← catalogue

Serge Panine — Complete

by Georges Ohnet · English · Gutenberg #3918 · 479,320 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Serge Panine — Complete
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Serge Panine — Complete

Author: Georges Ohnet


        
Release date: October 30, 2004 [eBook #3918]
                Most recently updated: January 9, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3918

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SERGE PANINE — COMPLETE ***



Produced by David Widger




SERGE PANINE

By GEORGES OHNET

With a General Introduction to the Series by GASTON BOISSIER, Secretaire
Perpetuel de l’academie Francaise.




GENERAL INTRODUCTION

1905

BY ROBERT ARNOT

The editor-in-chief of the Maison Mazarin--a man of letters who
cherishes an enthusiastic yet discriminating love for the literary and
artistic glories of France--formed within the last two years the great
project of collecting and presenting to the vast numbers of intelligent
readers of whom New World boasts a series of those great and undying
romances which, since 1784, have received the crown of merit awarded by
the French Academy--that coveted assurance of immortality in letters and
in art.

In the presentation of this serious enterprise for the criticism and
official sanction of The Academy, ‘en seance’, was included a request
that, if possible, the task of writing a preface to the series should be
undertaken by me. Official sanction having been bestowed upon the plan,
I, as the accredited officer of the French Academy, convey to you its
hearty appreciation, endorsement, and sympathy with a project so nobly
artistic. It is also my duty, privilege, and pleasure to point out, at
the request of my brethren, the peculiar importance and lasting value
of this series to all who would know the inner life of a people whose
greatness no turns of fortune have been able to diminish.

In the last hundred years France has experienced the most terrible
vicissitudes, but, vanquished or victorious, triumphant or abased, never
has she lost her peculiar gift of attracting the curiosity of the world.
She interests every living being, and even those who do not love her
desire to know her. To this peculiar attraction which radiates from
her, artists and men of letters can well bear witness, since it is to
literature and to the arts, before all, that France owes such living
and lasting power. In every quarter of the civilized world there are
distinguished writers, painters, and eminent musicians, but in
France they exist in greater numbers than elsewhere. Moreover, it
is universally conceded that French writers and artists have this
particular and praiseworthy quality: they are most accessible to people
of other countries. Without losing their national characteristics, they
possess the happy gift of universality. To speak of letters alone:
the books that Frenchmen write are read, translated, dramatized, and
imitated everywhere; so it is not strange that these books give to
foreigners a desire for a nearer and more intimate acquaintance with
France.

Men preserve an almost innate habit of resorting to Paris from almost
every quarter of the globe. For many years American visitors have been
more numerous than others, although the journey from the United States
is long and costly. But I am sure that when for the first time they see
Paris--its palaces, its churches, its museums--and visit Versailles,
Fontainebleau, and Chantilly, they do not regret the travail they have
undergone. Meanwhile, however, I ask myself whether such sightseeing
is all that, in coming hither, they wish to accomplish. Intelligent
travellers--and, as a rule, it is the intelligent class that feels
the need of the educative influence of travel--look at our beautiful
monuments, wander through the streets and squares among the crowds that
fill them, and, observing them, I ask myself again: Do not such people
desire to study at closer range these persons who elbow them as they
pass; do they not wish to enter the houses of which they see but the
facades; do they not wish to know how Parisians live and speak and act
by their firesides? But time, alas! is lacking for the formation of
those intimate friendships which would bring this knowledge within their
grasp. French homes are rarely open to birds of passage, and visitors
leave us with regret that they have not been able to see more than the
surface of our civilization or to recognize by experience the note of
our inner home life.

How, then, shall this void be filled? Speaking in the first person, the
simplest means appears to be to study those whose profession it is to
describe the society of the time, and primarily, therefore, the works of
dramatic writers, who are supposed to draw a faithful picture of it. So
we go to the theatre, and usually derive keen pleasure therefrom. But
is pleasure all that we expect to find? What we should look for
above everything in a comedy or a drama is a representation, exact as
possible, of the manners and characters of the dramatis persona of the
play; and perhaps the conditions under which the play was written do
not allow such representation. The exact and studied portrayal of
a character demands from the author long preparation, and cannot be
accomplished in a few hours. From, the first scene to the last, each
tale must be posed in the author’s mind exactly as it will be proved to
be at the end. It is the author’s aim and mission to place completely
before his audience the souls of the “agonists” laying bare the
complications of motive, and throwing into relief the delicate shades
of motive that sway them. Often, too, the play is produced before a
numerous audience--an audience often distrait, always pressed for time,
and impatient of the least delay. Again, the public in general require
that they shall be able to understand without difficulty, and at first
thought, the characters the author seeks to present, making it necessary
that these characters be depicted from their most salient sides--which
are too often vulgar and unattractive.

In our comedies and dramas it is not the individual that is drawn, but
the type. Where the individual alone is real, the type is a myth of the
imagination--a pure invention. And invention is the mainspring of the
theatre, which rests purely upon illusion, and does not please us unless
it begins by deceiving us.

I believe, then, that if one seeks to know the world exactly as it is,
the theatre does not furnish the means whereby one can pursue the study.
A far better opportunity for knowing the private life of a people is
available through the medium of its great novels. The novelist deals
with each person as an individual. He speaks to his reader at an hour
when the mind is disengaged from worldly affairs, and he can add
without restraint every detail that seems needful to him to complete the
rounding of his story. He can return at will, should he choose, to the
source of the plot he is unfolding, in order that his reader may better
understand him; he can emphasize and dwell upon those details which an
audience in a theatre will not allow.

The reader, being at leisure, feels no impatience, for he knows that he
can at any time lay down or take up the book. It is the consciousness of
this privilege that gives him patience, should he encounter a dull page
here or there. He may hasten or delay his reading, according to the
interest he takes in his romance-nay, more, he can return to the earlier
pages, should he need to do so, for a better comprehension of some
obscure point. In proportion as he is attracted and interested by the
romance, and also in the degree of concentration with which he reads
it, does he grasp better the subtleties of the narrative. No shade of
character drawing escapes him. He realizes, with keener appreciation,
the most delicate of human moods, and the novelist is not compelled to
introduce the characters to him, one by one, distinguishing them only by
the most general characteristics, but can describe each of those little
individual idiosyncrasies that contribute to the sum total of a living
personality.

When I add that the dramatic author is always to a certain extent a
slave to the public, and must ever seek to please the passing taste of
his time, it will be recognized that he is often, alas! compelled to
sacrifice his artistic leanings to popular caprice-that is, if he has
the natural desire that his generation should applaud him.

As a rule, with the theatre-going masses, one person follows the fads
or fancies of others, and individual judgments are too apt to be
irresistibly swayed by current opinion. But the novelist, entirely
independent of his reader, is not compelled to conform himself to the
opinion of any person, or to submit to his caprices. He is absolutely
free to picture society as he sees it, and we therefore can have more
confidence in his descriptions of the customs and characters of the day.

It is precisely this view of the case that the editor of the series
has taken, and herein is the raison d’etre of this collection of
great French romances. The choice was not easy to make. That form of
literature called the romance abounds with us. France has always
loved it, for French writers exhibit a curiosity--and I may say an
indiscretion--that is almost charming in the study of customs and morals
at large; a quality that induces them to talk freely of themselves and
of their neighbors, and to set forth fearlessly both the good and the
bad in human nature. In this fascinating phase of literature, France
never has produced greater examples than of late years.

In the collection here presented to American readers will be found
those works especially which reveal the intimate side of French social
life-works in which are discussed the moral problems that affect most
potently the life of the world at large. If inquiring spirits seek to
learn the customs and manners of the France of any age, they must look
for it among her crowned romances. They need go back no farther than
Ludovic Halevy, who may be said to open the modern epoch. In the
romantic school, on its historic side, Alfred de Vigny must be looked
upon as supreme. De Musset and Anatole France may be taken as revealing
authoritatively the moral philosophy of nineteenth-century thought. I
must not omit to mention the Jacqueline of Th. Bentzon, and the “Attic”
 Philosopher of Emile Souvestre, nor the great names of Loti, Claretie,
Coppe, Bazin, Bourget, Malot, Droz, De Massa, and last, but not least,
our French Dickens, Alphonse Daudet. I need not add more; the very names
of these “Immortals” suffice to commend the series to readers in all
countries.

One word in conclusion: America may rest assured that her students
of international literature will find in this series of ‘ouvrages
couronnes’ all that they may wish to know of France at her own
fireside--a knowledge that too often escapes them, knowledge that
embraces not only a faithful picture of contemporary life in the French
provinces, but a living and exact description of French society in
modern times. They may feel certain that when they have read these
romances, they will have sounded the depths and penetrated into the
hidden intimacies of France, not only as she is, but as she would be
known.

GASTON BOISSIER

SECRETAIRE PERPETUEL DE L’ACADEMIE FRANCAISE




GEORGES OHNET

The only French novelist whose books have a circulation approaching the
works of Daudet and of Zola is Georges Ohnet, a writer whose popularity
is as interesting as his stories, because it explains, though it does
not excuse, the contempt the Goncourts had for the favor of the great
French public, and also because it shows how the highest form of
Romanticism still ferments beneath the varnish of Naturalism in what is
called genius among the great masses of readers.

Georges Ohnet was born in Paris, April 3, 1848, the son of an architect.
He was destined for the Bar, but was early attracted by journalism and
literature. Being a lawyer it was not difficult for him to join the
editorial staff of Le Pays, and later Le Constitutionnel. This was soon
after the Franco-German War. His romances, since collected under
the title ‘Batailles de la Vie’, appeared first in ‘Le Figaro,
L’Illustration, and Revue des Deux Mondes’, and have been exceedingly
well received by the public. This relates also to his dramas, some of
his works meeting with a popular success rarely extended to any author.
For some time Georges Ohnet did not find the same favor with the
critics, who often attacked him with a passionate violence and unusual
severity. True, a high philosophical flow of thoughts cannot be detected
in his writings, but nevertheless it is certain that the characters and
the subjects of which he treats are brilliantly sketched and clearly
developed. They are likewise of perfect morality and honesty.

There was expected of him, however, an idea which was not quite
realized. Appearing upon the literary stage at a period when Naturalism
was triumphant, it was for a moment believed that he would restore
Idealism in the manner of George Sand.

In any case the hostile critics have lost. For years public opinion has
exalted him, and the reaction is the more significant when compared with
the tremendous criticism launched against his early romances and novels.

A list of his works follows:

Serge Panine (1881), crowned by the French Academy, has since gone
through one hundred and fifty French editions; Le Maitre des Forges
(1882), a prodigious success, two hundred and fifty editions being
printed (1900); La Comtesse Sarah (1882); Lise Fleuyon (1884); La Grande
Maynieye (1886); Les Dames de Croix-Mort (1886); Volonte (1888); Le
Docteur Rameau (1889); Deynier Amour (1889); Le Cure de Favieyes (1890);
Dette de Haine (1891); Nemsod et Cie. (1892); Le Lendemain des Amours
(1893); Le Droit de l’Enfant (1894.); Les Vielles Rancunes (1894); La
Dame en Gris (1895); La Fille du Depute (1896); Le Roi de Paris (1898);
Au Fond du Gouffre (1899); Gens de la Noce (1900); La Tenibreuse (1900);
Le Cyasseur d’Affaires (1901); Le Crepuscule (1901); Le Marche a l’Amour
(1902).

Ohnet’s novels are collected under the titles, ‘Noir et Rose (1887) and
L’Ame de Pierre (1890).

The dramatic writings of Georges Ohnet, mostly taken from his novels,
have greatly contributed to his reputation. Le Maitre des Forges was
played for a full year (Gymnase, 1883); it was followed by Serge Panine
(1884); La Comtesse Sarah (1887). La Grande Mayniere (1888), met also
with a decided and prolonged success; Dernier Amour (Gymnase, 1890);
Colonel Roquebrune (Porte St. Martin, 1897). Before that he had already
written the plays Regina Sarpi (1875) and Marthe (1877), which yet hold
a prominent place upon the French stage.

I have shown in this rapid sketch that a man of the stamp of Georges
Ohnet must have immortal qualities in himself, even though flayed and
roasted alive by the critics. He is most assuredly an artist in form, is
endowed with a brilliant style, and has been named “L’Historiographe
de la bourgeoise contemporaine.” Indeed, antagonism to plutocracy and
hatred of aristocracy are the fundamental theses in almost every one of
his books.

His exposition, I repeat, is startlingly neat, the development of his
plots absolutely logical, and the world has acclaimed his ingenuity in
dramatic construction. He is truly, and in all senses, of the Ages.

                    VICTOR CHERBOULIEZ
                   de l’Academie Francaise




SERGE PANINE




BOOK 1.




CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE OF DESVARENNES

The firm of Desvarennes has been in an ancient mansion in the Rue Saint
Dominique since 1875; it is one of the best known and most important in
French industry. The counting-houses are in the wings of the building
looking upon the courtyard, which were occupied by the servants when the
family whose coat-of-arms has been effaced from above the gate-way were
still owners of the estate.

Madame Desvarennes inhabits the mansion which she has had magnificently
renovated. A formidable rival of the Darblays, the great millers of
France, the firm of Desvarennes is a commercial and political power.
Inquire in Paris about its solvency, and you will be told that you may
safely advance twenty millions of francs on the signature of the head of
the firm. And this head is a woman.

This woman is remarkable. Gifted with keen understanding and a firm
will, she had in former times vowed to make a large fortune, and she has
kept her word.

She was the daughter of a humble packer of the Rue Neuve-Coquenard.
Toward 1848 she married Michel Desvarennes, who was then a journeyman
baker in a large shop in the Chaussee d’Antin. With the thousand francs
which the packer managed to give his daughter by way of dowry, the young
couple boldly took a shop and started a little bakery business. The
husband kneaded and baked the bread, and the young wife, seated at the
counter, kept watch over the till. Neither on Sundays nor on holidays
was the shop shut.

Through the window, between two pyramids of pink and blue packets of
biscuits, one could always catch sight of the serious-looking Madame
Desvarennes, knitting woollen stockings for her husband while waiting
for customers. With her prominent forehead, and her eyes always bent on
her work, this woman appeared the living image of perseverance.

At the end of five years of incessant work, and possessing twenty
thousand francs, saved sou by sou, the Desvarennes left the slopes of
Montmartre, and moved to the centre of Paris. They were ambitious
and full of confidence. They set up in the Rue Vivienne, in a shop
resplendent with gilding and ornamented with looking-glasses. The
ceiling was painted in panels with bright hued pictures that caught the
eyes of the passers-by. The window-shelves were of white marble, and the
counter, where Madame Desvarennes was still enthroned, was of a width
worthy of the receipts that were taken every day. Business increased
daily; the Desvarennes continued to be hard and systematic workers.
The class of customers alone had changed; they were more numerous
and richer. The house had a specialty for making small rolls for the
restaurants. Michel had learned from the Viennese bakers how to make
those golden balls which tempt the most rebellious appetite, and which,
when in an artistically folded damask napkin, set off a dinner-table.

About this time Madame Desvarennes, while calculating how much the
millers must gain on the flour they sell to the bakers, resolved, in
order to lessen expenses, to do without middlemen and grind her own
corn. Michel, naturally timid, was frightened when his wife disclosed to
him the simple project which she had formed. Accustomed to submit to the
will of her whom he respectfully called “the mistress,” and of whom he
was but the head clerk, he dared not oppose her. But, a red-tapist by
nature, and hating innovations, owing to weakness of mind, he trembled
inwardly and cried in agony:

“Wife, you’ll ruin us.”

The mistress calmed the poor man’s alarm; she tried to impart to him
some of her confidence, to animate him with her hope, but without
success, so she went on without him. A mill was for sale at Jouy, on the
banks of the Oise; she paid ready money for it, and a few weeks later
the bakery in the Rue Vivienne was independent of every one. She ground
her own flour, and from that time business increased considerably.
Feeling capable of carrying out large undertakings, and, moreover,
desirous of giving up the meannesses of retail trade, Madame
Desvarennes, one fine day, sent in a tender for supplying bread to the
military hospitals. It was accepted, and from that time the house ranked
among the most important. On seeing the Desvarennes take their daring
flight, the leading men in the trade had said:

“They have system and activity, and if they do not upset on the way,
they will attain a high position.”

But the mistress seemed to have the gift of divination. She worked
surely--if she struck out one way you might be certain that success
was there. In all her enterprises, “good luck” stood close by her; she
scented failures from afar, and the firm never made a bad debt. Still
Michel continued to tremble. The first mill had been followed by many
more; then the old system appeared insufficient to Madame Desvarennes.
As she wished to keep up with the increase of business she had
steam-mills built,--which are now grinding three hundred million francs’
worth of corn every year.

Fortune had favored the house immensely, but Michel continued to
tremble. From time to time when the mistress launched out a new
business, he timidly ventured on his usual saying:

“Wife, you’re going to ruin us.”

But one felt it was only for form’s sake, and that he himself no
longer meant what he said. Madame Desvarennes received this plaintive
remonstrance with a calm smile, and answered, maternally, as to a child:

“There, there, don’t be frightened.”

Then she would set to work again, and direct with irresistible vigor the
army of clerks who peopled her counting-houses.

In fifteen years’ time, by prodigious efforts of will and energy,
Madame Desvarennes had made her way from the lonely and muddy Rue
Neuve-Coquenard to the mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique. Of the bakery
there was no longer question. It was some time since the business in the
Rue Vivienne had been transferred to the foreman of the shop. The flour
trade alone occupied Madame Desvarennes’s attention. She ruled the
prices in the market; and great bankers came to her office and did
business with her on a footing of equality. She did not become any
prouder for it, she knew too well the strength and weakness of life
to have pride; her former plain dealing had not stiffened into
self-sufficiency. Such as one had known her when beginning business,
such one found her in the zenith of her fortune. Instead of a woollen
gown she wore a silk one, but the color was still black; her language
had not become refined; she retained the same blunt familiar accent, and
at the end of five minutes’ conversation with any one of importance she
could not resist calling him “my dear,” to come morally near him. Her
commands had more fulness. In giving her orders, she had the manner of
a commander-in-chief, and it was useless to haggle when she had spoken.
The best thing to do was to obey, as well and as promptly as possible.

Placed in a political sphere, this marvellously gifted woman would
have been a Madame Roland; born to the throne, she would have been a
Catherine II.; there was genius in her. Sprung from the lower ranks,
her superiority had given her wealth; had she come from the higher, the
great mind might have governed the world.

Still she was not happy; she had been married fifteen years, and her
fireside was devoid of a cradle. During the first years she had rejoiced
at not having a child. Where could she have found time to occupy herself
with a baby? Business engrossed her attention; she had no leisure to
amuse herself with trifles. Maternity seemed to her a luxury for
rich women; she had her fortune to make. In the struggle against the
difficulties attending the enterprise she had begun, she had not had
time to look around her and perceive that her home was lonely. She
worked from morning till night. Her whole life was absorbed in this
work, and when night came, overcome with fatigue, she fell asleep, her
head filled with cares which stifled all tricks of the imagination.

Michel grieved, but in silence; his feeble and dependent nature missed a
child. He, whose mind lacked occupation, thought of the future. He said
to himself that the day when the dreamt-of fortune came would be more
welcome if there were an heir to whom to leave it. What was the good
of being rich, if the money went to collateral relatives? There was
his nephew Savinien, a disagreeable urchin whom he looked on with
indifference; and he was biased regarding his brother, who had all but
failed several times in business, and to whose aid he had come to save
the honor of the name. The mistress had not hesitated to help him, and
had prevented the signature of “Desvarennes” being protested. She had
not taunted him, having as large a heart as she had a mind. But Michel
had felt humiliated to see his own folk make a gap in the financial
edifice erected so laboriously by his wife. Out of this had gradually
sprung a sense of dissatisfaction with the Desvarennes of the other
branch, which manifested itself by a marked coolness, when, by chance,
his brother came to the house, accompanied by his son Savinien.

And then the paternity of his brother made him secretly jealous. Why
should that incapable fellow, who succeeded in nothing, have a son? It
was only those ne’er-do-well sort of people who were thus favored. He,
Michel, already called the rich Desvarennes, he had not a son. Was it
just? But where is there justice in this world?

The first time that she saw him with a downcast face the mistress had
questioned him, and he had frankly expressed his regrets. But he had
been so repelled by his wife, in whose heart a great trouble, steadily
repressed, however, had been produced, that he never dared to recur to
the subject.

He suffered in silence. But he no longer suffered alone. Like an
overflowing river that finds an outlet in the valley, which it
inundates, the longings for maternity, hitherto repressed by the
preoccupations of business, had suddenly seized Madame Desvarennes.

Strong and unyielding, she struggled and would not own herself
conquered. Still she became sad. Her voice sounded less sonorously
in the offices where she gave an order; her energetic nature seemed
subdued. Now she looked around her. She beheld prosperity made stable by
incessant work, respect gained by spotless honesty; she had attained the
goal which she had marked out in her ambitious dreams, as being paradise
itself. Paradise was there; but it lacked the angel. They had no child.

