a rustling
of silks and furs. Winter is the real Parisian season. To see that
devil's own Paris in all its beauty and wealth and happiness one must
watch the current of its life beneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow.
Nature is absent from the picture, so to speak. No wind, no sunlight.
Just enough light for the dullest colors, the faintest reflections to
produce an admirable effect, from the reddish-gray tone of the monuments
to the gleams of jet which bespangle a woman's dress. Theatre and
concert posters shine resplendent, as if illumined by the effulgence of
the footlights. The shops are crowded. It seems that all those people
must be preparing for perpetual festivities. And at such times, if
any sorrow is mingled with that bustle and tumult, it seems the more
terrible for that reason. For five minutes Claire suffered martyrdom
worse than death. Yonder, on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse of
the deserted fields, her despair spread out as it were in the sharp air
and seemed to enfold her less closely. Here she was stifling. The voices
beside her, the footsteps, the heedless jostling of people who passed,
all added to her torture.

At last she entered the shop.

"Ah! yes, Madame, certainly--Monsieur Fromont. A necklace of diamonds
and roses. We could make you one like it for twenty-five thousand
francs."

That was five thousand less than for him.

"Thanks, Monsieur," said Claire, "I will think it over."

A mirror in front of her, in which she saw her dark-ringed eyes and her
deathly pallor, frightened her. She went out quickly, walking stiffly in
order not to fall.

She had but one idea, to escape from the street, from the noise; to be
alone, quite alone, so that she might plunge headlong into that abyss
of heartrending thoughts, of black things dancing madly in the depths of
her mind. Oh! the coward, the infamous villain! And to think that only
last night she was speaking comforting words to him, with her arms about
him!

Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happened, she found herself in
the courtyard of the factory. Through what streets had she come? Had
she come in a carriage or on foot? She had no remembrance. She had
acted unconsciously, as in a dream. The sentiment of reality returned,
pitiless and poignant, when she reached the steps of her little house.
Risler was there, superintending several men who were carrying potted
plants up to his wife's apartments, in preparation for the magnificen