
 
 She ran quickly to him — so quickly that no one 
 perceived the tragic meaning of the summons — and 
 entered her boudoir after Mm. When she saw her 
 escritoire open, the drawers on the floor, their con- 
 tents scattered here and there, she stood aghast. 
 
 "I know all ! " said her husband. 
 
 She attempted a look of disdain, but Eisler 
 grasped her arm with such violence that the words 
 of his brother came back to her at once : " It will 
 kill him, perhaps, but he will kiU you first ! " She 
 had more than an ordinary woman's fear of death, 
 and made no resistance. 
 
 " Where are we going ? " she asked. 
 
 Eisler did not answer. She had only time to 
 throw over her uncovered neck a scarf of light tulle, 
 which she caught from a table as she passed. Her 
 husband thus dragged or rather pushed her down 
 the narrow staircase. 
 
 " We are here," he said, as they entered the oflSce. 
 " Having stolen, we have now come to restore our 
 booty. — Here, Planus, you can raise the necessary 
 sum with this trash." And with a movement of con- 
 tempt and loathing he tossed on the cashier's desk 
 the mass of feminine spoils with which he was 
 loaded. 
 
 Then, turning to his wife, he said sternly, " Those 
 jewels, madame, and hurry, if you please ! " 
 
 She, with the utmost calmness, and with a linger- 
 
230 SWQNIE. 
 
 ing, caressing touch, loosened the clasps of her neck- 
 lace and bracelets, where the initial of her name — 
 " S " — ^looked like a slumbering serpent. Kisler, out 
 of all patience, broke the frail chains, and the jewels 
 fell in a glittering heap. "1 must do my part," 
 cried her husband, feverishly. " Where is my pocket- 
 book ? Have I anything else ? Ah ! my watch and 
 chain ! — l^ow, Sigismond, we have much to do : as 
 soon as day breaks, all these things must be disposed 
 of in time to meet our payments. I know a man 
 who wants to buy the house, so that is quickly 
 settled." 
 
 He spoke and moved as if insane. Sigismond 
 and Madame George looked at him in silence. As 
 to Sidonie, she seemed turned to marble ; once only 
 did she move, and then in an unconscious way, only 
 to draw mere closely around her shoulders the tulle 
 scarf — the air from the door, open into the garden, 
 made her shiver. Did she hear the music from the 
 ballroom? Was she thinking of the strange con- 
 trast of the two apartments ? A heavy hand on her 
 arm aroused lier from her torpor, and Kisler drew 
 her toward Claire. 
 
 " On your knees ! " 
 
 Madame Fromont drew back. "No, no, Eisler, 
 not that ! " she said, in dismayed entreaty. 
 
 " It must be ! " answered Kisler, sternly ; " she 
 shall implore your forgiveness. — On your knees, 
 madame ! " and he compelled Sidonie to fall on the 
 ground at Claire's feet. " Ton will repeat after me, 
 word for word, just what I say : ' Madame — ' " 
 
NOTE TO MEET. 321 
 
 Sidonie, half paralyzed with fear, whispered, 
 "'Madame—'" 
 
 " ' If a life of hiimility, of submission — " ' 
 
 "'If a life of humil— ' No, I will not! "she 
 cried ; and, bounding to her feet like a wild creature, 
 and shaking off Eisler's grasp, she rushed through 
 the open door into the silence and darkness of the 
 night, through the wind, and the fast-falling snow. 
 
 " Stop her ! " cried Claire, in an agony. " Ris- 
 ler — Planus — I implore you ! Do not let her go in 
 that way ! " 
 
 Planus moved to obey her, but Risler caught 
 him. " Let her go," he said, sternly ; " I forbid you 
 to follow her ! — I beg your pardon, madame, but we 
 have more important matters than that on hand. — 
 To your books. Planus ; we have much to do." 
 
 Sigismond extended his hand. 
 
 " You are an honest man, Eisler ; forgive my 
 suspicions." Pisler did not look as if he heard 
 these words, but turned at once to the books to make 
 a memorandum of the certificates of stock, and an 
 estimate of the value of the jewels, guided by Pla- 
 nus, whose father had been a lapidary. 
 
 All this time Claire had been standing at the 
 window, watching the garden-walks, where Sidonie's 
 footprints were nearly effaced already ; and the 
 dancing still continued. Who of the guests imag- 
 ined that the mistress of the house, with rage and 
 despair at her heart, was flying through the streets 
 of Paris, homeless and forsaken ? 
 
 Where was she going ? Her first idea was to 
 
233 BIDONIE. 
 
 find Casaboni, whom, after all, she had not dared to 
 ask to her ball ; but he lived at Montmartre, and 
 it was too far for her to go there in the dress she 
 wore. "Where should she go ? Her parents would 
 receive her, without doubt ; but she was in no mood 
 to listen to the sobs and lamentations of Madame 
 Chebe. Then she remembered Dolobelle. In this 
 utter downfall of all her splendors, she thought of 
 the old actor who had first taught her to dance, to 
 move, to hold her fan, and who had been the first 
 to encourage her vanity by his openly-expressed ad- 
 miration. Soraethiug told her that with him she 
 shotdd obtain sympathy. She took one of the car- 
 riages that stood by the garden-gate, and ordered 
 the coachman to drive to La Hue Beaiimarchais. 
 
 For some time Madame Dolobelle had earned a 
 scanty pittance by braiding straw ; but Dolobelle 
 continued to grow stout, while his wife, day by day, 
 faded away, to a mere shadow. He had just taken 
 the cover off of a bowl of soup, when a knock was 
 heard at the door. The actor, who had returned 
 from the representation of some bloody di'ama, 
 started as he heard these summons in the middle 
 of the night. 
 
 " "Who is there ? " he asked, in a startled tone. 
 
 " It is I^Sidonie ! Open quick ! " 
 
 She entered with a shiver, took a seat in front 
 of the stove, and poured out her rage and indigna- 
 tion in a torrent of words, and in a voice that was 
 subdued only on account of Madame Dolobelle, who 
 was asleep in the next room. The luxury of her 
 
NOTE TO MEET. 233 
 
 toilet, tlie shimmering silks and frosty laces, all 
 offered a strange co'ntrast to this dingy jroom, these 
 piles of straw, and gave the impression of one of 
 those terrible dramas in real life where all ranks 
 and stations are confounded. 
 
 " No, I shall never go back there again ; I am 
 free at last ! " 
 
 "But who could have denounced you to your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " It is Frantz ; I am sure of it. He would have 
 believed no one else. Besides, a letter came last 
 night from Egypt. The idea of his compelling 
 me to kneel to that woman ! But I will revenge 
 myself!" And a faint smile curved her pale 
 lips. 
 
 The old actor listened with vivid interest. Not- 
 withstanding his compassion for "that poor devil 
 Kisler" and for Sidonie herself, whom he called in 
 theatrical parlance " the guilty beauty," he could not 
 prevent himself from looking at the whole affair from 
 an artistic point of view, and suddenly cried out, 
 " What a situation for a fifth act ! " 
 
 She did not hear him ; absorbed in thoughts of 
 revenge, she had drawn closer to the fire, and me- 
 chanically took off her satin shoes to empty the 
 snow with which they were filled. 
 
 " And now what are you going to do ? " asked 
 Dolobelle. 
 
 " Eemain here until morning, and then we shall 
 see." 
 
 " I have no bed to offer you, my poor child." 
 
