At last they arrived at the Palais-Royal.

The garden was full of people. They had come to hear the music,
and were trying to find seats amid clouds of dust and the scraping of
chairs. The two friends hurried into the restaurant to avoid all that
turmoil. They established themselves in one of the large salons on the
first floor, whence they could see the green trees, the promenaders, and
the water spurting from the fountain between the two melancholy flower-
gardens. To Sigismond it was the ideal of luxury, that restaurant, with
gilding everywhere, around the mirrors, in the chandelier and even on the
figured wallpaper. The white napkin, the roll, the menu of a table
d'hote dinner filled his soul with joy. "We are comfortable here, aren't
we?" he said to Risler.

And he exclaimed at each of the courses of that banquet at two francs
fifty, and insisted on filling his friend's plate.

"Eat that--it's good."

The other, notwithstanding his desire to do honor to the fete, seemed
preoccupied and gazed out-of-doors.

"Do you remember, Sigismond?" he said, after a pause.

The old cashier, engrossed in his memories of long ago, of Risler's first
employment at the factory, replied:

"I should think I do remember--listen! The first time we dined together
at the Palais-Royal was in February, 'forty-six, the year we put in the
planches-plates at the factory."