re toward which she leaned with eager curiosity and
without fear, for children are not subject to vertigo.

Between the slated roofs sloping toward one another, the high wall
of the factory, the tops of the plane-trees in the garden, the
many-windowed workshops appeared to her like a promised land, the
country of her dreams.

That Fromont establishment was to her mind the highest ideal of wealth.

The place it occupied in that part of the Marais, which was at certain
hours enveloped by its smoke and its din, Risler's enthusiasm, his
fabulous tales concerning his employer's wealth and goodness and
cleverness, had aroused that childish curiosity; and such portions as
she could see of the dwelling-houses, the carved wooden blinds, the
circular front steps, with the garden-seats before them, a great white
bird-house with gilt stripes glistening in the sun, the blue-lined coupe
standing in the courtyard, were to her objects of continual admiration.

She knew all the habits of the family: At what hour the bell was rung,
when the workmen went away, the Saturday payday which kept the cashier's
little lamp lighted late in the evening, and the long Sunday afternoon,
the closed workshops, the smokeless chimney, the profound silence which
enabled her to hear Mademoiselle Claire at play in the garden, running
about with her cousin Georges. From Risler she obtained details.

"Show me the salon windows," she would say to him, "and Claire's room."

Risler, delighted by this extraordinary interest in his beloved factory,
would explain to the child from their lofty position the arrangement
of the buildings, point out the print-shop, the gilding-shop, the
designing-room where he worked, the engine-room, above which towered
that enormous chimney blackening all the neighboring walls with its
corrosive smoke, and which never suspected that a young life, concealed
beneath a neighboring roof, mingled its inmost thoughts with its loud,
indefatigable panting.

At last one day Sidonie entered that paradise of which she had
heretofore caught only a glimpse.

Madame Fromont, to whom Risler often spoke of her little neighbor's
beauty and intelligence, asked him to bring her to the children's ball
she intended to give at Christmas. At first Monsieur Chebe replied by a
curt refusal. Even in those days, the Fromonts, whose name was always on
Rider's lips, irritated and humiliated him by their wealth. Moreover, it
was to be a fancy ball, and M.