red the reaction of the emotion
she had just felt. Her nerves were unstrung, and falling on a chair she
remained immovable and humbled. Was it possible that her daughter, her
adored child, would abandon her to obey the grudges of her husband? No,
Micheline, when back in her room, would remember that she was carrying
away all the joy of the house, and that it was cruel to deprive her
mother of her only happiness in life.

Slightly reassured, she went down to the office. As she reached the
landing, she saw the Prince's servants carrying up trunks belonging to
their master to be packed. She felt sick at heart. She understood that
this project had been discussed and settled beforehand. It seemed to her
that all was over; that her daughter was going away forever, and that
she would never see her again. She thought of going to beseech Serge and
ask him what sum he would take in exchange for Micheline's liberty;
but the haughty and sarcastic face of the Prince forcibly putting the
bank-notes in her hands, passed before her, and she guessed that she
would not obtain anything. Cast down and despairing, she entered her
office and set to work.

The next day, by the evening express, the Prince and Princess left
for Nice with all their household, and the mansion in the Rue
Saint-Dominique remained silent and deserted.

CHAPTER XIV. A SUDDEN JOURNEY

At the end of the Promenade des Anglais, on the pleasant road bordered
with tamarind-trees, stands, amid a grove of cork-oaks and eucalypti,
a charming white villa with pink shutters. A Russian lady, the Countess
Woreseff, had it built five years ago, and occupied it one winter. Then,
tired of the monotonous noise of the waves beating on the terrace and
the brightness of the calm blue sky, she longed for the mists of her
native country, and suddenly started for St. Petersburg, leaving that
charming residence to be let.

It was there, amid rhododendrons and strawberry-trees in full bloom,
that Micheline and Serge had taken up their abode. Until that day
the Princess had scarcely travelled. Her mother, always occupied in
commercial pursuits, had never left Paris. Micheline had remained with
her. During this long journey, accomplished in most luxurious style, she
had behaved like a child astonished at everything, and pleased at the
least thing. With her face close to the window she saw through the
transparent darkness of a lovely winter's night, villages and forests
gliding past