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And her calm, straightforward glance strove unsuccessfully to meet that of her old friend. With his ignorance of women, and his habit of treating Sidonie as a child, Risler continued in the same tone: "Take her for your model, little one. There are not two people in the world like Madame Chorche. She has her poor father's heart. A true Fromont!"

But, alas! the disappearance forever of youth and hope deprived those memories of all their charm. Luckily he still had Frantz and Madame "Chorche," the only two human beings of whom he could think without a feeling of sadness. Madame "Chorche" was always at hand, always trying to minister to his comfort, to console him; and Frantz wrote to him often, without mentioning Sidonie, by the way.

But, alas! the disappearance forever of youth and hope deprived those memories of all their charm. Luckily he still had Frantz and Madame "Chorche," the only two human beings of whom he could think without a feeling of sadness. Madame "Chorche" was always at hand, always trying to minister to his comfort, to console him; and Frantz wrote to him often, without mentioning Sidonie, by the way.

"Risler, my friend, I beg you to wait a little longer." "Why, Madame Chorche, there's not a minute to lose. Oh! I suspect that you fear I may give way to an outbreak of anger. Have no fear let him have no fear. You know what I told you, that the honor of the house of Fromont is to be assured before my own. I have endangered it by my fault.

In a corner of the room sat a young and attractive woman whom nobody invited to dance, but who looked on at the dances with a placid eye, illumined by all the joy of a first maternity. As soon as he saw her, Risler walked straight to the corner where she sat and compelled Sidonie to sit beside her. Needless to say that it was Madame "Chorche."

Risler left them confronting each other, and went up to Fromont Jeune, whom he was greatly surprised to find there. "What, Chorche, you here? I supposed you were at Savigny." "Yes, to be sure, but I came I thought you stayed at Asnieres Sundays. I wanted to speak to you on a matter of business." Thereupon, entangling himself in his words, he began to talk hurriedly of an important order.

He looked at her a moment, with trembling lips and clasped hands, for there was something child-like in all the manifestations of that artless nature. "Oh! Madame Chorche, Madame Chorche," he murmured. "When I think that I am the one who has ruined you."

Risler did not venture to detain him, thinking that his dear Madame Chorche would pass her Sunday all alone; and so, without an opportunity to say a word to his mistress, the lover went away in the bright sunlight to take an afternoon train, still attended by the husband, who insisted upon escorting him to the station.

She motions to him with her hand: "Come, come!" but Risler does not notice it. His attention is engrossed by the little Fromont, daughter of Claire and Georges, who is taking a sun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her lace in her nurse's arms. How pretty she is! "She is your very picture, Madame Chorche." "Do you think so, my dear Risler? Why, everybody says she looks like her father."

The words, spoken coldly, without anger, fell heavily upon Fromont's bewildered joy, and reminded him of the gravity of a situation which he was always on the point of forgetting. But when he was alone with his dear Madame "Chorche," Risler advised her not to accept the Prochassons' offer. "Wait, don't be in a hurry. Later you will have a better offer."