d little about celebrating the award of his
medal, but he desired to gain a few hours before opening the little
letter he had at last earned the right to read.

He must dress. That was quite a serious matter, for he had lived in a
workman's jacket during the past six months. And what an event in the
factory! Madame Fromont was informed at once.

"Madame, Madame! Monsieur Risler is going out!"

Claire looked at him from her window, and that tall form, bowed by
sorrow, leaning on Sigismond's arm, aroused in her a profound, unusual
emotion which she remembered ever after.

In the street people bowed to Risler with great interest. Even their
greetings warmed his heart. He was so much in need of kindness! But the
noise of vehicles made him a little dizzy.

"My head is spinning," he said to Planus:

"Lean hard on me, old fellow-don't be afraid."

And honest Planus drew himself up, escorting his friend with the
artless, unconventional pride of a peasant of the South bearing aloft
his village saint.

At last they arrived at the Palais-Royal.

The garden was full of people. They had come to hear the music, and were
trying to find seats amid clouds of dust and the scraping of chairs. The
two friends hurried into the restaurant to avoid all that turmoil. They
established themselves in one of the large salons on the first floor,
whence they could see the green trees, the promenaders, and the water
spurting from the fountain between the two melancholy flower-gardens.
To Sigismond it was the ideal of luxury, that restaurant, with gilding
everywhere, around the mirrors, in the chandelier and even on the
figured wallpaper. The white napkin, the roll, the menu of a table
d'hote dinner filled his soul with joy. "We are comfortable here, aren't
we?" he said to Risler.

And he exclaimed at each of the courses of that banquet at two francs
fifty, and insisted on filling his friend's plate.

"Eat that--it's good."

The other, notwithstanding his desire to do honor to the fete, seemed
preoccupied and gazed out-of-doors.

"Do you remember, Sigismond?" he said, after a pause.

The old cashier, engrossed in his memories of long ago, of Risler's
first employment at the factory, replied:

"I should think I do remember--listen! The first time we dined together
at the Palais-Royal was in February, 'forty-six, the year we put in the
planches-plates at the factory."

Risler shook his head.

"Oh! no--I mean three years ago. It was