f
a life of luxury. She lacked a country house. In her heart she detested
the trees, the fields, the country roads that cover you with dust. "The
most dismal things on earth," she used to say. But Claire Fromont passed
the summer at Savigny. As soon as the first fine days arrived, the
trunks were packed and the curtains taken down on the floor below; and
a great furniture van, with the little girl's blue bassinet rocking
on top, set off for the grandfather's chateau. Then, one morning, the
mother, grandmother, child, and nurse, a medley of white gowns and light
veils, would drive away behind two fast horses toward the sunny lawns
and the pleasant shade of the avenues.

At that season Paris was ugly, depopulated; and although Sidonie loved
it even in the summer, which heats it like a furnace, it troubled her
to think that all the fashion and wealth of Paris were driving by the
seashore under their light umbrellas, and would make their outing an
excuse for a thousand new inventions, for original styles of the most
risque sort, which would permit one to show that one has a pretty ankle
and long, curly chestnut hair of one's own.

The seashore bathing resorts! She could not think of them; Risler could
not leave Paris.

How about buying a country house? They had not the means. To be sure,
there was the lover, who would have asked nothing better than to
gratify this latest whim; but a country house cannot be concealed like a
bracelet or a shawl. The husband must be induced to accept it. That was
not an easy matter; however, they might venture to try it with Risler.

To pave the way, she talked to him incessantly about a little nook in
the country, not too expensive, very near Paris. Risler listened with
a smile. He thought of the high grass, of the orchard filled with fine
fruit-trees, being already tormented by the longing to possess which
comes with wealth; but, as he was prudent, he said:

"We will see, we will see. Let us wait till the end of the year."

The end of the year, that is to say, the striking of the balance-sheet.

The balance-sheet! That is the magic word. All through the year we go
on and on in the eddying whirl of business. Money comes and goes,
circulates, attracts other money, vanishes; and the fortune of the firm,
like a slippery, gleaming snake, always in motion, expands, contracts,
diminishes, or increases, and it is impossible to know our condition
until there comes a moment of rest. Not until t