did not love him. She once thought of breaking off the
engagement; as she could not belong to the man whom she adored, at least
she could belong to herself. But the thought of the struggle she would
have to sustain with those who surrounded her, stopped her. What would
she do at Madame Desvarennes's? She would have to witness the happiness
of Micheline and Serge. She would rather leave the house.

With Cayrol at least she could go away; she would be free, and perhaps
the esteem which she would surely have for her husband would do instead
of love. Sisterly or filial love, in fact the least affection, would
satisfy the poor man, who was willing to accept anything from Jeanne. And
she would not have that group of Serge and Micheline before her eyes,
always walking round the lawn and disappearing arm in arm down the narrow
walks. She would not have the continual murmur of their love-making in
her ears, a murmur broken by the sound of kisses when they reached shady
corners.

One evening, when Serge appeared in the little drawing-room of the Rue
Saint-Dominique, he found Madame Desvarennes alone. She looked serious,
as if same important business were pending. She stood before the
fireplace; her hands crossed behind her back like a man. Apparently, she
had sought to be alone. Cayrol, Jeanne, and Micheline were in the garden.
Serge felt uneasy. He had a presentiment of trouble. But determined to
make the best of it, whatever it might be, he looked pleasant and bowed
to Madame Desvarennes, without his face betraying his uneasiness.

"Good-day, Prince; you are early this evening, though not so early as
Cayrol; but then he does not quite know what he is doing now. Sit down, I
want to talk to you. You know that a young lady like Mademoiselle
Desvarennes cannot get married without her engagement being much talked
about. Tongues have been very busy, and pens too. I have heard a lot of
scandal and have received heaps of anonymous letters about you."

Serge gave a start of indignation.

"Don't be uneasy," continued the mistress. "I did not heed the tales, and
I burned the letters. Some said you were a dissolute man, capable of
anything to gain your object. Others insinuated that you were not a
Prince, that you were not a Pole, but the son of a Russian coachman and a
little dressmaker of Les Ternes; that you had lived at the expense of
Mademoiselle Anna Monplaisir, the star of the Varietes Theatre, and that
you were bent on marrying