in your gait, in your voices especially, for I have often closed my eyes under his caresses, saying to myself, ‘It is he, it is Frantz.’  When I saw that that wicked thought was becoming a source of torment to me, something that I could not escape, I tried to find distraction, I consented to listen to this Georges, who had been pestering me for a long time, to transform my life to one of noise and excitement.  But I swear to you, Frantz, that in that whirlpool of pleasure into which I then plunged, I never have ceased to think of you, and if any one had a right to come here and call me to account for my conduct, you certainly are not the one, for you, unintentionally, have made me what I am.”

She paused.  Frantz dared not raise his eyes to her face.  For a moment past she had seemed to him too lovely, too alluring.  She was his brother’s wife!

Nor did he dare speak.  The unfortunate youth felt that the old passion was despotically taking possession of his heart once more, and that at that moment glances, words, everything that burst forth from it would be love.

And she was his brother’s wife!

“Ah! wretched, wretched creatures that we are!” exclaimed the poor judge, dropping upon the divan beside her.

Those few words were in themselves an act of cowardice, a beginning of surrender, as if destiny, by showing itself so pitiless, had deprived him of the strength to defend himself.  Sidonie had placed her hand on his.  “Frantz—­Frantz!” she said; and they remained there side by side, silent and burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dobson’s romance, which reached their ears by snatches through the shrubbery: 

          “Ton amour, c’est ma folie. 
          Helas! je n’en puis guei-i-i-r.”

Suddenly Risler’s tall figure appeared in the doorway.

“This way, Chebe, this way.  They are in the summerhouse.”

As he spoke the husband entered, escorting his father-in-law and mother-in-law, whom he had gone to fetch.

There was a moment of effusive greetings and innumerable embraces.  You should have seen the patronizing air with which M. Chebe scrutinized the young man, who was head and shoulders taller than he.

“Well, my boy, does the Suez Canal progress as you would wish?”

Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz had never ceased to be her future son-in-law, threw her arms around him, while Risler, tactless as usual in his gayety and his enthusiasm, waved his arms, talked of killing several fatted calves to celebrate the return of the prodigal son, and roared to the singing-mistress in a voice that echoed through the neighboring gardens: 

“Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson—­if you’ll allow me, it’s a pity for you to be singing there.  To the devil with sadness for to-day!  Play us something lively, a good waltz, so that I can take a turn with Madame Chebe.”

“Risler, Risler, are you crazy, my son-in-law?”