From that day a change came over this woman, slowly but surely; scarcely
perceptible to strangers, but easy to be seen by those around her. She
became benevolent, and gave away considerable sums of money, especially
to children’s “Homes.” But when the good people who governed these
establishments, lured on by her generosity, came to ask her to be on
their committee of management, she became angry, asking them if they
were joking with her? What interest could those brats have for her? She
had other fish to fry. She gave them what they needed, and what
more could they want? The fact was she felt weak and troubled before
children. But within her a powerful and unknown voice had arisen, and
the hour was not far distant when the bitter wave of her regrets was to
overflow and be made manifest.

She did not like Savinien, her nephew, and kept all her sweetness for
the son of one of their old neighbors in the Rue Neuve-Coquenard, a
small haberdasher, who had not been able to get on, but continued humbly
to sell thread and needles to the thrifty folks of the neighborhood.
The haberdasher, Mother Delarue, as she was called, had remained a widow
after one year of married life. Pierre, her boy, had grown up under the
shadow of the bakery, the cradle of the Desvarennes’s fortunes.

On Sundays the mistress would give him a gingerbread or a cracknel, and
amuse herself with his baby prattle. She did not lose sight of him
when she removed to the Rue Vivienne. Pierre had entered the elementary
school of the neighborhood, and by his precocious intelligence and
exceptional application, had not been long in getting to the top of his
class. The boy had left school after gaining an exhibition admitting
him to the Chaptal College. This hard worker, who was in a fair way of
making his own position without costing his relatives anything, greatly
interested Madame Desvarennes. She found in this plucky nature a
striking analogy to herself. She formed projects for Pierre’s future;
in fancy she saw him enter the Polytechnic school, and leave it with
honors. The young man had the choice of becoming a mining or civil
engineer, and of entering the government service.

He was hesitating what to do when the mistress came and offered him a
situation in her firm as junior partner; it was a golden bridge that she
placed before him. With his exceptional capacities he was not long
in giving to the house a new impulse. He perfected the machinery, and
triumphantly defied all competition. All this was a happy dream in which
Pierre was to her a real son; her home became his, and she monopolized
him completely. But suddenly a shadow came o’er the spirit of her
dreams. Pierre’s mother, the little haberdasher, proud of her son, would
she consent to give him up to a stranger? Oh! if Pierre had only been
an orphan! But one could not rob a mother of her son! And Madame
Desvarennes stopped the flight of her imagination. She followed Pierre
with anxious looks; but she forbade herself to dispose of the youth: he
did not belong to her.

This woman, at the age of thirty-five, still young in heart, was
disturbed by feelings which she strove, but vainly, to rule. She hid
them especially from her husband, whose repining chattering she feared.
If she had once shown him her weakness he would have overwhelmed her
daily with the burden of his regrets. But an unforeseen circumstance
placed her at Michel’s mercy.

Winter had come, bringing December and its snow. The weather this
year was exceptionally inclement, and traffic in the streets was so
difficult, business was almost suspended. The mistress left her deserted
offices and retired early to her private apartments. The husband and
wife spent their evenings alone. They sat there, facing each other, at
the fireside. A shade concentrated the light of the lamp upon the table
covered with expensive knick-knacks. The ceiling was sometimes vaguely
lighted up by a glimmer from the stove which glittered on the gilt
cornices. Ensconced in deep comfortable armchairs, the pair respectively
caressed their favorite dream without speaking of it.

Madame Desvarennes saw beside her a little pink-and-white baby girl,
toddling on the carpet. She heard her words, understood her language,
untranslatable to all others than a mother. Then bedtime came. The
child, with heavy eyelids, let her little fair-haired head fall on her
shoulders. Madame Desvarennes took her in her arms and undressed her
quietly, kissing her bare and dimpled arms. It was exquisite enjoyment
which stirred her heart deliciously. She saw the cradle, and devoured
the child with her eyes. She knew that the picture was a myth. But
what did it matter to her? She was happy. Michel’s voice broke on her
reverie.

“Wife,” said he, “this is Christmas Eve; and as there are only us two,
suppose you put your slipper on the hearth.”

Madame Desvarennes rose. Her eyes vaguely turned toward the hearth on
which the fire was dying, and beside the upright of the large sculptured
mantelpiece she beheld for a moment a tiny shoe, belonging to the child
which she loved to see in her dreams. Then the vision vanished, and
there was nothing left but the lonely hearth. A sharp pain tore her
swollen heart; a sob rose to her lips, and, slowly, two tears rolled
down her cheeks. Michel, quite pale, looked at her in silence; he held
out his hand to her, and said, in a trembling voice:

“You were thinking about it, eh?”

Madame Desvarennes bowed her head, twice, silently, and without adding
another word, the pair fell into each other’s arms and wept.

From that day they hid nothing from each other, and shared their
troubles and regrets in common. The mistress unburdened her heart by
making a full confession, and Michel, for the first time in his life,
learned the depth of soul of his companion to its inmost recesses. This
woman, so energetic, so obstinate, was, as it were, broken down.
The springs of her will seemed worn out. She felt despondencies and
wearinesses until then unknown. Work tired her. She did not venture down
to the offices; she talked of giving up business, which was a bad sign.
She longed for country air. Were they not rich enough? With their simple
tastes so much money was unnecessary. In fact, they had no wants. They
would go to some pretty estate in the suburbs of Paris, live there and
plant cabbages. Why work? they had no children.

Michel agreed to these schemes. For a long time he had wished for
repose. Often he had feared that his wife’s ambition would lead them too
far. But now, since she stopped of her own accord, it was all for the
best.

At this juncture their solicitor informed them that, near to their
works, the Cernay estate was to be put up for sale. Very often, when
going from Jouy to the mills, Madame Desvarennes had noticed the
chateau, the slate roofs of the turrets of which rose gracefully from a
mass of deep verdure. The Count de Cernay, the last representative of a
noble race, had just died of consumption, brought on by reckless living,
leaving nothing behind him but debts and a little girl two years old.
Her mother, an Italian singer and his mistress, had left him one morning
without troubling herself about the child. Everything was to be sold, by
order of the Court.

Some most lamentable incidents had saddened the Count’s last hours. The
bailiffs had entered the house with the doctor when he came to pay his
last call, and the notices of the sale were all but posted up before the
funeral was over. Jeanne, the orphan, scared amid the troubles of this
wretched end, seeing unknown men walking into the reception-rooms with
their hats on, hearing strangers speaking loudly and with arrogance, had
taken refuge in the laundry. It was there that Madame Desvarennes found
her, playing, plainly dressed in a little alpaca frock, her pretty hair
loose and falling on her shoulders. She looked astonished at what she
had seen; silent, not daring to run or sing as formerly in the great
desolate house whence the master had just been taken away forever.

With the vague instinct of abandoned children who seek to attach
themselves to some one or some thing, Jeanne clung to Madame
Desvarennes, who, ready to protect, and longing for maternity, took the
child in her arms. The gardener’s wife acted as guide during her visit
over the property. Madame Desvarennes questioned her. She knew nothing
of the child except what she had heard from the servants when they
gossiped in the evenings about their late master. They said Jeanne was
a bastard. Of her relatives they knew nothing. The Count had an aunt in
England who was married to a rich lord; but he had not corresponded with
her lately. The little one then was reduced to beggary as the estate was
to be sold.

The gardener’s wife was a good woman and was willing to keep the child
until the new proprietor came; but when once affairs were settled, she
would certainly go and make a declaration to the mayor, and take her to
the workhouse. Madame Desvarennes listened in silence. One word only had
struck her while the woman was speaking. The child was without support,
without ties, and abandoned like a poor lost dog. The little one was
pretty too; and when she fixed her large deep eyes on that improvised
mother, who pressed her so tenderly to her heart, she seemed to implore
her not to put her down, and to carry her away from the mourning that
troubled her mind and the isolation that froze her heart.

Madame Desvarennes, very superstitious, like a woman of the people,
began to think that, perhaps, Providence had brought her to Cernay that
day and had placed the child in her path. It was perhaps a reparation
which heaven granted her, in giving her the little girl she so longed
for. Acting unhesitatingly, as she did in everything, she left her name
with the woman, carried Jeanne to her carriage, and took her to Paris,
promising herself to make inquiries to find her relatives.

A month later, the property of Cernay pleasing her, and the researches
for Jeanne’s friends not proving successful, Madame Desvarennes took
possession of the estate and the child into the bargain.

Michel welcomed the child without enthusiasm. The little stranger was
indifferent to him; he would have preferred adopting a boy. The mistress
was delighted. Her maternal instincts, so long stifled, developed fully.
She made plans for the future. Her energy returned; she spoke loudly and
firmly. But in her appearance there was revealed an inward contentment
never remarked before, which made her sweeter and more benevolent. She
no longer spoke of retiring from business. The discouragement which had
seized her left her as if by magic. The house which had been so dull
for some months became noisy and gay. The child, like a sunbeam, had
scattered the clouds.

It was then that the most unlooked-for phenomenon, which was so
considerably to influence Madame Desvarennes’s life, occurred. At the
moment when the mistress seemed provided by chance with the heiress so
much longed for, she learned with surprise that she was about to become
a mother! After sixteen years of married life, this discovery was almost
a discomfiture. What would have been delight formerly was now a cause
for fear. She, almost an old woman!

There was an incredible commotion in the business world when the news
became known. The younger branch of Desvarennes had witnessed Jeanne’s
arrival with little satisfaction, and were still more gloomy when they
learned that the chances of their succeeding to great wealth were over.
Still they did not lose all hopes. At thirty-five years of age one
cannot always tell how these little affairs will come off. An accident
was possible. But none occurred; all passed off well.

Madame Desvarennes was as strong physically as she was morally, and
proved victorious by bringing into the world a little girl, who was
named Micheline in honor of her father. The mistress’s heart was large
enough to hold two children; she kept the orphan she had adopted, and
brought her up as if she had been her very own. Still there was soon an
enormous difference in her manner of loving Jeanne and Micheline. This
mother had for the long-wished-for child an ardent, mad, passionate love
like that of a tigress for her cubs. She had never loved her husband.
All the tenderness which had accumulated in her heart blossomed, and it
was like spring.

This autocrat, who had never allowed contradiction, and before whom all
her dependents bowed either with or against the grain, was now led in
her turn; the bronze of her character became like wax in the little pink
hands of her daughter. The commanding woman bent before the little fair
head. There was nothing good enough for Micheline. Had the mother owned
the world she would have placed it at the little one’s feet. One tear
from the child upset her. If on one of the most important subjects
Madame Desvarennes had said “No,” and Micheline came and said “Yes,”
 the hitherto resolute will became subordinate to the caprice of a child.
They knew it in the house and acted upon it. This manoeuvre succeeded
each time, although Madame Desvarennes had seen through it from the
first. It appeared as if the mother felt a secret joy in proving
under all circumstances the unbounded adoration which she felt for her
daughter. She often said:

“Pretty as she is, and rich as I shall make her, what husband will be
worthy of Micheline? But if she believes me when it is time to choose
one, she will prefer a man remarkable for his intelligence, and will
give him her fortune as a stepping-stone to raise him as high as she
chooses him to go.”

Inwardly she was thinking of Pierre Delarue, who had just taken honors
at the Polytechnic school, and who seemed to have a brilliant career
before him. This woman, humbly born, was proud of her origin, and
sought a plebeian for her son-in-law, to put into his hand a golden tool
powerful enough to move the world.

Micheline was ten years old when her father died. Alas, Michel was not a
great loss. They wore mourning for him; but they hardly noticed that he
was absent. His whole life had been a void. Madame Desvarennes, it
is sad to say, felt herself more mistress of her child when she was
a widow. She was jealous of Micheline’s affections, and each kiss the
child gave her father seemed to the mother to be robbed from her. With
this fierce tenderness, she preferred solitude around this beloved
being.

At this time Madame Desvarennes was really in the zenith of womanly
splendor. She seemed taller, her figure had straightened, vigorous and
powerful. Her gray hair gave her face a majestic appearance. Always
surrounded by a court of clients and friends, she seemed like a
sovereign. The fortune of the firm was not to be computed. It was said
Madame Desvarennes did not know how rich she was.

Jeanne and Micheline grew up amid this colossal prosperity. The one,
tall, brown-haired, with blue eyes changing like the sea; the other,
fragile, fair, with dark dreamy eyes. Jeanne, proud, capricious, and
inconstant; Micheline, simple, sweet, and tenacious. The brunette
inherited from her reckless father and her fanciful mother a violent and
passionate nature; the blonde was tractable and good like Michel, but
resolute and firm like Madame Desvarennes. These two opposite natures
were congenial, Micheline sincerely loving Jeanne, and Jeanne feeling
the necessity of living amicably with Micheline, her mother’s idol,
but inwardly enduring with difficulty the inequalities which began to
exhibit themselves in the manner with which the intimates of the house
treated the one and the other. She found these flatteries wounding, and
thought Madame Desvarennes’s preferences for Micheline unjust.

All these accumulated grievances made Jeanne conceive the wish one
morning of leaving the house where she had been brought up, and where
she now felt humiliated. Pretending to long to go to England to see
that rich relative of her father, who, knowing her to be in a brilliant
society, had taken notice of her, she asked Madame Desvarennes to allow
her to spend a few weeks from home. She wished to try the ground in
England, and see what she might expect in the future from her family.
Madame Desvarennes lent herself to this whim, not guessing the young
girl’s real motive; and Jeanne, well attended, went to her aunt’s home
in England.

Madame Desvarennes, besides, had attained the summit of her hopes,
and an event had just taken place which preoccupied her. Micheline,
deferring to her mother’s wishes, had decided to allow herself to be
betrothed to Pierre Delarue, who had just lost his mother, and whose
business improved daily. The young girl, accustomed to treat Pierre like
a brother, had easily consented to accept him as her future husband.

Jeanne, who had been away for six months, had returned sobered and
disillusioned about her family. She had found them kind and affable, had
received many compliments on her beauty, which was really remarkable,
but had not met with any encouragement in her desires for independence.
She came home resolved not to leave until she married. She arrived in
the Rue Saint-Dominique at the moment when Pierre Delarue, thirsting
with ambition, was leaving his betrothed, his relatives, and gay Paris
to undertake engineering work on the coasts of Algeria and Tunis that
would raise him above his rivals. In leaving, the young man did not for
a moment think that Jeanne was returning from England at the same hour
with trouble for him in the person of a very handsome cavalier, Prince
Serge Panine, who had been introduced to her at a ball during the London
season. Mademoiselle de Cernay, availing herself of English liberty,
was returning escorted only by a maid in company with the Prince. The
journey had been delightful. The tete-a-tete travelling had pleased the
young people, and on leaving the train they had promised to see each
other again. Official balls facilitated their meeting; Serge was
introduced to Madame Desvarennes as being an English friend, and soon
became the most assiduous partner of Jeanne and Micheline. It was thus,
under the most trivial pretext, that the man gained admittance to the
house where he was to play such an important part.




CHAPTER II. THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF PLEASURE

One morning in the month of May, 1879, a young man, elegantly attired,
alighted from a well-appointed carriage before the door of Madame
Desvarennes’s house. The young man passed quickly before the porter in
uniform, decorated with a military medal, stationed near the door. The
visitor found himself in an anteroom which communicated with several
corridors. A messenger was seated in the depth of a large armchair,
reading the newspaper, and not even lending an inattentive ear to
the whispered conversation of a dozen canvassers, who were patiently
awaiting their turn for gaining a hearing. On seeing the young man enter
by the private door, the messenger rose, dropped his newspaper on the
armchair, hastily raised his velvet skullcap, tried to smile, and made
two steps forward.

“Good-morning, old Felix,” said the young man, in a friendly tone to the
messenger. “Is my aunt within?”

“Yes, Monsieur Savinien, Madame Desvarennes is in her office; but she
has been engaged for more than an hour with the Financial Secretary of
the War Department.”

In uttering these words old Felix put on a mysterious and important air,
which denoted how serious the discussions going on in the adjoining room
seemed to his mind.

“You see,” continued he, showing Madame Desvarennes’s nephew the
anteroom full of people, “madame has kept all these waiting since this
morning, and perhaps she won’t see them.”

“I must see her though,” murmured the young man.

He reflected a moment, then added:

“Is Monsieur Marechal in?”

“Yes, sir, certainly. If you will allow me I will announce you.”

“It is unnecessary.”

And, stepping forward, he entered the office adjoining that of Madame
Desvarennes.

Seated at a large table of black wood, covered with bundles of papers
and notes, a young man was working. He was thirty years of age, but
appeared much older. His prematurely bald forehead, and wrinkled brow,
betokened a life of severe struggles and privations, or a life of
excesses and pleasures. Still those clear and pure eyes were not those
of a libertine, and the straight nose solidly joined to the face was
that of a searcher. Whatever the cause, the man was old before his time.

On hearing the door of his office open, he raised his eyes, put down
his pen, and was making a movement toward his visitor, when the latter
interrupted him quickly with these words:

“Don’t stir, Marechal, or I shall be off! I only came in until Aunt
Desvarennes is at liberty; but if I disturb you I will go and take a
turn, smoke a cigar, and come back in three quarters of an hour.”

“You do not disturb me, Monsieur Savinien; at least not often enough,
for be it said, without reproaching you, it is more than three months
since we have seen anything of you. There, the post is finished. I was
writing the last addresses.”

And taking a heavy bundle of papers off the desk, Marechal showed them
to Savinien.

“Gracious! It seems that business is going on well here.”

“Better and better.”

“You are making mountains of flour.”

“Yes; high as Mont Blanc; and then, we now have a fleet.”

“What! a fleet?” cried Savinien, whose face expressed doubt and surprise
at the same time.

“Yes, a steam fleet. Last year Madame Desvarennes was not satisfied with
the state in which her corn came from the East. The corn was damaged
owing to defective stowage; the firm claimed compensation from the
steamship company. The claim was only moderately satisfied, Madame
Desvarennes got vexed, and now we import our own. We have branches at
Smyrna and Odessa.”

“It is fabulous! If it goes on, my aunt will have an administration
as important as that of a European state. Oh! you are happy here, you
people; you are busy. I amuse myself! And if you knew how it wearies me!
I am withering, consuming myself, I am longing for business.”

And saying these words, young Monsieur Desvarennes allowed a sorrowful
moan to escape him.

“It seems to me,” said Marechal, “that it only depends upon yourself to
do as much and more business than any one?”

“You know well enough that it is not so,” sighed Savinien; “my aunt is
opposed to it.”

“What a mistake!” cried Marechal, quickly. “I have heard Madame
Desvarennes say more than twenty times how she regretted your being
unemployed. Come into the firm, you will have a good berth in the
counting-house.”

“In the counting-house!” cried Savinien, bitterly; “there’s the sore
point. Now look here; my friend, do you think that an organization like
mine is made to bend to the trivialities of a copying clerk’s work? To
follow the humdrum of every-day routine? To blacken paper? To become a
servant?--me! with what I have in my brain?”

And, rising abruptly, Savinien began to walk hurriedly up and down the
room, disdainfully shaking his little head with its low forehead on
which were plastered a few fair curls (made with curling-irons), with
the indignant air of an Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.

“Oh, I know very well what is at the bottom of the business--my aunt is
jealous of me because I am a man of ideas. She wishes to be the only
one of the family who possesses any. She thinks of binding me down to a
besotting work,” continued he, “but I won’t have it. I know what I
want! It is independence of thought, bent on the solution of great
problems--that is, a wide field to apply my discoveries. But a fixed
rule, common law, I could not submit to it.”

“It is like the examinations,” observed Marechal, looking slyly at
young Desvarennes, who was drawing himself up to his full height;
“examinations never suited you.”

“Never,” said Savinien, energetically. “They wished to get me into the
Polytechnic School; impossible! Then the Central School; no better. I
astonished the examiners by the novelty of my ideas. They refused me.”

“Well, you know,” retorted Marechal, “if you began by overthrowing their
theories--”

“That’s it!” cried Savinien, triumphantly. “My mind is stronger than I;
I must let my imagination have free run, and no one will ever know what
that particular turn of mind has cost me. Even my family do not think
me serious. Aunt Desvarennes has forbidden any kind of enterprise, under
pretence that I bear her name, and that I might compromise it because I
have twice failed. My aunt paid, it is true. Do you think it is generous
of her to take advantage of my situation, and prohibit my trying to
succeed? Are inventors judged by three or four failures? If my aunt had
allowed me I should have astonished the world.”

“She feared, above all,” said Marechal, simply, “to see you astonishing
the Tribunal of Commerce.”

“Oh! you, too,” moaned Savinien, “are in league with my enemies; you
make no account of me.”

