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And I must make up my mind to be a nobody in my own house, to allow myself to be humiliated, trampled under foot." "Come, come, little one " Poor Risler tries to interpose, to say a word in favor of his dear Madame "Chorche." But he has no tact.
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."
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.
A box-opener, speaking to Sidonie, referred to Georges as "your husband," and the little woman beamed with delight. "Your husband!" That simple phrase was enough to upset her and set in motion a multitude of evil currents in the depths of her heart. As they passed through the corridors and the foyer, she watched Risler and Madame "Chorche" walking in front of them.
The other, when he heard the door, turned joyfully toward his partner. "Chorche, Chorche, my dear fellow I have got it, our press. There are still a few little things to think out. But no matter! I am sure now of my invention: you will see you will see! Ah! the Prochassons can experiment all they choose. With the Risler Press we will crush all rivalry." "Bravo, my comrade!" replied Fromont Jeune.
He was thinking solely of his master, of Monsieur "Chorche," who was drawing a great deal of money now for his current expenses and sowing confusion in all his books. Every time it was some new excuse. He would come to the little wicket with an unconcerned air: "Have you a little money, my good Planus?
Monsieur Chorche, Monsieur Chorche," muttered poor Sigismond; and while he pursued his journey, with bowed head and trembling legs, Madame Fromont Jeune's carriage passed him close, on its way to the Orleans station; but Claire did not see old Planus, any more than she had seen, when she left her house a few moments earlier, Monsieur Chebe in his long frock-coat and the illustrious Delobelle in his stovepipe hat, turning into the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes at opposite ends, each with the factory and Risler's wallet for his objective point.
Sometimes, however, when they were talking together in the office, with no one by, Risler would suddenly start convulsively, as a vision of the crime passed before his eyes. Then he would feel a mad longing to spring upon the villain, seize him by the throat, strangle him without mercy; but the thought of Madame "Chorche" was always there to restrain him.
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."
"Carriage, my dear Chorche? I have a carriage? What for?" "I assure you, my dear Risler, that it is quite essential for you. Our business, our relations, are extending every day; the coupe is no longer enough for us. Besides, it doesn't look well to see one of the partners always in his carriage and the other on foot.
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