atures wrapped in old shawls,
the shabby women, whose tear-stained faces were as white as the linen
caps that surmounted them.

Oh! the lurking vice that prowls about on pay-day, the candles that
are lighted in the depths of dark alleys, the dirty windows of the
wine-shops where the thousand-and-one poisonous concoctions of alcohol
display their alluring colors.

Frantz was familiar with all these forms of misery; but never had they
seemed to him so depressing, so harrowing as on that evening.

When the last man was paid, Sigismond came out of his office. The two
friends recognized each other and embraced; and in the silence of the
factory, at rest for twenty-four hours and deathly still in all its
empty buildings, the cashier explained to Frantz the state of affairs.
He described Sidonie's conduct, her mad extravagance, the total wreck
of the family honor. The Rislers had bought a country house at Asnieres,
formerly the property of an actress, and had set up a sumptuous
establishment there. They had horses and carriages, and led a luxurious,
gay life. The thing that especially disturbed honest Sigismond was the
self restraint of Fromont jeune. For some time he had drawn almost no
money from the strong-box, and yet Sidonie was spending more than ever.

"I haf no gonfidence!" said the unhappy cashier, shaking his head, "I
haf no gonfidence!"

Lowering his voice he added:

"But your brother, my little Frantz, your brother? Who can explain his
actions? He goes about through it all with his eyes in the air,
his hands in his pockets, his mind on his famous invention, which
unfortunately doesn't move fast. Look here! do you want me to give you
my opinion?--He's either a knave or a fool."

They were walking up and down the little garden as they talked, stopping
for a moment, then resuming their walk. 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. Sigismond proposed to him to go to
Montrouge for the night; he declined on the plea of fatigue, and when he
was left alone in the Marais, at that dismal and uncertain hour when
the daylight has faded and the gas is still unlighted, he walked
instinctively toward his old quarters on the