And young Desvarennes sank as if crushed into an armchair and began to
lament. He was very unhappy at being misunderstood. His aunt allowed him
three thousand francs a month on condition that he would not make use of
his ten fingers. Was it moral? Then he with such exuberant vigor had to
waste it on pleasure and seeing life to the utmost. He passed his time
in theatres, at clubs, restaurants, in boudoirs. He lost his time, his
money, his hair, his illusions. He bemoaned his lot, but continued,
only to have something to do. With grim sarcasm he called himself
the galley-slave of pleasure. And notwithstanding all these consuming
excesses, he asserted that he could not render his imagination barren.
Amid the greatest follies at suppers, during the clinking of glasses; in
the excitement of the dance-inspirations came to him in flashes, he made
prodigious discoveries.

And as Marechal ventured a timid “Oh!” tinged with incredulity, Savinien
flew into a passion. Yes; he had invented something astonishing; he saw
fortune within reach, and he thought the bargain made with his aunt very
unjust. Therefore he had come to break it, and to regain his liberty.

Marechal looked at the young man while he was explaining with animation
his ambitious projects. He scrutinized that flat forehead within which
the dandy asserted so many good ideas were hidden. He measured that slim
form bent by wild living, and asked himself how that degenerate being
could struggle against the difficulties of business. A smile played on
his lips. He knew Savinien too well not to be aware that he was a prey
to one of those attacks of melancholy which seized on him when his funds
were low.

On these occasions, which occurred frequently, the young man had
longings for business, which Madame Desvarennes stopped by asking: “How
much?” Savinien allowed himself to be with difficulty induced to consent
to renounce the certain profits promised, as he said, by his projected
enterprise. At last he would capitulate, and with his pocket well
lined, nimble and joyful, he returned to his boudoirs, race-courses,
fashionable restaurants, and became more than ever the galley-slave of
pleasure.

“And Pierre?” asked young Desvarennes, suddenly and quickly changing the
subject. “Have you any news of him?”

Marechal became serious. A cloud seemed to have come across his brow; he
gravely answered Savinien’s question.

Pierre was still in the East. He was travelling toward Tunis, the coast
of which he was exploring. It was a question of the formation of
an inland sea by taking the water through the desert. It would be a
colossal undertaking, the results of which would be considerable as
regarded Algeria. The climate would be completely changed, and the value
of the colony would be increased tenfold, because it would become the
most fertile country in the world. Pierre had been occupied in this
undertaking for more than a year with unequalled ardor; he was far from
his home, his betrothed, seeing only the goal to be attained; turning a
deaf ear to all that would distract his attention from the great work,
to the success of which he hoped to contribute gloriously.

“And don’t people say,” resumed Savinien with an evil smile, “that
during his absence a dashing young fellow is busy luring his betrothed
away from him?”

At these words Marechal made a quick movement.

“It is false,” he interrupted; “and I do not understand how you,
Monsieur Desvarennes, should be the bearer of such a tale. To admit that
Mademoiselle Micheline could break her word or her engagements is to
slander her, and if any one other than you--”

“There, there, my dear friend,” said Savinien, laughing, “don’t get
into a rage. What I say to you I would not repeat to the first comer;
besides, I am only the echo of a rumor that has been going the round
during the last three weeks. They even give the name of him who has been
chosen for the honor and pleasure of such a brilliant conquest. I mean
Prince Serge Panine.”

“As you have mentioned Prince Panine,” replied Marechal, “allow me to
tell you that he has not put his foot inside Madame Desvarennes’s
door for three weeks. This is not the way of a man about to marry the
daughter of the house.”

“My dear fellow, I only repeat what I have heard. As for me, I don’t
know any more. I have kept out of the way for more than three months.
And besides, it matters little to me whether Micheline be a commoner or
a princess, the wife of Delarue or of Panine. I shall be none the richer
or the poorer, shall I? Therefore I need not care. The dear child will
certainly have millions enough to marry easily. And her adopted sister,
the stately Mademoiselle Jeanne, what has become of her?”

“Ah! as to Mademoiselle de Cernay, that is another affair,” cried
Marechal.

And as if wishing to divert the conversation in an opposite direction
to which Savinien had led it a moment before, he spoke readily of Madame
Desvarennes’s adopted daughter. She had made a lively impression on one
of the intimate friends of the house--the banker Cayrol, who had offered
his name and his fortune to the fair Jeanne.

This was a cause of deep amazement to Savinien. What! Cayrol! The shrewd
close--fisted Auvergnat! A girl without a fortune! Cayrol Silex as he
was called in the commercial world on account of his hardness. This
living money-bag had a heart then! It was necessary to believe it since
both money-bag and heart had been placed at Mademoiselle de Cernay’s
feet. This strange girl was certainly destined to millions. She had just
missed being Madame Desvarennes’s heiress, and now Cayrol had taken it
into his head to marry her.

But that was not all. And when Marechal told Savinien that the fair
Jeanne flatly refused to become the wife of Cayrol, there was an
outburst of joyful exclamations. She refused! By Jove, she was mad! An
unlooked-for marriage--for she had not a penny, and had most extravagant
notions. She had been brought up as if she were to live always in velvet
and silks--to loll in carriages and think only of her pleasure. What
reason did she give for refusing him! None. Haughtily and disdainfully
she had declared that she did not love “that man,” and that she would
not marry him.

When Savinien heard these details his rapture increased. One thing
especially charmed him: Jeanne’s saying “that man,” when speaking of
Cayrol. A little girl who was called “De Cernay” just as he might call
himself “Des Batignolles” if he pleased: the natural and unacknowledged
daughter of a Count and of a shady public singer! And she refused
Cayrol, calling him “that man.” It was really funny. And what did worthy
Cayrol say about it?

When Marechal declared that the banker had not been damped by this
discouraging reception, Savinien said it was human nature. The fair
Jeanne scorned Cayrol and Cayrol adored her. He had often seen those
things happen. He knew the baggages so well! Nobody knew more of women
than he did. He had known some more difficult to manage than proud
Mademoiselle Jeanne.

An old leaven of hatred had festered in Savinien’s heart against Jeanne
since the time when the younger branch of the Desvarennes had reason
to fear that the superb heritage was going to the adopted daughter.
Savinien had lost the fear, but had kept up the animosity. And
everything that could happen to Jeanne of a vexing or painful nature
would be witnessed by him with pleasure.

He was about to encourage Marechal to continue his revelations, and had
risen and was leaning on the desk. With his face excited and eager, he
was preparing his question, when, through the door which led to Madame
Desvarennes’s office, a confused murmur of voices was heard. At the
same time the door was half opened, held by a woman’s hand, square, with
short fingers, a firm-willed and energetic hand. At the same time,
the last words exchanged between Madame Desvarennes and the Financial
Secretary of the War Office were distinctly audible. Madame Desvarennes
was speaking, and her voice sounded clear and plain; a little raised and
vibrating. There seemed a shade of anger in its tone.

“My dear sir, you will tell the Minister that does not suit me. It is
not the custom of the house. For thirty-five years I have conducted
business thus, and I have always found it answer. I wish you
good-morning.”

The door of the office facing that which Madame Desvarennes held
closed, and a light step glided along the corridor. It was the Financial
Secretary’s. The mistress appeared.

Marechal rose hastily. As to Savinien, all his resolution seemed to have
vanished at the sound of his aunt’s voice, for he had rapidly gained a
corner of the room, and seated himself on a leather-covered sofa, hidden
behind an armchair, where he remained perfectly quiet.

“Do you understand that, Marechal?” said dame Desvarennes; “they want to
place a resident agent at the mill on pretext of checking things. They
say that all military contractors are obliged to submit to it. My word,
do they take us for thieves, the rascals? It is the first time that
people have seemed to doubt me. And it has enraged me. I have been
arguing for a whole hour with the man they sent me. I said to him, ‘My
dear sir, you may either take it or leave it. Let us start from this
point: I can do without you and you cannot do without me. If you don’t
buy my flour, somebody else will. I am not at all troubled about it.
But as to having any one here who would be as much master as myself, or
perhaps more, never! I am too old to change my customs.’ Thereupon
the Financial Secretary left. There! And, besides, they change their
Ministry every fortnight. One would never know with whom one had to
deal. Thank you, no.”

While talking thus with Marechal, Madame Desvarennes was walking about
the office. She was still the same woman with the broad prominent
forehead. Her hair, which she wore in smooth plaits, had become gray,
but the sparkle of her dark eyes only seemed the brighter from this. She
had preserved her splendid teeth, and her smile had remained young and
charming. She spoke with animation, as usual, and with the gestures of
a man. She placed herself before her secretary, seeming to appeal to
him as a witness of her being in the right. During the hour with
the official personage she had been obliged to contain herself. She
unburdened herself to Marechal, saying just what she thought.

But all at once she perceived Savinien, who was waiting to show himself
now that she had finished. The mistress turned sharply to the young man,
and frowned slightly:

“Hallo! you are there, eh? How is it that you could leave your fair
friends?”

“But, aunt, I came to pay you my respects.”

“No nonsense now; I’ve no time,” interrupted the mistress. “What do you
want?”

Savinien, disconcerted by this rude reception, blinked his eyes, as
if seeking some form to give his request; then, making up his mind, he
said:

“I came to see you on business.”

“You on business?” replied Madame Desvarennes, with a shade of
astonishment and irony.

“Yes, aunt, on business,” declared Savinien, looking down as if he
expected a rebuff.

“Oh, oh, oh!” said Madame Desvarennes, “you know our agreement; I give
you an allowance--”

“I renounce my income,” interrupted Savinien, quickly, “I wish to take
back my independence. The transfer I made has already cost me too dear.
It’s a fool’s bargain. The enterprise which I am going to launch is
superb, and must realize immense profits. I shall certainly not abandon
it.”

While speaking, Savinien had become animated and had regained his
self-possession. He believed in his scheme, and was ready to pledge his
future. He argued that his aunt could not blame him for giving proof of
his energy and daring, and he discoursed in bombastic style.

“That’s enough!” cried Madame Desvarennes, interrupting her nephew’s
oration. “I am very fond of mills, but not word-mills. You are talking
too much about it to be sincere. So many words can only serve
to disguise the nullity of your projects. You want to embark in
speculation? With what money?”

“I contribute the scheme and some capitalists will advance the money to
start with; we shall then issue shares!”

“Never in this life! I oppose it. You! With a responsibility. You!
Directing an undertaking. You would only commit absurdities. In fact,
you want to sell an idea, eh? Well, I will buy it.”

“It is not only the money I want,” said Savinien, with an indignant
air, “it is confidence in my ideas, it is enthusiasm on the part of my
shareholders, it is success. You don’t believe in my ideas, aunt!”

“What does it matter to you, if I buy them from you? It seems to me a
pretty good proof of confidence. Is that settled?”

“Ah, aunt, you are implacable!” groaned Savinien. “When you have laid
your hand upon any one, it is all over. Adieu, independence; one must
obey you. Nevertheless, it was a vast and beautiful conception.”

“Very well. Marechal, see that my nephew has ten thousand francs. And
you, Savinien, remember that I see no more of you.”

“Until the money is spent!” murmured Marechal, in the ear of Madame
Desvarennes’s nephew.

And taking him by the arm he was leading him toward the safe when the
mistress turned to Savinien and said:

“By the way, what is your invention?”

“Aunt, it is a threshing machine,” answered the young man, gravely.

“Rather a machine for coining money,” said the incorrigible Marechal, in
an undertone.

“Well; bring me your plans,” resumed Madame Desvarennes, after having
reflected a moment. “Perchance you may have hit upon something.”

The mistress had been generous, and now the woman of business reasserted
herself and she thought of reaping the benefit.

Savinien seemed very confused at this demand, and as his aunt gave him
an interrogative look, he confessed:

“There are no drawings made as yet.”

“No drawings as yet?” cried the mistress. “Where then is your
invention?”

“It is here,” replied Savinien, and with an inspired gesture he struck
his narrow forehead.

Madame Desvarennes and Marechal could not resist breaking out into a
laugh.

“And you were already talking of issuing shares?” said the mistress.
“Do you think people would have paid their money with your brain as sole
guarantee? You! Get along; I am the only one to make bargains like that,
and you are the only one with whom I make them. Go, Marechal, give him
his money; I won’t gainsay it. But you are a trickster, as usual!”




CHAPTER III. PIERRE RETURNS

By a wave of her hand she dismissed Savinien, who, abashed, went out
with Marechal. Left alone, she seated herself at her secretary’s desk,
and taking the pile of letters she signed them. The pen flew in her
fingers, and on the paper was displayed her name, written in large
letters in a man’s handwriting.

She had been occupied thus for about a quarter of an hour when Marechal
reappeared. Behind him came a stout thickset man of heavy build, and
gorgeously dressed. His face, surrounded by a bristly dark brown beard,
and his eyes overhung by bushy eyebrows, gave him, at the first glance,
a harsh appearance. But his mouth promptly banished this impression. His
thick and sensual lips betrayed voluptuous tastes. A disciple of Lavater
or Gall would have found the bump of amativeness largely developed.

Marechal stepped aside to allow him to pass.

“Good-morning, mistress,” said he familiarly, approaching Madame
Desvarennes.

The mistress raised her head quickly, and said:

“Ah! it’s you, Cayrol! That’s capital! I was just going to send for
you.”

Jean Cayrol, a native of Cantal, had been brought up amid the wild
mountains of Auvergne. His father was a small farmer in the neighborhood
of Saint-Flour, scraping a miserable pittance from the ground for the
maintenance of his family. From the age of eight years Cayrol had been a
shepherd-boy. Alone in the quiet and remote country, the child had given
way to ambitious dreams. He was very intelligent, and felt that he was
born to another sphere than that of farming.

Thus, at the first opportunity which had occurred to take him into a
town, he was found ready. He went as servant to a banker at Brioude.
There, in the service of this comparatively luxurious house, he got
smoothed down a little, and lost some of his clumsy loutishness. Strong
as an ox, he did the work of two men, and at night, when in his garret,
fell asleep learning to read. He was seized by the ambition to get on.
No pains were to be spared to gain his goal.

His master having been elected a member of the Chamber of Deputies,
Cayrol accompanied him to Paris. Life in the capital finished the
turmoil of Cayrol’s brain. Seeing the prodigious activity of the great
city on whose pavements fortunes sprang up in a day like mushrooms, the
Auvergnat felt his moral strength equal to the occasion, and leaving his
master, he became clerk to a merchant in the Rue du Sentier.

There, for four years, he studied commerce, and gained much experience.
He soon learned that it was only in financial transactions that large
fortunes were to be rapidly made. He left the Rue du Sentier, and found
a place at a stock-broker’s. His keen scent for speculation served him
admirably. After the lapse of a few years he had charge of the business.
His position was getting better; he was making fifteen thousand francs
per annum, but that was nothing compared to his dreams. He was then
twenty-eight years of age. He felt ready to do anything to succeed,
except something unhandsome, for this lover of money would have died
rather than enrich himself by dishonest means.

It was at this time that his lucky star threw him in Madame
Desvarennes’s way. The mistress, understanding men, guessed Cayrol’s
worth quickly. She was seeking a banker who would devote himself to her
interests. She watched the young man narrowly for some time; then, sure
she was not mistaken as to his capacity, she bluntly proposed to give
him money to start a business. Cayrol, who had already saved eighty
thousand francs, received twelve hundred thousand from Madame
Desvarennes, and settled in the Rue Taitbout, two steps from the house
of Rothschild.

Madame Desvarennes had made a lucky hit in choosing Cayrol as her
confidential agent. This short, thickset Auvergnat was a master of
finance, and in a few years had raised the house to an unexpected
degree of prosperity. Madame Desvarennes had drawn considerable sums
as interest on the money lent, and the banker’s fortune was already
estimated at several millions. Was it the happy influence of Madame
Desvarennes that changed everything she touched into gold, or were
Cayrol’s capacities really extraordinary? The results were there and
that was sufficient. They did not trouble themselves over and above
that.

The banker had naturally become one of the intimates of Madame
Desvarennes’s house. For a long time he saw Jeanne without particularly
noticing her. This young girl had not struck his fancy. It was one night
at a ball, on seeing her dancing with Prince Panine, that he perceived
that she was marvellously engaging. His eyes were attracted by an
invincible power and followed her graceful figure whirling through the
waltz. He secretly envied the brilliant cavalier who was holding this
adorable creature in his arms, who was bending over her bare shoulders,
and whose breath lightly touched her hair. He longed madly for Jeanne,
and from that moment thought only of her.

The Prince was then very friendly with Mademoiselle de Cernay; he
overwhelmed her with kind attentions. Cayrol watched him to see if he
spoke to her of love, but Panine was a past master in these drawing-room
skirmishes, and the banker got nothing for his pains. That Cayrol
was tenacious has been proved. He became intimate with the Prince. He
tendered him such little services as create intimacy, and when he was
sure of not being repulsed with haughtiness, he questioned Serge. Did he
love Mademoiselle de Cernay? This question, asked in a trembling voice
and with a constrained smile, found the Prince quite calm. He answered
lightly that Mademoiselle de Cernay was a very agreeable partner, but
that he had never 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 was not long before he perceived that Micheline
treated the Prince with marked favor. The quiet young girl became
animated when Serge was there. Was there love in this transformation?
Cayrol did not hesitate. He guessed at once that the future would be
Panine’s, and that the maintenance of his own influence in the house
of Desvarennes depended on the attitude which he was about to take.
He passed over to the side of the newcomer with arms and baggage, and
placed himself entirely at his disposal.

It was he who three weeks before, in the name of Panine, had made
overtures to Madame Desvarennes. The errand had been difficult, and the
banker had turned his tongue several times in his mouth before speaking.
Still, Cayrol could overcome all difficulties. He was able to explain
the object of his mission without Madame flying into a passion. But, the
explanation over, there was a terrible scene. He witnessed one of the
most awful bursts of rage that it was possible to expect from a violent
woman. The mistress treated the friend of the family as one would not
have dared to treat a petty commercial traveller who came to a private
house to offer his wares. She showed him the door, and desired him not
to darken the threshold again.

But if Cayrol was resolute he was equally patient. He listened
without saying a word to the reproaches of Madame Desvarennes, who
was exasperated that a candidate should be set up in opposition to the
son-in-law of her choosing. He did not go, and when Madame Desvarennes
was a little calmed by the letting out of her indignation, he argued
with her. The mistress was too hasty about the business; it was no use
deciding without reflecting. Certainly, nobody esteemed Pierre Delarue
more than he did; but it was necessary to know whether Micheline loved
him. A childish affection was not love, and Prince Panine thought he
might hope that Mademoiselle Desvarennes----

The mistress did not allow Cayrol to finish his sentence; she rang the
bell and asked for her daughter. This time, Cayrol prudently took the
opportunity of disappearing. He had opened fire; it was for Micheline
to decide the result of the battle. The banker awaited the issue of the
interview between mother and daughter in the next room. Through the door
he heard the irritated tones of Madame Desvarennes, to which Micheline
answered softly and slowly. The mother threatened and stormed. Coldly
and quietly the daughter received the attack. The tussle lasted about an
hour, when the door reopened and Madame Desvarennes appeared, pale and
still trembling, but calmed. Micheline, wiping her beautiful eyes, still
wet with tears, regained her apartment.

“Well,” said Cayrol timidly, seeing the mistress standing silent and
absorbed before him; “I see with pleasure that you are less agitated.
Did Mademoiselle Micheline give you good reasons?”

“Good reasons!” cried Madame Desvarennes with a violent gesture, last
flash of the late storm. “She cried, that’s all. And you know when she
cries I no longer know what I do or say! She breaks my heart with her
tears. And she knows it. Ah! it is a great misfortune to love children
too much!”

This energetic woman was conquered, and yet understood that she was
wrong to allow herself to be conquered. She fell into a deep reverie,
and forgot that Cayrol was present. She thought of the future which she
had planned for Micheline, and which the latter carelessly destroyed in
an instant.

Pierre, now an orphan, would have been a real son to the mistress. He
would have lived in her house, and have surrounded her old age with care
and affection. And then, he was so full of ability that he could not
help attaining a brilliant position. She would have helped him, and
would have rejoiced in his success. And all this scaffolding was
overturned because this Panine had crossed Micheline’s path. A foreign
adventurer, prince perhaps, but who could tell? Lies are easily told
when the proofs of the lie have to be sought beyond the frontiers. And
it was her daughter who was going to fall in love with an insipid fop
who only coveted her millions. That she should see such a man enter her
family, steal Micheline’s love from her, and rummage her strongbox! In
a moment she vowed mortal hatred against Panine, and resolved to do all
she could to prevent the longed-for marriage with her daughter.

She was disturbed in her meditation by Cayrol’s voice. He wished to take
an answer to the Prince. What must he say to him?

“You will let him know,” said Madame Desvarennes, “that he must refrain
from seeking opportunities of meeting my daughter. If he be a gentleman,
he will understand that his presence, even in Paris, is disagreeable to
me. I ask him to go away for three weeks. After that time he may come
back, and I agree to give him an answer.”

