press.

Risler still worked as before, without change or rest. The return of
prosperity brought no alteration in his secluded habits, and from the
highest window on the topmost floor of the house he listened to the
ceaseless roar of his machines. He was no less gloomy, no less silent.
One day, however, it became known at the factory that the press, a
specimen of which had been sent to the great Exposition at Manchester,
had received the gold medal, whereby its success was definitely
established. Madame Georges called Risler into the garden at the
luncheon hour, wishing to be the first to tell him the good news.

For the moment a proud smile relaxed his prematurely old, gloomy
features. His inventor's vanity, his pride in his renown, above all,
the idea of repairing thus magnificently the wrong done to the family by
his wife, gave him a moment of true happiness. He pressed Claire's hands
and murmured, as in the old days:

"I am very happy! I am very happy!"

But what a difference in tone! He said it without enthusiasm,
hopelessly, with the satisfaction of a task accomplished, and nothing
more.

The bell rang for the workmen to return, and Risler went calmly upstairs
to resume his work as on other days.

In a moment he came down again. In spite of all, that news had excited
him more than he cared to show. He wandered about the garden, prowled
around the counting-room, smiling sadly at Pere Planus through the