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Updated: June 14, 2025


It was Sidonie's writing! When he saw it he felt the same sensation he had felt in the bedroom upstairs. All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayed husband poured back into his heart with the frantic force that makes assassins. What was she writing to him? What lie had she invented now? He was about to open the letter; then he paused.

Desiree suspected nothing, not she! Sidonie's manner was so frank and friendly. And then, they were brother and sister now. Love was no longer possible between them.

It was Sidonie's writing! When he saw it he felt the same sensation he had felt in the bedroom upstairs. All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayed husband poured back into his heart with the frantic force that makes assassins. What was she writing to him? What lie had she invented now? He was about to open the letter; then he paused.

Desiree suspected nothing, not she! Sidonie's manner was so frank and friendly. And then, they were brother and sister now. Love was no longer possible between them.

Only a fairy number remained, grouped around the honorable Tarbox. They were St. Pierre, Bonaventure, Maximian detaining a middle-aged pair, Sidonie's timorous guardians, and two others, who held back, still waiting to shake hands. "Claude," cried Bonaventure; "Sidonie." They came. Claude shook hands and stepped inside. Sidonie, with eyes on the ground, put forth her hand.

Knowing, or rather believing that she knew her friend's story from beginning to end, she understood the lowering wrath of Frantz, a former lover furious at finding his place filled, and the anxiety of Georges, due to the appearance of a rival; and she encouraged one with a glance, consoled the other with a smile, admired Sidonie's tranquil demeanor, and reserved all her contempt for that abominable Risler, the vulgar, uncivilized tyrant.

And when, on top of all the rest, came the thought of Sidonie's treachery, the wretched, desperate man, finding nothing to cling to in that shipwreck, suddenly uttered a sob, a cry of agony, as if appealing for help to some higher power. "Georges, Georges, it is I. What is the matter?"

And up and down the paths, to the strains of an automatic six-step waltz- a genuine valse de Vaucanson he dragged his breathless mamma-in-law, who stopped at every step to restore to their usual orderliness the dangling ribbons of her hat and the lace trimming of her shawl, her lovely shawl bought for Sidonie's wedding. Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy.

In a life so fully occupied, Sidonie's caprices received but little attention; and it had hardly occurred to Claire Fromont to be surprised at her marriage to Risler. He was clearly too old for her; but, after all, what difference did it make, if they loved each other?

Thereupon Frantz made up his mind to ring at the small gate. The gardener was raking the paths. The house was astir; and, early as it was, he heard Sidonie's voice as clear and vibrating as the song of a bird among the rose-bushes of the facade. She was talking with animation. Frantz, deeply moved, drew near to listen. "No, no cream. The 'cafe parfait' will be enough.

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