sister, Frantz; I could not
forget you, either; my marriage prevented that. With another husband I
might perhaps have succeeded, but with Risler it was terrible. He was
forever talking about you and your success and your future--Frantz said
this; Frantz did that--He loves you so well, poor fellow! And then the
most cruel thing to me is that your brother looks like you. There is a
sort of family resemblance in your features, in your gait, in your voices
especially, for I have often closed my eyes under his caresses, saying to
myself, 'It is he, it is Frantz.' When I saw that that wicked thought was
becoming a source of torment to me, something that I could not escape, I
tried to find distraction, I consented to listen to this Georges, who had
been pestering me for a long time, to transform my life to one of noise
and excitement. But I swear to you, Frantz, that in that whirlpool of
pleasure into which I then plunged, I never have ceased to think of you,
and if any one had a right to come here and call me to account for my
conduct, you certainly are not the one, for you, unintentionally, have
made me what I am."

She paused. Frantz dared not raise his eyes to her face. For a moment
past she had seemed to him too lovely, too alluring. She was his
brother's wife!

Nor did he dare speak. The unfortunate youth felt that the old passion
was despotically taking possession of his heart once more, and that at
that moment glances, words, everything that burst forth from it would be
love.

And she was his brother's wife!

"Ah! wretched, wretched creatures that we are!" exclaimed the poor judge,
dropping upon the divan beside her.

Those few words were in themselves an act of cowardice, a beginning of
surrender, as if destiny, by showing itself so pitiless, had deprived him
of the strength to defend himself. Sidonie had placed her hand on his.
"Frantz--Frantz!" she said; and they remained there side by side, silent
and burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dobson's romance, which
reached their ears by snatches through the shrubbery:

"Ton amour, c'est ma folie.
Helas! je n'en puis guei-i-i-r."

Suddenly Risler's tall figure appeared in the doorway.

"This way, Chebe, this way. They are in the summerhouse."

As he spoke the husband entered, escorting his father-in-law and
mother-in-law, whom he had gone to fetch.

There was a moment of effusive greetings and innumerable embraces. You
should have se