“I say—­suppose such a thing as this should happen in America!” Which remark, thanks to the expressive by-play of the illustrious actor, and to the superior air with which he replied, “I believe you!” gave those who stood near to understand that these gentlemen knew exactly what would happen in America in such a case.  Now, they were equally and entirely ignorant on that subject; but upon the crowd their words made an impression.

Sitting beside Frantz, with half of his bundle of flowers on her knees, Sidonie would seem to be blotted out, as it were, amid the uproar, during the long wait for the evening trains.  From the station, lighted by a single lamp, she could see the black clumps of trees outside, lighted here and there by the last illuminations of the fete, a dark village street, people continually coming in, and a lantern hanging on a deserted pier.

From time to time, on the other side of the glass doors, a train would rush by without stopping, with a shower of hot cinders and the roar of escaping steam.  Thereupon a tempest of shouts and stamping would arise in the station, and, soaring above all the rest, the shrill treble of M. Chebe, shrieking in his sea-gull’s voice:  “Break down the doors! break down the doors!”—­a thing that the little man would have taken good care not to do himself, as he had an abject fear of gendarmes.  In a moment the storm would abate.  The tired women, their hair disarranged by the wind, would fall asleep on the benches.  There were torn and ragged dresses, low-necked white gowns, covered with dust.

The air they breathed consisted mainly of dust.  It lay upon their clothes, rose at every step, obscured the light of the lamp, vexed one’s eyes, and raised a sort of cloud before the tired faces.  The cars which they entered at last, after hours of waiting, were saturated with it also.  Sidonie would open the window, and look out at the dark fields, an endless line of shadow.  Then, like innumerable stars, the first lanterns of the outer boulevards appeared near the fortifications.

So ended the ghastly day of rest of all those poor creatures.  The sight of Paris brought back to each one’s mind the thought of the morrow’s toil.  Dismal as her Sunday had been, Sidonie began to regret that it had passed.  She thought of the rich, to whom all the days of their lives were days of rest; and vaguely, as in a dream, the long park avenues of which she had caught glimpses during the day appeared to her thronged with those happy ones of earth, strolling on the fine gravel, while outside the gate, in the dust of the highroad, the poor man’s Sunday hurried swiftly by, having hardly time to pause a moment to look and envy.

Such was little Chebe’s life from thirteen to seventeen.

The years passed, but did not bring with them the slightest change.  Madame Chebe’s cashmere was a little more threadbare, the little lilac frock had undergone a few additional repairs, and that was all.  But, as Sidonie grew older, Frantz, now become a young man, acquired a habit of gazing at her silently with a melting expression, of paying her loving attentions that were visible to everybody, and were unnoticed by none save the girl herself.