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

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

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

Serge gave a start of indignation.

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

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

"Madame!"

"Sit down, my dear child," interrupted the mistress. "If I tell you
these things, it is because I have the proofs that they are untrue.
Otherwise, I would not have given myself the trouble to talk to you
about them. I would have shown you the door and there would have been
an end of it. Certainly, you are not an angel