dreamed of offering her his homage. He had other
projects in his head. Cayrol pressed the Prince's hand violently, made a
thousand protestations of devotedness, and finally obtained his complete
confidence.

Serge loved Mademoiselle Desvarennes, and it was to become intimate
with her that he had so eagerly sought her friend's company. Cayrol, in
learning the Prince's secret, resumed his usual reserved manner. He knew
that Micheline was engaged to Pierre Delarue, but still, women were so
whimsical! Who could tell? Perhaps Mademoiselle Desvarennes had looked
favorably upon the handsome Serge.

He was really admirable to view, this Panine, with his blue eyes, pure
as a maiden's, and his long fair mustache falling on each side of his
rosy mouth. He had a truly royal bearing, and was descended from an
ancient aristocratic race; he had a charming hand and an arched foot,
enough to make a woman envious. Soft and insinuating with his tender
voice and sweet Sclavonic accent, he was no ordinary man, but one
usually creating a great impression wherever he went.

His story was well known in Paris. He was born in the province of Posen,
so violently seized on by Prussia, that octopus of Europe. Serge's
father had been killed during the insurrection of 1848, and he, when a
year old, was brought by his uncle, Thaddeus Panine, to France, and
was educated at the College Rollin, where he had not acquired over much
learning.

In 1866, at the moment when war broke out between Prussia and Austria,
Serge was eighteen years old. By his uncle's orders he had left
Paris, and had entered himself for the campaign in an Austrian cavalry
regiment. All who bore the name of Panine, and had strength to hold a
sword or carry a gun, had risen to fight the oppressor of Poland. Serge,
during this short and bloody struggle, showed prodigies of valor. On the
night of Sadowa, out of seven bearing the name of Panine, who had
served against Prussia, five were dead, one was wounded; Serge alone
was untouched, though red with the blood of his uncle Thaddeus, who was
killed by the bursting of a shell. All these Panines, living or dead,
had gained honors. When they were spoken of before Austrians or Poles,
they were called heroes.

Such a man was a dangerous companion for a young, simple, and
artless girl like Micheline. His adventures were bound to please her
imagination, and his beauty sure to charm her eyes. Cayrol was a prudent
man; he watched, and it wa