We are not going away."

BOOK 4.

CHAPTER XXI. THE DAY OF RECKONING

The great clock of Saint-Gervais struck one in the morning. It was so
cold that the fine snow, flying through the air, hardened as it fell,
covering the pavements with a slippery, white blanket.

Risler, wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home from the brewery
through the deserted streets of the Marais. He had been celebrating, in
company with his two faithful borrowers, Chebe and Delobelle, his first
moment of leisure, the end of that almost endless period of seclusion
during which he had been superintending the manufacture of his press,
with all the searchings, the joys, and the disappointments of the
inventor. It had been long, very long. At the last moment he had
discovered a defect. The crane did not work well; and he had had to
revise his plans and drawings. At last, on that very day, the new
machine had been tried. Everything had succeeded to his heart's desire.
The worthy man was triumphant. It seemed to him that he had paid a debt,
by giving the house of Fromont the benefit of a new machine, which would
lessen the labor, shorten the hours of the workmen, and at the same time
double the profits and the reputation of the factory. He indulged in
beautiful dreams as he plodded along. His footsteps rang out proudly,
emphasized by the resolute and happy trend of his thoughts.

Quickening his pace, he reached the corner of Rue des
Vieilles-Haudriettes. A long line of carriages was standing in front of
the factory, and the light of their lanterns in the street, the shadows
of the drivers seeking shelter from the snow in the corners and angles
that those old buildings have retained despite the straightening of the
sidewalks, gave an animated aspect to that deserted, silent quarter.

"Yes, yes! to be sure," thought the honest fellow, "we have a ball at
our house." He remembered that Sidonie was giving a grand musical and
dancing party, which she had excused him from attending, by the way,
knowing that he was very busy.

Shadows passed and repassed behind the fluttering veil of the curtains;
the orchestra seemed to follow the movements of those stealthy
apparitions with the rising and falling of its muffled notes. The
guests were dancing. Risler let his eyes rest for a moment on that
phantasmagoria of the ball, and fancied that he recognized Sidonie's
shadow in a small room adjoining the salon.

She was standing erect in her magnifi