open door which had tempted her from the beginning
of this horrible scene, luring her out into the darkness of the night to
the liberty obtainable by flight, she rushed from the house, braving the
falling snow and the wind that stung her bare shoulders.

"Stop her, stop her!--Risler, Planus, I implore you! In pity's name do
not let her go in this way," cried Claire.

Planus stepped toward the door.

Risler detained him.

"I forbid you to stir! I ask your pardon, Madame, but we have more
important matters than this to consider. Madame Risler concerns us no
longer. We have to save the honor of the house of Fromont, which alone
is at stake, which alone fills my thoughts at this moment."

Sigismond put out his hand.

"You are a noble man, Risler. Forgive me for having suspected you."

Risler pretended not to hear him.

"A hundred thousand francs to pay, you say? How much is there left in
the strong-box?"

He sat bravely down behind the gratin, looking over the books
of account, the certificates of stock in the funds, opening the
jewel-cases, estimating with Planus, whose father had been a jeweller,
the value of all those diamonds, which he had once so admired on his
wife, having no suspicion of their real value.

Meanwhile Claire, trembling from head to foot, looked out through the
window at the little garden, white with snow, where Sidonie's footsteps
were already effaced by the fast-falling flakes, as if to bear witness
that that precipitate departure was without hope of return.

Up-stairs they were still dancing. The mistress of the house was
supposed to be busy with the preparations for supper, while she was
flying, bare-headed, forcing back sobs and shrieks of rage.

Where was she going? She had started off like a mad woman, running
across the garden and the courtyard of the factory, and under the dark
arches, where the cruel, freezing wind blew in eddying circles. Pere
Achille did not recognize her; he had seen so many shadows wrapped in
white pass his lodge that night.

The young woman's first thought was to join the tenor Cazaboni, whom
at the last she had not dared to invite to her ball; but he lived at
Montmartre, and that was very far away for her to go, in that garb; and
then, would he be at home? Her parents would take her in, doubtless; but
she could already hear Madame Chebe's lamentations and the little man's
sermon under three heads. Thereupon she thought of Delobelle, her old
Delobelle. In