224 SIDOmJS. 
 
 " Never mind, I can sleep in that arm-cliair — I 
 am not fastidious ! " 
 
 The actor sighed. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, that arm-chair — it was poor Zizi's ; 
 many a time she has sat in it all' night, when work 
 pressed. Well, well ! those who are taken away are 
 better ofE than those who are left ! " Just then the 
 actor caught sight of his bowl of soup, and remem- 
 bered with grief that it must be stone-cold by that 
 time. 
 
 Sidonie saw his tragic start. "But you were 
 about to sup ; don't let me disturb you." 
 
 " It is a part of my regular life," continued the 
 actor ; " a fixed hour for m^y meals is impossible in 
 my profession ; I must eat when I can and as I can. 
 I know what I should do in your place. I would go 
 on the stage ; you need the excitement of such a 
 career; besides," he resumed, as he took his first 
 mouthful of soup — " besides, a success on the boards 
 need in no way impede your success as a pretty 
 woman, nor vice versa. I will give you lessons in 
 declamation. With your voice, your intelligence, 
 your appearance, you will have a magnificent future." 
 
 And suddenly, as if to initiate her into the joys 
 of the profession, he exclaimed : " But you have had 
 no supper, and emotion is exhausting; take this 
 plate — I am sure that you have not eaten a soup so 
 good as this for a long time." 
 
 She seated herself opposite her host ; a faint color 
 came to her cheeks, and her eyes glittered with tears 
 and excitement. 
 
NOTM TO MEET. 225 
 
 The sliallow-hearted creature! Her life, her 
 name, her fortune, were a complete wreck. Honor, 
 happiness, family, were all gone. She had been 
 driven from her home ; she had been overwhelmed 
 by every imaginable disaster, by every imaginable 
 humiliation. But this did not prevent her from 
 eating her supper with the best possible appetite, 
 nor from the enjoyment of Dolobelle's jokes, which, 
 stale and unprofitable in reality, were new to her. 
 
 She already felt in readiness to start to that new 
 country, the Bohemia, of which she had dreamed, 
 and where she really belonged. 
 
 What had the future in store for her, now that 
 she was cut loose from all old ties and associations ? 
 Thus wondering, Sidonie made herself comfortable 
 in D^siree's arm-chair, and slept with an untroubled 
 conscience for several hours, awaking finally with 
 her dear plan of revenge fully arranged in each de- 
 tail. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE NEW CLEEK OF THE DOUSE OF FEOMOKT. 
 
 It was late in tlie moming wlien young From,ont 
 awoke. All niglit, through the drama that had 
 been enacted helow him and the ball that had been 
 going on above, he had slept one of those dream- 
 less slumbers, such as sometimes come to strengthen 
 the criminal on the eve of execution, or to soothe 
 the broken spirit of the mourner — such a slumber 
 as one might well pray never to be roused from. 
 
 The bright light that streamed into his windows, 
 brighter than usual on account of tlie white snow 
 on all the roofs and walls, brought George back to 
 the realities of life. For a moment he was bewil- 
 dered, and with diflBculty recalled the impending 
 disaster of the day. He heard the ordinary noises 
 in the streets — the regular jar of the machinery in 
 the factory. 
 
 The bell rang. " "What ! twelve o'clock ? How 
 I have slept ! " 
 
 He felt a pang of self-reproach that he had not 
 been in the office to share the mortification of Eisler 
 and Sigismond ; and he looked out in the garden, 
 where he heard voices, and saw his partner and the 
 
NSW CLERK OF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT. 237 
 
 casHer in earnest conversation. He dressed hur- 
 riedly, and, as lie left his room, met Claire on the 
 threshold. 
 
 " You must not go out," she said. 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " I will explain — " 
 
 " Has any one come from the bank ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and the notes are all paid." 
 
 « Paid ! " 
 
 " Yes — E.isler got the money. It seems that his 
 wife had magnificent jewels. He sold them this 
 morning, and also the house at Asnieres, with all 
 that it contained. But, as there was not time to 
 register the sale, Planus and his sister advanced the 
 money." Claire did not look at her husband while 
 she spoke, and he, in his turn, did not lift his eyes. 
 
 " Risler is an honest man," she continued, " and 
 when he knew from whom his wife had obtained — " 
 
 " What ! " said George, startled out of his self- 
 possession ; " he knows — ? " 
 
 " Everything — and I too — I knew it all, before 
 Pisler did." She drew nearer her husband. " I was 
 told it at Savigny, with so many cruel words that I 
 would gladly give ten years of my life to forget — " 
 
 " Claire ! " cried her husband, and took one step 
 toward his vnf e, but her face was so cold, her indif- 
 ference so great, her contempt so apparent, that he 
 dared not say one word. 
 
 " You find me calm," said the courageous wom- 
 an, " for I shed all my tears yesterday. You may 
 imagine that I wept over our ruin, but you are mis- 
 
238 SIDONIE. 
 
 taken ; while one is young and strong, sucli tears 
 are cowardly. JSTo ; I wept over our vardslied love, 
 our buried happiness — over yon — over your madness 
 that has cost you the loss of a faithful heart ! " 
 
 She was beautiful as she stood before him — more 
 beautiful than Sidonie had ever been. If in other 
 and happier days her face lacked expression, or was 
 a trifle too severe in its classic beauty, the painful 
 vigils of the night had now softened and given it an 
 additional charm. 
 
 George implored her pardon, and would have 
 knelt at her feet. 
 
 Claire started back. " If you only knew," she 
 cried, "what you recall to me — whose false and 
 treacherous face I have seen at my feet this last ter- 
 rible night — " 
 
 " But mine is not false ! " answered George. 
 
 Some one knocked. " You see," she said, with 
 a bitter smile, " that the world claims us." 
 
 A servant appeared. " M. Risler would like to 
 see M. Fromont in the office." 
 
 " "Very well," answered his mistress ; " say that 
 H. Fromont will be there as soon as possible." 
 
 George turned to obey the summons, but his wife 
 stopped him. " Let me go first." 
 
 George demurred. " Yery well," said Claire, 
 " do as you please, but if you knew the frightful 
 scene of last night — if you had seen his conduct to 
 his wife — " And here Claire, with feminine malice, 
 stopped, and with feminine curiosity examined her 
 husband's face. 
 
NEW CLERK OF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT. 229 
 
 George was unmoyed. " My life belongs to this 
 man." 
 
 " It belongs to me also, and I do not wish you 
 to meet him yet. There has been scandal enough 
 under my father's roof. Eemember that all the 
 operatives thoroughly understand what has been 
 going on, and all the authority of the overseers was 
 required to-day to get them quietly at their work." 
 
 " But I shall look as if I were in hiding." 
 
 "And what of that? How strange men are! 
 They do not shrink from deceiving a wife or a 
 friend; but 'the thought that some one may call 
 them cowardly touches them to the quick. Listen ! 
 Sidonie is gone, gone forever ; and, if you go out of 
 this house, I shall consider that you have gone to 
 join her." 
 
 " Very well," said George. " I will do as you 
 wish." 
 
 Claire went down to the office. 
 
 Seeing Eisler walking up and down the room, 
 bis arms folded, and his face as quiet as ever, no one 
 would have imagined that he had had any part in 
 the occurrences of the previous night. 
 
 When Madame Fromont entered, Eisler shook 
 his head. " Ah ! " he said, wearily, " I expected you, 
 but it is not with you that I must talk. "We have 
 weathered the gale ; but we have still many impor- 
 tant arrangements to make." 
 
 " Eisler, my friend, wait a little." 
 
 " Why, Madame George ? There is not a minute 
 to lose. Ah ! I understand, you fear some mani- 
 
230 SinONIE. 
 
 festations of rage from me. No ; remember what I 
 said — the honor of the firm must be vindicated before 
 my own." 
 
