e. The blinds of the little house at the
foot of the garden had been closed for two weeks. Pere Achille informed
him that the ladies were at their respective country seats where the
partners joined them every evening.

Fromont Jeune had left the factory very early; Risler Aine had just
gone. Frantz decided to speak to old Sigismond. But it was Saturday, the
regular pay-day, and he must needs wait until the long line of workmen,
extending from Achille's lodge to the cashier's grated window, had
gradually dispersed.

Although very impatient and very depressed, the excellent youth, who had
lived the life of a Paris workingman from his childhood, felt a thrill
of pleasure at finding himself once more in the midst of the animated
scenes peculiar to that time and place. Upon all those faces, honest or
vicious, was an expression of satisfaction that the week was at an end.
You felt that, so far as they were concerned, Sunday began at seven
o'clock Saturday evening, in front of the cashier's little lamp.

One must have lived among workingmen to realize the full charm of that
one day's rest and its solemnity. Many of these poor creatures, bound
fast to unhealthful trades, await the coming of the blessed Sunday like
a puff of refreshing air, essential to their health and their life. What
an overflow of spirits, therefore, what a pressing need of noisy mirth!
It seems as if the oppression of the week's labor vanishes with the
steam from the machinery, as it escapes in a hissing cloud of vapor over
the gutters.

One by one the workmen moved away from the grating, counting the
money that glistened in their black hands. There were disappointments,
mutterings, remonstrances, hours missed, money drawn in advance; and
above the tinkling of coins, Sigismond's voice could be heard, calm
and relentless, defending the interests of his employers with a zeal
amounting to ferocity.

Frantz was familiar with all the dramas of pay-day, the false accents
and the true. He knew that one man's wages were expended for his family,
to pay the baker and the druggist, or for his children's schooling.

Another wanted his money for the wine-shop or for something even worse.
And the melancholy, downcast shadows passing to and fro in front of the
factory gateway--he knew what they were waiting for--that they were
all on the watch for a father or a husband, to hurry him home with
complaining or coaxing words.

Oh! the barefooted children, the tiny cre