had he dared, how he would have liked to ask Sigismond for it!

One day the temptation was too strong. He was alone in the office.
The old cashier had gone out to luncheon, leaving the key in his drawer,
a most extraordinary thing. Risler could not resist. He opened the
drawer, moved the papers, and searched for his letter. It was not there.
Sigismond must have put it away even more carefully, perhaps with a
foreboding of what actually happened. In his heart Risler was not sorry
for his disappointment; for he well knew that, had he found the letter,
it would have been the end of the resigned and busy life which he imposed
upon himself with so much difficulty.

Through the week it was all very well. Life was endurable, absorbed by
the innumerable duties of the factory, and so fatiguing that, when night
came, Risler fell on his bed like a lifeless mass. But Sunday was long
and sad. The silence of the deserted yards and workshops opened a far
wider field to his thoughts. He tried to busy himself, but he missed the
encouragement of the others' work. He alone was busy in that great,
empty factory whose very breath was arrested. The locked doors, the
closed blinds, the hoarse voice of Pere Achille playing with his dog in
the deserted courtyard, all spoke of solitude. And the whole
neighborhood also produced the same effect. In the streets, which seemed
wider because of their emptiness, and where the passers-by were few and
silent, the bells ringing for vespers had a melancholy sound, and
sometimes an echo of the din of Paris, rumbling wheels, a belated hand-
organ, the click of a toy-peddler's clappers, broke the silence, as if to
make it even more noticeable.

Risler would try to invent new combinations of flowers and leaves, and,
while he handled his pencil, his thoughts, not finding sufficient food