 "Tom* conduct has been admirable, my dear 
 Eisler." 
 
 " Ah ! madame, if you knew the whole ! He is a 
 hero," said poor Sigismond, who, though he dared 
 not speak again to his old friend, wished to show 
 him something of the regret and shame that filled 
 his own heart. 
 
 Claire continued : " Good as you are, you cannot 
 be certain of your powers of self-control. Perhaps, 
 in the presence of the man who has — " 
 
 Eisler took her trembling hands. "Dear ma- 
 dame," he said, tenderly, " do not speak of the evil 
 that man has done to me. I hate him quite as much 
 for the misery he has inflicted on you. But, at pres- 
 ent, I think of him only as a partner in certain mer- 
 cantile transactions, whose opinion and authority I 
 must have before I take certain steps where haste is 
 imperatively required. Let him meet me here, then, 
 at once." 
 
 " I believe you," said Claire, and turned away to 
 seek her husband. 
 
 The first few moments of this interview were 
 terrible. George was pale and agitated. He would 
 rather have faced a volley of musketiy than this 
 man. Eisler did not look at hira, but continued to 
 pace the room while he spoke. 
 
 " Our house has gone through a frightful crisis. 
 The catastrophe has been avoided for the time being. 
 
jarmv cljsrk of the house of fromont. 331 
 
 I have been too mucli occupied witli that invention ; 
 fortunately, all that is happily completed, and I am 
 free, and can devote myself to the supervision of 
 our interests. But you must do the same. The 
 workmen have followed their employer's example, 
 and this morning, for the first time for a year, they 
 have gone punctually to their duties. You must 
 regulate all this. Our patterns are old^I must 
 make new designs. I have great confidence in my 
 invention, and with its aid I hope to set things 
 straight. I should have told you of its complete 
 success, but I wished to surprise you. But nothing 
 can surprise either of us now. Am I not right, 
 George ? " 
 
 Claire trembled, for the satirical tone was so cut- 
 ting that she feared an explosion, but he continued 
 quietly : 
 
 " In six months I assure you that the invention 
 will yield magnificent results. But these six months 
 will require all our energy, all our watchfulness. 
 We must retrench at every turn, and shrink from 
 no economy. "We have five designers : we must 
 dismiss three. I will take upon myseK to do the 
 work of those three. In conclusion, I wish to say 
 that, after this month,- 1 dissolve our partnership, 
 and will receive only my old salary." 
 
 Fromont wished to speak, but a look from his 
 wife restrained him. 
 
 " I am your partner no longer, George. Tou 
 must make no objection — that point is settled. I 
 shall resume my old position until the firm is free 
 
233 BTDONIE. 
 
 from every embarrassment. What I shall do then 
 depends on circumstances. One word more, George. 
 Toil must occupy yourself exclusively with your 
 business. The hand and the eye of the master must 
 be felt everywhere, and if you fulfill your duty I am 
 certain that one among our numerous misfortunes is 
 not irreparable." 
 
 During tlie silence that followed, a noise of 
 wheels was heard, and two huge wagons drew up in 
 front of the house. 
 
 '• I must leave you for a moment," said Eisler ; 
 " tho'se are the wagons from the auction-room ; they 
 have come for my furniture." 
 
 "What!" cried Madame Fromont, "you are 
 not going to soil this furniture, too ? " 
 
 " Certainly, to the very last stick." 
 
 " But it is impossible," said George ; " I will not 
 permit it ! " 
 
 Kisler turned on him like lightning. " Wliat 
 do you say — you will not permit it ? " 
 
 Claire made an appealing gesture. " You prom- 
 ised," she whispered. 
 
 " True — true ! " he answered, and hurried away 
 to escape the temptation that was swelling within 
 his heart. 
 
 The second floor was deserted. The servants, 
 having been paid and dismissed that morning, had 
 left the rooms in all the disorder that follows after 
 a fete^ and over all lingered a certain air of expect- 
 ancy — an air that generally pervades a spot which 
 has been the scene of a startling drama, and where, 
 
NHW CLERK OF THE HOUSE OF FEOMONT. 233 
 
 too, the end is not yet. The doors stood widely 
 open ; the carpets were taken up, and the long table 
 in the dining-room was still loaded with glass and 
 china and the remains of the supper. The mingled 
 odors of faded flowers and punch assailed Eisler on 
 his entrance. There, too, was the piano, with the 
 music of " Orphee aux Enfers " upon it. The win- 
 dows were thrown up, and the lace curtains waved in 
 the fresh morniug breeze. The whole aspect of the 
 rooms suggested a shipwrecked steamer, whose pas- 
 sengers had escaped only with their lives. 
 
 Eisler superintended the porters who were mov- 
 ing the furniture. All the luxury that had filled 
 his heart with innocent pride now inspired him with 
 unconquerable disgust. But, when he entered his 
 wife's apartment, his emotion nearly choked him. 
 It was a large room, hung with light-blue silk — white 
 lace and ribbons everywhere — at the windows and 
 on the Pompadour toilet-table. On the floor lay a. 
 faded flower, a spray of artificial roses, a bit of lace 
 torn from a flounce. The candles of the tong psyche 
 had burned themselves out, and so shivered their 
 crystal sconces. The bed, shrouded in curtains of 
 blue and white, looked like a couch of state on which 
 no one ever slept. 
 
 At first Eisler felt a spasm of regret, but in a 
 moment his heart grew hot with rage and indigna- 
 tion. IS'othing retains so much of a woman's indi- 
 viduality as the room in which she lives. Even 
 when absent, her image still smiles on you from 
 her mirror. Her favorite chair is there, the dainty 
 
234 SWONIK 
 
 work-basket ; and the whole atmosphere is filled with 
 her favorite perfume. 
 
 But here the thing that most vividly recalled 
 Sidonie was an etagere loaded with trifles — a mi- 
 nute china tea-service, a microscopic fan, a gilt 
 shoe, a small shepherd and shepherdess exchanging 
 smiles and bows. This etagere seemed to be a rep- 
 resentation of Sidonie's character. She herself, her 
 principles, her honor, her ambitions and hopes, 
 were as trifling and as fragile as the playthings on 
 this piece of useless furniture. 
 
 Poor Risler's thoughts were sad enough, while 
 all about him went on the noise of hammers and 
 heavy footsteps. The confusion momentarily in- 
 creased, when suddenly he heard M Chebe's voice 
 in the anteroom, and his father-in-law appeared at 
 the door, irate and aggressive. 
 
 " What is this I hear, Risler ? What are you 
 doing ? " 
 
 " Selling out, sir." 
 
 The little man glared in a stupefied sort of way. 
 " Selling out ! and why, if I may be permitted the 
 question ? " 
 
 " Because I choose to do so," answered Kisler, 
 in measured tones. 
 
 M. Ch^be took a step forward, and said in a low 
 voice : " I do not deny that Sidonie's fault has been 
 most grave. However, I know very little about it. 
 I still must remind you of the old proverb, that it 
 is better to wash our dirty linen at home. It is not 
 worth while, it strikes me, to^offer your work-peo- 
 
NSW CLERK OF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT. 235 
 
 pie theatrical amusements gratis. Every operative 
 in your factory is laughing at you and watching 
 every movement. Look ! Each pane in those 
 windows has a face behind it. You are the laugh- 
 ing-stock of the neighborhood, my dear fellow ! " 
 And Chebe pulled up his collar with a supercilious 
 air. 
 
 " So much the better. The dishonor has been 
 public ; let the reparation be public too." 
 
 This apparent calm indifference exasperated his 
 father-in-law ; he changed his tone, and began to 
 speak to Kisler as one speaks to children and fools. 
 
