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Updated: May 6, 2025
Frantz felt as if he were living in a horrible dream. The rapid journey, the sudden change of scene and climate, the ceaseless flow of Sigismond's words, the new idea that he had to form of Risler and Sidonie the same Sidonie he had loved so dearly all these things bewildered him and almost drove him mad. It was late. Night was falling.
He seems to her superb, as always, with a melancholy, weary expression in the depths of his eyes, which makes him more of a man than when he went away. His weariness is due to his hurried journey, undertaken immediately on his receipt of Sigismond's letter.
They look, but do not see, their eyes being turned within. It was Sigismond's belief that Risler did see. That belief made the old cashier very unhappy.
Living in community of ideas and of everything else with her brother, having but one mind for herself and for him, the old maid had felt for several months the rebound of all the cashier's anxiety and indignation; and the effect was still noticeable in her tendency to tremble and become agitated on slight provocation. At the slightest tardiness on Sigismond's part, she would think: "Ah! mon Dieu!
And what an event in the factory! Madame Fromont was informed at once. "Madame, Madame! Monsieur Risler is going out!" Claire looked at him from her window, and that tall form, bowed by sorrow, leaning on Sigismond's arm, aroused in her a profound, unusual emotion which she remembered ever after. In the street people bowed to Risler with great interest. Even their greetings warmed his heart.
He seems to her superb, as always, with a melancholy, weary expression in the depths of his eyes, which makes him more of a man than when he went away. His weariness is due to his hurried journey, undertaken immediately on his receipt of Sigismond's letter.
A timid, melancholy ring, in no wise resembling Sigismond's vigorous pull. "Is it you, Monsieur Planus?" queried the old lady from behind the door. It was he; but he was not alone. A tall, bent old man accompanied him, and, as they entered, bade her good-evening in a slow, hesitating voice.
The idea of having to endure the presence of that hypocritical face, that false smile, was so distasteful to her that she rushed to close the door. "I am not at home to any one." The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismond's square head appeared in the opening. "It is I, Madame," he said in an undertone. "I have come to get the money."
He seems to her superb, as always, with a melancholy, weary expression in the depths of his eyes, which makes him more of a man than when he went away. His weariness is due to his hurried journey, undertaken immediately on his receipt of Sigismond's letter.
The idea of having to endure the presence of that hypocritical face, that false smile, was so distasteful to her that she rushed to close the door. "I am not at home to any one." The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismond's square head appeared in the opening. "It is I, Madame," he said in an undertone. "I have come to get the money."
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