you know. That is what
Prince Panine is, my dear Jeanne. A gentleman of good appearance, who
lives as carefully as an old maid. The world sees him elegant and
happy, and its envies his luxury; but this luxury is as deluding
as watch-chains made of pinchbeck. You understand now that I cannot
seriously ask you to share such an existence."

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the Prince was