After many departures and arrivals and shrill whistles, the station suddenly became empty, as deserted as a church on weekdays.  The time for the ten o’clock train was drawing near.  There was no other train before that.  Frantz rose.  In a quarter of an hour, half an hour at the least, she would be there.

Frantz went hither and thither, watching the carriages that arrived.  Each new arrival made him start.  He fancied that he saw her enter, closely veiled, hesitating, a little embarrassed.  How quickly he would be by her side, to comfort her, to protect her!

The hour for the departure of the train was approaching.  He looked at the clock.  There was but a quarter of an hour more.  It alarmed him; but the bell at the wicket, which had now been opened, summoned him.  He ran thither and took his place in the long line.

“Two first-class for Marseilles,” he said.  It seemed to him as if that were equivalent to taking possession.

He made his way back to his post of observation through the luggage-laden wagons and the late-comers who jostled him as they ran.  The drivers shouted, “Take care!” He stood there among the wheels of the cabs, under the horses’ feet, with deaf ears and staring eyes.  Only five minutes more.  It was almost impossible for her to arrive in time.

At last she appeared.

Yes, there she is, it is certainly she—­a woman in black, slender and graceful, accompanied by another shorter woman—­Madame Dobson, no doubt.

But a second glance undeceived him.  It was a young woman who resembled her, a woman of fashion like her, with a happy face.  A man, also young, joined them.  It was evidently a wedding-party; the mother accompanied them, to see them safely on board the train.

Now there is the confusion of departure, the last stroke of the bell, the steam escaping with a hissing sound, mingled with the hurried footsteps of belated passengers, the slamming of doors and the rumbling of the heavy omnibuses.  Sidonie comes not.  And Frantz still waits.

At that moment a hand is placed on his shoulder.

Great God!

He turns.  The coarse face of M. Gardinois, surrounded by a travelling-cap with ear-pieces, is before him.

“I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler.  Are you going to Marseilles by the express?  I am not going far.”

He explains to Frantz that he has missed the Orleans train, and is going to try to connect with Savigny by the Lyon line; then he talks about Risler Aine and the factory.

“It seems that business hasn’t been prospering for some time.  They were caught in the Bonnardel failure.  Ah! our young men need to be careful.  At the rate they’re sailing their ship, the same thing is likely to happen to them that happened to Bonnardel.  But excuse me, I believe they’re about to close the gate.  Au revoir.”

Frantz has hardly heard what he has been saying.  His brother’s ruin, the destruction of the whole world, nothing is of any further consequence to him.  He is waiting, waiting.