“Come, come, mamma!  We must dance.”

And up and down the paths, to the strains of an automatic six-step waltz-a genuine valse de Vaucanson—­he dragged his breathless mamma-in-law, who stopped at every step to restore to their usual orderliness the dangling ribbons of her hat and the lace trimming of her shawl, her lovely shawl bought for Sidonie’s wedding.

Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy.

To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day of agony.  Driving, rowing on the river, lunch on the grass on the Ile des Ravageurs—­he was spared none of the charms of Asnieres; and all the time, in the dazzling sunlight of the roads, in the glare reflected by the water, he must laugh and chatter, describe his journey, talk of the Isthmus of Suez and the great work undertaken there, listen to the whispered complaints of M. Chebe, who was still incensed with his children, and to his brother’s description of the Press.  “Rotary, my dear Frantz, rotary and dodecagonal!” Sidonie left the gentlemen to their conversation and seemed absorbed in deep thought.  From time to time she said a word or two to Madame Dobson, or smiled sadly at her, and Frantz, not daring to look at her, followed the motions of her blue-lined parasol and of the white flounces of her skirt.

How she had changed in two years!  How lovely she had grown!

Then horrible thoughts came to his mind.  There were races at Longchamps that day.  Carriages passed theirs, rubbed against it, driven by women with painted faces, closely veiled.  Sitting motionless on the box, they held their long whips straight in the air, with doll-like gestures, and nothing about them seemed alive except their blackened eyes, fixed on the horses’ heads.  As they passed, people turned to look.  Every eye followed them, as if drawn by the wind caused by their rapid motion.

Sidonie resembled those creatures.  She might herself have driven Georges’ carriage; for Frantz was in Georges’ carriage.  He had drunk Georges’ wine.  All the luxurious enjoyment of that family party came from Georges.

It was shameful, revolting!  He would have liked to shout the whole story to his brother.  Indeed, it was his duty, as he had come there for that express purpose.  But he no longer felt the courage to do it.  Ah! the unhappy judge!

That evening after dinner, in the salon open to the fresh breeze from the river, Risler begged his wife to sing.  He wished her to exhibit all her newly acquired accomplishments to Frantz.

Sidonie, leaning on the piano, objected with a melancholy air, while Madame Dobson ran her fingers over the keys, shaking her long curls.

“But I don’t know anything.  What do you wish me to sing?”

She ended, however, by being persuaded.  Pale, disenchanted, with her mind upon other things, in the flickering light of the candles which seemed to be burning incense, the air was so heavy with the odor of the hyacinths and lilacs in the garden, she began a Creole ballad very popular in Louisiana, which Madame Dobson herself had arranged for the voice and piano: