Surely he was a marvellous employe, was this new officer in the house of Fromont.

Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstanding the quavering of its old, cracked voice, had very soon resumed its authority; and the man who guided the whole establishment denied himself the slightest recreation.  Sober as an apprentice, he left three-fourths of his salary with Planus for the Chebes’ allowance, but he never asked any questions about them.  Punctually on the last day of the month the little man appeared to collect his little income, stiff and formal in his dealings with Sigismond, as became an annuitant on duty.  Madame Chebe had tried to obtain an interview with her son-in-law, whom she pitied and loved; but the mere appearance of her palm-leaf shawl on the steps put Sidonie’s husband to flight.

In truth, the courage with which he armed himself was more apparent than real.  The memory of his wife never left him.  What had become of her?  What was she doing?  He was almost angry with Planus for never mentioning her.  That letter, above all things, that letter which he had had the courage not to open, disturbed him.  He thought of it continually.  Ah! had he dared, how he would have liked to ask Sigismond for it!

One day the temptation was too strong.  He was alone in the office.  The old cashier had gone out to luncheon, leaving the key in his drawer, a most extraordinary thing.  Risler could not resist.  He opened the drawer, moved the papers, and searched for his letter.  It was not there.  Sigismond must have put it away even more carefully, perhaps with a foreboding of what actually happened.  In his heart Risler was not sorry for his disappointment; for he well knew that, had he found the letter, it would have been the end of the resigned and busy life which he imposed upon himself with so much difficulty.

Through the week it was all very well.  Life was endurable, absorbed by the innumerable duties of the factory, and so fatiguing that, when night came, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless mass.  But Sunday was long and sad.  The silence of the deserted yards and workshops opened a far wider field to his thoughts.  He tried to busy himself, but he missed the encouragement of the others’ work.  He alone was busy in that great, empty factory whose very breath was arrested.  The locked doors, the closed blinds, the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing with his dog in the deserted courtyard, all spoke of solitude.  And the whole neighborhood also produced the same effect.  In the streets, which seemed wider because of their emptiness, and where the passers-by were few and silent, the bells ringing for vespers had a melancholy sound, and sometimes an echo of the din of Paris, rumbling wheels, a belated hand-organ, the click of a toy-peddler’s clappers, broke the silence, as if to make it even more noticeable.

Risler would try to invent new combinations of flowers and leaves, and, while he handled his pencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient food there, would escape him, would fly back to his past happiness, to his hopeless misfortunes, would suffer martyrdom, and then, on returning, would ask the poor somnambulist, still seated at his table:  “What have you done in my absence?” Alas! he had done nothing.