h did not
improve. She did not suffer, but a sort of languor had come over
her. For days she never quitted her reclining-chair. She was very
affectionate toward her mother, and seemed to be making up for the lack
of affection shown during the first months of her marriage.

She never questioned Serge as to his manner of spending his time,
though she seldom saw him, except at meal hours. Every week she wrote to
Pierre, who was buried in his mines, and after every despatch her mother
noticed that she seemed sadder and paler.

Serge and Jeanne grew bolder. They felt that they were not watched. The
little house seemed too small for them, and they longed to go beyond the
garden, as the air of the Bois was so sweet and scented with violets.
A feeling of bravado came over them, and they did not mind being seen
together. People would think they were a newly-married couple.

One afternoon they sallied forth, Jeanne wearing a thick veil, and
trembling at the risk she was running, yet secretly delighted at going.
They chose the most unfrequented paths and solitary nooks. Then, after
an hour's stroll, they returned briskly, frightened at the sounds of
carriages rolling in the distance. They often went out after that, and
chose in preference the paths near the pond of Madrid where, behind
sheltering shrubs, they sat talking and listening to the busy hum of
Parisian life, seemingly so far away.

One day, about four o'clock, Madame Desvarennes was going to Saint-Cloud
on business, and was crossing the Bois de Boulogne. Her coachman had
chosen the most unfrequented paths to save time. She had opened the
carriage-window, and was enjoying the lovely scent from the shrubs.
Suddenly a watering-cart stopped the way. Madame Desvarennes looked
through the window to see what was the matter, and remained stupefied.
At the turning of a path she espied Serge, with a woman on his arm. She
uttered a cry that caused the couple to turn round. Seeing that pale
face, they sought to hide themselves.

In a moment Madame Desvarennes was out of the carriage. The guilty
couple fled down a path. Without caring what might be said of her, and
goaded on by a fearful rage, she tried to follow them. She especially
wished to see the woman who was closely veiled. She guessed her to be
Jeanne. But the younger woman, terrified, fled like a deer down a side
walk. Madame Desvarennes, quite out of breath, was obliged to stop. She
heard the slamming of a carriage-doo