that rendered him a valuable adviser whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine had to be prepared at the Beauchene factory.  Constance promptly dismissed him from her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason to fear him; he was a mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, would establish himself at the other end of France.  Then once more the thought of Blaise came back to her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenly occurred to her that if she made haste home she would be able to see Morange alone in his office and ascertain many things from him before the others arrived.  It was evident that the accountant must know something of the partnership scheme, even if it were as yet only in a preliminary stage.  Thereupon she became impassioned, eager to arrive, certain as she felt of obtaining confidential information from Morange, whom she deemed to be devoted to her.

As the carriage rolled over the Jena bridge she opened her eyes and looked out. “Mon Dieu!” said she, “what a time this brougham takes!  If the rain would only fall it would, perhaps, relieve my head a little.”

She was thinking, however, that a sharp shower would give her more time, as it would compel the three men, Beauchene, Denis, and Blaise, to seek shelter in some doorway.  And when the carriage reached the works she hastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion to the little pavilion.

“You will excuse me, won’t you, my dear?” said she; “you only have to turn the street corner.”

When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, took hold of Constance’s hand and retained it for a few moments in her own.

“Of course,” she replied, “and many thanks.  You are too kind.  When you see my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he grows anxious at the slightest thing.”

Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission.  Then they parted.  “Au revoir, till to-morrow “—­“Yes, yes, till to-morrow, au revoir.”

Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife Valerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine.  Yet it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for he had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired life, giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable.  On the other hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct painstaking accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it were to the office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning for thirty years past.  The truth was that his wife and his daughter had carried off with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, all that he had momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes—­a large fortune and a luxurious triumphant life.  He, who was now so much alone, who had relapsed into childish