“You promise me that you will not be vexed with me for having undertaken
this errand?”

“I promise on one condition. It is, that not a word which has passed
here this morning shall be repeated to any one. Nobody must suspect the
proposal that you have just made to me.”

Cayrol swore to hold his tongue, and he kept his word. Prince Panine
left that same night for England.

Madame Desvarennes was a woman of quick resolution. She took a sheet
of paper, a pen, and in her large handwriting wrote the following lines
addressed to Pierre:

“If you do not wish to find Micheline married on your return, come back
without a moment’s delay.”

She sent this ominous letter to the young man, who was then in Tripoli.
That done, she returned to her business as if nothing had happened. Her
placid face did not once betray the anguish of her heart during those
three weeks.

The term fixed by Madame Desvarennes with the Prince had expired that
morning. And the severity with which the mistress had received the
Minister of War’s Financial Secretary was a symptom of the agitation in
which the necessity of coming to a decision placed Micheline’s mother.
Every morning for the last week she had expected Pierre to arrive. What
with having to give an answer to the Prince as she had promised, and the
longing to see him whom she loved as a son, she felt sick at heart and
utterly cast down. She thought of asking the Prince for a respite. It
was for that reason she was glad to see Cayrol.

The latter, therefore, had arrived opportunely. He looked as if he
brought startling news. By a glance he drew Madame Desvarennes’s
attention to Marechal and seemed to say:

“I must be alone with you; send him away.”

The mistress understood, and with a decided gesture said:

“You can speak before Marechal; he knows all my affairs as well as I do
myself.”

“Even the matter that brings me here?” replied Cayrol, with surprise.

“Even that. It was necessary for me to have some one to whom I could
speak, or else my heart would have burst! Come, do your errand. The
Prince?”

“A lot it has to do with the Prince,” exclaimed Cayrol, in a huff.
“Pierre has arrived!”

Madame Desvarennes rose abruptly. A rush of blood rose to her face, her
eyes brightened, and her lips opened with a smile.

“At last!” she cried. “But where is he? How did you hear of his return?”

“Ah! faith, it was just by chance. I was shooting yesterday at
Fontainebleau, and I returned this morning by the express. On arriving
at Paris, I alighted on the platform, and there I found myself face
to face with a tall young man with a long beard, who, seeing me pass,
called out, ‘Ah, Cayrol!’ It was Pierre. I only recognized him by his
voice. He is much changed; with his beard, and his complexion bronzed
like an African.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He pressed my hand. He looked at me for a moment with
glistening eyes. There was something on his lips which he longed to ask,
yet did not; but I guessed it. I was afraid of giving way to tenderness,
that might have ended in my saying something foolish, so I left him.”

“How long ago is that?”

“About an hour ago. I only just ran home before coming on here. There
I found Panine waiting for me. He insisted upon accompanying me. I hope
you won’t blame him?”

Madame Desvarennes frowned.

“I will not see him just now,” she said, looking at Cayrol with a
resolute air. “Where did you leave him?”

“In the garden, where I found the young ladies.”

As if to verify the banker’s words, a merry peal of laughter was heard
through the half-open window. It was Micheline, who, with returning
gayety, was making up for the three weeks’ sadness she had experienced
during Panine’s absence.

Madame Desvarennes went to the window, and looked into the garden.
Seated on the lawn, in large bamboo chairs, the young girls were
listening to a story the Prince was telling. The morning was bright and
mild; the sun shining through Micheline’s silk sunshade lit up her fair
head. Before her, Serge, bending his tall figure, was speaking with
animation. Micheline’s eyes were softly fixed on him. Reclining in her
armchair, she allowed herself to be carried away with his conversation,
and thoroughly enjoyed his society, of which she had been deprived for
the last three weeks. Beside her, Jeanne, silently watching the Prince,
was mechanically nibbling, with her white teeth, a bunch of carnations
which she held in her hands. A painful thought contracted Mademoiselle
de Cernay’s brow, and her pale lips on the red flowers seemed to be
drinking blood.

The mistress slowly turned away from this scene. A shadow had
crossed her brow, which had, for a moment, become serene again at the
announcement of Pierre’s arrival. She remained silent for a little
while, as if considering; then coming to a resolution, and turning to
Cayrol, she said:

“Where is Pierre staying?”

“At the Hotel du Louvre,” replied the banker.

“Well, I’m going there.”

Madame Desvarennes rang the bell violently.

“My bonnet, my cloak, and the carriage,” she said, and with a friendly
nod to the two men, she went out quickly.

Micheline was still laughing in the garden. Marechal and Cayrol looked
at each other. Cayrol was the first to speak.

“The mistress told you all about the matter then? How is it you never
spoke to me about it?”

“Should I have been worthy of Madame Desvarennes’s confidence had I
spoken of what she wished to keep secret?”

“To me?”

“Especially to you. The attitude which you have taken forbade my
speaking. You favor Prince Panine?”

“And you; you are on Pierre Delarue’s side?”

“I take no side. I am only a subordinate, you know; I do not count.”

“Do not attempt to deceive me. Your influence over the mistress is
great. The confidence she has in you is a conclusive proof. Important
events are about to take place here. Pierre has certainly returned to
claim his right as betrothed, and Mademoiselle Micheline loves Prince
Serge. Out of this a serious conflict will take place in the house.
There will be a battle. And as the parties in question are about equal
in strength, I am seeking adherents for my candidate. I own, in all
humility, I am on love’s side. The Prince is beloved by Mademoiselle
Desvarennes, and I serve him. Micheline will be grateful, and will do me
a turn with Mademoiselle de Cernay. As to you, let me give you a little
advice. If Madame Desvarennes consults you, speak well of Panine. When
the Prince is master here, your position will be all the better for it.”

Marechal had listened to Cayrol without anything betraying the
impression his words created. He looked at the banker in a peculiar
manner, which caused him to feel uncomfortable, and made him lower his
eyes.

“Perhaps you do not know, Monsieur Cayrol,” said the secretary, after a
moment’s pause, “how I entered this firm. It is as well in that case
to inform you. Four years ago, I was most wretched. After having sought
fortune ten times without success, I felt myself giving way morally and
physically. There are some beings gifted with energy, who can surmount
all the difficulties of life. You are one of those. As for me, the
struggle exhausted my strength, and I came to grief. It would take too
long to enumerate all the ways of earning my living I tried. Few even
fed me; and I was thinking of putting an end to my miserable existence
when I met Pierre. We had been at college together. I went toward him;
he was on the quay. I dared to stop him. At first he did not recognize
me, I was so haggard, so wretched-looking! But when I spoke, he cried,
‘Marechal!’ and, without blushing at my tatters, put his arms round my
neck. We were opposite the Belle Jardiniere, the clothiers; he wanted to
rig me out. I remember as if it were but yesterday I said, ‘No, nothing,
only find me work!’--‘Work, my poor fellow,’ he answered, ‘but just look
at yourself; who would have confidence to give you any? You look like
a tramp, and when you accosted me a little while ago, I asked myself if
you were not about to steal my watch!’ And he laughed gayly, happy
at having found me again, and thinking that he might be of use to me.
Seeing that I would not go into the shop, he took off his overcoat, and
put it on my back to cover my tattered clothes, and there and then he
took me to Madame Desvarennes. Two days later I entered the office. You
see the position I hold, and I owe it to Pierre. He has been more than a
friend to me--a brother. Come! after that, tell me what you would think
of me if I did what you have just asked me?”

Cayrol was confused; he twisted his bristly beard with his fingers.

“Faith, I do not say that your scruples are not right; but, between
ourselves, every step that is taken against the Prince will count for
naught. He will marry Mademoiselle Desvarennes.”

“It is possible. In that case, I shall be here to console Pierre and
sympathize with him.”

“And in the mean time you are going to do all you can in his favor?”

“I have already had the honor of telling you that I cannot do anything.”

“Well, well. One knows what talking means, and you will not change my
idea of your importance. You take the weaker side then; that’s superb!”

“It is but strictly honest,” said Marechal. “It is true that that
quality has become very rare!”

Cayrol wheeled round on his heels. He took a few steps toward the door,
then, returning to Marechal, held out his hand:

“Without a grudge, eh?”

The secretary allowed his hand to be shaken without answering, and the
banker went out, saying to himself:

“He is without a sou and has prejudices! There’s a lad without a
future.”




CHAPTER IV. THE RIVALS

On reaching Paris, Pierre Delarue experienced a strange feeling. In his
feverish haste he longed for the swiftness of electricity to bring him
near Micheline. As soon as he arrived in Paris, he regretted having
travelled so fast. He longed to meet his betrothed, yet feared to know
his fate.

He had a sort of presentiment that his reception would destroy his
hopes. And the more he tried to banish these thoughts, the more forcibly
they returned. The thought that Micheline had forgotten her promise made
the blood rush to his face.

Madame Desvarennes’s short letter suggested it. That his betrothed
was lost to him he understood, but he would not admit it. How was it
possible that Micheline should forget him? All his childhood passed
before his mind. He remembered the sweet and artless evidences of
affection which the young girl had given him. And yet she no longer
loved him! It was her own mother who said so. After that could he still
hope?

A prey to this deep trouble, Pierre entered Paris. On finding himself
face to face with Cayrol, the young man’s first idea was, as Cayrol had
guessed, to cry out, “What’s going on? Is all lost to me?” A sort of
anxious modesty kept back the words on his lips. He would not admit that
he doubted. And, then, Cayrol would only have needed to answer that
all was over, and that he could put on mourning for his love. He turned
around, and went out.

The tumult of Paris surprised and stunned him. After spending a year
in the peaceful solitudes of Africa, to find himself amid the cries of
street-sellers, the rolling of carriages, and the incessant movement of
the great city, was too great a contrast to him. Pierre was overcome
by languor; his head seemed too heavy for his body to carry; he
mechanically entered a cab which conveyed him to the Hotel du Louvre.
Through the window, against the glass of which he tried to cool his
heated forehead, he saw pass in procession before his eyes, the Column
of July, the church of St. Paul, the Hotel de Ville in ruins, and the
colonnade of the Louvre.

An absurd idea took possession of him. He remembered that during the
Commune he was nearly killed in the Rue Saint-Antoine by the explosion
of a shell, thrown by the insurgents from the heights of Pere-Lachaise.
He thought that had he died then, Micheline would have wept for him.
Then, as in a nightmare, it seemed to him that this hypothesis was
realized. He saw the church hung with black, he heard the funeral
chants. A catafalque contained his coffin, and slowly his betrothed
came, with a trembling hand, to throw holy water on the cloth which
covered the bier. And a voice said within him:

“You are dead, since Micheline is about to marry another.”

He made an effort to banish this importunate idea. He could not succeed.
Thoughts flew through his brain with fearful rapidity. He thought he was
beginning to be seized with brain fever. And this dismal ceremony kept
coming before him with the same chants, the same words repeated, and the
same faces appearing. The houses seemed to fly before his vacant eyes.
To stop this nightmare he tried to count the gas-lamps: one, two, three,
four, five--but the same thought interrupted his calculation:

“You are dead, since your betrothed is about to marry another.”

He was afraid he was going mad. A sharp pain shot across his forehead
just above the right eyebrow. In the old days he had felt the same pain
when he had overworked himself in preparing for his examinations at the
Polytechnic School. With a bitter smile he asked himself if one of the
aching vessels in his brain was about to burst?

The sudden stoppage of the cab freed him from this torture. The hotel
porter opened the door. Pierre stepped out mechanically. Without
speaking a word he followed a waiter, who showed him to a room on the
second floor. Left alone, he sat down. This room, with its commonplace
furniture, chilled him. He saw in it a type of his future life: lonely
and desolate. Formerly, when he used to come to Paris, he stayed with
Madame Desvarennes, where he had the comforts of home, and every one
looked on him affectionately.

Here, at the hotel, orders were obeyed with politeness at so much a day.
Would it always be thus in future?

This painful impression dissipated his weakness as by enchantment. He so
bitterly regretted the sweets of the past, that he resolved to struggle
to secure them for the future. He dressed himself quickly, and removed
all the traces of his journey; then, his mind made up, he jumped into a
cab, and drove to Madame Desvarennes’s. All indecision had left him. His
fears now seemed contemptible. He must defend himself. It was a question
of his happiness.

At the Place de la Concorde a carriage passed his cab. He recognized the
livery of Madame Desvarennes’s coachman and leant forward. The mistress
did not see him. He was about to stop the cab and tell his driver to
follow her carriage when a sudden thought decided him to go on. It was
Micheline he wanted to see. His future destiny depended on her. Madame
Desvarennes had made him clearly understand that by calling for his help
in her fatal letter. He went on his way, and in a few minutes arrived at
the mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique.

Micheline and Jeanne were still in the garden, seated in the same place
on the lawn. Cayrol had joined Serge. Both, profiting by the lovely
morning, were enjoying the society of their beloved ones. A quick step
on the gravel walk attracted their attention. In the sunlight a young
man, whom neither Jeanne nor Micheline recognized, was advancing. When
about two yards distant from the group he slowly raised his hat.

Seeing the constrained and astonished manner of the young girls, a sad
smile played on his lips, then he said, softly:

“Am I then so changed that I must tell you my name?”

At these words Micheline jumped up, she became as white as her collar,
and trembling, with sobs rising to her lips, stood silent and petrified
before Pierre. She could not speak, but her eyes were eagerly fixed on
the young man. It was he, the companion of her youth, so changed that
she had not recognized him; worn by hard work, perhaps by anxieties,
bronzed--and with his face hidden by a black beard which gave him a
manly and energetic appearance. It was certainly he, with a thin red
ribbon at his button-hole, which he had not when he went away, and which
showed the importance of the works he had executed and of great perils
he had faced. Pierre, trembling and motionless, was silent; the sound of
his voice choked with emotion had frightened him. He had expected a cold
reception, but this scared look, which resembled terror, was beyond all
he had pictured. Serge wondered and watched.

Jeanne broke the icy silence. She went up to Pierre, and presented her
forehead.

“Well,” she said, “don’t you kiss your friends?”

She smiled affectionately on him. Two grateful tears sparkled in the
young man’s eyes, and fell on Mademoiselle de Cernay’s hair. Micheline,
led away by the example and without quite knowing what she was doing,
found herself in Pierre’s arms. The situation was becoming singularly
perplexing to Serge. Cayrol, who had not lost his presence of mind,
understood it, and turning toward the Prince, said:

“Monsieur Pierre Delarue: an old friend and companion of Mademoiselle
Desvarennes’s; almost a brother to her,” thus explaining in one word all
that could appear unusual in such a scene of tenderness.

Then, addressing Pierre, he simply added--“Prince Panine.”

The two men looked at each other. Serge, with haughty curiosity; Pierre,
with inexpressible rage. In a moment, he guessed that the tall, handsome
man beside his betrothed was his rival. If looks could kill, the Prince
would have fallen down dead. Panine did not deign to notice the hatred
which glistened in the eyes of the newcomer. He turned toward Micheline
with exquisite grace and said:

“Your mother receives her friends this evening, I think, Mademoiselle; I
shall have the honor of paying my respects to her.”

And taking leave of Jeanne with a smile, and of Pierre with a courteous
bow, he left, accompanied by Cayrol.

Serge’s departure was a relief to Micheline. Between these two men to
whom she belonged, to the one by a promise, to the other by an
avowal, she felt ashamed. Left alone with Pierre she recovered her
self-possession, and felt full of pity for the poor fellow threatened
with such cruel deception. She went tenderly to him, with her loving
eyes of old, and pressed his hand:

“I am very glad to see you again, my dear Pierre; and my mother will be
delighted. We were very anxious about you. You have not written to us
for some months.”

Pierre tried to joke: “The post does not leave very often in the desert.
I wrote whenever I had an opportunity.”

“Is it so very pleasant in Africa that you could not tear yourself away
a whole year?”

“I had to take another journey on the coast of Tripoli to finish my
labors. I was interested in my work, and anxious not to lose the result
of so much effort, and I think I have succeeded--at least in--the
opinion of my employers,” said the young man, with a ghastly smile.

“My dear Pierre, you come in time from the land of the sphinx,”
 interrupted Jeanne gravely, and glancing intently at Micheline. “There
is here, I assure you, a difficult enigma to solve.”

“What is it?”

“That which is written in this heart,” she replied, lightly touching her
companion’s breast.

“From childhood I have always read it as easily as a book,” said Pierre,
with tremulous voice, turning toward the amazed Micheline.

Mademoiselle de Cernay tossed her head.

“Who knows? Perhaps her disposition has changed during your absence;”
 and nodding pleasantly, she went toward the house.

Pierre followed her for a moment with his eyes, then, turning toward his
betrothed, said:

“Micheline, shall I tell you your secret? You no longer love me.”

The young girl started. The attack was direct. She must at once give
an explanation. She had often thought of what she would say when Pierre
came back to her. The day had arrived unexpectedly. And the answers she
had prepared had fled. The truth appeared harsh and cold. She understood
that the change in her was treachery, of which Pierre was the innocent
victim; and feeling herself to blame, she waited tremblingly the
explosion of this loyal heart so cruelly wounded. She stammered, in
tremulous accents:

“Pierre, my friend, my brother.”

“Your brother!” cried the young man, bitterly. “Was that the name you
were to give me on my return?”

At these words, which so completely summed up the situation, Micheline
remained silent. Still she felt that at all hazards she must defend
herself. Her mother might come in at any moment. Between Madame
Desvarennes and her betrothed, what would become of her? The hour was
decisive. Her strong love for Serge gave her fresh energy.

“Why did you go away?” she asked, with sadness.

Pierre raised with pride his head which had been bent with anguish.

“To be worthy of you,” he merely said.

“You did not need to be worthy of me; you, who were already above every
one else. We were betrothed; you only had to guard me.”

“Could not your heart guard itself?”

“Without help, without the support of your presence and affection?”

“Without other help or support than I had myself: Hope and Remembrance.”

Micheline turned pale. Each word spoken by Pierre made her feel the
unworthiness of her conduct more completely. She endeavored to find a
new excuse:

“Pierre, you know I was only a child.”

“No,” said the young man, with choked voice, “I see that you were
already a woman; a being weak, inconstant, and cruel; who cares not for
the love she inspires, and sacrifices all to the love she feels.”

So long as Pierre had only complained, Micheline felt overwhelmed and
without strength; but the young man began to accuse. In a moment the
young girl regained her presence of mind and revolted.

“Those are hard words!” she exclaimed.

“Are they not deserved?” cried Pierre, no longer restraining himself.
“You saw me arrive trembling, with eyes full of tears, and not only had
you not an affectionate word to greet me with, but you almost accuse me
of indifference. You reproach me with having gone away. Did you not know
my motive for going? I was betrothed to you; you were rich and I was
poor. To remove this inequality I resolved to make a name. I sought one
of those perilous scientific missions which bring celebrity or death
to those who undertake them. Ah! think not that I went away from you
without heart-breaking! For a year I was almost alone, crushed with
fatigue, always in danger; the thought that I was suffering for you
supported me.

“When lost in the vast desert, I was sad and discouraged; I invoked you,
and your sweet face gave me fresh hope and energy. I said to myself,
‘She is waiting for me. A day will come when I shall win the prize of
all my trouble.’ Well, Micheline, the day has come; here I am, returned,
and I ask for my reward. Is it what I had a right to expect? While I was
running after glory, another, more practical and better advised, stole
your heart. My happiness is destroyed. You did well to forget me.
The fool who goes so far away from his betrothed does not deserve her
faithfulness. He is cold, indifferent, he does not know how to love!”

These vehement utterances troubled Micheline deeply. For the first time
she understood her betrothed, felt how much he loved her, and regretted
not having known it before. If Pierre had spoken like that before going
away, who knows? Micheline’s feelings might have been quickened. No
doubt she would have loved him. It would have come naturally. But Pierre
had kept the secret of his passion for the young girl to himself. It was
only despair, and the thought of losing her, that made him give vent to
his feelings now.

“I see that I have been cruel and unjust to you,” said Micheline. “I
deserve your reproaches, but I am not the only one to blame. You, too,
are at fault. What I have just heard has upset me. I am truly sorry
to cause you so much pain; but it is too late. I no longer belong to
myself.”

“And did you belong to yourself?”

“No! It is true, you had my word, but be generous. Do not abuse the
authority which being my betrothed gives you. That promise I would now
ask back from you.”

“And if I refuse to release you from your promise? If I tried to, regain
your love?” cried Pierre, forcibly. “Have I not the right to defend
myself? And what would you think of my love if I relinquished you so
readily?”

There was a moment’s silence. The interview was at its highest pitch of
excitement. Micheline knew that she must put an end to it. She replied
with firmness:

“A girl such as I am will not break her word; mine belongs to you, but
my heart is another’s. Say you insist, and I am ready to keep my promise
to become your wife. It is for you to decide.”

