irst of all, in
order to set his conscience at rest, to warn Risler. He did it at first
in rather a vague way.

"Monsieur Georges is spending a great deal of money," he said to him one
day.

Risler exhibited no surprise.

"What do you expect me to do, my old Sigismond? It is his right."

And the honest fellow meant what he said. In his eyes Fromont jeune
was the absolute master of the establishment. It would have been a fine
thing, and no mistake, for him, an ex-draughtsman, to venture to
make any comments. The cashier dared say no more until the day when a
messenger came from a great shawl-house with a bill for six thousand
francs for a cashmere shawl.

He went to Georges in his office.

"Shall I pay it, Monsieur?"

Georges Fromont was a little annoyed. Sidonie had forgotten to tell him
of this latest purchase; she used no ceremony with him now.

"Pay it, pay it, Pere Planus," he said, with a shade of embarrassment,
and added: "Charge it to the account of Fromont jeune. It is a
commission intrusted to me by a friend."

That evening, as Sigismond was lighting his little lamp, he saw Risler
crossing the garden, and tapped on the window to call him.

"It's a woman," he said, under his breath. "I have the proof of it now."

As he uttered the awful words "a woman" his voice shook with alarm and
was drowned in the great uproar of the factory. The sounds of the
work in progress had a sinister meaning to the unhappy cashier at that
moment. It seemed to him as if all the whirring machinery, the great
chimney pouring forth its clouds of smoke, the noise of the workmen at
their different tasks--as if all this tumult and bustle and fatigue
were for the benefit of a mysterious little being, dressed in velvet and
adorned with jewels.

Risler laughed at him and refused to believe him. He had long been
acquainted with his compatriot's mania for detecting in everything the
pernicious influence of woman. And yet Planus's words sometimes recurred
to his thoughts, especially in the evening when Sidonie, after all the
commotion attendant upon the completion of her toilette, went away to
the theatre with Madame Dobson, leaving the apartment empty as soon as
her long train had swept across the threshold. Candles burning in front
of the mirrors, divers little toilette articles scattered about and
thrown aside, told of extravagant caprices and a reckless expenditure of
money. Risler thought nothing of all that; but, when he hear