Faubourg
Saint-Germain has its pretensions; but do not imagine that the
Marais has none! Those wives and daughters of mechanics, of wealthy
manufacturers, knew little Chebe's story; indeed, they would have
guessed it simply by her manner of making her appearance and by her
demeanor among them.

Sidonie's efforts were unavailing. She retained the manners of a
shop-girl. Her slightly artificial amiability, sometimes too humble, was
as unpleasant as the spurious elegance of the shop; and her disdainful
attitudes recalled the superb airs of the head saleswomen in the great
dry-goods establishments, arrayed in black silk gowns, which they take
off in the dressing-room when they go away at night--who stare with an
imposing air, from the vantage-point of their mountains of curls, at the
poor creatures who venture to discuss prices.

She felt that she was being examined and criticised, and her modesty was
compelled to place itself upon a war footing. Of the names mentioned
in her presence, the amusements, the entertainments, the books of which
they talked to her, she knew nothing. Claire did her best to help her,
to keep her on the surface, with a friendly hand always outstretched;
but many of these ladies thought Sidonie pretty; that was enough to make
them bear her a grudge for seeking admission to their circle. Others,
proud of their husbands' standing and of their wealth, could not invent
enough unspoken affronts and patronizing phrases to humiliate the little
parvenue.

Sidonie included them all in a single phrase: "Claire's friends--that is
to say, my enemies!" But she was seriously incensed against but one.

The two partners had no suspicion of what was taking place between their
wives. Risler, continually engrossed in his press, sometimes remained
at his draughting-table until midnight. Fromont passed his days abroad,
lunched at his club, was almost never at the factory. He had his reasons
for that.

Sidonie's proximity disturbed him. His capricious passion for her, that
passion that he had sacrificed to his uncle's last wishes, recurred too
often to his memory with all the regret one feels for the irreparable;
and, conscious that he was weak, he fled. His was a pliable nature,
without sustaining purpose, intelligent enough to appreciate his
failings, too weak to guide itself. 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 th