What she would have liked, although she did not admit it to herself, would have been to have Claire see them, to have her draw aside the curtain at her window, to have her conceive a suspicion of what was passing. She needed that in order to be perfectly happy: that her rival should be unhappy. But her wish was ungratified; Claire Fromont noticed nothing and lived, as did Risler, in imperturbable serenity. Only Sigismond, the old cashier, was really ill at ease. And yet he was not thinking of Sidonie when, with his pen behind his ear, he paused a moment in his work and gazed fixedly through his grating at the drenched soil of the little garden. He was thinking solely of his master, of Monsieur "Chorche," who was drawing a great deal of money now for his current expenses and sowing confusion in all his books. Every time it was some new excuse. He would come to the little wicket with an unconcerned air: "Have you a little money, my good Planus? I was worsted again at bouillotte last night, and I don't want to send to the bank for such a trifle." Sigismond Planus would open his cash-box, with an air of regret, to get the sum requested, and he would remember with terror a certain day when Monsieur Georges, then only twenty years old, had confessed to his uncle that he owed several thousand francs in gambling debts. The elder man thereupon conceived a violent antipathy for the club and contempt for all its members. A rich tradesman who was a member happened to come to the factory one day, and Sigismond said to him with brutal frankness: "The devil take your 'Cercle du Chateau d'Eau!' Monsieur Georges has left more than thirty thousand francs there in two months." The other began to laugh. "Why, you're greatly mistaken, Pere Planus--it's at least three months since we have seen your master." The cashier did not pursue the conversation; but a terrible thought took up its abode in his mind, and he turned it over and over all day long. If Georges did not go to the club, where did he pass his evenings? Where did he spend so much money? There was evidently a woman at the bottom of the affair. As soon as that idea occurred to him, Sigismond Planus began to tremble seriously for his cash-box. That old bear from the canton of Berne, a confirmed bachelor, had a terrible dread of women in general and Parisian women in particular. He deemed it his duty, first of all, in order to set his conscience at rest, to warn Risler. He did it at first in rather a vague way. "Monsieur Georges is spending a great deal of money," he said to him one day. Risler exhibited no surprise. "What do you expect me to do, my old Sigismond? It is his right."