Fromont and Risler, vol 3 | Page 7

"Ah! wretched, wretched creatures that we are!" exclaimed the poor
judge, dropping upon the divan beside her.
Those few words were in themselves an act of cowardice, a beginning
of surrender, as if destiny, by showing itself so pitiless, had deprived
him of the strength to defend himself. Sidonie had placed her hand on
his. "Frantz--Frantz!" she said; and they remained there side by side,
silent and burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dobson's
romance, which reached their ears by snatches through the shrubbery:
"Ton amour, c'est ma folie. Helas! je n'en puis guei-i-i-r."
Suddenly Risler's tall figure appeared in the doorway.
"This way, Chebe, this way. They are in the summerhouse."

As he spoke the husband entered, escorting his father-in-law and
mother- in-law, whom he had gone to fetch.
There was a moment of effusive greetings and innumerable embraces.
You should have seen the patronizing air with which M. Chebe
scrutinized the young man, who was head and shoulders taller than he.
"Well, my boy, does the Suez Canal progress as you would wish?"
Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz had never ceased to be her
future son-in-law, threw her arms around him, while Risler, tactless as
usual in his gayety and his enthusiasm, waved his arms, talked of
killing several fatted calves to celebrate the return of the prodigal son,
and roared to the singing-mistress in a voice that echoed through the
neighboring gardens:
"Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson--if you'll allow me, it's a pity for
you to be singing there. To the devil with sadness for to-day! Play us
something lively, a good waltz, so that I can take a turn with Madame
Chebe."
"Risler, Risler, are you crazy, my son-in-law?"
"Come, come, mamma! We must dance."
And up and down the paths, to the strains of an automatic six-step
waltz- a genuine valse de Vaucanson--he dragged his breathless
mamma-in-law, who stopped at every step to restore to their usual
orderliness the dangling ribbons of her hat and the lace trimming of her
shawl, her lovely shawl bought for Sidonie's wedding.
Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy.
To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day of agony. Driving, rowing
on the river, lunch on the grass on the Ile des Ravageurs--he was spared
none of the charms of Asnieres; and all the time, in the dazzling
sunlight of the roads, in the glare reflected by the water, he must laugh
and chatter, describe his journey, talk of the Isthmus of Suez and the

great work undertaken there, listen to the whispered complaints of M.
Chebe, who was still incensed with his children, and to his brother's
description of the Press. "Rotary, my dear Frantz, rotary and
dodecagonal!" Sidonie left the gentlemen to their conversation and
seemed absorbed in deep thought. From time to time she said a word or
two to Madame Dobson, or smiled sadly at her, and Frantz, not daring
to look at her, followed the motions of her blue-lined parasol and of the
white flounces of her skirt.
How she had changed in two years! How lovely she had grown!
Then horrible thoughts came to his mind. There were races at
Longchamps that day. Carriages passed theirs, rubbed against it, driven
by women with painted faces, closely veiled. Sitting motionless on the
box, they held their long whips straight in the air, with doll-like
gestures, and nothing about them seemed alive except their blackened
eyes, fixed on the horses' heads. As they passed, people turned to look.
Every eye followed them, as if drawn by the wind caused by their rapid
motion.
Sidonie resembled those creatures. She might herself have driven
Georges' carriage; for Frantz was in Georges' carriage. He had drunk
Georges' wine. All the luxurious enjoyment of that family party came
from Georges.
It was shameful, revolting! He would have liked to shout the whole
story to his brother. Indeed, it was his duty, as he had come there for
that express purpose. But he no longer felt the courage to do it. Ah! the
unhappy judge!
That evening after dinner, in the salon open to the fresh breeze from the
river, Risler begged his wife to sing. He wished her to exhibit all her
newly acquired accomplishments to Frantz.
Sidonie, leaning on the piano, objected with a melancholy air, while
Madame Dobson ran her fingers over the keys, shaking her long curls.
"But I don't know anything. What do you wish me to sing?"

She ended, however, by being persuaded. Pale, disenchanted, with her
mind upon other things, in the flickering light of the candles which
seemed to be burning incense, the air was so heavy with the odor of the
hyacinths and lilacs in the garden, she began a Creole ballad very
popular in Louisiana, which Madame Dobson herself had arranged for
the voice