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"The little one is tired, Madame Chebe. She needs diversion. Next Sunday I will take you all into the country." These Sunday excursions, which honest Risler organized to amuse Sidonie, served only to sadden her still more.
When she saw her husband standing in front of the desk, the drawers broken open and overturned on the carpet with the multitude of trifles they contained, she realized that something terrible was taking place. "Come at once," said Risler; "I know all."
The coarse face of M. Gardinois, surrounded by a travelling- cap with ear-pieces, is before him. "I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler. Are you going to Marseilles by the express? I am not going far." He explains to Frantz that he has missed the Orleans train, and is going to try to connect with Savigny by the Lyon line; then he talks about Risler Aine and the factory.
Just as they rose for Risler was no more desirous to stay than to go the orchestra, consisting of a piano and several violins, began a peculiar refrain. There was a flutter of curiosity throughout the room, and cries of "Hush! hush! sit down!" They were obliged to resume their seats. Risler, too, was beginning to be disturbed. "I know that tune," he said to himself. "Where have I heard it?"
Nonsense! it would make Madame What-d'ye-call-her, yonder, too happy. On the contrary, I mean to live to live with my Frantz, and for him, and for nothing else." "Bravo!" said Sigismond, "that's the way I like to hear you talk." At that moment Mademoiselle Planus came to say that the room was ready. Risler apologized for the trouble he was causing them. "You are so comfortable, so happy here.
Claire, too, was deeply moved; she went to the new clerk of the house of Fromont and said to him: "Risler, I thank you in my father's name." At that moment Pere Achille appeared with the mail. Risler took the pile of letters, opened them tranquilly one by one, and passed them over to Sigismond. "Here's an order for Lyon. Why wasn't it answered at Saint-Etienne?"
Pere Planus never raised his nose from his desk; one could see him from the little garden, leaning over his great ledgers, jotting down in magnificently molded figures the profits of the Risler press. Risler still worked as before, without change or rest.
The poor fellow had no suspicion that Sidonie herself, a month before, had selected at Binder's the coupe which Georges insisted upon giving her, and which was to be charged to expense account in order not to alarm the husband. Honest Risler was so plainly created to be deceived.
But that some one can not see him at this moment, and the master takes advantage of the fact to bestow a hearty greeting upon the old bookkeeper, Sigismond, who comes out last of all, erect and red-faced, imprisoned in a high collar and bareheaded whatever the weather for fear of apoplexy. He and Risler are fellow-countrymen.
The men began to remove the furniture. Risler watched them at work with an indifferent air, as if he were in a stranger's house. That magnificence which had once made him so happy and proud inspired in him now an insurmountable disgust. But, when he entered his wife's bedroom, he was conscious of a vague emotion. It was a large room, hung with blue satin under white lace.
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