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 in that room just opposite that
we dined on that memorable evening."

And he pointed to the great windows of the salon of Cafe Vefour, gleaming
in the rays of the setting sun like the chandeliers at a wedding feast.

"Ah! yes, true," murmured Sigismond, abashed. What an unlucky idea of his
to bring his friend to a place that recalled such painful things!

Risler, not wishing to cast a gloom upon their banquet, abruptly raised
his glass.

"Come! here's your health, my old comrade."

He tried to change the subject. But a moment later he himself led the
conversation back to it again, and asked Sigismond, in an undertone, as
if he were ashamed:

"Have yo