 "But you have no right to do what you are 
 doing. I shall oppose it formally with all my au- 
 thority as a father. Do you think that you will be 
 allowed to turn my child into the street ? Not at 
 all, and nothing more shall be taken from the 
 house." 
 
 And M!. Chebe planted himself before the door 
 with a martial air. He was superb in this attitude, 
 but it did not last long : he was quietly seized by 
 two strong arms, and placed in the centre of the 
 room, while the workmen went in and out as they 
 pleased. 
 
 " Listen to me," said Risler, earnestly. " I am 
 at the' end of my patience. For hours I have 
 placed a curb on my tongue ; but this cannot last, 
 I warn you. Ton had better leave me. I am in 
 the mood to kill some one ; I give you fair warn- 
 ing!" 
 
 Eisler's tone was so full of suppressed fury, in 
 
336 SinONIE. 
 
 his eyes blazed so fierce a fire, that Chebe was 
 conviuced that obedience was the better part of 
 valor, to say nothing of discretion. He stammered 
 a few words of apology, as he gradually got nearer 
 the door. On the threshold he lingered long enough 
 to ask if Madame Chebe's small allowance would 
 be continued. 
 
 " Yes," answered Eisler, " but do not be tempted 
 to exceed it, for my position here is no longer the 
 same, and I am not now a partner in the firm." 
 
 Chebe opened a pair of astonished eyes, but said 
 not one word. Was this man his meek son-in-law % 
 Was this Risler, who bristled all over at the least 
 syllable, and who talked of killing people so coolly ? 
 
 He slunk obsequiously down the stairs, but at 
 the outer door resumed his usual vain-glorious air, 
 and, when he passed Achille at the gate, was the 
 same pompous little man that had entered. 
 
 When every room was empty, Kisler took the 
 key and went to the cashier's office. 
 
 " Let the rooms," he said, " and credit the house 
 with the amount." 
 
 "But what will become of you, my friend?" 
 
 " Oh ! I — I need vei-y little ; I will put a bed 
 somewhere up in the attic here." 
 
 George, who was with the cashier, was so over- 
 whelmed by these sad words that he precipitately 
 left the room. Claire, who was also there, laid her 
 hand on Risler's shoulder. 
 
 "I thank you, my friend, in the name of my 
 father," she said, gently. 
 
NEW CLERK OF THE HOUSE OF FROMONT. 237 
 
 " It is of him I tliink, madame, all tlie time," 
 lie answered, simply. 
 
 Achille at that moment entered with a large 
 package of letters ; Kisler took them, opened them, 
 one after another, and then handed them over to 
 Sigismond. 
 
 "An order from Lyons, another from Saint- 
 Etienne — " Suddenly he stopped. Among the large 
 business enyelopes he saw another, much smaller, 
 sealed with care. He recognized the writing at once. 
 In the corner was written " Personal." It was from 
 Sidonie. Beholding it, he felt precisely as he did on 
 entering her apartment an hour previous. 
 
 All his love and all his anger did battle within 
 his heart. Why had she written ? "What falsehood 
 had she invented ? He began to open, the letter, 
 then hesitated. He saw clearly that, to read it, he 
 needed more courage and calmness than were then 
 his. 
 
 " Sigismond," he said, in a low voice, " will you 
 do me a favor ? " 
 
 " Indeed I will," answered the cashier, overjoyed 
 to hear once more a kind word from Eisler. 
 
 " Look here — this is a letter that I cannot read 
 now. I am sure it would prevent me from thinking 
 and acting. Keep it for me, and take this too " (and 
 he drew from his pocket a small package, carefully 
 sealed, and handed the two to Sigismond). "It 
 is all that remains to me of the past; all that 
 remains to me of that woman. I am determined 
 not to see her, nor to see anything that can recall 
 
238 8W0NIE. 
 
 her, BO long as I remain in this establishment. You 
 understand that I need all my head. You must pay 
 to Chebe his allowance. If she herself should come 
 to ask anything, you will do all that is necessary 
 without consulting me. But never mention her 
 name to me ; and you will take the best of care of 
 these things which I intrust tcr you." 
 
 Sigismond placed the letter and the package in 
 a secret drawer of his desk, until his friend should 
 reclaim them. Then Eisler returned to his corre- 
 spondence, but for some time he saw nothing save 
 the long, slender letters traced by the little haid 
 which he had so often, and so tenderly, clasped 
 within his own. 
 
OHAPTEH V. 
 
 A CONCEET-EOOM. 
 
 Night after night Eisler's lamp burned until 
 tlie morning snn shamed its feeble rays. He had 
 furnished for himself, away up among the eaves, 
 a small room, closely resembling the one in which 
 he had lived with Frantz. He worked constantly ; 
 but, alas ! youth and hope were gone, and with them 
 all the charm of the old life. To be sure, Frantz 
 and Madame George were left him ; their love and 
 their friendship were real, and of these two persons 
 he could think without sadness. Claire environed 
 him with kindly attentions, and Frantz wrote con- 
 stantly. As he never spoke of Sidonie, Eisler felt 
 sure that some one had told him all that had 
 happened ; and, in his turn, he equally avoided any 
 allusion to the humiliating subject. 
 
 " When I can summon him home ! " was Eisler's 
 constant thought ; it was his dream, his only am- 
 bition — ^first, to place the manufactory on a solid 
 basis, and then to recall Frantz, and to pass the re- 
 mainder of his life with him. The days were all 
 much alike; each morning he descended to the 
 work-rooms, where the profound respect he inspired, 
 
34:0 SIDONIE. 
 
 his serious face and decided manner, had restored 
 the order and discipline disturbed for a brief period. 
 
 For a time there had been much gossip in regard 
 to Sidonie's disappearance. Some said she had 
 eloped with a lover, others that Kisler had driven 
 her away. But the thing that disturbed both of 
 these beliefs was the position assumed toward each 
 other by the former partners. Sometimes, however, 
 when thfcy were alone together, Eisler had a sudden 
 access of rage as he remembered how those lips had 
 lied to him — those eyes betrayed him. Then he 
 had a mad longing to seize George by the throat, 
 and to crush his very life out. But the thought of 
 Madame George always restrained him. Should 
 he be less courageous, less strong, than that fi-ail 
 woman? Neither Claire nor Fromont suspected 
 these thoughts ; they simply saw a restmint and 
 coldness that were not altogether natural. The 
 operatives were uneasy under the glance of his steel- 
 blue eyes, and felt a profound respect for his gray 
 hairs— for he had grown very gray and very thin. 
 
 Thanks to him, the old beU of the factory had 
 resumed its ancient authority ; and Risler, kind and 
 thoughtful as he was to the industrious, allowed no 
 infringement of rules. On the last day of- every 
 month Chebe made his appearance, and as punctu- 
 ally was paid three-quarters of Ri-sler's salary — re- 
 tained by Sigisinond in his hands for that purpose. 
 Once or twice Madame Qhebe, who sincerely loved 
 and pitied her son-in-law, made an attempt to see 
 him, but the mere sight of the well-known shawl 
 
A CONCERT-ROOM. 241 
 
 put him to flight. "Was it that the courage with 
 which he armed himself was more apparent than 
 real ? Did the remembrance of his wife never leave 
 him ? " What had become of her ? " he asked him- 
 self, constantly ; " where was she ? " He wished 
 that Planus would speak to him of her ; and that 
 letter, above all — that letter which he had not had 
 the courage to open — ^haunted him, waking and 
 sleeping. Had he dared, he would have asked it 
 from Sigismond. One day the temptation was too 
 strong. He was alone in the office — the old cashier 
 had gone to breakfast, leaving — a most unheard-of 
 thing — ^his key in the desk. Kisler could not resist 
 this ; he opened the secret drawer, but the letter was 
 not fhere. Sigismond had placed it in some more 
 secure drawer, or perhaps meant to avoid precisely 
 what had now taken place. In reality Eisler was 
 glad of this, for he knew only too well that, should 
 he read that letter, his resignation and apparent 
 cheerfulness would come to an end. He managed 
 to endure the week ; he rose early and worked hard, 
 and at night slept a sleep of utter exliaustion. But 
 Sundays were inexpressibly painful to him. The 
 profound silence that pervaded the building left 
 him leisure to think. Sometimes he tried to draw, 
 to invent new combinations of flowers and foliage ; 
 but, while he moved his pencil, his thoughts rioted 
 in the past. He thought of his utter blindness, of 
 his laughable simplicity, of his irretrievable shame 
 and misfortunes, until his whole soul quivered with 
 pain. 
 
