“Ah! how you frightened me!” said Sidonie, running to meet Risler.

The flounces of her white peignoir, through which blue ribbons were drawn, like little patches of blue sky among the clouds, rolled in billows over the carpet, and, having already recovered from her embarrassment, she stood very straight, with an affable expression and her everlasting little smile, as she kissed her husband and offered her forehead to Frantz, saying: 

“Good morning, brother.”

Risler left them confronting each other, and went up to Fromont Jeune, whom he was greatly surprised to find there.

“What, Chorche, you here?  I supposed you were at Savigny.”

“Yes, to be sure, but—­I came—­I thought you stayed at Asnieres Sundays.  I wanted to speak to you on a matter of business.”

Thereupon, entangling himself in his words, he began to talk hurriedly of an important order.  Sidonie had disappeared after exchanging a few unmeaning words with the impassive Frantz.  Madame Dobson continued her tremolos on the soft pedal, like those which accompany critical situations at the theatre.

In very truth, the situation at that moment was decidedly strained.  But Risler’s good-humor banished all constraint.  He apologized to his partner for not being at home, and insisted upon showing Frantz the house.  They went from the salon to the stable, from the stable to the carriage-house, the servants’ quarters, and the conservatory.  Everything was new, brilliant, gleaming, too small, and inconvenient.

“But,” said Risler, with a certain pride, “it cost a heap of money!”

He persisted in compelling admiration of Sidonie’s purchase even to its smallest details, exhibited the gas and water fixtures on every floor, the improved system of bells, the garden seats, the English billiard-table, the hydropathic arrangements, and accompanied his exposition with outbursts of gratitude to Fromont Jeune, who, by taking him into partnership, had literally placed a fortune in his hands.

At each new effusion on Risler’s part, Georges Fromont shrank visibly, ashamed and embarrassed by the strange expression on Frantz’s face.

The breakfast was lacking in gayety.

Madame Dobson talked almost without interruption, overjoyed to be swimming in the shallows of a romantic love-affair.  Knowing, or rather believing that she knew her friend’s story from beginning to end, she understood the lowering wrath of Frantz, a former lover furious at finding his place filled, and the anxiety of Georges, due to the appearance of a rival; and she encouraged one with a glance, consoled the other with a smile, admired Sidonie’s tranquil demeanor, and reserved all her contempt for that abominable Risler, the vulgar, uncivilized tyrant.  She made an effort to prevent any of those horrible periods of silence, when the clashing knives and forks mark time in such an absurd and embarrassing way.