Pierre gave the young girl a look which plunged into the depths of her
heart. He read there her resolve that she would act loyally, but that at
the same time she would never forget him who had so irresistibly gained
her heart. He made a last effort.

“Listen,” he said, with ardent voice, “it is impossible that you can
have forgotten me so soon: I love you so much! Remember our affection in
the old days, Micheline. Remember!”

He no longer argued; he pleaded. Micheline felt victorious. She was
moved with pity.

“Alas! my poor Pierre, my affection was only friendship, and my
heart has not changed toward you. The love which I now feel is quite
different. If it had not come to me, I might have been your wife. And
I esteemed you so much, that I should have been happy. But now I
understand the difference. You, whom I had accepted, would never have
been more to me than a tender companion; he whom I have chosen will be
my master.”

Pierre uttered a cry at this cruel and frank avowal.

“Ah! how you hurt me!”

And bitter tears rolled down his face to the relief of his overburdened
heart. He sank on to a seat, and for a moment gave way to violent
grief. Micheline, more touched by his despair than she had been by his
reproaches, went to him and wiped his face with her lace handkerchief.
Her white hand was close to the young man’s mouth,--and he kissed it
eagerly. Then, as if roused by the action, he rose with a changed look
in his eyes, and seized the young girl in his arms. Micheline did not
utter a word. She looked coldly and resolutely at Pierre, and threw back
her head to avoid the contact of his eager lips. That look was enough.
The arms which held her were unloosed, and Pierre moved away, murmuring:

“I beg your pardon. You see I am not in my right mind.”

Then passing his hand across his forehead as if to chase away a wicked
thought, he added:

“So it is irrevocable? You love him?”

“Enough to give you so much pain; enough to be nobody’s unless I belong
to him.”

Pierre reflected a moment, then, coming to a decision:

“Go, you are free,” said he; “I give you back your promise.”

Micheline uttered a cry of triumph, which made him who had been her
betrothed turn pale. She regretted not having hidden her joy better. She
approached Pierre and said:

“Tell me that you forgive me!”

“I forgive you.”

“You still weep?”

“Yes; I am weeping over my lost happiness. I thought the best means
of being loved were to deserve it. I was mistaken. I will courageously
atone for my error. Excuse my weakness, and believe that you will never
have a more faithful and devoted friend than I.”

Micheline gave him her hand, and, smiling, bowed her forehead to his
lips. He slowly impressed a brotherly kiss, which effaced the burning
trace of the one which he had stolen a moment before.

At the same time a deep voice was heard in the distance, calling Pierre.
Micheline trembled.

“‘Tis my mother,” she said. “She is seeking you. I will leave you.
Adieu, and a thousand thanks from my very heart.”

And nimbly springing behind a clump of lilac-trees in flower, Micheline
disappeared.

Pierre mechanically went toward the house. He ascended the marble steps
and entered the drawing-room. As he shut the door, Madame Desvarennes
appeared.




CHAPTER V. A CRITICAL INTERVIEW

Madame Desvarennes had been driven to the Hotel du Louvre without losing
a minute. She most wanted to know in what state of mind her daughter’s
betrothed had arrived in Paris. Had the letter, which brutally told
him the truth, roused him and tightened the springs of his will? Was he
ready for the struggle?

If she found him confident and bold, she had only to settle with him as
to the common plan of action which must bring about the eviction of
the audacious candidate who wished to marry Micheline. If she found him
discouraged and doubtful of himself, she had decided to animate him with
her ardor against Serge Panine.

She prepared these arguments on the way, and, boiling with impatience,
outstripped in thought the fleet horse which was drawing her past the
long railings of the Tuileries toward the Hotel du Louvre. Wrapped in
her meditations she did not see Pierre. She was saying to herself:

“This fair-haired Polish dandy does not know with whom he has to deal.
He will see what sort of a woman I am. He has not risen early enough in
the morning to hoodwink me. If Pierre is only of the same opinion as I,
we shall soon spoil this fortune-hunter’s work.”

The carriage stopped.

“Monsieur Pierre Delarue?” inquired the mistress.

“Madame, he went out a quarter of an hour ago.”

“To go where?”

“He did not say.”

“Do you know whether he will be absent long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Much obliged.”

Madame Desvarennes, quite discomfited by this mischance, reflected.
Where could Pierre have gone? Probably to her house. Without losing a
minute, she reentered the carriage, and gave orders to return to the Rue
Saint-Dominique. If he had gone at once to her house, it was plain that
he was ready to do anything to keep Micheline. The coachman who had
received the order drove furiously. She said to herself:

“Pierre is in a cab. Allowing that he is driving moderately quick he
will only have half-an-hour’s start of me. He will pass through the
office, will see Marechal, and however eager he be, will lose a quarter
of an hour in chatting to him. It would be most vexing if he did
anything foolish in the remaining fifteen minutes! The fault is mine: I
ought to have sent him a letter at Marseilles, to tell him what line of
conduct to adopt on his arrival. So long as he does not meet Micheline
on entering the house!”

At that idea Madame Desvarennes felt the blood rushing to her face. She
put her head out of the carriage window, and called to the coachman:

“Drive faster!”

He drove more furiously still, and in a few minutes reached the Rue
Saint-Dominique.

She tore into the house like a hurricane, questioned the hall-porter,
and learned that Delarue had arrived. She hastened to Marechal, and
asked him in such a strange manner, “Have you seen Pierre?” that he
thought some accident had happened.

On seeing her secretary’s scared look, she understood that what she
most dreaded had come to pass. She hurried to the drawing-room, calling
Pierre in a loud voice. The French window opened, and she found herself
face to face with the young man. A glance at her adopted son’s face
increased her fears. She opened her arms and clasped Pierre to her
heart.

After the first emotions were over, she longed to know what had happened
during her absence, and inquired of Pierre:

“By whom were you received on arriving here?”

“By Micheline.”

“That is what I feared! What did she tell you?”

“Everything!”

In three sentences these two strong beings had summed up all that had
taken place. Madame Desvarennes remained silent for a moment, then, with
sudden tenderness, and as if to make up for her daughter’s treachery,
said:

“Come, let me kiss you again, my poor boy. You suffer, eh? and I too!
I am quite overcome. For ten years I have cherished the idea of your
marrying Micheline. You are a man of merit, and you have no relatives.
You would not take my daughter away from me; on the contrary I think you
like me, and would willingly live with me. In arranging this marriage
I realized the dream of my life. I was not taking a son-in-law-I was
gaining a new child.”

“Believe me,” said Pierre, sadly, “it is not my fault that your wish is
not carried out.”

“That, my boy, is another question!” cried Madame Desvarennes, whose
voice was at once raised two tones. “And that is where we do not agree.
You are responsible for what has occurred. I know what you are going,
to tell me. You wished to bring laurels to Micheline as a dower. That
is all nonsense! When one leaves the Polytechnic School with honors, and
with a future open to you like yours, it is not necessary to scour
the deserts to dazzle a young girl. One begins by marrying her, and
celebrity comes afterward, at the same time as the children. And then
there was no need to risk all at such a cost. What, are we then so
grand? Ex-bakers! Millionaires, certainly, which does not alter the
fact that poor Desvarennes carried out the bread, and that I gave change
across the counter when folks came to buy sou-cakes! But you wanted
to be a knight-errant, and, during that time, a handsome fellow. Did
Micheline tell you the gentleman’s name?”

“I met him when I came here; he was with her in the garden. We were
introduced to each other.”

“That was good taste,” said Madame Desvarennes with irony. “Oh, he is a
youth who is not easily disturbed, and in his most passionate transports
will not disarrange a fold of his cravat. You know he is a Prince? That
is most flattering to the Desvarennes! We shall use his coat-of-arms as
our trade-mark. The fortune hunter, ugh! No doubt he said to himself,
‘The baker has money--and her daughter is agreeable.’ And he is making a
business of it.”

“He is only following the example of many of his equals. Marriage is
to-day the sole pursuit of the nobility.”

“The nobility! That of our country might be tolerated, but foreign
noblemen are mere adventurers.”

“It is well known that the Panines come from Posen--the papers have
mentioned them more than twenty times.”

“Why is he not in his own country?”

“He is exiled.”

“He has done something wrong, then!”

“He has, like all his family, fought for independence.”

“Then he is a revolutionist!”

“A patriot.”

“You are very kind to tell me all that.”

“I may hate Prince Panine,” said Pierre, simply, “but that is no reason
why I should not be just to him.”

“So be it; he is an exceptional being, a great citizen, a hero, if you
like. But that does not prove that he will make my daughter happy. And
if you take my advice, we shall send him about his business in a very
short time.”

Madame Desvarennes was excited and paced hurriedly up and down the room.
The idea of resuming the offensive after she had been forced to act on
the defensive for months past pleased her. She thought Pierre argued too
much. A woman of action, she did not understand why Pierre had not yet
come to a resolution. She felt that she must gain his confidence.

“You are master of the situation,” she said. “The Prince does not suit
me--”

“Micheline loves him,” interrupted Pierre.

“She fancies so,” replied Madame Desvarennes. “She has got it into her
head, but it will wear off. You thoroughly understand that I did not bid
you to come from Africa to be present at my daughter’s wedding. If you
are a man, we shall see some fun. Micheline is your betrothed. You have
our word, and the word of a Desvarennes is as good as the signature.--It
has never been dishonored. Well, refuse to give us back our promise.
Gain time, make love, and take my daughter away from that dandy.”

Pierre remained silent for a few minutes. In a moment he measured the
extent of the mischief done, by seeing Micheline before consulting
Madame Desvarennes. With the help of this energetic woman he might have
struggled, whereas left to his own strength, he had at the outset been
vanquished and forced to lay down his arms. Not only had he yielded, but
he had drawn his ally into his defeat.

“Your encouragements come too late,” said he. “Micheline asked me to
give her back her promise, and I gave it to her.”

“You were so weak as that!” cried Madame Desvarennes. “And she had so
much boldness? Does she dote on him so? I suspected her plans, and I
hastened to warn you. But all is not lost. You have given Micheline
back her promise. So be it. But I have not given you back yours. You are
pledged to me. I will not countenance the marriage which my daughter has
arranged without my consent! Help me to break it off. And, faith, you
could easily find another woman worth Micheline, but where shall I find
a son-in-law worth you? Come, the happiness of us all is in peril; save
it!”

“Why continue the struggle? I am beaten beforehand.”

“But if you forsake me, what can I do single-handed with Micheline?”

“Do what she wishes, as usual. You are surprised at my giving you this
advice? It is no merit on my part. Until now you have refused your
daughter’s request; but if she comes again beseeching and crying, you
who are so strong and can say so well ‘I will,’ will be weak and will
not be able to refuse her her Prince. Believe me; consent willingly. Who
knows? Your son’-in-law may be grateful to you for it by-and-by.”

Madame Desvarennes had listened to Pierre with amazement.

“Really, you are incredible,” she said; “you discuss all this so calmly.
Have you no grief?”

“Yes,” replied Pierre, solemnly, “it is almost killing me.”

“Nonsense! You are boasting!” cried Madame Desvarennes, vehemently. “Ah,
scholar! figures have dried up your heart!”

“No,” replied the young man, with melancholy, “but work has destroyed in
me the seductions of youth. It has made me thoughtful, and a little sad.
I frightened Micheline, instead of attracting her. The worst is that we
live in such a state of high pressure, it is quite impossible to
grasp all that is offered to us in this life-work and pleasure. It is
necessary to make a choice, to economize one’s time and strength, and
to work with either the heart or the brain alone. The result is that the
neglected organ wastes away, and that men of pleasure remain all their
lives mediocre workers, while hard workers are pitiful lovers. The
former sacrifice the dignity of existence, the latter that which is
the charm of existence. So that, in decisive moments, when the man of
pleasure appeals to his intelligence, he finds he is unfit for duty,
and when the man of toil appeals to his heart, he finds that he is
unqualified for happiness.”

“Well, my boy, so much the worse for the women who cannot appreciate men
of work, and who allow themselves to be wheedled by men of pleasure. I
never was one of those; and serious as you are, thirty years ago I would
have jumped at you. But as you know your ailment so well, why don’t you
cure yourself? The remedy is at hand.”

“What is it?”

“Strong will. Marry Micheline. I’ll answer for everything.”

“She does not love me.”

“A woman always ends by loving her husband.”

“I love Micheline too much to accept her hand without her heart.”

Madame Desvarennes saw that she would gain nothing, and that the game
was irrevocably lost. A great sorrow stole over her. She foresaw a dark
future, and had a presentiment that trouble had entered the house with
Serge Panine. What could she do? Combat the infatuation of her daughter!
She knew that life would be odious for her if Micheline ceased to laugh
and to sing. Her daughter’s tears would conquer her will. Pierre had
told her truly. Where was the use of fighting when defeat was certain?
She, too, felt that she was powerless, and with heartfelt sorrow came to
a decision.

“Come, I see that I must make up my mind to be grandmother to little
princes. It pleases me but little on the father’s account. My daughter
will have a sad lot with a fellow of that kind. Well, he had better keep
in the right path; for I shall be there to call him to order. Micheline
must be happy. When my husband was alive, I was already more of a mother
than a wife; now my whole life is wrapped up in my daughter.”

Then raising her vigorous arms with grim energy, she added:

“Do you know, if my daughter were made miserable through her husband, I
should be capable of killing him.”

These were the last words of the interview which decided the destiny
of Micheline, of the Prince, of Madame Desvarennes, and of Pierre. The
mistress stretched out her hand and rang the bell. A servant appeared,
to whom she gave instructions to tell Marechal to come down. She thought
it would be pleasant for Pierre to pour out his griefs into the heart of
his friend. A man weeps with difficulty before a woman, and she guessed
that the young man’s heart was swollen with tears. Marechal was not far
off. He arrived in a moment, and springing toward Pierre put his arms
round his neck. When Madame Desvarennes saw the two friends fully
engrossed with each other, she said to Marechal:

“I give you leave until this evening. Then bring Pierre back with you; I
wish to see him after dinner.”

And with a firm step she went toward Micheline’s room, where the latter
was waiting in fear to know the result of the interview.




CHAPTER VI. A SIGNIFICANT MEETING

The mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique is certainly one of the finest
to be seen. Sovereigns alone have more sumptuous palaces. The wide
staircase, of carved oak, is bordered by a bronze balustrade, made by
Ghirlandajo, and brought from Florence by Sommervieux, the great dealer
in curiosities. Baron Rothschild would consent to give only a hundred
thousand francs for it. Madame Desvarennes bought it. The large panels
of the staircase are hung with splendid tapestry, from designs by
Boucher, representing the different metamorphoses of Jupiter. At each
landing-place stands a massive Japanese vase of ‘claisonne’ enamel,
supported by a tripod of Chinese bronze, representing chimeras. On the
first floor, tall columns of red granite, crowned by gilt capitals,
divide the staircase from a gallery, serving as a conservatory. Plaited
blinds of crimson silk hang before the Gothic windows, filled with
marvellous stained glass.

In the vestibule-the hangings of which are of Cordova-leather, with gold
ground-seemingly awaiting the good pleasure of some grand lady, is a
sedan-chair, decorated with paintings by Fragonard. Farther on, there
is one of those superb carved mother-of-pearl coffers, in which Oriental
women lay by their finery and jewellery. A splendid Venetian mirror, its
frame embellished with tiny figure subjects, and measuring two metres
in width and three in height, fills a whole panel of the vestibule.
Portieres of Chinese satin, ornamented with striking embroidery, such
as figures on a priest’s chasuble, fall in sumptuous folds at the
drawing-room and dining-room doors.

The drawing-room contains a splendid set of Louis Quatorze furniture,
of gilt wood, upholstered in fine tapestry, in an extraordinary state
of preservation. Three crystal lustres, hanging at intervals along the
room, sparkle like diamonds. The hangings, of woven silk and gold, are
those which were sent as a present by Louis Quatorze to Monsieur de
Pimentel, the Spanish Ambassador, to reward him for the part he had
taken in the conclusion of the Treaty of the Pyrenees. These
hangings are unique, and were brought back from Spain in 1814, in the
baggage-train of Soult’s army, and sold to an inhabitant of Toulouse
for ten thousand francs. It was there that Madame Desvarennes discovered
them in a garret in 1864, neglected by the grandchildren of the buyer,
who were ignorant of the immense value of such unrivalled work. Cleverly
mended, they are to-day the pride of the great trader’s drawing-room.
On the mantelpiece there is a large clock in Chinese lacquer, ornamented
with gilt bronze, made on a model sent out from Paris in the reign of
Louis Quatorze, and representing the Flight of the Hours pursued by
Time.

Adjoining the great drawing-room is a boudoir upholstered in light gray
silk damask, with bouquets of flowers. This is Madame Desvarennes’s
favorite room. A splendid Erard piano occupies one side of the
apartment. Facing it is a sideboard in sculptured ebony, enriched with
bronze, by Gouthieres. There are only two pictures on the walls: “The
Departure of the Newly Married Couple,” exquisitely painted by Lancret;
and “The Prediction,” an adorable work by Watteau, bought at an
incredible price at the Pourtales sale. Over the chimney-piece is a
miniature by Pommayrac, representing Micheline as a little child--a
treasure which Madame Desvarennes cannot behold without tears coming to
her eyes. A door, hidden by curtains, opens on to a staircase leading
directly to the courtyard.

The dining-room is in the purest Renaissance style austere woodwork;
immense chests of caned pearwood, on which stand precious ewers in
Urbino ware, and dishes by Bernard Palissy. The high stone fireplace is
surmounted by a portrait of Diana of Poitiers, with a crescent on her
brow, and is furnished with firedogs of elaborately worked iron. The
centre panel bears the arms of Admiral Bonnivet. Stained-glass windows
admit a softly-tinted light. From the magnificently painted ceiling,
a chandelier of brass repousse work hangs from the claws of a hovering
eagle.

The billiard-room is in the Indian style. Magnificent panoplies unite
Rajpoot shields, Mahratta scimitars, helmets with curtains of steel,
rings belonging to Afghan chiefs, and long lances ornamented with white
mares’ tails, wielded by the horsemen of Cabul. The walls are painted
from designs brought from Lahore. The panels of the doors were decorated
by Gerome. The great artist has painted Nautch girls twisting their
floating scarves, and jugglers throwing poignards into the air. Around
the room are low divans, covered with soft and brilliant Oriental cloth.
The chandelier is quite original in form, being the exact representation
of the god Vishnu. From the centre of the body hangs a lotus leaf of
emeralds, and from each of the four arms is suspended a lamp shaped like
a Hindu pagoda, which throws out a mellow light.

Madame Desvarennes was entertaining her visitors in these celebrated
apartments that evening. Marechal and Pierre had just come in, and were
talking together near the fireplace. A few steps from them was a group,
consisting of Cayrol, Madame Desvarennes, and a third person, who had
never until then put his foot in the house, in spite of intercessions in
his favor made by the banker to Madame Desvarennes. He was a tall, pale,
thin man, whose skin seemed stretched on his bones, with a strongly
developed under-jaw, like that of a ravenous animal, and eyes of
indefinable color, always changing, and veiled behind golden-rimmed
spectacles. His hands were soft and smooth, with moist palms and closely
cut nails--vicious hands, made to take cunningly what they coveted. He
had scanty hair, of a pale yellow, parted just above the ear, so as to
enable him to brush it over the top of his head. This personage, clad
in a double-breasted surtout, over a white waistcoat, and wearing a
many-colored rosette, was called Hermann Herzog.

A daring financier, he had come from Luxembourg, preceded by a great
reputation; and, in a few months, he had launched in Paris such a series
of important affairs that the big-wigs on the Exchange felt bound to
treat with him. There were many rumors current about him. Some said he
was the most intelligent, most active, and most scrupulous of men that
it was possible to meet. Others said that no greater scoundrel had
ever dared the vengeance of the law, after plundering honest people.
Of German nationality, those who cried him down said he was born at
Mayence. Those who treated the rumors as legends said he was born at
Frankfort, the most Gallic town beyond the river Rhine.

He had just completed an important line of railway from Morocco to the
centre of our colony in Algeria, and now he was promoting a company for
exporting grain and flour from America. Several times Cayrol had tried
to bring Herzog and Madame Desvarennes together. The banker had an
interest in the grain and flour speculation, but he asserted that it
would not succeed unless the mistress had a hand in it. Cayrol had a
blind faith in the mistress’s luck.

Madame Desvarennes, suspicious of everything foreign, and perfectly
acquainted with the rumors circulated respecting Herzog, had always
refused to receive him. But Cayrol had been so importunate that, being
quite tired of refusing, and, besides, being willing to favor Cayrol for
having so discreetly managed the negotiations of Micheline’s marriage,
she had consented.

Herzog had just arrived. He was expressing to Madame Desvarennes his
delight at being admitted to her house. He had so often heard her highly
spoken of that he had formed a high idea of her, but one which was,
however, far below the reality; he understood now that it was an honor
to be acquainted with her. He wheedled her with German grace, and with a
German-Jewish accent, which reminds one of the itinerant merchants, who
offer you with persistence “a goot pargain.”