 11 
 
243 SIDONIE. 
 
 Oh, those fearful Sundays ! Hemember that he 
 was a son. of the people ; that he had all their love 
 for the day as a day of rest and of sunple, quiet en- 
 joyment. Had he gone out, the sight of a work- 
 man with his wife and child would have stabbed 
 him like a knife ; but his secluded, solitary life pre- 
 served him from these pangs. 
 
 Often in such sad moments the door would open, 
 and Claire Fremont would appear. The desolation 
 of the poor man on these long Sundays filled her 
 kind heart with compassion, and she came with her 
 little girl, knowing by experience that children have 
 a, strange power to take the ache from sore and 
 wounded hearts. The child ran to her friend with 
 joy and shouts of delight. Risler heard the little 
 hurrying steps, and, turning, would take her in his 
 arms, her soft kisses on his cheek, and her dimpled 
 hands smoothing his worn brow ; and then he grew 
 calmer. 
 
 Claire smiled gently. 
 
 " Come, Eisler, my friend, the garden is fresh 
 and lovely. You work too much." 
 
 " No, madame, my work is my best friend ; it 
 keeps me from thinking." 
 
 " But, my dear Eisler, you must try to forget." 
 
 " Is that possible ? One may forgive, but not 
 forget." 
 
 Almost always the child succeeded in dragging 
 him away — ^he must play with her ; but soon his 
 gravity struck even the child, and she learned to 
 walk quietly at his side through the flower-beds 
 
A CONCERT-ROOM. 343 
 
 bordered with box. After a few moments, Eisler 
 almost forgot her presence, but the soft little hand 
 in his own exercised a magical charm over his ul- 
 cerated heart. 
 
 " One may forgiye, but not forget ! " 
 
 Poor Claire recognized the melancholy truth of 
 these words, for she had forgotten nothing, while 
 she carefully fulfilled every duty. She, as well as 
 Kisler, was surrounded by everything that could 
 keep her wound open. The staircase and the gar- 
 den had on some days an almost unbearable sig- 
 nificance. Even the care taken by her husband to 
 spare her these painful recollections and associations 
 —the resolution he had adopted always to pass his 
 evenings with her ; the care he took always to tell 
 her where he had been, whom he had seen — only 
 served to keep alive the memory of his fault. She 
 sometimes longed to say to him, " Do less — say 
 less ! " 
 
 Confidence was destroyed, and a certain pained 
 smile told sometimes the story of her courage and 
 her suffering. 
 
 George was miserably unhappy. At this late 
 date he had learned to love his wife. The gener- 
 osity of her nature, the strength of her character, 
 had taken him captive. Her cool reserve acted upon 
 his frivolous tastes like the caprices of a coquette. 
 He had always found his wife too loving, too tender. 
 She was always the same, while Sidonie was full of 
 caprices ; one day she quarreled with him, the next 
 she was jealous and exacting, the third indifferent. 
 
244 SIDONIE. 
 
 The peaceful serenity of his wife's affection wearied 
 him. Besides, he had hitherto been sure of it ; now 
 he felt that Claire was indifferent, and that the only 
 tie between them was their child. Yet he did not 
 altogether despair. As to Sidonie, he rarely or never 
 thought of her ; and let no one be amazed at this 
 sudden change. In these two superficial natures 
 there was nothing that could inspire a profound at- 
 tachment ; George was incapable of receiving any 
 lasting impresssion — Sidonie equally incapable of 
 making one. It was one of those shallow affairs, 
 born of vanity and idleness, in which neither devo- 
 tion nor constancy had any part. Perhaps, had he 
 seen her, he might have felt a quicker beating of the 
 heart, but she had been totally swept away in the 
 wind of that gusty night ; every trace of her had 
 vanished. It was a relief to live again without per- 
 petual falsehoods, and, though his daily existence 
 was one of much labor and many privations, he was 
 not discontented with his lot. The btirden of decep- 
 tion was lifted from him, and the consequent relief 
 was enormous. 
 
 Prosperous days were at last dawning on the 
 house. Four of Eisler's new machines were in full 
 operation in the factory, and all the establishments 
 at Xyons began to grow extremely uneasy. Finally, 
 an enormous sum was offered for one of the ma- 
 chines. 
 
 " What shall we say ? " asked George. 
 
 " Whatever you choose," replied Kisler. " I am 
 no longer your partner." 
 
A CONCERT-ROOM. 245 
 
 These cold words chilled and marred Fromont's 
 delight. But, when alone with Madame George, 
 Eisler said, " Tell him not to sell yet, but to wait 
 awhile." He seemed only to think of them and of 
 their prosperity, not of himself as having any con- 
 cern with the matter. 
 
 Meanwhile orders kept pouring in. The quality 
 of their paper, the prices Sb much lower on account 
 of their superior facilities for manufacture, made all 
 competition with the Fromont papers simply impos- 
 sible. Evidently a magnificent fortune was in the 
 future for the house. The factory had resumed its 
 old look of prosperity. A new building was in pro- 
 cess of erection, intended to relieve the busy crowd 
 of work-people, who filled the older one like so many 
 bees. Planus was busy over his books all day, but 
 his face was radiant with satisfaction. 
 
 Eisler was always busy, never seeking amuse- 
 ment or rest. Returning prosperity changed no 
 one of his personal habits, nor was he less silent 
 or less reserved. But one day, when the intelligence 
 had arrived that his new invention, a model of which 
 had been sent to the exposition at Manchester, had 
 received the gold medal — the highest prize — ^Madame 
 George sent for him to join her in the garden, that 
 she might tell him the good news herself. 
 
 For the first time a smile brightened his sad 
 face. His pride as an inventor was gratified, and 
 Eisler took his friend's hands with a warm grasp. 
 " I am happy, so happy ! ",he said ; but wliat a differ- 
 ence in his tone ! — the words were uttered without 
 
24:6 SID ON IK 
 
 enthusiasm, without hope. He was simply glad to 
 have accomplished the task assigned to him. 
 
 The bell rang to summon the work-people from 
 their noon leisure. Eisler obeyed also, and returned 
 to his drawing-table. 
 
 But he soon came down again, for the news had 
 moved him more than he wished any one to suppose. 
 He wandered up and doWn the garden, and smiled 
 sadly enough at old Sigismond as he passed the 
 window. 
 
 " What does he want ? " said the old man to him- 
 self, puzzled at this unwonted restlessness. But, in 
 the evening, just as the cashier was locking up, K.is- 
 ler came to him. 
 
 " Planus, my friend, I would like — " (here he 
 hesitated) — " you may give me that letter now, with 
 the package too." 
 
