y well. Life was endurable, absorbed by
the innumerable duties of the factory, and so fatiguing that, when night
came, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless mass. But Sunday was long
and sad. The silence of the deserted yards and workshops opened a far
wider field to his thoughts. He tried to busy himself, but he missed
the encouragement of the others' work. He alone was busy in that great,
empty factory whose very breath was arrested. The locked doors, the
closed blinds, the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing with his dog
in the deserted courtyard, all spoke of solitude. And the whole
neighborhood also produced the same effect. In the streets, which seemed
wider because of their emptiness, and where the passers-by were few
and silent, the bells ringing for vespers had a melancholy sound,
and sometimes an echo of the din of Paris, rumbling wheels, a belated
hand-organ, the click of a toy-peddler's clappers, broke the silence, as
if to make it even more noticeable.

Risler would try to invent new combinations of flowers and leaves, and,
while he handled his pencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient food
there, would escape him, would fly back to his past happiness, to his
hopeless misfortunes, would suffer martyrdom, and then, on returning,
would ask the poor somnambulist, still seated at his table: "What have
you done in my absence?" Alas! he had done nothing.

Oh! the long, heartbreaking, cruel Sundays! Consider that, mingled with
all these perplexities in his mind, was the superstitious reverence
of the common people for holy days, for the twenty-four hours of rest,
wherein one recovers strength and courage. If he had gone out, the sight
of a workingman with his wife and child would have made him weep, but
his monastic seclusion gave him other forms of suffering, the despair
of recluses, their terrible outbreaks of rebellion when the god to whom
they have consecrated themselves does not respond to their sacrifices.
Now, Risler's god was work, and as he no longer found comfort or
serenity therein, he no longer believed in it, but cursed it.

Often in those hours of mental struggle the door of the draughting-room
would open gently and Claire Fromont would appear. The poor man's
loneliness throughout those long Sunday afternoons filled her with
compassion, and she would come with her little girl to keep him
company, knowing by experience how contagious is the sweet joyousness of
children. The little one, who coul