So ended the ghastly day of rest of all those poor creatures.  The sight of Paris brought back to each one’s mind the thought of the morrow’s toil.  Dismal as her Sunday had been, Sidonie began to regret that it had passed.  She thought of the rich, to whom all the days of their lives were days of rest; and vaguely, as in a dream, the long park avenues of which she had caught glimpses during the day appeared to her thronged with those happy ones of earth, strolling on the fine gravel, while outside the gate, in the dust of the highroad, the poor man’s Sunday hurried swiftly by, having hardly time to pause a moment to look and envy.

Such was little Chebe’s life from thirteen to seventeen.

The years passed, but did not bring with them the slightest change.  Madame Chebe’s cashmere was a little more threadbare, the little lilac frock had undergone a few additional repairs, and that was all.  But, as Sidonie grew older, Frantz, now become a young man, acquired a habit of gazing at her silently with a melting expression, of paying her loving attentions that were visible to everybody, and were unnoticed by none save the girl herself.

Indeed, nothing aroused the interest of little Chebe.  In the work-room she performed her task regularly, silently, without the slightest thought of the future or of saving.  All that she did seemed to be done as if she were waiting for something.

Frantz, on the other hand, had been working for some time with extraordinary energy, the ardor of those who see something at the end of their efforts; so that, at the age of twenty-four, he graduated second in his class from the Ecole Centrale, as an engineer.

On that evening Risler had taken the Chebe family to the Gymnase, and throughout the evening he and Madame Chebe had been making signs and winking at each other behind the children’s backs.  And when they left the theatre Madame Chebe solemnly placed Sidonie’s arm in Frantz’s, as if she would say to the lovelorn youth, “Now settle matters—­here is your chance.”

Thereupon the poor lover tried to settle matters.

It is a long walk from the Gymnase to the Marais.  After a very few steps the brilliancy of the boulevard is left behind, the streets become darker and darker, the passers more and more rare.  Frantz began by talking of the play.  He was very fond of comedies of that sort, in which there was plenty of sentiment.

“And you, Sidonie?”

“Oh! as for me, Frantz, you know that so long as there are fine costumes—­”

In truth she thought of nothing else at the theatre.  She was not one of those sentimental creatures; a la Madame Bovary, who return from the play with love-phrases ready-made, a conventional ideal.  No! the theatre simply made her long madly for luxury and fine raiment; she brought away from it nothing but new methods of arranging the hair, and patterns of gowns.  The new, exaggerated toilettes of the actresses, their gait, even the spurious elegance of their speech, which seemed to her of the highest distinction, and with it all the tawdry magnificence of the gilding and the lights, the gaudy placard at the door, the long line of carriages, and all the somewhat unwholesome excitement that springs up about a popular play; that was what she loved, that was what absorbed her thoughts.