could not resist drawing her daughter once more to her
heart.

"Dear child," she said with emotion, "you need affection, as flowers need
the sun! But I love you, there."

She stopped and added:

"We love you."

And she held out her hand to her son-in-law. Then changing the subject:

"But I am thinking, Cayrol, as you are returning to Paris, you might take
some orders for me which I will write out."

"What? Business? Even on my wedding-day?" exclaimed Micheline.

"Eh! my daughter, we must have flour," replied the mistress, laughing.
"While we are enjoying ourselves Paris eats, and it has a famous
appetite."

Micheline, leaving her mother, went to her husband.

"Serge, it is not yet late. Suppose we put in an appearance at the
work-people's ball? I promised them, and the good folks will be so
happy!"

"As you please. I am awaiting your orders. Let us make ourselves
popular!"

Madame Desvarennes had gone to her room. Carol took the opportunity of
telling his coachman to drive round by the park to the door of the little
conservatory and wait there. Thus, his wife and he would avoid meeting
any one, and would escape the leave-taking of friends and the curiosity
of lockers-on.

Micheline went up to Jeanne, and said:

"As you are going away quietly, dear, I shall not see you again this
evening. Adieu!"

And with a happy smile, she kissed her. Then taking her husband's arm she
led him toward the park.

CHAPTER X

CAYROL'S DISAPPOINTMENT

Jeanne left alone, watched them as they disappeared with the light and
easy movements of lovers.

Serge, bending toward Micheline, was speaking tenderly. A rush of bitter
feeling caused Jeanne's heart to swell. She was alone, she, while he whom
she loved-her whole being revolted. Unhappy one! Why did she think of
this man? Had she the right to do so now? She no longer belonged to
herself. Another, who was as kind to her as Serge was ungrateful, was her
husband. She thought thus in sincerity of heart. She wished to love
Cayrol. Alas, poor Jeanne! She would load him with attentions and
caresses! And Serge would be jealous, for he could never have forgotten
her so soon.

Her thoughts again turned to him whom she wished to forget. She made an
effort, but in vain. Serge was uppermost; he possessed her. She was
afraid. Would she never be able to break off the remembrance? Would his
name be ever on her lips, his face ever before her eyes?

Thank heaven! she was about