ouse of
Fromont.

Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstanding the quavering of its
old, cracked voice, had very soon resumed its authority; and the man who
guided the whole establishment denied himself the slightest recreation.
Sober as an apprentice, he left three-fourths of his salary with Planus
for the Chebes' allowance, but he never asked any questions about them.
Punctually on the last day of the month the little man appeared to
collect his little income, stiff and formal in his dealings with
Sigismond, as became an annuitant on duty. Madame Chebe had tried to
obtain an interview with her son-in-law, whom she pitied and loved; but
the mere appearance of her palm-leaf shawl on the steps put Sidonie's
husband to flight.

In truth, the courage with which he armed himself was more apparent than
real. The memory of his wife never left him. What had become of her? What
was she doing? He was almost angry with Planus for never mentioning her.
That letter, above all things, that letter which he had had the courage
not to open, disturbed him. He thought of it continually. Ah! had he
dared, how he would have liked to ask Sigismond for it!

One day the temptation was too strong. He was alone in the office. The
old cashier had gone out to luncheon, leaving the key in his drawer, a
most extraordinary thing. Risler could not resist. He opened the drawer,
moved the papers, and searched for his letter. It was not there.
Sigismond must have put it away even more carefully, perhaps with a
foreboding of what actually happened. In his heart Risler was not sorry
for his disappointment; for he well knew that, had he found the letter,
it would have been the end of the resigned and busy life which he imposed
upon himself with so much difficulty.

Through the week it was all very well. Life was endurable, absorbed by
the innumerable duties of the factory, and so fatiguing that, when night
came, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless mass. But Sunday was long
and sad. The silence of the deserted yards and workshops opened a far
wider field to his thoughts. He tried to busy himself, but he missed the
encouragement of the others' work. He alone was busy in that great, empty
factory whose very breath was arrested. The locked doors, the closed
blinds, the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing with his dog in the
deserted courtyard, all spoke of solitude. And the whole neighborhood
also produced the same effect. In the streets, which see