“Down on your knees!”

Madame Fromont drew back, remonstrating: 

“No, no, Risler, not that.”

“It must be,” said the implacable Risler.  “Restitution, reparation!  Down on your knees then, wretched woman!” And with irresistible force he threw Sidonie at Claire’s feet; then, still holding her arm;

“You will repeat after me, word for word, what I say:  Madame—­”

Sidonie, half dead with fear, repeated faintly:  “Madame—­”

“A whole lifetime of humility and submission—­”

“A whole lifetime of humil—­No, I can not!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet with the agility of a deer; and, wresting herself from Risler’s grasp, through that open door which had tempted her from the beginning of this horrible scene, luring her out into the darkness of the night to the liberty obtainable by flight, she rushed from the house, braving the falling snow and the wind that stung her bare shoulders.

“Stop her, stop her!—­Risler, Planus, I implore you!  In pity’s name do not let her go in this way,” cried Claire.

Planus stepped toward the door.

Risler detained him.

“I forbid you to stir!  I ask your pardon, Madame, but we have more important matters than this to consider.  Madame Risler concerns us no longer.  We have to save the honor of the house of Fromont, which alone is at stake, which alone fills my thoughts at this moment.”

Sigismond put out his hand.

“You are a noble man, Risler.  Forgive me for having suspected you.”

Risler pretended not to hear him.

“A hundred thousand francs to pay, you say?  How much is there left in the strong-box?”

He sat bravely down behind the gratin, looking over the books of account, the certificates of stock in the funds, opening the jewel-cases, estimating with Planus, whose father had been a jeweller, the value of all those diamonds, which he had once so admired on his wife, having no suspicion of their real value.

Meanwhile Claire, trembling from head to foot, looked out through the window at the little garden, white with snow, where Sidonie’s footsteps were already effaced by the fast-falling flakes, as if to bear witness that that precipitate departure was without hope of return.

Up-stairs they were still dancing.  The mistress of the house was supposed to be busy with the preparations for supper, while she was flying, bare-headed, forcing back sobs and shrieks of rage.

Where was she going?  She had started off like a mad woman, running across the garden and the courtyard of the factory, and under the dark arches, where the cruel, freezing wind blew in eddying circles.  Pere Achille did not recognize her; he had seen so many shadows wrapped in white pass his lodge that night.