At that moment, to the strains of a giddy, languishing waltz, a couple whirled into the small salon. They were Risler’s bride and his partner, Georges Fromont. Equally young and attractive, they were talking in undertones, confining their words within the narrow circle of the waltz. “You lie!” said Sidonie, slightly pale, but with the same little smile. And the other, paler than she, replied: “I do not lie. It was my uncle who insisted upon this marriage. He was dying--you had gone away. I dared not say no.” Risler, at a distance, gazed at them in admiration. “How pretty she is! How well they dance!” But, when they spied him, the dancers separated, and Sidonie walked quickly to him. “What! You here? What are you doing? They are looking everywhere for you. Why aren’t you in there?” As she spoke she retied his cravat with a pretty, impatient gesture. That enchanted Risler, who smiled at Sigismond from the corner of his eye, too overjoyed at feeling the touch of that little gloved hand on his neck, to notice that she was trembling to the ends of her slender fingers. “Give me your arm,” she said to him, and they returned together to the salons. The white bridal gown with its long train made the badly cut, awkwardly worn black coat appear even more uncouth; but a coat can not be retied like a cravat; she must needs take it as it was. As they passed along, returning the salutations of all the guests who were so eager to smile upon them, Sidonie had a momentary thrill of pride, of satisfied vanity. Unhappily it did not last. In a corner of the room sat a young and attractive woman whom nobody invited to dance, but who looked on at the dances with a placid eye, illumined by all the joy of a first maternity. As soon as he saw her, Risler walked straight to the corner where she sat and compelled Sidonie to sit beside her. Needless to say that it was Madame “Chorche.” To whom else would he have spoken with such affectionate respect? In what other hand than hers could he have placed his little Sidonie’s, saying: “You will love her dearly, won’t you? You are so good. She needs your advice, your knowledge of the world.” “Why, my dear Risler,” Madame Georges replied, “Sidonie and I are old friends. We have reason to be fond of each other still.” And her calm, straightforward glance strove unsuccessfully to meet that of her old friend. With his ignorance of women, and his habit of treating Sidonie as a child, Risler continued in the same tone: “Take her for your model, little one. There are not two people in the world like Madame Chorche. She has her poor father’s heart. A true Fromont!”