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Updated: June 15, 2025
The place it occupied in that part of the Marais, which was at certain hours enveloped by its smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, his fabulous tales concerning his employer's wealth and goodness and cleverness, had aroused that childish curiosity; and such portions as she could see of the dwelling-houses, the carved wooden blinds, the circular front steps, with the garden-seats before them, a great white bird-house with gilt stripes glistening in the sun, the blue-lined coupe standing in the courtyard, were to her objects of continual admiration.
The place it occupied in that part of the Marais, which was at certain hours enveloped by its smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, his fabulous tales concerning his employer's wealth and goodness and cleverness, had aroused that childish curiosity; and such portions as she could see of the dwelling-houses, the carved wooden blinds, the circular front steps, with the garden-seats before them, a great white bird-house with gilt stripes glistening in the sun, the blue-lined coupe standing in the courtyard, were to her objects of continual admiration.
That movement of repulsion was so instinctive, so brutal, that all Risler's emotion changed to indignation. He drew himself up with stern dignity. "I offer you my hand, Sigismond Planus!" he said. "And I refuse to take it," said Planus, rising.
On the evening of Risler's wedding he had been married but a few months himself he had experienced anew, in that woman's presence, all the emotion of the stormy evening at Savigny. Thereafter, without self-examination, he avoided seeing her again or speaking with her.
Claire's refinement of manner seemed to her to be vulgarized and annihilated by Risler's shuffling gait. "How ugly he must make me look when we are walking together!" she said to herself. And her heart beat fast as she thought what a charming, happy, admired couple they would have made, she and this Georges Fromont, whose arm was trembling beneath her own.
She was a very young woman, of about the same age as Sidonie, but of a more regular, quiet and placid type of beauty. She talked little, being out of her element in that conglomerate assemblage; but she tried to appear affable. On Risler's other side sat Madame Chebe, the bride's mother, radiant and gorgeous in her green satin gown, which gleamed like a shield.
And when his sister tried to encourage him, he recurred to his favorite refrain: "I haf no gonfidence!" As soon as he was dressed, he darted out of the house. Risler's footprints could be distinguished on the wet ground as far as the gate of the little garden.
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.
Sidonie had disappeared after exchanging a few unmeaning words with the impassive Frantz. Madame Dobson continued her tremolos on the soft pedal, like those which accompany critical situations at the theatre. In very truth, the situation at that moment was decidedly strained. But Risler's good-humor banished all constraint.
"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.
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