The mistress had been rather cold at first, but Herzog’s amiability had
thawed her. This man, with his slow speech and queer eyes, produced a
fascinating effect on one like a serpent. He was repugnant, and yet, in
spite of one’s self one was led on. He, had at once introduced the grain
question, but in this he found himself face to face with the real Madame
Desvarennes; and no politeness held good on her part when it was a
question of business. From his first words, she had found a weak
point in the plan, and had attacked him with such plainness that the
financier, seeing his enterprise collapse at the sound of the mistress’s
voice-like the walls of Jericho at the sound of the Jewish trumpets--had
beaten a retreat, and had changed the subject.

He was about to float a credit and discount company superior to any in
the world. He would come back and talk with Madame Desvarennes about it,
because she ought to participate in the large profits which the matter
promised. There was no risk. The novelty of the undertaking consisted
in the concurrence of the largest banking-houses of France and abroad,
which would hinder all competition, and prevent hostility on the part
of the great money-handlers. It was very curious, and Madame Desvarennes
would feel great satisfaction in knowing the mechanism of this company,
destined to become, from the first, the most important in the world, and
yet most easy to understand.

Madame Desvarennes neither said “Yes” nor “No.” Moved by the soft
and insinuating talkativeness of Herzog, she felt herself treading on
dangerous ground. It seemed to her that her foot was sinking, as in
those dangerous peat-mosses of which the surface is covered with green
grass, tempting one to run on it. Cayrol was under the charm. He drank
in the German’s words. This clever man, who had never till then been
duped, had found his master in Herzog.

Pierre and Marechal had come nearer, and Madame Desvarennes, profiting
by this mingling of groups, introduced the men to each other. On hearing
the name of Pierre Delarue, Herzog looked thoughtful, and asked if the
young man was the renowned engineer whose works on the coast of Africa
had caused so much talk in Europe? On Madame Desvarennes replying in the
affirmative, he showered well-chosen compliments on Pierre. He had had
the pleasure of meeting Delarue in Algeria, when he had gone over to
finish the railroad in Morocco.

But Pierre had stepped back on learning that the constructor of that
important line was before him.

“Ah! is it you, sir, who carried out that job?” said he. “Faith! you
treated those poor Moors rather hardly!”

He remembered the misery of the poor natives employed by Europeans who
superintended the work. Old men, women, and children were placed at the
disposal of the contractors by the native authorities, to dig up and
remove the soil; and these poor wretches, crushed with hard work, and
driven with the lash by drunken overseers--who commanded them with a
pistol in hand--under a burning sun, inhaled the noxious vapors arising
from the upturned soil, and died like flies. It was a terrible sight,
and one that Pierre could not forget.

But Herzog, with his cajoling sweetness, protested against this
exaggerated picture. Delarue had arrived during the dog-days--a bad
time. And then, it was necessary for the work to be carried on without
delay. Besides, a few Moors, more or less--what did it matter? Negroes,
all but monkeys!

Marechal, who had listened silently until then, interrupted the
conversation, to defend the monkeys in the name of Littre. He had framed
a theory, founded on Darwin, and tending to prove that men who despised
monkeys despised themselves. Herzog, a little taken aback by this
unexpected reply, had looked at Marechal slyly, asking himself if it
was a joke. But, seeing Madame Desvarennes laugh, he recovered his
self-possession. Business could not be carried on in the East as in
Europe. And then, had it not always been thus? Had not all the great
discoverers worked the countries which they discovered? Christopher
Columbus, Cortez--had they not taken riches from the Indians, in
exchange for the civilization which they brought them? He (Herzog)
had, in making a railway in Morocco, given the natives the means
of civilizing themselves. It was only fair that it should cost them
something.

Herzog uttered his tirade with all the charm of which he was capable; he
looked to the right and to the left to notice the effect. He saw nothing
but constrained faces. It seemed as if they were expecting some one
or something. Time was passing; ten o’clock had just struck. From the
little boudoir sounds of music were occasionally heard, when Micheline’s
nervous hand struck a louder chord on her piano. She was there,
anxiously awaiting some one or something. Jeanne de Cernay, stretched in
an easy-chair, her head leaning on her hand, was dreaming.

During the past three weeks the young girl had changed. Her bright wit
no longer enlivened Micheline’s indolent calmness; her brilliant eyes
were surrounded by blue rings, which denoted nights passed without
sleep. The change coincided strangely with Prince Panine’s departure for
England, and the sending of the letter which recalled Pierre to Paris.
Had the inhabitants of the mansion been less occupied with their own
troubles, they would no doubt have noticed this sudden change, and have
sought to know the reason. But the attention of all was concentrated on
the events which had already troubled them, and which would no doubt be
yet more serious to the house, until lately so quiet.

The visitors’ bell sounded, and caused Micheline to rise. The blood
rushed to her cheeks. She whispered, “It is he!” and, hesitating, she
remained a moment leaning on the piano, listening vaguely to the sounds
in the drawing-room. The footman’s voice announcing the visitor reached
the young girls:

“Prince Panine.”

Jeanne also rose then, and if Micheline had turned round she would
have been frightened at the pallor of her companion. But Mademoiselle
Desvarennes was not thinking of Mademoiselle de Cernay; she had just
raised the heavy door curtain, and calling to Jeanne, “Are you coming?”
 passed into the drawing-room:

It was indeed Prince Serge, who was expected by Cayrol with impatience,
by Madame Desvarennes with silent irritation, by Pierre with deep
anguish. The handsome prince, calm and smiling, with white cravat and
elegantly fitting dress-coat which showed off his fine figure, advanced
toward Madame Desvarennes before whom he bowed. He seemed only to have
seen Micheline’s mother. Not a look for the two young girls or the men
who were around him. The rest of the universe did not seem to count.
He bent as if before a queen, with a dash of respectful adoration. He
seemed to be saying:

“Here I am at your feet; my life depends on you; make a sign and I shall
be the happiest of men or the most miserable.”

Micheline followed him with eyes full of pride; she admired his haughty
grace and his caressing humility. It was by these contrasts that Serge
had attracted the young girl’s notice. She felt herself face to face
with a strange nature, different from men around her, and had become
interested in him. Then he had spoken to her, and his sweet penetrating
voice had touched her heart.

What he had achieved with Micheline he longed to achieve with her
mother. After placing himself at the feet of the mother of her whom he
loved, he sought the road to her heart. He took his place beside the
mistress and spoke. He hoped that Madame Desvarennes would excuse the
haste of his visit. The obedience which he had shown in going away
must be a proof to her of his submission to her wishes. He was her most
devoted and respectful servant. He resigned himself to anything she
might exact of him.

Madame Desvarennes listened to that sweet voice; she had never heard
it so full of charm. She understood what influence this sweetness had
exercised over Micheline; she repented not having watched over her more
carefully, and cursed the hour that had brought all this evil upon them.
She was obliged, however, to answer him. The mistress went straight to
the point. She was not one to beat about the bush when once her mind was
made up.

“You come, no doubt, sir, to receive an answer to the request you
addressed to me before your departure for England!”

The Prince turned slightly pale. The words which Madame Desvarennes was
about to pronounce were of such importance to him that he could not help
feeling moved. He answered, in a suppressed tone:

“I would not have dared to speak to you on the subject, Madame,
especially in public; but since you anticipate my desire, I admit I am
waiting with deep anxiety for one word from you which will decide my
fate.”

He continued bent before Madame Desvarennes like a culprit before his
judge. The mistress was silent for a moment, as if hesitating before
answering, and then said, gravely:

“That word I hesitated to pronounce, but some one in whom I have great
confidence has advised me to receive you favorably.”

“He, Madame, whoever he may be, has gained my everlasting gratitude.”

“Show it to him,” said Madame Desvarennes; “he is the companion of
Micheline’s young days, almost a son to me.”

And turning toward Pierre, she pointed him out to Panine.

Serge took three rapid strides toward Pierre, but quick as he had been
Micheline was before him. Each of the lovers seized a hand of
Pierre, and pressed it with tender effusion. Panine, with his Polish
impetuosity, was making the most ardent protestations to Pierre--he
would be indebted to him for life.

Micheline’s late betrothed, with despair in his heart, allowed his
hands to be pressed and wrung in silence. The voice of her whom he loved
brought tears to his eyes.

“How generous and good you are!” said the young girl, “how nobly you
have sacrificed yourself!”

“Don’t thank me,” replied Pierre; “I have no merit in accomplishing what
you admire. I am weak, you see, and I could not bear to see you suffer.”

There was a great commotion in the drawing-room. Cayrol was explaining
to Herzog, who was listening with great attention, what was taking
place. Serge Panine was to be Madame Desvarennes’s son-in-law. It was a
great event.

“Certainly,” said the German; “Madame Desvarennes’s son-in-law will
become a financial power. And a Prince, too. What a fine name for a
board of directors!”

The two financiers looked at each other for a moment; the same thought
had struck them.

“Yes, but,” replied Cayrol, “Madame Desvarennes will never allow Panine
to take part in business.”

“Who knows?” said Herzog. “We shall see how the marriage settlements are
drawn up.”

“But,” cried Cayrol, “I would not have it said that I was leading Madame
Desvarennes’s son-in-law into speculations.”

“Who is speaking of that?” replied Herzog, coldly. “Am I seeking
shareholders? I have more money than I want; I refuse millions every
day.”

“Oh, I know capitalists run after you,” said Cayrol, laughingly; “and
to welcome them you affect the scruples of a pretty woman. But let us go
and congratulate the Prince.”

While Cayrol and Herzog were exchanging those few words which had such a
considerable influence on the future of Serge Panine--a scene, terrible
in its simplicity, was going on without being noticed. Micheline had
thrown herself with a burst of tenderness into her mother’s arms.
Serge was deeply affected by the young girl’s affection for him, when
a trembling hand touched his arm. He turned round. Jeanne de Cernay was
before him, pale and wan; her eyes sunken into her head like two black
nails, and her lips tightened by a violent contraction. The Prince stood
thunderstruck at the sight of her. He looked around him. Nobody was
observing him. Pierre was beside Marechal, who was whispering those
words which only true friends can find in the sad hours of life.
Madame Desvarennes was holding Micheline in her arms. Serge approached
Mademoiselle de Cernay. Jeanne still fixed on him the same menacing
look. He was afraid.

“Take care!” he said.

“Of what?” asked the young girl, with a troubled voice. “What have I to
fear now?”

“What do you wish?” resumed Panine, with old firmness, and with a
gesture of impatience.

“I wish to speak with you immediately.”

“You see that is impossible.”

“I must.”

Cayrol and Herzog approached. Serge smiled at Jeanne with a sign of the
head which meant “Yes.” The young girl turned away in silence, awaiting
the fulfilment of the promise made.

Cayrol took her by the hand with tender familiarity.

“What were you saying to the happy man who has gained the object of his
dreams, Mademoiselle? It is not to him you must speak, but to me, to
give me hope. The moment is propitious; it is the day for betrothals.
You know how much I love you; do me the favor of no longer repulsing me
as you have done hitherto! If you would be kind, how charming it would
be to celebrate the two weddings on the same day. One church, one
ceremony, one splendid feast would unite two happy couples. Is there
nothing in this picture to entice you?”

“I am not easily enticed, as you know,” said Jeanne, in a firm voice,
trying to smile.

Micheline and Madame Desvarennes had drawn near.

“Come, Cayrol,” said Serge, in a tone of command; “I am happy to-day;
perhaps I may succeed in your behalf as I have done in my own. Let me
plead your cause with Mademoiselle de Cernay?”

“With all my heart. I need an eloquent pleader,” sighed the banker,
shaking his head sadly.

“And you, Mademoiselle, will you submit to the trial?” asked the Prince,
turning toward Jeanne. “We have always been good friends, and I shall
be almost a brother to you. This gives me some right over your mind and
heart, it seems to me. Do you authorize me to exercise it?”

“As you like, sir,” answered Jeanne, coldly. “The attempt is novel. Who
knows? Perhaps it will succeed!”

“May Heaven grant it,” said Cayrol. Then, approaching Panine:

“Ah! dear Prince, what gratitude I shall owe you! You know,” added he in
a whisper, “if you need a few thousand louis for wedding presents--”

“Go, go, corrupter!” replied Serge, with the same forced gayety; “you
are flashing your money in front of us. You see it is not invincible, as
you are obliged to have recourse to my feeble talents. But know that I
am working for glory.”

And turning toward Madame Desvarennes he added: “I only ask a quarter of
an hour.”

“Don’t defend yourself too much,” said Micheline in her companion’s ear,
and giving her a tender kiss which the latter did not return.

“Come with me,” said Micheline to Pierre, offering him her arm; “I want
to belong to you alone while Serge is pleading with Jeanne. I will be
your sister as formerly. If you only knew how I love you!”

The large French window which led to the garden had just been opened
by Marechal, and the mild odors of a lovely spring night perfumed the
drawing-room. They all went out on the lawn. Thousands of stars were
twinkling in the sky, and the eyes of Micheline and Pierre were lifted
toward the dark blue heavens seeking vaguely for the star which presided
over their destiny. She, to know whether her life would be the long poem
of love of which she dreamed; he, to ask whether glory, that exacting
mistress for whom he had made so many sacrifices, would at least comfort
him for his lost love.




BOOK 2.




CHAPTER VII. JEANNE’S SECRET

In the drawing-room Jeanne and Serge remained standing, facing each
other. The mask had fallen from their faces; the forced smile had
disappeared. They looked at each other attentively, like two duellists
seeking to read each other’s game, so that they may ward off the fatal
stroke and prepare the decisive parry.

“Why did you leave for England three weeks ago, without seeing me and
without speaking to me?”

“What could I have said to you?” replied the Prince, with an air of
fatigue and dejection.

Jeanne flashed a glance brilliant as lightning:

“You could have told me that you had just asked for Micheline’s hand!”

“That would have been brutal!”

“It would have been honest! But it would have necessitated an
explanation, and you don’t like explaining. You have preferred leaving
me to guess this news from the acts of those around me, and the talk of
strangers.”

All these words had been spoken by Jeanne with feverish vivacity. The
sentences were as cutting as strokes from a whip. The young girl’s
agitation was violent; her cheeks were red, and her breathing was hard
and stifled with emotion. She stopped for a moment; then, turning toward
the Prince, and looking him full in the face, she said:

“And so, this marriage is decided?”

Serge answered,

“Yes.”

It was fainter than a whisper. As if she could not believe it, Jeanne
repeated:

“You are going to marry Micheline?”

And as Panine in a firmer voice answered again, “Yes!” the young girl
took two rapid steps and brought her flushed face close to him.

“And I, then?” she cried with a violence she could no longer restrain.

Serge made a sign. The drawing-room window was still open, and from
outside they could be heard.

“Jeanne, in mercy calm yourself,” replied he. “You are in a state of
excitement.”

“Which makes you uncomfortable?” interrupted the young girl mockingly.

“Yes, but for your sake only,” said he, coldly.

“For mine?”

“Certainly. I fear your committing an imprudence which might harm you.”

“Yes; but you with me! And it is that only which makes you afraid.”

The Prince looked at Mademoiselle de Cernay, smilingly. Changing his
tone, he took her hand in his.

“How naughty you are to-night! And what temper you are showing
toward poor Serge! What an opinion he will have of himself after your
displaying such a flattering scene of jealousy!”

Jeanne drew away her hand.

“Ah, don’t try to joke. This is not the moment, I assure you. You don’t
exactly realize your situation. Don’t you understand that I am prepared
to tell Madame Desvarennes everything--”

“Everything!” said the Prince. “In truth, it would not amount to much.
You would tell her that I met you in England; that I courted you, and
that you found my attentions agreeable. And then? It pleases you to
think too seriously of that midsummer night’s dream under the great
trees of Churchill Castle, and you reproach me for my errors! But what
are they? Seriously, I do not see them! We lived in a noisy world; where
we enjoyed the liberty which English manners allow to young people. Your
aunt found no fault with the charming chatter which the English call
flirtation. I told you I loved you; you allowed me to think that I was
not displeasing to you. We, thanks to that delightful agreement, spent
a most agreeable summer, and now you do not wish to put an end to that
pleasant little excursion made beyond the limits drawn by our Parisian
world, so severe, whatever people say about it. It is not reasonable,
and it is imprudent. If you carry out your menacing propositions, and if
you take my future mother-in-law as judge of the rights which you
claim, don’t you understand that you would be condemned beforehand? Her
interests are directly opposed to yours. Could she hesitate between her
daughter and you?”

“Oh! your calculations are clever and your measures were well taken,”
 replied Jeanne. “Still, if Madame Desvarennes were not the woman you
think her--” Then, hesitating:

“If she took my part, and thinking that he who was an unloyal lover
would be an unfaithful husband--she would augur of the future of her
daughter by my experience; and what would happen?”

“Simply this,” returned Serge. “Weary of the precarious and hazardous
life which I lead, I would leave for Austria, and rejoin the service. A
uniform is the only garb which can hide poverty honorably.”

Jeanne looked at him with anguish; and making an effort said:

“Then, in any case, for me it is abandonment?” And falling upon a seat,
she hid her face in her hands. Panine remained silent for a moment. The
young girl’s, grief, which he knew to be sincere, troubled him more than
he wished to show. He had loved Mademoiselle de Cernay, and he loved her
still. But he felt that a sign of weakness on his part would place him
at Jeanne’s mercy, and that an avowal from his lips at this grave moment
meant a breaking-off of his marriage with Micheline. He hardened himself
against his impressions, and replied, with insinuating sweetness:

“Why do you speak of desertion, when a good man who loves you fondly,
and who possesses a handsome fortune, wishes to marry you?”

Mademoiselle de Cernay raised her head, hastily.

“So, it is you who advise me to marry Monsieur Cayrol? Is there nothing
revolting to you in the idea that I should follow your advice? But then,
you deceived me from the first moment you spoke to me. You have never
loved me even for a day! Not an hour!”

Serge smiled, and resuming his light, caressing tone, replied:

“My dear Jeanne, if I had a hundred thousand francs a year, I give you
my word of honor that I would not marry another woman but you, for you
would make an adorable Princess.”

Mademoiselle de Cernay made a gesture of perfect indifference.

“Ah! what does the title matter to me?” she exclaimed, with passion.
“What I want is you! Nothing but you!”

“You do not know what you ask. I love you far too much to associate you
with my destiny. If you knew that gilded misery, that white kid-gloved
poverty, which is my lot, you would be frightened, and you would
understand that in my resolution to give you up there is much of
tenderness and generosity. Do you think it is such an easy matter to
give up a woman so adorable as you are? I resign myself to it, though.

“What could I do with my beautiful Jeanne in the three rooms in the Rue
de Madame where I live? Could I, with the ten or twelve thousand francs
which I receive through the liberality of the Russian Panines, provide
a home? I can hardly make it do for myself. I live at the club, where I
dine cheaply. I ride my friends’ horses! I never touch a card, although
I love play. I go much in society; I shine there, and walk home to save
the cost of a carriage. My door-keeper cleans my rooms and keeps my
linen in order. My private life is sad, dull, and humiliating. It is
the black chrysalis of the bright butterfly which you know. That is what
Prince Panine is, my dear Jeanne. A gentleman of good appearance, who
lives as carefully as an old maid. The world sees him elegant and
happy, and its envies his luxury; but this luxury is as deluding
as watch-chains made of pinchbeck. You understand now that I cannot
seriously ask you to share such an existence.”

But if, with this sketch of his life, correctly described, Panine
thought to turn the young girl against him, he was mistaken. He had
counted without considering Jeanne’s sanguine temperament, which would
lead her to make any sacrifices to keep the man she adored.

“If you were rich, Serge,” she said, “I would not have made an effort
to bring you back to me. But you are poor and I have a right to tell you
that I love you. Life with you would be all devotedness and self-denial.
Each pain endured would be a proof of love, and that is why I wish to
suffer. Your life with mine would be neither sad nor humiliated; I
would make it sweet by my tenderness, and bright by my happiness. And we
should be so happy that you would say, ‘How could I ever have dreamed of
anything else?’”

“Alas! Jeanne,” replied the Prince; “it is a charming and poetic idyl
which you present to me. We should flee far from the world, eh? We
should go to an unknown spot and try to regain paradise lost. How long
would that happiness last? A season during the springtime of our youth.
Then autumn would come, sad and harsh. Our illusions would vanish like
the swallows in romances, and we should find, with alarm, that we had
taken the dream of a day for eternal happiness! Forgive my speaking
plain words of disenchantment,” added Serge, seeing Jeanne rising
abruptly, “but our life is being settled at this moment. Reason alone
should guide us.”

“And I beseech you to be guided only by your heart,” cried Mademoiselle
de Cernay, seizing the hands of the Prince, and pressing them with her
trembling fingers. “Remember that you loved me. Say that you love me
still!”

