It was the letter which Frantz had written to his sister-in-law a year before, and which Sidonie had sent to her husband on the day following their terrible scene, to revenge herself on him and his brother at the same time. Risler could have survived his wife's treachery, but that of his brother had killed him. When Sigismond understood, he was petrified with horror. He stood there, with the letter in his hand, gazing mechanically through the open window. The clock struck six. Yonder, over Paris, whose dull roar they could hear although they could not see the city, a cloud of smoke arose, heavy and hot, moving slowly upward, with a fringe of red and black around its edges, like the powder- smoke on a field of battle. Little by little, steeples, white buildings, a gilded cupola, emerged from the mist, and burst forth in a splendid awakening. Then the thousands of tall factory chimneys, towering above that sea of clustered roofs, began with one accord to exhale their quivering vapor, with the energy of a steamer about to sail. Life was beginning anew. Forward, ye wheels of time! And so much the worse for him who lags behind! Thereupon old Planus gave way to a terrible outburst of wrath. "Ah! harlot-harlot!" he cried, shaking his fist; and no one could say whether he was addressing the woman or the city of Paris. ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: A man may forgive, but he never forgets Word "sacrifice," so vague on careless lips