he had
drawn on it like a Prince in the Arabian Nights on the treasure of the
genii.

Perhaps it would suffice to let him see that he was spending the capital
as well as the income to make him alter his line of conduct. At all
events, the moment was not yet opportune, and, besides, the amount was
not yet large enough. Cry out about some hundred thousand francs! Madame
Desvarennes would be thought a miser and would be covered with shame.
She must wait.

And, shut up in her office in the Rue Saint-Dominique with Marechal, who
acted as her confidant, she worked with heart and soul full of passion
and anger, making money. It was fine to witness the duel between
these two beings: the one useful, the other useless; one sacrificing
everything to work, the other everything to pleasure.

Toward the end of October, the weather at Cernay became unsettled, and
Micheline complained of the cold. Country life so pleased Serge that he
turned a deaf ear to her complaints. But lost in that large house, the
autumn winds rustling through the trees, whose leaves were tinted with
yellow, Micheline became sad, and the Prince understood that it was time
to go back to Paris.

The town seemed deserted to Serge. Still, returning to his splendid
apartments was a great satisfaction and pleasure to him. Everything
appeared new. He reviewed the hangings, the expensive furniture, the
paintings and rare objects. He was charmed. It was really of wonderful
beauty, and the cage seemed worthy of the bird. For several evenings
he remained quietly at home with Micheline, in the little silver-gray
drawing-room that was his favorite room. He looked through albums, too,
while his wife played at her piano quietly or sang.

They retired early and came down late. Then he had become a gourmand. He
spent hours in arranging menus and inventing unknown dishes about which
he consulted his chef, a cook of note.

He rode in the Bois in the course of the day, but did not meet any
one there; for of every two carriages one was a hackney coach with a
worn-out sleepy horse, his head hanging between his knees, going the
round of the lake. He ceased going to the Bois, and went out on foot in
the Champs-Elysees. He crossed the Pont de la Concorde, and walked up
and down the avenues near the Cirque.

He was wearied. Life had never appeared so monotonous to him. Formerly
he had at least the preoccupations of the future. He asked himself how
he could alter the sad conditio