Jeanne had drawn near to Serge. Her burning face almost touched his. Her
eyes, bright with excitement, pleaded passionately for a tender look.
She was most fascinating, and Panine, usually master of himself, lost
his presence of mind for a moment. His arms encircled the shoulders of
the adorable pleader, and his lips were buried in the masses of her dark
hair.

“Serge!” cried Mademoiselle de Cernay, clinging to him whom she loved so
fondly.

But the Prince was as quickly calmed as he had been carried away. He
gently put Jeanne aside.

“You see,” he said with a smile, “how unreasonable we are and how easily
we might commit an irreparable folly. And yet our means will not allow
us.”

“In mercy do not leave me!” pleaded Jeanne, in a tone of despair. “You
love me! I feel it; everything tells me so! And you would desert me
because you are poor and I am not rich. Is a man ever poor when he has
two arms? Work.”

The word was uttered by Jeanne with admirable energy. She possessed the
courage to overcome every difficulty.

Serge trembled. For the second time he felt touched to the very soul
by this strange girl. He understood that he must not leave her with the
slightest hope of encouragement, but throw ice on the fire which was
devouring her.

“My dear Jeanne,” he said, with affectionate sweetness, “you are talking
nonsense. Remember this, that for Prince Panine there are only three
social conditions possible: to be rich, a soldier, or a priest. I have
the choice. It is for you to decide.”

This put an end to Mademoiselle de Cernay’s resistance. She felt how
useless was further argument, and falling on a sofa, crushed with grief,
cried:

“Ah! this time it is finished; I am lost!”

Panine, then, approaching her, insinuating and supple, like the serpent
with the first woman, murmured in her ear, as if afraid lest his words,
in being spoken aloud, would lose their subtle venom:

“No, you are not lost. On the contrary, you are saved, if you will
only listen to and understand me. What are we, you and I? You, a child
adopted by a generous woman; I, a ruined nobleman. You live in luxury,
thanks to Madame Desvarennes’s liberality. I can scarcely manage to keep
myself with the help of my family. Our present is precarious, our future
hazardous. And, suddenly, fortune is within our grasp. We have only to
stretch out our hands, and with one stroke we gain the uncontested power
which money brings!

“Riches, that aim of humanity! Do you understand? We, the weak and
disdained, become strong and powerful. And what is necessary to gain
them? A flash of sense; a minute of wisdom; forget a dream and accept a
reality.”

Jeanne waited till he had finished. A bitter smile played on her lips.
Henceforth she would believe in no one. After listening to what Serge
had just said, she could listen to anything.

“So,” said she, “the dream is love; the reality is interest. And is it
you who speak thus to me? You, for whom I was prepared to endure any
sacrifice! You, whom I would have served on my knees! And what reason do
you give to justify your conduct? Money! Indispensable and stupid money!
Nothing but money! But it is odious, infamous, low!”

Serge received this terrible broadside of abuse without flinching. He
had armed himself against contempt, and was deaf to all insults. Jeanne
went on with increasing rage:

“Micheline has everything: family, fortune, and friends, and she is
taking away my one possession--your love. Tell me that you love her! It
will be more cruel but less vile! But no, it is not possible! You
gave way to temptation at seeing her so rich; you had a feeling of
covetousness, but you will become yourself again and will act like an
honest man. Think, that in my eyes you are dishonoring yourself! Serge,
answer me!”

She clung to him again, and tried to regain him by her ardor, to
warm him with her passion. He remained unmoved, silent, and cold. Her
conscience rebelled.

“Well, then,” said she, “marry her.”

She remained silent and sullen, seeming to forget he was there. She was
thinking deeply. Then she walked wildly up and down the room, saying:

“So, it is that implacable self-interest with which I have just come in
contact, which is the law of the world, the watchword of society! So, in
refusing to share the common folly, I risk remaining in isolation, and
I must be strong to make others stand in awe of me. Very well, then, I
shall henceforth act in such a manner as to be neither dupe nor victim.
In future, everything will be: self, and woe to him who hinders me. That
is the morality of the age, is it not?”

And she laughed nervously.

“Was I not stupid? Come, Prince, you have made me clever. Many thanks
for the lesson; it was difficult, but I shall profit by it.”

The Prince, astonished at the sudden change, listened to Jeanne with
stupor. He did not yet quite understand.

“What do you intend to do?” asked he.

Jeanne looked at him with a fiendish expression. Her eyes sparkled like
stars; her white teeth shone between her lips.

“I intend,” replied she, “to lay the foundation of my power, and to
follow your advice, by marrying a millionaire!”

She ran to the window, and, looking out toward the shady garden, called:

“Monsieur Cayrol!”

Serge, full of surprise, and seized by a sudden fit of jealousy, went
toward her as if to recall her.

“Jeanne,” said he, vaguely holding out his arms.

“Well! what is it?” she asked, with crushing haughtiness. “Are you
frightened at having gained your cause so quickly?”

And as Serge did not speak:

“Come,” added she, “you will have a handsome fee; Micheline’s dower will
be worth the trouble you have had.”

They heard Cayrol’s hurried steps ascending the stairs.

“You have done me the honor to call me, Mademoiselle,” said he,
remaining on the threshold of the drawing-room. “Am I fortunate enough
at length to have found favor in your eyes?”

“Here is my hand,” said Mademoiselle de Cernay, simply tendering him her
white taper fingers, which he covered with kisses.

Madame Desvarennes had come in behind the banker. She uttered a joyous
exclamation.

“Cayrol, you shall not marry Jeanne for her beauty alone. I will give
her a dower.”

Micheline fell on her companion’s neck. It was a concert of
congratulations. But Jeanne, with a serious air, led Cayrol aside:

“I wish to act honestly toward you, sir; I yield to the pleading of
which I am the object. But you must know that my sentiments do not
change so quickly. It is my hand only which I give you today.”

“I have not the conceitedness to think that you love me, Mademoiselle,”
 said Cayrol, humbly. “You give me your hand; it will be for me to gain
your heart, and with time and sincere affection I do not despair of
winning it. I am truly happy, believe me, for the favor you do me, and
all my life long shall be spent in proving my gratitude to you.”

Jeanne was moved; she glanced at Cayrol, and did not think him so
common-looking as usual. She resolved to do all in her power to like
this good man.

Serge, in taking leave of Madame Desvarennes, said:

“In exchange for all the happiness which you give me, I have only my
life to offer; accept it, Madame, it is yours.”

The mistress looked at the Prince deeply; then, in a singular tone,
said:

“I accept it; from to-day you belong to me.”

Marechal took Pierre by the arm and led him outside.

“The Prince has just uttered words which remind me of Antonio saying to
the Jew in ‘The Merchant of Venice’: ‘Thy ducats in exchange for a
pound of my flesh.’ Madame Desvarennes loves her daughter with a more
formidable love than Shylock had for his gold. The Prince will do well
to be exact in his payments of the happiness which he has promised.”




CHAPTER VIII. A PLEASANT UNDERSTANDING

The day following this memorable evening, Pierre left for Algeria,
notwithstanding the prayers of Madame Desvarennes who wished to keep him
near her. He was going to finish his labors. He promised to return
in time for the wedding. The mistress, wishing to give him some
compensation, offered him the management of the mills at Jouy, saying:

“So that if you are not my son, you will be at least my partner. And if
I do not leave you all my money at my death, I can enrich you during my
life.”

Pierre would not accept. He would not have it said that in wishing to
marry Micheline he had tried to make a speculation. He wished to leave
that house where he had hoped to spend his life, empty-handed, so that
no one could doubt that it was the woman he loved in Micheline and not
the heiress. He had been offered a splendid appointment in Savoy as
manager of some mines; he would find there at the same time profit and
happiness, because there were interesting scientific studies to be made
in order to enable him to carry on the work creditably. He resolved to
throw himself heart and soul into the work and seek forgetfulness in
study.

In the mansion of the Rue Saint-Dominique the marriage preparations were
carried on with great despatch. On the one side the Prince, and on
the other Cayrol, were eager for the day: the one because he saw the
realization of his ambitious dreams, the other because he loved so
madly. Serge, gracious and attentive, allowed himself to be adored by
Micheline, who was never weary of listening to and looking at him whom
she loved. It was a sort of delirium that had taken possession of the
young girl. Madame Desvarennes looked on the metamorphosis in her child
with amazement. The old Micheline, naturally indolent and cold, just
living with the indolence of an odalisque stretched on silk cushions,
had changed into a lively, loving sweetheart, with sparkling eyes and
cheerful lips. Like those lowers which the sun causes to bloom and be
fragrant, so Micheline under a look from Serge became animated and grown
handsomer.

The mother looked on with bitterness; she spoke of this transformation
in her child with ironical disdain, She was sure Micheline was not in
earnest; only a doll was capable of falling in love so foolishly with a
man for his personal beauty. For to her mind the Prince was as regards
mental power painfully deficient. No sense, dumb as soon as the
conversation took a serious turn, only able to talk dress like a woman,
or about horses like a jockey. And it was such a person upon whom
Micheline literally doted! The mistress felt humiliated; she dared not
say anything to her daughter, but she relieved herself in company of
Marechal, whose discretion she could trust, and whom she willingly
called the tomb of her secrets.

Marechal listened patiently to the confidences of Madame Desvarennes,
and he tried to fight against the growing animosity of the mistress
toward her future son-in-law. Not that he liked the Prince--he was too
much on Pierre’s side to be well disposed toward Panine; but with his
good sense he saw that Madame Desvarennes would find it advantageous to
overcome her feeling of dislike. And when the mistress, so formidable
toward everybody except her daughter, cried with rage:

“That Micheline! I have just seen her again in the garden, hanging on
the arm of that great lanky fellow, her eyes fixed on his like a lark
fascinated by a looking-glass. What on earth has happened to her that
she should be in such a state?”

Marechal interrupted her gently.

“All fair people are like that,” he affirmed with ironical gayety. “You
cannot understand it, Madame; you are dark.”

Then Madame Desvarennes became angry.

“Be quiet,” she said, “you are stupid! She ought to have a shower-bath!
She is mad!”

As for Cayrol he lived in ecstasy, like an Italian kneeling before a
madonna. He had never been so happy; he was overwhelmed with joy. Until
then, he had only thought of business matters. To be rich was the aim
of his life; and now he was going to work for happiness. It was all
pleasure for him. He was not blase; he amused himself like a child,
adorning the rooms which were to be occupied by Jeanne. To his mind
nothing was too expensive for the temple of his goddess, as he said,
with a loud laugh which lighted up his whole face. And when he spoke of
his love’s future nest, he exclaimed, with a voluptuous shiver:

“It is charming; a veritable little paradise!” Then the financier shone
through all, and he added:

“And I know what it costs!”

But he did not grudge his money. He knew he would get the interest of
it back. On one subject he was anxious--Mademoiselle de Cernay’s health.
Since the day of their engagement, Jeanne had become more serious and
dull. She had grown thin and her eyes were sunken as if she wept in
secret. When he spoke of his fears to Madame Desvarennes, the latter
said:

“These young girls are so senseless. The notion of marriage puts them in
such an incomprehensible state! Look at my daughter. She chatters like
a magpie and skips about like a kid. She has two glow-worms under her
eyelids! As to Jeanne, that’s another affair; she has the matrimonial
melancholy, and has the air of a young victim. Leave them alone; it
will all come right. But you must admit that the gayety of the one is at
least as irritating as the languor of the other!”

Cayrol, somewhat reassured by this explanation, and thinking, like her,
that it was the uncertainties of marriage which were troubling Jeanne,
no longer attached any importance to her sad appearance. Micheline and
Serge isolated themselves completely. They fled to the garden as soon as
any one ventured into the drawing room, to interrupt their tete-a-tete.
If visitors came to the garden they took refuge in the conservatory.

This manoeuvre pleased Serge, because he always felt uncomfortable in
Jeanne’s presence. Mademoiselle de Cernay had a peculiar wrinkle on her
brow whenever she saw Micheline passing before her hanging on the arm of
the Prince, which tormented him. They were obliged to meet at table in
the evening, for Serge and Cayrol dined at the Rue Saint-Dominique. The
Prince talked in whispers to Micheline, but every now and then he was
obliged to speak to Jeanne. These were painful moments to Serge. He
was always in dread of some outburst, knowing her ardent and passionate
nature. Thus, before Jeanne, he made Micheline behave in a less
demonstrative manner. Mademoiselle Desvarennes was proud of this
reserve, and thought it was tact and good breeding on the part of the
Prince, without doubting that what she thought reserve in the man of the
world was the prudence of an anxious lover.

Jeanne endured the tortures of Hades. Too proud to say anything after
the explanation she had had with Serge, too much smitten to bear calmly
the sight of her rival’s happiness, she saw draw near with deep horror
the moment when she would belong to the man whom she had determined to
marry although she did not love him. She once thought of breaking off
the engagement; as she could not belong to the man whom she adored, at
least she could belong to herself. But the thought of the struggle she
would have to sustain with those who surrounded her, stopped her. What
would she do at Madame Desvarennes’s? She would have to witness the
happiness of Micheline and Serge. She would rather leave the house.

With Cayrol at least she could go away; she would be free, and perhaps
the esteem which she would surely have for her husband would do instead
of love. Sisterly or filial love, in fact the least affection, would
satisfy the poor man, who was willing to accept anything from Jeanne.
And she would not have that group of Serge and Micheline before her
eyes, always walking round the lawn and disappearing arm in arm down
the narrow walks. She would not have the continual murmur of their
love-making in her ears, a murmur broken by the sound of kisses when
they reached shady corners.

One evening, when Serge appeared in the little drawing-room of the Rue
Saint-Dominique, he found Madame Desvarennes alone. She looked serious,
as if same important business were pending. She stood before the
fireplace; her hands crossed behind her back like a man. Apparently,
she had sought to be alone. Cayrol, Jeanne, and Micheline were in
the garden. Serge felt uneasy. He had a presentiment of trouble. But
determined to make the best of it, whatever it might be, he looked
pleasant and bowed to Madame Desvarennes, without his face betraying his
uneasiness.

“Good-day, Prince; you are early this evening, though not so early as
Cayrol; but then he does not quite know what he is doing now. Sit down,
I want to talk to you. You know that a young lady like Mademoiselle
Desvarennes cannot get married without her engagement being much talked
about. Tongues have been very busy, and pens too. I have heard a lot of
scandal and have received heaps of anonymous letters about you.”

Serge gave a start of indignation.

“Don’t be uneasy,” continued the mistress. “I did not heed the tales,
and I burned the letters. Some said you were a dissolute man, capable
of anything to gain your object. Others insinuated that you were not a
Prince, that you were not a Pole, but the son of a Russian coachman and
a little dressmaker of Les Ternes; that you had lived at the expense of
Mademoiselle Anna Monplaisir, the star of the Varietes Theatre, and that
you were bent on marrying to pay your debts with my daughter’s money.”

Panine, pale as death, rose up and said, in a stifled voice:

“Madame!”

“Sit down, my dear child,” interrupted the mistress. “If I tell you
these things, it is because I have the proofs that they are untrue.
Otherwise, I would not have given myself the trouble to talk to you
about them. I would have shown you the door and there would have been
an end of it. Certainly, you are not an angel; but the peccadillos which
you have been guilty of are those which one forgives in a son, and which
in a son-in-law makes some mothers smile. You are a Prince, you are
handsome, and you have been loved. You were then a bachelor; and it was
your own affair. But now, you are going to be, in about ten days, the
husband of my daughter, and it is necessary for us to make certain
arrangements. Therefore, I waited to see you, to speak of your wife, of
yourself, and of me.”

What Madame Desvarennes had just said relieved Serge of a great weight.
He felt so happy that he resolved to do everything in his power to
please the mother of his betrothed.

“Speak, Madame,” he exclaimed. “I am listening to you with attention
and confidence. I am sure that from you I can only expect goodness and
sense.”

The mistress smiled.

“Oh, I know you have a gilt tongue, my handsome friend, but I don’t pay
myself with words, and I, am not easy to be wheedled.”

“Faith,” said Serge, “I won’t deceive you. I will try to please you with
all my heart.”

Madame Desvarennes’s face brightened as suddenly at these words as a
landscape, wrapped in a fog, which is suddenly lighted up by the sun.

“Then we shall understand each other,” she said. “For the last fortnight
we have been busy with marriage preparations, and have not been able
to think or reason. Everybody is rambling about here. Still, we are
commencing a new life, and I think it is as well to lay the foundation.
I seem to be drawing up a contract, eh? What can I do? It is an old
business habit. I like to know how I stand.”

“I think it is quite right. I think, too, that you have acted with great
delicacy in not imposing your conditions upon me before giving your
consent.”

“Has that made you feel better disposed toward me? So much the better!”
 said the mistress. “Because you know that I depend on my daughter, who
will henceforth depend on you, and it is to my interest that I should be
in your good graces.”

In pronouncing these words with forced cheerfulness, Madame
Desvarennes’s voice trembled slightly. She knew what an important game
she was playing, and wished to win it at any price.

“You see,” continued she, “I am not an easy woman to deal with. I am a
little despotic, I know. I have been in the habit of commanding during
the last thirty-five years. Business was heavy, and required a strong
will. I had it, and the habit is formed. But this strong will, which has
served me so well in business will, I am afraid, with you, play me
some trick. Those who have lived with me a long time know that if I am
hot-headed I have a good heart. They submit to my tyranny; but you who
are a newcomer, how will you like it?”

“I shall do as the others do,” said Serge, simply. “I shall be led,
and with pleasure. Think that I have lived for years without kindred,
without ties--at random; and, believe me, any chain will be light and
sweet which holds me to any one or anything. And then,” frankly added
he, changing his tone and looking at Madame Desvarennes with tenderness,
“if I did not do everything to please you I should be ungrateful.”

“Oh!” cried Madame Desvarennes, “unfortunately that is not a reason.”

“Would you have a better one?” said the young man, in his most charming
accent. “If I had not married your daughter for her own sake, I believe
that I should have married her for yours.” Madame Desvarennes was quite
pleased, and shaking her finger threateningly at Serge, said:

“Ah, you Pole, you boaster of the North!”

“Seriously,” continued Serge, “before I knew I was to be your
son-in-law, I thought you a matchless woman. Add to the admiration I had
for your great qualities the affection which your goodness has inspired,
and you will understand that I am both proud and happy to have such a
mother as you.”

Madame Desvarennes looked at Panine attentively; she saw he was sincere.
Then, taking courage, she touched the topic of greatest interest to her.
“If that is the case, you will have no objections to live with me?” She
stopped; then emphasized the words, “With me.”

“But was not that understood?” asked Serge, gayly’ “I thought so. You
must have seen that I have not been seeking a dwelling for my wife and
myself. If you had not made the offer to me, I should have asked you to
let me stay with you.”

Madame Desvarennes broke into such an outburst of joy that she
astonished Panine. It was then only that in that pallor, in that sudden
trembling, in that changed voice, he understood, the immensity of the
mother’s love for her daughter.

“I have everything to gain by that arrangement,” continued he. “My wife
will be happy at not leaving you, and you will be pleased at my not
having taken away your daughter. You will both like me better, and that
is all I wish.”

“How good you are in deciding thus, and how I thank you for it,” resumed
Madame Desvarennes. “I feared you would have ideas of independence.”

“I should have been happy to sacrifice them to you, but I have not even
that merit.”

All that Serge had said had been so open and plain, and expressed with
such sweetness that, little by little, Madame Desvarennes’s prejudices
disappeared. He took possession of her as he had done of Micheline,
and as he did of every one whom he wished to conquer. His charm was
irresistible. He seized on one by the eyes and the ears. Naturally
fascinating, moving, captivating, bold, he always preserved his artless
and tender ways, which made him resemble a young girl.

“I am going to tell you how we shall manage,” said the mistress.
“Foreseeing my daughter’s marriage, I have had my house divided into
two distinct establishments. They say that life in common with a
mother-in-law is objectionable to a son-in-law, therefore I wish you
to have a home of your own. I know that an old face like mine frightens
young lovers. I will come to you when you invite me. But even when I
am shut up in my own apartments I shall be with my daughter; I shall
breathe the same air; I shall hear her going and coming, singing,
laughing, and I shall say to myself, ‘It is all right, she is happy.’
That is all I ask. A little corner, whence I can share her life.”

Serge took her hand with effusion.

“Don’t be afraid; your daughter will not leave you.”

Madame Desvarennes, unable to contain her feelings, opened her arms, and
Serge fell on her breast, like a true son.

“Do you know, I am going to adore you!” cried Madame Desvarennes,
showing Panine a face beaming with happiness.

“I hope so,” said the young man, gayly.

Madame Desvarennes became thoughtful.

“What a strange thing life is!” resumed she. “I did not want you for a
son-in-law, and now you are behaving so well toward me that I am full
of remorse. Oh, I see now what a dangerous man you are, if you captivate
other women’s hearts as you have caught mine.”