 Sigismond looked utterly dumf ounded. Stupidly 
 enough, he had fancied that Kisler thought no more 
 of Sidonie ; that he had forgotten her. 
 
 "What! you want— " 
 
 " Listen ! I can afford to think a little now of 
 my own affairs. Hitherto, I have allowed myself to 
 think only of others," 
 
 " Yery true," said Planus ; " now let me tell you 
 what we had best do : The letter and the package 
 are both at Montrouge. Suppose we dine together 
 at the Palais Koyal, as we used to do sometimes ; 
 for it is not every day that a man receives a gold 
 medal, and we wiU drink a bottle of good wine in 
 its honor; then you shall go home with me, and 
 
A CONCERT-ROOM. 247 
 
 spend the night, and to-morrow at seven o'clock we 
 will take the first omnibus to town. Do me this 
 favor, it is so long since we passed an evening to- 
 gether." Eisler consented, not so much to do honor 
 to his medal as to hasten by some hours the moment 
 in which he could open that little letter. He must 
 dress, which in itself was an exertion, for it was six 
 months since he had put on anything but an office- 
 coat. 
 
 Madame Fromont^was sunamoned to the window 
 by an exclamation of wonder, uttered by her nurse, 
 and the sight of Eisler's bowed form going out of 
 the gate with Sigismond caused her a singular pang, 
 and one which she remembered long afterward. 
 
 In the street he received many cordial greetings, 
 which seemed to gladden his heart, while the noise 
 and confusion bewildered his brain. 
 
 " My head is dizzy and weak," he said to Planus. 
 
 " Take my arm, and don't think about it," an- 
 swered his friend, gayly. 
 
 The two men entered the restaurant, and took a 
 table that stood in a recess of a window, whence they 
 could see the deep green of the trees, and the gay 
 stream of the passers-by. This was Sigismond's 
 idea of luxury — ^this large room, all gilding and 
 mirrors. As each course was served, Sigismond 
 would insist on Risler's trying it. He did his best, 
 in his anxiety to gratify his friend, but he had little 
 appetite. 
 
 " Do you remember, Sigismond ? " he said, finally. 
 
 " What ? The first time we dined here ? " 
 
248 SIDOmE. 
 
 Eisler sliook his head. " Oh, no. I am speaking 
 of three years since. It was there, in that very 
 room, that we dined three years ago" — and he 
 showed his friend Yefour's salon opposite, the win- 
 dows of which glittered in the setting sun. 
 
 " That is so," murmured Sigismond, in confusion j 
 why had he brought his unfortunate friend to a place 
 that recalled to him so much that was painful ? Eis- 
 ler, anxious to enliven the repast, raised his glass : 
 " To your health, old friend." He tried to turn the 
 conversation, but a few moments later he himself 
 returned to it. 
 
 " Have you seen her ? " 
 
 " Your wife ? No, not once." 
 
 " She has not written again ? " 
 
 "No, never." 
 
 "But you must have heard something about 
 her in all these months. Is she with her par- 
 ents ? " 
 
 " No, she is not." 
 
 Kisler turned very pale. He hoped that Sidonie 
 was with her mother, expiating the past by daily 
 labor. He had determined that by what he should 
 now hear of her he would regulate his future life ; 
 and sometimes he had dreamed of a future in some 
 far-distant land where the shameful past would be 
 unknown. He had, to be sure, made no plans j but 
 in the depths of his heart some vague idea of the 
 kind had taken root. 
 
 " Is she in Paris ? " Eisler asked, after a moment's 
 silence. 
 
A CONCERT-ROOM. 249 
 
 " !N"o, slie has been gone three months, and no 
 one knows where she is." 
 
 Sigismond did not add that she had gone with 
 Casaboni, whose name she now bore, and that her 
 mother was broken-hearted. Sigismond saw no need 
 of telling these facts, and so sat in silence. 
 
 Eisler, in his turn, said no more. At that mo- 
 ment the military band, under the trees in the gar- 
 den, struck up an air from an Italian opera. Eisler 
 started, and, turning to the window, listened with 
 pleasure to the cheering tones. When the music 
 ceased, the garden became gradually deserted — a 
 faint ray of the lingering day gilded the distant 
 spires and upper windows — while the twittering 
 swallows clustered under the eaves. 
 
 "Where shall we go now? " said the cashier, as 
 they left the restaurant. 
 
 " Wherever you please." 
 
 Just below, in La Kue de , was a concert- 
 room, where a number of persons were hurrying. 
 " Suppose we go in, too, for a half-hour ? " said Si- 
 gismond, anxious to cheer his friend, if possible. 
 
 Eisler made no objection. It was an old restau- 
 rant transformed into a concert-hall. Three good- 
 sized rooms were turned into one, divided by gilded 
 columns. Although it was early, there was a crowd 
 assembled. The air was sufEocating, and the glare 
 of the gas bewUdering. Little tables were scattered 
 about, and at the extreme end of the apartment sat 
 several women in white, upon a raised platform. 
 
 Our two friends had much difficulty in finding 
 
250 8ID0NIE. 
 
 seats, but finally succeeded in establisliiiig them- 
 selves in a comer, whence only a partial view could 
 be obtained of the platform — at that moment occu- 
 pied by a magnificent personage in a black coat and 
 yellow gloves. 
 
 The public — the small merchants of the neigh- 
 borhood, with their wives and \h.eir Jia/ncees — ^were 
 highly delighted with the romance he was singing ; 
 but Eisler and Sigismond drank their beer, without 
 paying much attention to the music, when suddenly 
 the cashier exclaimed, just as the romance came to 
 an end : 
 
 " There is Dolobelle ! " 
 
 Truly enough, the old actor was there, close to 
 the miniature stage. He was carelessly leaning 
 against a pillar — dressed with the most punctilious 
 care — bis linen was dazzling, and his black coat 
 was decorated with a camellia. He occasionally ex- 
 amined the crowd with the air of a man who' acci- 
 dentally finds himself among his inferiors ; but his 
 attention was mainly directed to the platform, where 
 he turned continually with an encouraging smile or 
 gesture, intended for some one whom Planus could 
 not see, on account of the intervening pillars. There 
 was nothing very extraordinary in the presence of 
 old Dolobelle in this concert-haU, and yet the cashier 
 felt a certain uneasiness — above all, when he saw 
 Madame Dobson's blond curls and pale-blue eyes 
 among the audience. Amid the smoke of the pipes 
 and the noisy crowd, these two faces had the effect 
 of two ghosts, or of illusions in a bad dream. He 
 
A COJ!rCERT-ROOM. 251 
 
 felt afraid for his friend, and yet he knew not why, 
 nor what he had to dread ; but he determined to 
 ■ take him away. 
 
 " Come, Eisler, let us go ; the heat is intolerable 
 here ! " 
 
 Just as they rose — ^for Bisler was as willing to 
 go as to stay — the orchestra, composed of a piano 
 and several violins, began a singular air. " Hush ! " 
 cried several persons. " Be seated ! " cried others. 
 
 They were obliged to I'esume their places. But 
 Kisler felt a vague discomfort. " I know that air," 
 he said ; " where have I heard it ? " 
 
 Vociferous applause, and an exclamation from 
 Sigismond, made him turn round. 
 
 " Come, quick — ^let us go ! " said the cashier. 
 But it was too late ! Kisler had seen his wife come 
 forward to the edge of the platform, and bow to the 
 public, with the air of a ballet-dancer. 
 
