Fromont and Risler, vol 4 | Page 5

"Grandpapa refused," she said.
The miserable man turned frightfully pale.
"I am lost--I am lost!" he muttered two or three times in the wild
accents of fever; and his sleepless nights, a last terrible scene which he
had had with Sidonie, trying to induce her not to give this party on the
eve of his downfall, M. Gardinois' refusal, all these maddening things
which followed so closely on one another's heels and had agitated him
terribly, culminated in a genuine nervous attack. Claire took pity on
him, put him to bed, and established herself by his side; but her voice
had lost that affectionate intonation which soothes and persuades.
There was in her gestures, in the way in which she arranged the pillow
under the patient's head and prepared a quieting draught, a strange
indifference, listlessness.
"But I have ruined you!" Georges said from time to time, as if to rouse
her from that apathy which made him uncomfortable. She replied with
a proud, disdainful gesture. Ah! if he had done only that to her!

At last, however, his nerves became calmer, the fever subsided, and he
fell asleep.
She remained to attend to his wants.
"It is my duty," she said to herself.
Her duty. She had reached that point with the man whom she had
adored so blindly, with the hope of a long and happy life together.
At that moment the ball in Sidonie's apartments began to become very
animated. The ceiling trembled rhythmically, for Madame had had all
the carpets removed from her salons for the greater comfort of the
dancers. Sometimes, too, the sound of voices reached Claire's ears in
waves, and frequent tumultuous applause, from which one could divine
the great number of the guests, the crowded condition of the rooms.
Claire was lost in thought. She did not waste time in regrets, in fruitless
lamentations. She knew that life was inflexible and that all the
arguments in the world will not arrest the cruel logic of its inevitable
progress. She did not ask herself how that man had succeeded in
deceiving her so long--how he could have sacrificed the honor and
happiness of his family for a mere caprice. That was the fact, and all
her reflections could not wipe it out, could not repair the irreparable.
The subject that engrossed her thoughts was the future. A new
existence was unfolding before her eyes, dark, cruel, full of privation
and toil; and, strangely enough, the prospect of ruin, instead of
terrifying her, restored all her courage. The idea of the change of abode
made necessary by the economy they would be obliged to practise, of
work made compulsory for Georges and perhaps for herself, infused an
indefinable energy into the distressing calmness of her despair. What a
heavy burden of souls she would have with her three children: her
mother, her child, and her husband! The feeling of responsibility
prevented her giving way too much to her misfortune, to the wreck of
her love; and in proportion as she forgot herself in the thought of the
weak creatures she had to protect she realized more fully the meaning
of the word "sacrifice," so vague on careless lips, so serious when it
becomes a rule of life.

Such were the poor woman's thoughts during that sad vigil, a vigil of
arms and tears, while she was preparing her forces for the great battle.
Such was the scene lighted by the modest little lamp which Risler had
seen from below, like a star fallen from the radiant chandeliers of the
ballroom.
Reassured by Pere Achille's reply, the honest fellow thought of going
up to his bedroom, avoiding the festivities and the guests, for whom he
cared little.
On such occasions he used a small servants' staircase communicating
with the counting-room. So he walked through the many-windowed
workshops, which the moon, reflected by the snow, made as light as at
noonday. He breathed the atmosphere of the day of toil, a hot, stifling
atmosphere, heavy with the odor of boiled talc and varnish. The papers
spread out on the dryers formed long, rustling paths. On all sides tools
were lying about, and blouses hanging here and there ready for the
morrow. Risler never walked through the shops without a feeling of
pleasure.
Suddenly he spied a light in Planus's office, at the end of that long line
of deserted rooms. The old cashier was still at work, at one o'clock in
the morning! That was really most extraordinary.
Risler's first impulse was to retrace his steps. In fact, since his
unaccountable falling-out with Sigismond, since the cashier had
adopted that attitude of cold silence toward him, he had avoided
meeting him. His wounded friendship had always led him to shun an
explanation; he had a sort of pride