She looked at the Prince fixedly, and added, in her clear commanding
voice, with a shade of gayety:

“Now, I hope you will reserve all your powers of charming for my
daughter. No more flirting, eh? She loves you; she would be jealous,
and you would get into hot water with me! Let Micheline’s life be happy,
without a cloud-blue, always blue sky!”

“That will be easy,” said Serge. “To be unhappy I should have to seek
misfortune; and I certainly shall not do that.”

He began to laugh.

“Besides, your good friends who criticised so when you gave me
Micheline’s hand would be only too pleased. I will not give them the
pleasure of posing as prophets and saying, ‘We knew it would be so!’”

“You must forgive them,” replied Madame Desvarennes. “You have made
enemies. Without speaking of projects which I had formed, I may say that
my daughter has had offers from the best folks in Paris; from first-rate
firms! Our circle was rather indignant.

“People said: ‘Oh, Madame Desvarennes wanted her daughter to be a
Princess. We shall see how it will turn out. Her son-in-law will spend
her money and spurn her.’ The gossip of disappointed people. Give them
the lie; manage that we shall all live together, and we shall be right
against the world.”

“Do you hope it will be so?”

“I am sure of it,” answered the mistress, affectionately pressing the
hand of her future son-in-law.

Micheline entered, anxious at the long interview between Serge and her
mother. She saw them hand in hand. She uttered a joyful cry, and threw
her arms caressingly round her mother’s neck.

“Well! you are agreed?” she said, making a gracious sign to Serge.

“He has been charming,” replied Madame Desvarennes, whispering in
her daughter’s ear. “He agrees to live in this house, and that quite
gracefully. There, child, this is the happiest moment I’ve had since
your engagement. I admit that I regret nothing.”

Then, resuming aloud:

“We will leave to-morrow for Cernay, where the marriage shall take
place. I shall have to order the workmen in here to get ready for your
reception. Besides the wedding will be more brilliant in the country. We
shall have all the work-people there. We will throw the park open to
the countryside; it will be a grand fete. For we are lords of the manor
there,” added she, with pride.

“You are right, mamma; it will be far better,” exclaimed Micheline. And
taking Serge by the hand:

“Come, let us go,” said she, and led him into the garden.

And amid the sweet-smelling shrubs they resumed their walk, always the
same yet ever new, their arms twined round each other, the young girl
clinging to him whom she loved, and he looking fondly at her, and with
caressing voice telling her the oft-told tale of love which she was
never tired of hearing, and which always filled her with thrills of joy.




CHAPTER IX. THE DOUBLE MARRIAGE

The Chateau of Cernay is a vast and beautiful structure of the time of
Louis XIII. A walled park of a hundred acres surrounds it, with trees
centuries old. A white painted gate separates the avenue from the road
leading to Pontoise by way of Conflans. A carpet of grass, on which
carriages roll as if on velvet, leads up to the park gates. Before
reaching, it there is a stone bridge which spans the moat of running
water. A lodge of stone, faced with brick, with large windows, rises at
each corner of this space.

The chateau, surrounded by cleverly arranged trees, stands in the
centre, on a solid foundation of red granite from the Jura. A splendid
double staircase leads to the ground floor as high as an ‘entresol’. A
spacious hall, rising to the roof of the building, lighted by a window
filled with old stained glass, first offers itself to the visitor. A
large organ, by Cavallie-Col, rears its long brilliant pipes at one end
of the hall to a level with the gallery of sculptured wood running round
and forming a balcony on the first floor. At each corner is a knight
in armor, helmet on head, and lance in hand, mounted on a charger, and
covered with the heavy trappings of war. Cases full of objects of art of
great value, bookshelves containing all the new books, are placed along
the walls. A billiard-table and all sorts of games are lodged under
the vast staircase. The broad bays which give admission to the
reception-rooms and grand staircase are closed by tapestry of the
fifteenth century, representing hunting scenes. Long cords of silk and
gold loop back these marvellous hangings in the Italian style. Thick
carpets, into which the feet sink, deaden the sound of footsteps.
Spacious divans, covered with Oriental materials, are placed round the
room.

Over the chimney-piece, which is splendidly carved in woodwork, is a
looking-glass in the Renaissance style, with a bronze and silver frame,
representing grinning fawns and dishevelled nymphs. Benches are placed
round the hearth, which is large enough to hold six people. Above
the divans, on the walls, are large oil-paintings by old masters. An
“Assumption,” by Jordaens, which is a masterpiece; “The Gamesters,” by
Valentin; “A Spanish Family on Horseback,” painted by Velasquez; and the
marvel of the collection--a “Holy Family,” by Francia, bought in Russia.
Then, lower down, “A Young Girl with a Canary,” by Metzu; a “Kermesse,”
 by Braurver, a perfect treasure, glitter, like the gems they are, in the
midst of panoplies, between the high branches of palm-trees planted in
enormous delft vases. A mysterious light filters into that fresh and
picturesque apartment through the stained-glass windows.

From the hall the left wing is reached, where the reception-rooms are,
and one’s eyes are dazzled by the brightness which reigns there. It is
like coming out from a cathedral into broad daylight. The furniture, of
gilt wood and Genoese velvet, looks very bright. The walls are white
and gold; and flowers are everywhere. At the end is Madame Desvarennes’s
bedroom, because she does not like mounting stairs, and lives on
the ground floor. Adjoining it is a conservatory, furnished as a
drawing-room, and serving as a boudoir for the mistress of the house.

The dining-room, the gun-room, and the smoking-room are in the right
wing. The gun-room deserves a particular description. Four glass cases
contain guns of every description and size of the best English and
French manufacture. All the furniture is made of stags’ horns, covered
with fox-skins and wolf-skins. A large rug, formed by four bears’ skins,
with menacing snouts, showing their white teeth at the four corners,
is in the centre of the room. On the walls are four paintings by
Princeteau, admirably executed, and representing hunting scenes. Low
couches, wide as beds, covered with gray cloth, invite the sportsmen to
rest. Large dressing-rooms, fitted up with hot and cold water, invite
them to refresh themselves with a bath. Everything has been done to suit
the most fastidious taste. The kitchens are underground.

On the first story are the principal rooms. Twelve bedrooms, with
dressing-rooms, upholstered in chintz of charming design. From these,
a splendid view of the park and country beyond may be obtained. In the
foreground is a piece of water, bathing, with its rapid current, the
grassy banks which border the wood, while the low-lying branches of
the trees dip into the flood, on which swans, dazzlingly white, swim in
stately fashion. Beneath an old willow, whose drooping boughs form
quite a vault of pale verdure, a squadron of multicolored boats remain
fastened to the balustrade of a landing stage. Through an opening in
the trees you see in the distance fields of yellow corn, and in the near
background, behind a row of poplars, ever moving like a flash of silver
lightning, the Oise flows on between its low banks.

This sumptuous dwelling, on the evening of the 14th of July, was in
its greatest splendor. The trees of the park were lit up by brilliant
Venetian lanterns; little boats glided on the water of the lake carrying
musicians whose notes echoed through the air. Under a marquee, placed
midway in the large avenue, the country lads and lasses were dancing
with spirit, while the old people, more calm, were seated under the
large trees enjoying the ample fare provided. A tremendous uproar of
gayety reechoed through the night, and the sound of the cornet attracted
the people to the ball.

It was nine o’clock. Carriages were fast arriving with guests for the
mansion. In the centre of the handsome hall, illuminated with electric
light, stood Madame Desvarennes in full dress, having put off black
for one day, doing honor to the arrivals. Behind her stood Marechal and
Savinien, like two aides-de-camp, ready, at a sign, to offer their arms
to the ladies, to conduct them to the drawing-rooms. The gathering was
numerous. Merchant-princes came for Madame Desvarennes’s sake; bankers
for Cayrol’s; and the aristocrats and foreign nobility for the Prince’s.
An assemblage as opposed in ideas as in manners: some valuing only
money, others high birth; all proud and elbowing each other with haughty
assurance, speaking ill of each other and secretly jealous.

There were heirs of dethroned kings; princes without portions, who were
called Highness, and who had not the income of their fathers’ former
chamberlains; millionaires sprung from nothing, who made a great
show and who would have given half of their possessions for a single
quartering of the arms of these great lords whom they affected to
despise.

Serge and Cayrol went from group to group; the one with his graceful and
delicate elegance; the other with his good-humor, radiant and elated by
the consciousness of his triumphs. Herzog had just arrived, accompanied
by his daughter, a charming girl of sixteen, to whom Marechal had
offered his arm. A whispering was heard when Herzog passed. He was
accustomed to the effect which he produced in public, and quite calmly
congratulated Cayrol.

Serge had just introduced Micheline to Count Soutzko, a gray-haired old
gentleman of military appearance, whose right sleeve was empty. He was
a veteran of the Polish wars, and an old friend of Prince Panine’s, at
whose side he had received the wounds which had so frightfully mutilated
him. Micheline, smiling, was listening to flattering tales which the old
soldier was relating about Serge. Cayrol, who had got rid of Herzog,
was looking for Jeanne, who had just disappeared in the direction of the
terrace.

The rooms were uncomfortably warm, and many of the visitors had found
their way to the terraces. Along the marble veranda, overlooking the
lake, chairs had been placed. The ladies, wrapped in their lace scarfs,
had formed into groups and were enjoying the delights of the beautiful
evening. Bursts of subdued laughter came from behind fans, while the
gentlemen talked in whispers. Above all this whispering was heard the
distant sound of the cornet at the peasants’ ball.

Leaning over the balustrade, in a shady corner, far from the noise which
troubled him and far from the fete which hurt him, Pierre was dreaming.
His eyes were fixed on the illuminations in the park, but he did not
see them. He thought of his vanished hopes. Another was beloved by
Micheline, and in a few hours he would take her away, triumphant
and happy. A great sadness stole over the young man’s spirit; he was
disgusted with life and hated humanity. What was to become of him now?
His life was shattered; a heart like his could not love twice, and
Micheline’s image was too deeply engraven on it for it ever to be
effaced. Of what use was all the trouble he had taken to raise himself
above others? A worthless fellow had passed that way and Micheline had
yielded to him. Now it was all over!

And Pierre asked himself if he had not taken a wrong view of things,
and if it was not the idle and good-for-nothing fellows who were more
prudent than he. To waste his life in superhuman works, to tire his mind
in seeking to solve great problems, and to attain old age without other
satisfaction than unproductive honors and mercenary rewards. Those who
only sought happiness and joy--epicureans who drive away all care,
all pain, and only seek to soften their existence, and brighten their
horizon--were they not true sages? Death comes so quickly! And it is
with astonishment that one perceives when the hour is at hand, that one
has not lived! Then the voice of pride spoke to him: what is a man who
remains useless, and does not leave one trace of his passage through the
world by works or discoveries? And, in a state of fever, Pierre said to
himself:

“I will throw myself heart and soul into science; I will make my name
famous, and I will make that ungrateful child regret me. She will
see the difference between me and him whom she has chosen. She will
understand that he is nobody, except by her money, whereas she would
have been all by me.”

A hand was placed on his shoulder; and Marechal’s affectionate voice
said to him:

“Well! what are you doing here, gesticulating like that?”

Pierre turned round.

Lost in his thoughts he had not heard his friend approaching.

“All our guests have arrived,” continued Marechal. “I have only just
been able to leave them and to come to you. I have been seeking you for
more than a quarter of an hour. You are wrong to hide yourself; people
will make remarks. Come toward the house; it is as well to show yourself
a little; people might imagine things which they must not imagine.”

“Eh! let them think what they like; what does it matter to me?” said
Pierre, sadly. “My life is a blank.”

“Your life may be a blank; but it is your duty not to let any one
perceive it. Imitate the young Spartan, who smiled although the fox,
hidden under his cloak, was gnawing his vitals. Let us avoid ridicule,
my friend. In society there is nothing that provokes laughter more than
a disappointed lover, who rolls his eyes about and looks woe-begone.
And, then, you-see, suffering is a human law; the world is an arena,
life is a conflict. Material obstacles, moral griefs, all hinder and
overwhelm us. We must go on, though, all the same, and fight. Those who
give in are trodden down! Come, pull yourself together!”

“And for whom should I fight now? A moment ago I was making projects,
but I was a fool! All hope and ambition are dead in me.”

“Ambition will return, you may be sure! At present you are suffering
from weariness of mind; but your strength will return. As to hope, one
must never despair.”

“What can I expect in the future?”

“What? Why, everything! In this world all sorts of things happen!” said
Marechal, gayly. “Who is to prove that the Princess will not be a widow
soon?”

Pierre could not help laughing and said,

“Come, don’t talk such nonsense!”

“My dear fellow,” concluded Marechal, “in life it is only nonsense that
is common-sense. Come and smoke a cigar.”

They traversed several groups of people and bent their steps in the
direction of the chateau. The Prince was advancing toward the terrace,
with an elegantly dressed and beautiful woman on his arm. Savinien, in
the midst of a circle of dandies, was picking the passers-by to pieces
in his easy-going way. Pierre and Marechal came behind these young men
without being noticed.

“Who is that hanging on the arm of our dear Prince?” asked a little fat
man, girt in a white satin waistcoat, and a spray of white lilac in his
buttonhole.

“Eh! Why, Le Brede, my boy, you don’t know anything!” cried Savinien in
a bantering, jocose tone.

“Because I don’t know that lovely fair woman?” said Le Brede, in a
piqued voice. “I don’t profess to know the names of all the pretty women
in Paris!”

“In Paris? That woman from Paris? You have not looked at her. Come, open
your eyes. Pure English style, my friend.”

The dandies roared with laughter. They had at once recognized the pure
English style. They were not men to be deceived. One of them, a tall,
dark fellow, named Du Tremblays, affected an aggrieved air, and said:

“Le Brede, my dear fellow, you make us blush for you!”

The Prince passed, smiling and speaking in a low voice to the beautiful
Englishwoman, who was resting the tips of her white gloved fingers on
her cavalier’s arm.

“Who is she?” inquired Le Brede, impatiently.

“Eh, my dear fellow, it is Lady Harton, a cousin of the Prince. She is
extremely rich, and owns a district in London.”

“They say that a year ago she was very kind to Serge Panine,” added Du
Tremblays, confidentially.

“Why did he not marry her, then, since she is so rich? He has been quite
a year in the market, the dear Prince.”

“She is married.”

“Oh, that is a good reason. But where is her husband?”

“Shut up in a castle in Scotland. Nobody ever sees him. He is out of his
mind; and is surrounded by every attention.”

“And a strait-waistcoat! Then why does not this pretty woman get a
divorce?”

“The money belongs to the husband.”

“Really!”

Pierre and Marechal had listened, in silence, to this cool and yet
terrible conversation. The group of young men dispersed. The two
friends looked at each other. Thus, then, Serge Panine was judged by his
companions in pleasure, by the frequenters of the clubs in which he
had spent a part of his existence. The Prince being “in the market” was
obliged to marry a rich woman. He could not marry Lady Harton, so he had
sought Micheline. And the sweet child was the wife of such a man! And
what could be done? She loved him!

Madame Desvarennes and Micheline appeared on the terrace. Lady Harton
pointed to the bride with her fan. The Prince, leaving his companion,
advanced toward Micheline.

“One of my English relatives, a Polish lady, married to Lord Harton,
wishes to be introduced to you,” said Serge. “Are you agreeable?”

“With all my heart,” replied the young wife, looking lovingly at her
husband. “All who belong to you are dear to me, you know.”

The beautiful Englishwoman approached slowly.

“The Princess Panine!” said Serge, gravely, introducing Micheline, who
bowed gracefully. Then, with a shade of familiarity: “Lady Harton!”
 continued he, introducing his relative.

“I am very fond of your husband, Madame,” said the Englishwoman. “I hope
you will allow me to love you also; and I beg you to grant me the favor
of accepting this small remembrance.”

While speaking, she unfastened from her wrist a splendid bracelet with
the inscription, Semper.

Serge frowned and looked stern. Micheline, lowering her eyes, and awed
by the Englishwoman’s grandeur, timidly said:

“I accept it, Madame, as a token of friendship.”

“I think I recognize this bracelet, Madame,” observed Serge.

“Yes; you gave it to me,” replied Lady Harton, quietly. “Semper--I beg
your pardon, Madame, we Poles all speak Latin--Semper means ‘Always!’ It
is a great word. On your wife’s arm this bracelet will be well placed.
Au revoir, dear Prince. I wish you every happiness.”

And bowing to Micheline with a regal bow, Lady Harton took the arm of a
tall young man whom she had beckoned, and walked away.

Micheline, amazed, looked at the bracelet sparkling on her white wrist.
Without uttering a word Serge unfastened it, took it off his wife’s
arm, and advancing on the terrace, with a rapid movement flung it in
the water. The bracelet gleamed in the night-air and made a brilliant
splash; then the water resumed its tranquillity. Micheline, astonished,
looked at Serge, who came toward her, and very humbly said:

“I beg your pardon.”

The young wife did not answer, but her eyes filled with tears; a smile
brightened her lips, and hurriedly taking his arm, she led him into the
drawing-room.

Dancing was going on there. The young ladies of Pontoise, and the cream
of Creil, had come to the fete, bent on not losing such an opportunity
of enjoying themselves. Under the watchful eyes of their mothers,
who, decked out in grand array, were seated along the walls, they were
gamboling, in spite of the stifling heat, with all the impetuosity of
young provincials habitually deprived of the pleasures of the ballroom.
Crossing the room, Micheline and Serge reached Madame Desvarennes’s
boudoir.

It was delightfully cool in there. Cayrol had taken refuge there
with Jeanne, and Mademoiselle Susanne Herzog. This young girl felt
uncomfortable at being a third party with the newly-married couple,
and welcomed the arrival of the Prince and Micheline with pleasure. Her
father had left her for a moment in Cayrol’s care; but she had not seen
him for more than an hour.

“Mademoiselle,” said the Prince, gayly, “a little while ago, when I
was passing through the rooms, I heard these words: ‘Loan, discount,
liquidation.’ Your father must have been there. Shall I go and seek
him?”

“I should be very grateful,” said the young girl.

“I will go.”

And turning lightly on his heels, happy to escape Jeanne’s looks, Serge
reentered the furnace. At once he saw Herzog seated in the corner of
a bay-window with one of the principal stock-brokers of Paris. He was
speaking. The Prince went straight up to him.

“Sorry to draw you away from the sweets of conversation,” said he,
smiling; “but your daughter is waiting for you, and is anxious at your
not coming.”

“Faith! My daughter, yes. I will come and see you tomorrow,” said he to
his companion. “We will talk over this association: there is much to be
gained by it.”

The other, a man with a bloated face, and fair Dundreary whiskers, was
eager to do business with him. Certainly the affair was good.

“Oh, my dear Prince, I am happy to be alone with you for a moment!” said
Herzog, with that familiarity which was one of his means of becoming
intimate with people. “I was going to compliment you! What a splendid
position you have reached.”

“Yes; I have married a charming woman,” replied the Prince, coldly.

“And what a fortune!” insisted the financier. “Ah, it is worthy of the
lot of a great lord such as you are! Oh, you are like those masterpieces
of art which need a splendidly carved frame! Well, you have your frame,
and well gilt too!”

He laughed and seemed pleased at Serge’s happiness. He had taken one of
his hands and was patting it softly between his own.

“Not a very ‘convenient’ mother-in-law, for instance,” he went on,
good-naturedly; “but you are so charming! Only you could have, coaxed
Madame Desvarennes, and you have succeeded. Oh! she likes you, my dear
Prince; she told me so only a little while ago. You have won her heart.
I don’t know how you manage it, but you are irresistible! By the way, I
was not there when the marriage contract was read, and I, forgot to ask
Cayrol. Under what conditions are you married?”

The Prince looked at Herzog with a look that was hardly friendly.
But the financier appeared so indifferent, that Serge could not help
answering him:

“My wife’s fortune is settled on herself.”

“Ah! ah! that is usual in Normandy!” replied Herzog with a grave look.
“I was told Madame Desvarennes was a clever woman and she has proved it.
And you signed the contract with your eyes shut, my dear Prince. It is
perfect, just as a gentleman should do!”

He said this with a good-natured air. Then, suddenly lifting his eyes,
and with an ironical smile playing on his lips, he added:

“You are bowled out, my dear fellow, don’t you know?”

“Sir!” protested Serge with haughtiness.

“Don’t cry out; it is too late, and would be useless,” replied the
financier. “Let me explain your position to you. Your hands are tied.
You cannot dispose of a sou belonging to your wife without her consent.
It is true, you have influence over her, happily for you. Still you must
foresee that she will be guided by her mother. A strong woman, too, the
mother! Ah, Prince, you have allowed yourself to be done completely. I
would not have thought it of you.”

Serge, nonplussed for a moment, regained his self-possession, and looked
Herzog in the face:

“I don’t know what idea you have formed of 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/3918