Fromont and Risler, vol 4 | Page 8

door, which was
opened at the time of Risler's swoon, made her shiver, and she
mechanically drew the folds of her scarf around her shoulders, her eyes
fixed on vacancy, her thoughts wandering. Did she not hear the violins

of her ball, which reached their ears in the intervals of silence, like
bursts of savage irony, with the heavy thud of the dancers shaking the
floors? An iron hand, falling upon her, aroused her abruptly from her
torpor. Risler had taken her by the arm, and, leading her before his
partner's wife, he said:
"Down on your knees!"
Madame Fromont drew back, remonstrating:
"No, no, Risler, not that."
"It must be," said the implacable Risler. "Restitution, reparation! Down
on your knees then, wretched woman!" And with irresistible force he
threw Sidonie at Claire's feet; then, still holding her arm;
"You will repeat after me, word for word, what I say: Madame--"
Sidonie, half dead with fear, repeated faintly: "Madame--"
"A whole lifetime of humility and submission--"
"A whole lifetime of humil-- No, I can not!" she exclaimed, springing
to her feet with the agility of a deer; and, wresting herself from Risler's
grasp, through that 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 the downfall of all her splendors she remembered
the man who had first initiated her into fashionable life, who had given
her lessons in dancing and deportment when she was a little girl,
laughed at her pretty ways, and taught her to look upon herself as
beautiful before any one had ever told her that she was so. Something
told her that that fallen star would take her part against all others. She
entered one of the carriages standing at the gate and ordered the driver
to take her to the actor's lodgings on the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
For some time past Mamma Delobelle had been making straw hats for
export- a dismal trade if ever there was one, which brought in barely
two francs fifty for twelve hours' work.
And Delobelle continued to grow fat in the same degree that his
"sainted wife" grew thin. At the very moment when some one knocked
hurriedly at his door he had just discovered a fragrant soup 'au fromage',
which had been kept hot in the ashes on the hearth. The actor,