 She wore a white dress, as she had done the last 
 time he saw her ; but the material was less rich, and 
 the whole style vulgar in the extreme. Her dress 
 did not cover her shoulders ; her hair was crimped 
 and waved, until it met her eyebrows ; and around 
 her throat was a necklace of pearls too large to be 
 real. Dolobelle was quite correct in his judgment. 
 She was thoroughly at home in Bohemia, and had 
 acquired that unmistakable stamp — that air of utter 
 indifference to all pure and noble influences. And 
 how perfectly unembarrassed she was ! 
 
 Ah ! had she seen that despairing, terrible look 
 in those eyes which were fixed on her at the other 
 
252 SWONIE. 
 
 end of the room, lier smile would have lacked its 
 serenity, and her voice would never have been so 
 smooth as she sang the languishing notes of the only 
 romance Madame Dobson had ever been able to 
 teach her : 
 
 " Panvre petit Mam'zelle Zizi, 
 O'est I'amou', I'amou', qui tonrne — " 
 
 Kisler rose to his feet, in spite of all his friend's 
 entreaties. 
 
 " Down ! down ! " some one cried. 
 But he heard nothing, saw nothing, save Ridonie. 
 "C'est I'amon', I'amou'—" 
 
 continued his wife, with a seductive glance. He 
 asked himself if he should leap on the platform and 
 kill her, then and there ! He saw flashes of light- 
 ning pass before his eyes, and felt a mad, beast-like 
 anger and rage. But, suddenly, shame and disgust 
 filled his soul, and he rushed out of the room, scat- 
 tering chairs and tables on his way, and followed by 
 exclamations of amazement and disapproval from 
 the scandalized auditors. 
 
OHAPTEE YI. 
 
 THE TENGEANOE OF SIDONIE. 
 
 !N'etee, in the whole twenty years that he had 
 lived at Montrouge, had Sigismond staid ont so 
 late without giTihg notice previously to his sister. 
 Consequently, she was in a state of excessive anxiety. 
 For months she had shared all her brother's anxi- 
 eties, and this night she said to herself, " It is to be 
 hoped that there is no new trcfuble at the factory." 
 She had sent her dinner away nntasted. And now 
 behold her, in a state of painful agitation, walking 
 up and down her little parlor. 
 
 Suddenly, the door-beU rang; but the faint 
 sound in no way resembled ter brother's usual as- 
 sault on that bell-handle. 
 
 " Is it you ? " she asked from within. 
 
 It was he ; but not alone. A tall man entered 
 with Sigismond, and said good-evening in a low 
 voice. Eot until he spoke did the kind-hearted 
 woman recognize Eisler, whom she had not seen 
 since the day when she called upon Sidonie — ^that is 
 to say, some time before the sad events that had 
 darkened his life. It was with difficulty that she 
 restrained an exclamation of pity and astonishment. 
 
254: SIDONIK 
 
 " Listen : will you kindly get my room in readi- 
 ness for our friend, wlio will pass the niglit with 
 us?" said Sigismond. 
 
 Mademoiselle Planus arranged the apartment 
 with tender care, for be it understood that, with the 
 exception of her brother, Eisler was the only man 
 who escaped the reprobation she lavished upon his 
 sex. 
 
 Coming out of the concert-room, Sidonie's hus- 
 band had a few minutes of frightful excitement. 
 There was no thought now of the letter and the 
 package at Montrouge. " I must be alone," he said 
 sternly to Sigismond. But the other would not 
 leave him in his despair. Unperceived by Eisler, 
 his friend drew him far away from the manufactory, 
 and the kind heart as well as acute brain of the 
 cashier told him what to say to his friend. During 
 their long walk he spoke only of Frantz — his brother 
 Frantz, who loved him so dearly. 
 
 " Yes, there is true affection ; you have Frantz 
 always to lean on, Eisler ; he will never fail you." 
 
 These words soothed Eisler almost unconsciously, 
 and he made no objection when Sigismond insisted 
 on taking him to his own house. The old man felt 
 that Eisler, on seeing the calm serenity of the little 
 home where the brother and sister lived togethei", 
 might be led to think of a similar one for himself 
 and Frantz. And, in fact, hardly had they entered 
 the door when the sweet homeliness made itself felt. 
 
 "Yes, you are right," said Eisler. "I must 
 think no more of this wonian. She is totally dead 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF SIDONIE. 255 
 
 to me from this time forward. I have no one in the 
 world belonging to me now, save Erantz. I cannot 
 yet tell whether I shall go to him, or send for him 
 to return to me. One thing, however, is absolutely 
 certain — we must pass the residue of our lives to- 
 gether. He has always been more like a son than 
 a brother to me, and I feel the need of him to lean 
 upon. Once, I longed to die ; now, I mean to live 
 — to live for and with my Frantz." 
 
 "•Bravo!" cried Sigismond. "E^ow, you are 
 talking like a man of sense, and as I like to hear 
 you ! " 
 
 At this moment, Mademoiselle Planus came to 
 say that Eisler's room was in readiness. 
 
 E.isler apologized for the trouble and disturbance 
 he had caused. " You are so happy here," he said, 
 ^' that it seems a shame to bring the burden of my 
 sorrows under your roof." 
 
 "But you will soon be as happy as we are," 
 interrupted Sigismond, gently; "you with your 
 brother, and I with my sister." 
 
 Kisler smiled in a dreamy way. He saw vaguely 
 before him a new home, a peaceful dwelling, Frantz 
 and himself its sole inmates. 
 
 " It is late," cried Planus, cheerfully. " To bed 
 with you ! " 
 
 Sigismond's room was large and airy — simply 
 furnished, but exquisitely fresh and clean. The old 
 cashier looked about it with pride. A glass of water 
 was on a small table at the head of the bed, and a 
 case of razors lay open on the bureau, ready for use. 
 
256 8W0NIE. 
 
 '! Look, Risler, and see if you have all you want. 
 I think everything is here — ^but, should you need 
 anything, the drawers are not locked, you have but 
 to open them. And just look out at the view ; you 
 can't see much of it to-night, to be sure, but in the 
 morning, when you wake, you will find that it is 
 superb." 
 
 He opened the window — large drops of rain 
 were beginning to fall, and sudden streaks of heat- 
 lightning showed the black clouds, the long line of 
 fortifications, or the telegraph-wires. The step of 
 the patrol was heard occasionally, accompanied by 
 the rattle of a musket or a sabre, and served to re- 
 mind the listener that he was within the military 
 zone. This was the prospect so much vaunted by 
 Planus — a prospect dreary and monotonous enough. 
 " And now, good-night ; sleep well I " 
 
 Eut, as the old man closed the door, his friend 
 called him back. 
 
 " Sigismond 1 " 
 
 The good man waited. Kisler colored slightly ; 
 his lips moved ; no words were heard ; then, with a 
 great effort, he said : 
 
 " Never mind, nothing. To-mori'ow wiU do ! " 
 
 In the dining-room the brother and sister talked 
 seriously and long in low voices. Planus told of the 
 terrible occurrences of the evening, and described 
 Sidonie's appearance. Finally, one of them locked 
 the door into the garden, and Sigismond made 
 himself comfortable in a small room next his sis- 
 ter. 
 
THE VMNGEANCM OF SIDONIE. 257 
 
 la the middle of the night, the cashier was 
 awakened by a frightened call from his sister's room. 
 
 " "What is it ? " he asked, starting \ip. 
 
 " Did you hear anything ? " 
 
 " No, what was it ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it was frightful — & groan, so full of agony ; 
 it came from your room below." 
 
 They listened. The rain was coming down in 
 toirents, and rattling among the foliage and on the 
 windows. 
 
 " It is the wind," said Sigismond. 
 
 " No, it was not. Hark I " 
 
 In the momentary hush of the storm they heard 
 the wail of a human voice. 
 
 "Frantz! ITrantz!" 
 
