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.”
Risler shook his head.
“Oh! no—I mean three years ago. It was in that room just opposite that we dined on that memorable evening.”
And he pointed to the great windows of the salon of Cafe Vefour, gleaming in the rays of the setting sun like the chandeliers at a wedding feast.
“Ah! yes, true,” murmured Sigismond, abashed. What an unlucky idea of his to bring his friend to a place that recalled such painful things!
Risler, not wishing to cast a gloom upon their banquet, abruptly raised his glass.
“Come! here’s your health, my old comrade.”
He tried to change the subject. But a moment later he himself led the conversation back to it again, and asked Sigismond, in an undertone, as if he were ashamed:
“Have you seen her?”