ry well;
I accept it!" These words now resounded in his ears like a verdict.
He promised himself to play a sure game with Madame Desvarennes. As
to Cayrol, he was out of the question; he had only been created as a
plaything for princes such as Serge; his destiny was written on his
forehead, and he could not escape. If it had not been Panine, some one
else would have done the same thing for him. Besides, how could that
ex-cowherd expect to keep such a woman as Jeanne was to himself. It
would have been manifestly unfair.

The Prince found his valet asleep in the hall. He went quickly to his
bedroom, and slept soundly without remorse, without dreams, until noon.
Coming down to breakfast, he found the family assembled. Savinien had
come to see his aunt, before whom he wanted to place a "colossal
idea." This time, he said, it was worth a fortune. He hoped to draw six
thousand francs from the mistress who, according to her usual custom,
could not fail to buy from him what he called his idea.

The dandy was thoughtful; he was preparing his batteries. Micheline,
pale, and her eyes red for want of rest, was seated near the gallery,
silently watching the sea, on which were passing, in the distance,
fishing-smacks with their sails looking like white-winged birds. Madame
Desvarennes was serious, and was giving Marechal instructions respecting
her correspondence, while at the same time watching her daughter out
of the corner of her eye. Micheline's depressed manner caused her some
anxiety; she guessed some mystery. Still the young wife's trouble might
be the result of last evening's serious interview. But the sagacity of
the mistress guessed a new incident. Perhaps some scene between Serge
and Micheline in regard to the club. She was on the watch.

Cayrol and Jeanne had gone for a drive to Mentone. With a single glance
the Prince took in the attitude of one and all, and after a polite
exchange of words and a careless kiss on Micheline's brow, he seated
himself at table. The repast was silent. Each one seemed preoccupied.
Serge anxiously asked himself whether Pierre had spoken. Marechal,
deeply interested in his plate, answered briefly, when addressed by
Madame Desvarennes. All the guests seemed constrained. It was a relief
when they rose from the table.

Micheline took her husband's arm and leading him into the garden, under
the shade of the magnolias, said to him:

"My mother leaves us to-night. She has received a letter recal