It was three o’clock in the afternoon.  At that time of day, in winter, the Rue de la Paix presents a truly dazzling aspect.  In that luxurious neighborhood, life moves quickly between the short morning and the early evening.  There are carriages moving swiftly in all directions, a ceaseless rumbling, and on the sidewalks a coquettish haste, a rustling of silks and furs.  Winter is the real Parisian season.  To see that devil’s own Paris in all its beauty and wealth and happiness one must watch the current of its life beneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow.  Nature is absent from the picture, so to speak.  No wind, no sunlight.  Just enough light for the dullest colors, the faintest reflections to produce an admirable effect, from the reddish-gray tone of the monuments to the gleams of jet which bespangle a woman’s dress.  Theatre and concert posters shine resplendent, as if illumined by the effulgence of the footlights.  The shops are crowded.  It seems that all those people must be preparing for perpetual festivities.  And at such times, if any sorrow is mingled with that bustle and tumult, it seems the more terrible for that reason.  For five minutes Claire suffered martyrdom worse than death.  Yonder, on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse of the deserted fields, her despair spread out as it were in the sharp air and seemed to enfold her less closely.  Here she was stifling.  The voices beside her, the footsteps, the heedless jostling of people who passed, all added to her torture.

At last she entered the shop.

“Ah! yes, Madame, certainly—­Monsieur Fromont.  A necklace of diamonds and roses.  We could make you one like it for twenty-five thousand francs.”

That was five thousand less than for him.

“Thanks, Monsieur,” said Claire, “I will think it over.”

A mirror in front of her, in which she saw her dark-ringed eyes and her deathly pallor, frightened her.  She went out quickly, walking stiffly in order not to fall.

She had but one idea, to escape from the street, from the noise; to be alone, quite alone, so that she might plunge headlong into that abyss of heartrending thoughts, of black things dancing madly in the depths of her mind.  Oh! the coward, the infamous villain!  And to think that only last night she was speaking comforting words to him, with her arms about him!

Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happened, she found herself in the courtyard of the factory.  Through what streets had she come?  Had she come in a carriage or on foot?  She had no remembrance.  She had acted unconsciously, as in a dream.  The sentiment of reality returned, pitiless and poignant, when she reached the steps of her little house.  Risler was there, superintending several men who were carrying potted plants up to his wife’s apartments, in preparation for the magnificent party she was to give that very evening.  With his usual tranquillity he directed the work, protected the tall branches which the workmen might have broken:  “Not like that.  Bend it over.  Take care of the carpet.”