In his view that woman was in a fair way to change his friend, the best, the most upright of men, into a shameless villain.  There was no possibility of doubt that Risler knew of his dishonor, and submitted to it.  He was paid to keep quiet.

Certainly there was something monstrous in such a supposition.  But it is the tendency of innocent natures, when they are made acquainted with evil for the first time, to go at once too far, beyond reason.  When he was once convinced of the treachery of Georges and Sidonie, Risler’s degradation seemed to the cashier less impossible of comprehension.  On what other theory could his indifference, in the face of his partner’s heavy expenditures, be explained?

The excellent Sigismond, in his narrow, stereotyped honesty, could not understand the delicacy of Risler’s heart.  At the same time, the methodical bookkeeper’s habit of thought and his clear-sightedness in business were a thousand leagues from that absent-minded, flighty character, half-artist, half-inventor.  He judged him by himself, having no conception of the condition of a man with the disease of invention, absorbed by a fixed idea.  Such men are somnambulists.  They look, but do not see, their eyes being turned within.

It was Sigismond’s belief that Risler did see.  That belief made the old cashier very unhappy.  He began by staring at his friend whenever he entered the counting-room; then, discouraged by his immovable indifference, which he believed to be wilful and premeditated, covering his face like a mask, he adopted the plan of turning away and fumbling among his papers to avoid those false glances, and keeping his eyes fixed on the garden paths or the interlaced wires of the grating when he spoke to him.  Even his words were confused and distorted, like his glances.  No one could say positively to whom he was talking.

No more friendly smiles, no more reminiscences as they turned over the leaves of the cash-book together.

“This was the year you came to the factory.  Your first increase of pay.  Do you remember?  We dined at Douix’s that day.  And then the Cafe des Aveugles in the evening, eh?  What a debauch!”

At last Risler noticed the strange coolness that had sprung up between Sigismond and himself.  He mentioned it to his wife.

For some time past she had felt that antipathy prowling about her.  Sometimes, as she crossed the courtyard, she was oppressed, as it were, by malevolent glances which caused her to turn nervously toward the old cashier’s corner.  This estrangement between the friends alarmed her, and she very quickly determined to put her husband on his guard against Planus’s unpleasant remarks.

“Don’t you see that he is jealous of you, of your position?  A man who was once his equal, now his superior, he can’t stand that.  But why bother one’s head about all these spiteful creatures?  Why, I am surrounded by them here.”

Risler looked at her with wide-open eyes:—­“You?”