shake hands with him as they pass, and address him familiarly as “thou.”  Perhaps there is a little too much familiarity in all this, for the worthy man has not yet begun to realize the prestige and authority of his new station; and there was some one who considered this free-and-easy manner very humiliating.  But that some one can not see him at this moment, and the master takes advantage of the fact to bestow a hearty greeting upon the old bookkeeper, Sigismond, who comes out last of all, erect and red-faced, imprisoned in a high collar and bareheaded—­whatever the weather—­for fear of apoplexy.

He and Risler are fellow-countrymen.  They have for each other a profound esteem, dating from their first employment at the factory, from that time, long, long ago, when they breakfasted together at the little creamery on the corner, to which Sigismond Planus goes alone now and selects his refreshment for the day from the slate hanging on the wall.

But stand aside!  The carriage of Fromont Jeune drives through the gateway.  He has been out on business all the morning; and the partners, as they walk toward the pretty little house in which they both live at the end of the garden, discuss matters of business in a friendly way.

“I have been at Prochasson’s,” says Fromont.  “They showed me some new patterns, pretty ones too, I assure you.  We must be on our guard.  They are dangerous rivals.”

But Risler is not at all anxious.  He is strong in his talent, his experience; and then—­but this is strictly confidential—­he is on the track of a wonderful invention, an improved printing-press, something that—­but we shall see.  Still talking, they enter the garden, which is as carefully kept as a public park, with round-topped acacias almost as old as the buildings, and magnificent ivies that hide the high, black walls.

Beside Fromont jeune, Risler Aine has the appearance of a clerk making his report to his employer.  At every step he stops to speak, for his gait is heavy, his mind works slowly, and words have much difficulty in finding their way to his lips.  Oh, if he could see the little flushed face up yonder, behind the window on the second floor, watching everything so attentively!

Madame Risler is waiting for her husband to come to breakfast, and waxes impatient over the good man’s moderation.  She motions to him with her hand: 

“Come, come!” but Risler does not notice it.  His attention is engrossed by the little Fromont, daughter of Claire and Georges, who is taking a sun-bath, blooming like a flower amid her lace in her nurse’s arms.  How pretty she is!  “She is your very picture, Madame Chorche.”

“Do you think so, my dear Risler?  Why, everybody says she looks like her father.”

“Yes, a little.  But—­”

And there they all stand, the father and mother, Risler and the nurse, gravely seeking resemblances in that miniature model of a human being, who stares at them out of her little eyes, blinking with the noise and glare.  Sidonie, at her open window, leans out to see what they are doing, and why her husband does not come up.