e! I beg of you!" said the young wife, taking both his hands. "All
is forgotten. I would not reproach you, I love you so much!"

Micheline's face beamed with joy, and tears filled her eyes.

"You are weeping," said Panine. "Ah! I feel the weight of my wrongs
toward you. I see how deserving you are of respect and affection. I feel
unworthy, and would kneel before you to say how I regret all the
anxieties I have caused you, and that my only desire in the future will
be to make you forget them."

"Oh! speak on! speak on!" cried Micheline, with delight. "What happiness
to hear you say such sweet words! Open your heart to me! You know I would
die to please you. If you have any anxieties or annoyances confide in me.
I can relieve them. Who could resist me when you are in question?"

"I have none, Micheline," answered Serge, with the constrained manner of
a man who is feigning. "Nothing but the regret of not having lived more
for you."

"Is the future not in store for us?" said the young wife, looking
lovingly at him.

The Prince shook his head, saying:

"Who can answer for the future?"

Micheline came closer to her husband, not quite understanding what Serge
meant, but her mind was on the alert, and in an alarmed tone, she
resumed:

"What strange words you are uttering? Are we not both young? And, if you
like, is there not much happiness in store for us?"

And she clung to him. Serge turned away.

"Oh, stay," she murmured, again putting her arms round him. "You are so
truly mine at this moment!"

Panine saw that the opportunity for confessing all had come. He was able
to bring tears to his eyes, and went toward the window as if to hide his
emotion. Micheline followed him, and, in an eager tone, continued:

"Ah! I knew you were hiding something. You are unhappy or in pain;
threatened perhaps? Ah! if you love me, tell me the truth!"

"Well, yes! It is true, I am threatened. I am suffering and unhappy! But
don't expect a confession from me. I should blush to make it. But, thank
Heaven, if I cannot extricate myself from the difficulty in which I am
placed through my own folly and imprudence--there is yet another way out
of it."

"Serge! you would kill yourself!" cried Micheline, terrified at the
gesture Panine had made. "What would become of me then? But what is there
that is so hard to explain? And to whom should it be said?"

"To your mother," answered Serge, bowing his head.

"To my mother? Very well, I wi