"Well, my boy, does the Suez Canal progress as you would wish?"

Madame Chebe, in whose thoughts Frantz had never ceased to be her future
son-in-law, threw her arms around him, while Risler, tactless as usual in
his gayety and his enthusiasm, waved his arms, talked of killing several
fatted calves to celebrate the return of the prodigal son, and roared to
the singing-mistress in a voice that echoed through the neighboring
gardens:

"Madame Dobson, Madame Dobson--if you'll allow me, it's a pity for you
to be singing there. To the devil with sadness for to-day! Play us
something lively, a good waltz, so that I can take a turn with Madame
Chebe."

"Risler, Risler, are you crazy, my son-in-law?"

"Come, come, mamma! We must dance."

And up and down the paths, to the strains of an automatic six-step waltz-
a genuine valse de Vaucanson--he dragged his breathless mamma-in-law, who
stopped at every step to restore to their usual orderliness the dangling
ribbons of her hat and the lace trimming of her shawl, her lovely shawl
bought for Sidonie's wedding.

Poor Risler was intoxicated with joy.

To Frantz that was an endless, indelible day of agony. Driving, rowing
on the river, lunch on the grass on the Ile des Ravageurs--he was spared
none of the charms of Asnieres; and all the time, in the dazzling
sunlight of the roads, in the glare reflected by the water, he must laugh