Sunday.

It was always the same thing.

They stopped at a refreshment booth, in close proximity to a very noisy
and numerously attended rustic festival, for there must be an audience
for Delobelle, who would saunter along, absorbed by his chimera, dressed
in gray, with gray gaiters, a little hat over his ear, a light top coat
on his arm, imagining that the stage represented a country scene in the
suburbs of Paris, and that he was playing the part of a Parisian
sojourning in the country.

As for M. Chebe, who prided himself on being as fond of nature as the
late Jean Jacques Rousseau, he did not appreciate it without the
accompaniments of shooting-matches, wooden horses, sack races, and a
profusion of dust and penny-whistles, which constituted also Madame
Chebe's ideal of a country life.

But Sidonie had a different ideal; and those Parisian Sundays passed in
strolling through noisy village streets depressed her beyond measure.
Her only pleasure in those throngs was the consciousness of being stared
at. The veriest boor's admiration, frankly expressed aloud at her side,
made her smile all day; for she was of those who disdain no compliment.

Sometimes, leaving the Chebes and Delobelle in the midst of the fete,
Risler would go into the fields with his brother and the "little one" in
search of flowers for patterns for his wall-papers. Frantz, with his
long arms, would pull down the highest branches of a hawthorn, or would
climb a park wall to pick a leaf of graceful shape he had spied on the
other side. But they reaped their richest harvests on the banks of the