place at the factory. The sister was full of pity for Madame Fromont and
considered her husband's conduct altogether outrageous; as for Sigismond,
he could find no words bitter enough for the unknown trollop who sent
bills for six-thousand-franc shawls to be paid from his cashbox. In his
eyes, the honor and fair fame of the old house he had served since his
youth were at stake.

"What will become of us?" he repeated again and again. "Oh! these
women--"

One day Mademoiselle Planus sat by the fire with her knitting, waiting
for her brother.

The table had been laid for half an hour, and the old lady was beginning
to be worried by such unheard-of tardiness, when Sigismond entered with a
most distressed face, and without a word, which was contrary to all his
habits.

He waited until the door was shut tight, then said in a low voice, in
response to his sister's disturbed and questioning expression:

"I have some news. I know who the woman is who is doing her best to ruin
us."

Lowering his voice still more, after glancing about at the silent walls
of their little dining-room, he uttered a name so unexpected that
Mademoiselle Planus made him repeat it.

"Is it possible?"