some people to dinner," his wife would say. "Make haste."

And he would be the last to take his place at the table, after shaking
hands all around with his guests, friends of Fromont Jeune, whom he
hardly knew by name. Strange to say, the affairs of the factory
were often discussed at that table, to which Georges brought his
acquaintances from the club with the tranquil self-assurance of the
gentleman who pays.

"Business breakfasts and dinners!" To Risler's mind that phrase
explained everything: his partner's constant presence, his choice of
guests, and the marvellous gowns worn by Sidonie, who beautified herself
in the interests of the firm. This coquetry on his mistress's part drove
Fromont Jeune to despair. Day after day he came unexpectedly to take
her by surprise, uneasy, suspicious, afraid to leave that perverse and
deceitful character to its own devices for long.

"What in the deuce has become of your husband?"

Pere Gardinois would ask his grand-daughter with a cunning leer. "Why
doesn't he come here oftener?"

Claire apologized for Georges, but his continual neglect began to
disturb her. She wept now when she received the little notes, the
despatches which arrived daily at the dinner-hour: "Don't expect me
to-night, dear love. I shall not be able to come to Savigny until
to-morrow or the day after by the night-train."

She ate her dinner sadly, opposite an empty chair, and although she did
not know that she was betrayed, she felt that her husband was becoming
accustomed to living away from her. He was so absent-minded when a
family gathering or some other unavoidable duty detained him at the
chateau, so silent concerning what was in his mind. Claire, having now
only the most distant relations with Sidonie, knew nothing of what was
taking place at Asnieres: but when Georges left her, apparently eager
to be gone, and with smiling face, she tormented her loneliness with
unavowed suspicions, and, like all those who anticipate a great sorrow,
she suddenly became conscious of a great void in her heart, a place made
ready for disasters to come.

Her husband was hardly happier than she. That cruel Sidonie seemed to
take pleasure in tormenting him. She allowed everybody to pay court to
her. At that moment a certain Cazabon, alias Cazaboni, an Italian tenor
from Toulouse, introduced by Madame Dobson, came every day to sing
disturbing duets. Georges, jealous beyond words, hurried to Asnieres in
the afternoon, neg