BOOK 2.

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.