She is one
of my countrywomen, a Polish--"

"You are a liar!" cried Madame Desvarennes, unable to control her temper
any longer. "You are lying most impudently!"

And she was going to add, "That woman was Jeanne!" but prudence checked
the sentence on her lips.

Serge turned pale.

"You forget yourself strangely, Madame," he said, in a dry tone.

"I forgot myself a year ago, not now! It was when I was weak that I
forgot myself. When Micheline was between you and me I neither dared to
speak nor act.

"But now, since after almost ruining my poor daughter, you deceive her, I
have no longer any consideration for you. To make her come over to my
side I have only to speak one word."

"Well, speak it! She is there. I will call her!"

Madame Desvarennes, in that supreme moment, was assailed by a doubt. What
if Micheline, in her blind love, did not believe her?

She raised her hand to stop Serge.

"Will not the fear of killing my daughter by this revelation stay you?"
asked she, bitterly. "What manner of man are you to have so little heart
and conscience?"

Panine burst into laughter.

"You see what your threats are worth, and what value I place on them.
Spare them in the future. You ask me what manner of man I am? I will tell
you. I have not much patience, I hate to have my liberty interfered with,
and I have a horror of family jars. I expect to be master of my own
house."

Madame Desvarennes was roused at these words. Her rage had abated on her
daughter's account, but now it rose to a higher pitch.

"Ah! so this is it, is it?" she said. "You would like perfect liberty, I
see! You make such very good use of it. You don't like to hear remarks
upon it. It is more convenient, in fact! You wish to be master in your
own house? In your own house! But, in truth, what are you here to put on
airs toward me? Scarcely more than a servant. A husband receiving wages
from me!"

Serge, with flashing eyes, made a terrible movement. He tried to speak,
but his lips trembled, and he could not utter a sound. By a sign he
showed Madame Desvarennes the door. The latter looked resolutely at the
Prince, and with energy which nothing could henceforth soften, added:

"You will have to deal with me in future! Good-day!"

And, leaving the room with as much calmness as she felt rage when
entering it, she went down to the counting-house.

Cayrol was sitting chatting with Marechal in his room. He was telling him
that Herzog's rashness