"Come, come, you rascal! What's that you're saying? You forget that we're
both married men, and that it is very late and our wives are expecting
us. No ill-will, eh?--This is not a refusal, you understand.--By the way,
come and see me after the inventory. We will talk it over again. Ah!
there's Pere Achille putting out his gas.--I must go in. Good-night."

It was after one o'clock when the actor returned home. The two women were
waiting for him, working as usual, but with a sort of feverish activity
which was strange to them. Every moment the great scissors that Mamma
Delobelle used to cut the brass wire were seized with strange fits of
trembling, and Desiree's little fingers, as she mounted an insect, moved
so fast that it made one dizzy to watch them. Even the long feathers of
the little birds scattered about on the table before her seemed more
brilliant, more richly colored, than on other days. It was because a
lovely visitor named Hope had called upon them that evening. She had made
the tremendous effort required to climb five dark flights of stairs, and
had opened the door of the little room to cast a luminous glance therein.
However much you may have been deceived in life, those magic gleams
always dazzle you.

"Oh! if your father could only succeed!" said Mamma Delobelle from time
to time, as if to sum up a whole world of happy thoughts to which her
reverie abandoned itself.

"He will succeed, mamma, never fear. Monsieur Risler is so kind, I will
answer for him. And Sidonie is very fond of us, too, although since she
was married she does seem to neglect her old friends a little. But we
must make allowance for the difference in our positions. Besides, I never
shall forget what she did for me."

And, at the thought of what Sidonie had done for her, the little cripple
applied herself with even more feverish energy to her work. Her
electrified fingers moved with redoubled swiftness. You would have said
that they were running after some fleeing, elusive thing, like happiness,
for example, or the love of some one who loves you not.

"What was it that she did for you?" her mother would naturally have asked
her; but at that moment she was only slightly interested in what her
daughter said. She was thinking exclusively of her great man.

"No! do you think so, my dear? Just suppose your father should have a
theatre of his own and act again as in former days. You don't remember;
you were too small then. But he had