They would see. The idea that Micheline had seen him with
Jeanne never occurred to him. He did not think his wife capable of so
much self-control. Loving as she was, she could not have controlled
her feelings, and would have made a disturbance. Therefore he had no
suspicions.

As to their leaving for Paris he was delighted at the idea. Jeanne and
Cayrol were leaving Nice at the end of the week. Lost in the vastness of
the capital, the lovers would be more secure. They could see each other
at leisure. Serge would hire a small house in the neighborhood of
the Bois de Boulogne, and there they could enjoy each other's society
without observation.

CHAPTER XVII. CAYROL IS BLIND

Micheline, on her return to Paris, was a cause of anxiety to all her
friends. Morally and physically she was changed. Her former gayety had
disappeared. In a few weeks she became thin and seemed to be wasting
away. Madame Desvarennes, deeply troubled, questioned her daughter,
who answered, evasively, that she was perfectly well and had nothing to
trouble her. The mother called in Doctor Rigaud, although she did not
believe in the profession, and, after a long conference, took him to
see Micheline. The doctor examined her, and declared it was nothing but
debility. Madame Desvarennes was assailed with gloomy forebodings. She
spent sleepless nights, during which she thought her daughter was dead;
she heard the funeral dirges around her coffin. This strong woman wept,
not daring to show her anxiety, and trembling lest Micheline should
suspect her fears.

Serge was careless and happy, treating the apprehensions of those
surrounding him with perfect indifference. He did not think his wife was
ill--a little tired perhaps, or it might be change of climate, nothing
serious. He had quite fallen into his old ways, spending every night at
the club, and a part of the day in a little house in the Avenue Maillot,
near the Bois de Boulogne. He had found one charmingly furnished, and
there he sheltered his guilty happiness.

It was here that Jeanne came, thickly veiled, since her return from
Nice. They each had a latchkey belonging to the door opening upon the
Bois. The one who arrived first waited for the other, within the house,
whose shutters remained closed to deceive passers-by. Then the hour of
departure came; the hope of meeting again did not lessen their sadness
at parting.

Jeanne seldom went to the Rue Saint-Dominique. The welcome that
Michel