med wider because
of their emptiness, and where the passers-by were few and silent, the
bells ringing for vespers had a melancholy sound, and sometimes an echo
of the din of Paris, rumbling wheels, a belated hand-organ, the click of
a toy-peddler's clappers, broke the silence, as if to make it even more
noticeable.

Risler would try to invent new combinations of flowers and leaves, and,
while he handled his pencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient food
there, would escape him, would fly back to his past happiness, to his
hopeless misfortunes, would suffer martyrdom, and then, on returning,
would ask the poor somnambulist, still seated at his table: "What have
you done in my absence?" Alas! he had done nothing.

Oh! the long, heartbreaking, cruel Sundays! Consider that, mingled with
all these perplexities in his mind, was the superstitious reverence of
the common people for holy days, for the twenty-four hours of rest,
wherein one recovers strength and courage. If he had gone out, the sight
of a workingman with his wife and child would have made him weep, but his
monastic seclusion gave him other forms of suffering, the despair of
recluses, their terrible outbreaks of rebellion when the god to whom they
have consecrated themselves does not respond to their sacrifices. Now,
Risler's god was work, and as he no longer found comfort or serenity
therein, he no longer believed in it, but cursed it.

Often in those hours of mental struggle the door of the draughting-room
would open gently and Claire Fromont would appear. The poor man's
loneliness throughout those long Sunday afternoons filled her with
compassion, and she would come with her little girl to keep him company,
knowing by experience how contagious is the sweet joyousness of children.
The little one, who could now walk alone, would slip from her mother's
arms to run to her friend. Risler would hear the little, hurrying steps.
He would feel the light breath behind him, and instantly he would be
conscious of a soothing, rejuvenating influence. She would throw her
plump little arms around his neck with affectionate warmth, with her
artless, causeless laugh, and a kiss from that little mouth which never
had lied. Claire Fromont, standing in the doorway, would smile as she
looked at them.

"Risler, my friend," she would say, "you must come down into the garden a
while,--you work too hard. You will be ill."

"No, no, Madame,--on the contrary, work is what saves me