marries a Parisian woman, one of those frowsy-haired chits that are the
ruin of an honest house, when he had at his hand a fine girl, of almost
his own age, a countrywoman, used to work, and well put together, as you
might say!"

"Mademoiselle Planus, my sister," to whose physical structure he
alluded, had a magnificent opportunity to exclaim, "Oh! the men, the
men!" but she was silent. It was a very delicate question, and perhaps,
if Risler had chosen in time, he might have been the only one.

Old Sigismond continued:

"And this is what we have come to. For three months the leading
wall-paper factory in Paris has been tied to the petticoats of that
good-for-nothing. You should see how the money flies. All day long I do
nothing but open my wicket to meet Monsieur Georges's calls. He always
applies to me, because at his banker's too much notice would be taken of
it, whereas in our office money comes and goes, comes in and goes out.
But look out for the inventory! We shall have some pretty figures to
show at the end of the year. The worst part of the whole business is
that Risler won't listen to anything. I have warned him several times:
'Look out, Monsieur Georges is making a fool of himself for some woman.'
He either turns away with a shrug, or else he tells me that it is none
of his business and that Fromont Jeune is the master. Upon my word, one
would almost think--one would almost think--"

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

The old maid was appalled; but, like most women under such
circumstances, instead of seeking a remedy for the evil, she wandered
off into a maze of regrets, conjectures, and retrospective lamentations.
What a misfortune that they had not known it sooner when they had the
Chebes for neighbors. Madame Chebe was such an honorable woman. They
might have put the matter before her so that she would keep an eye on
Sidonie and talk seriously to her.

"Indeed, that's a good idea," Sigismond interrupted. "You must go to
the Rue du Mail and tell her parents. I thought at first of writing to
little Frantz. He always had a great deal of influence over his brother,
and he's the only person on earth who could say certain things to him.
But Frantz is so far away. And then it would be such a terrible thing to
do. I can't help pitying that unlucky Risler, though. No! the best way
is to tell Madame Chebe. Will you undertake to do it, sister?"

It