 A superstitious terror took violent possession of 
 Mademoiselle Planus. 
 
 " I am frightened," she said. " Go and see — " 
 
 " No, no, he is thinking of his brother. Poor 
 fellow I but that thought will do him more good 
 than anything else." And the old cashier turned 
 over and went to sleep again. 
 
 In the morning he awoke as usual at the reveille 
 of the forts, for the little house so near the forti- 
 ficatidns regulated all its movements by those of 
 its military guardians. His sister was feeding her 
 poultry, but when she saw Sigismond she hurried 
 toward him. 
 
 " It is strange," she said, nervously, " but I do 
 not hear the least sound in our guest's room, and 
 yet the window is wide open." 
 
258 SIBONJE. 
 
 Sigismond, somewhat astonished himself, knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 " E,isler ! Kisler ! " He called again, with some 
 anxiety, " Are you asleep still ? " 
 
 No answer came, and he opened the door. The 
 room was deadly cold ; the window had evidently 
 been open all night. At the first glance at the bed 
 Planus thought, " He sat up all night." The cover- 
 ings of the bed were in truth undisturbed, and in 
 every detail of the apartment a night of sleepless- 
 ness was revealed. The lamp was still smoking ; 
 the glass of water was empty ; but the thing that 
 most distm'bed the cashier was the sight of the bu- 
 reau-drawer in which he had deposited the letter 
 and package, wide open and empty. 
 
 The package lay on the table, and contained 
 some photographs of Sidonie, taken when she was 
 but fifteen. The simple muslin dress, close in the 
 throat ; the hair parted over the pretty forehead ; 
 the somewhat awkward attitude, bore little resem- 
 blance to the Sidonie of the later days ; and it was 
 precisely for that reason that Kisler had kept these 
 photographs. 
 
 Siffismond was overwhelmed ^^-ith consternation. 
 " It is my fault," he said ; " I ought to have locked 
 them up. But who would have thought that he 
 cared stiU ? He swore that this woman no longer 
 existed for him ! " 
 
 At this moment his sister entered. 
 
 " He has gone ! " she cried. 
 
 " Gone ? Impossible ; the gate was locked." 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF SJDONIE. 259 
 
 " But he climbed over the wall ; it is quite evi- 
 dent, the marks are there." 
 
 Sigismond looked blankly at her. 
 
 " It is that letter ! " he muttered. 
 
 It was evident that this commvinication from Si- 
 donie had given her husband some astounding in- 
 telligence, and, in order not to disturb his hosts, he 
 had left the house, like a midnight assassin, through 
 a window. But where had he gone ? 
 
 " You will see," said poor Sigismond, as he hur- 
 riedly swallowed his breakfast, " that his miserable 
 wretch of a wife has played him some new rascally 
 trick." And when his sister offered him some few 
 words of comfort he shook his head despairingly. 
 " I have no confidence," he murmured, returning to 
 his old refrain. 
 
 On the earth, soaked by the heavy rain of the 
 night, Risler's steps were to be seen to the garden- 
 gate. He had gone before daylight, for the vegeta- 
 bles and the flowers were alike broken down by his 
 feet, and the wall was scarred where he had climbed 
 upon it. Once outside, it was impossible to trace 
 him. 
 
 " Why need we disturb ourselves ? " said Made- 
 moiselle Planus, finally ; " he has probably gone 
 back to the factory." 
 
 Sigismond shook his head. Alas ! he dared not 
 give utterance to his thoughts and fears. " Return 
 to the house," he said, sadly, " and I will go far- 
 ther and ascertain if any one has seen him." 
 
 At this particular hour a great many persons 
 
260 8ID0NIE. 
 
 were always to be met on the ramparts and on the 
 road to the forts ; bnt Planus saw a small group 
 huddled together ; instinctively he turned his steps 
 in that direction. As he drew nearer, he saw a cus- 
 tom-house official sitting on a stone step by the side 
 of the huge iron gate. The man was speaking 
 loudly, and gesticulating with much earnestness. 
 
 " It was just here," he said, " that I found him 
 hanging. He was stone dead. If his rope had 
 broken, he meant, I think, to use that razor he had 
 in his pocket." 
 
 Some one in the crowd said, " Poor fellow ! " 
 Then another voice, choked with emotion, asked if 
 he were really dead. 
 
 Everybody laughed, and turned to look at Planus. 
 
 " You can see for yourseK," the man answered, 
 roughly ; " the body was carried to those barracks 
 over there." 
 
 The barracks were very near, and yet Planus 
 had the greatest difficulty in dragging himself there. 
 To be sure, suicides were by no means rare in 
 Paris, and hardly a day passed that a body was not 
 taken down from some part of that long line of for- 
 tifications ; and yet Planus felt but too sure of what 
 he was to see and hear. 
 
 " Ah ! you have come to look at the suicide," 
 said the sentinel. " Go in ; he is there." 
 
 They had placed the body on a long pine table ; 
 over it was thrown an officer's cloak. A group of 
 soldiers was in the room, and two or three cavalry- 
 officers, all talking with voices lowered as if in a 
 
THE VENGEANCE OF SIDONIE. 261 
 
 church; and by the ■window an aide-de-camp was 
 busy writing. 
 
 Sigismond said, gently, " Can I see him ? " and, 
 receiving an assenting nod, the cashier walked up to 
 the table. After a moment's hesitation he drew 
 away the cloak from the marble face. 
 
 " She killed you at last, dear old friend ! " mur- 
 mured Planus, as he fell on his knees. 
 
 The officers drew a little nearer, to look at the 
 dead man, but remained sifent and uncovered. 
 
 " See, major," said one at last, "his hand is closed 
 on something." 
 
 "I dare say," answered the major, as he ap- 
 proached. "Don't you remember at Solferino, 
 when Bordy was shot, he held a miniature of his 
 daughter so tightly that it was with the greatest 
 difficulty we could take it away ? " As he spoke, he 
 made an effort to unclose the poor, stifE hand. " It 
 is a letter," he said, and was about to read it, when, 
 suddenly recollecting himself, he handed it to Sigis- 
 mond. 
 
 " Bead it, sir ; it is, perhaps, the expression of 
 some last wish." 
 
 Planus rose from his knees. The room was 
 dark, and a mist was over his eyes. He tottered 
 to the window, and deciphered these words on the 
 torn and crumpled page : 
 
 " I love you — I love you more than ever — and 
 forever ! Why struggle longer ? Our passion 
 is sbronger than ourselves 
 
262 SIB OKIE. 
 
 It was the letter written by Frantz to his sister- 
 in-law, more than a year before. Sidonie had sent 
 it to her husband the day after jier flight, meaning 
 to avenge herself on him and on his brother at the 
 same time, and by the same blow. 
 
 Kisler lived through the treachery of his wife ; 
 but his brother's falsehood killed him. 
 
 When Sigismond's bewildered brain finally 
 grasped the fatal meaning of these words, he stood 
 thunderstruck, looking Arough the large, open win- 
 dow with blank eyes which saw nothing. 
 
 A clock struck six. Below lay Paris, overhung 
 by low clouds of smoke and mist. By degrees, a 
 spire — a tower — or the white front of a marble 
 building — emerged from the fog. And, all at once, 
 a thousand chimneys belched forth dense volumes of 
 black smoke. The work af another day had begun. 
 
 Planus extended his trembhng hands with angry 
 vehemence. 
 
 " "Wretch 1 " he cried—" wretch ! " 
 
 But no one about him knew whom he addressed 
 — whether it was the fair city of Paris, or the guilty 
 woman who had wrought such infinite woe. 
 
 THE END.