rds and
inexplicable, as if a fever of wrath were consuming her.

At last, time and youthful strength, her mother's care, and, more than
all, the attentions of Desiree, who now knew of the sacrifice her friend
had made for her, triumphed over the disease. But for a long while
Sidonie was very weak, oppressed by a deadly melancholy, by a constant
longing to weep, which played havoc with her nervous system.

Sometimes she talked of travelling, of leaving Paris. At other times
she insisted that she must enter a convent. Her friends were sorely
perplexed, and strove to discover the cause of that singular state of
mind, which was even more alarming than her illness; when she suddenly
confessed to her mother the secret of her melancholy.

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

This news was a surprise to everybody, to Risler most of all; but little
Chebe was so pretty, her eyes were so soft when she glanced at him, that
the honest fellow instantly became as fond of her as a fool! Indeed,
it may be that love had lain in his heart for a long time without his
realizing it.

And that is how it happened that, on the evening of her wedding-day,
young Madame Risler, in her white wedding-dress, gazed with a smile of
triumph at the window on the landing which had been the narrow setting
of ten years of her life. That haughty smile, in which there was a touch
of profound pity and of scorn as well, such scorn as a parvenu feels for
his poor beginnings, was evidently addressed to the poor sickly child
whom she fancied she saw up at that window, in the depths of the past
and the darkness. It seemed to say to Claire, pointing at the factory:

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

CHAPTER VI. NOON--THE MARAIS IS BREAKFASTING.

Sitting near the door, on a stone which once served as a horse-block for
equestrians, Risler watches with a smile the exit from the factory.
He never loses his enjoyment of the outspoken esteem of all these
good people whom he knew when he was insignificant and humble like
themselves. The "Good-day, Monsieur Risler," uttered by so many
different voices, all in the same affectionate tone, warms his heart.
The children accost him without fear, the long-bearded designers,
half-workmen, half-artists, shake hands with him as they pass, and
address him familiarly as "thou." Perhaps there is a littl