one with a cry of triumph, and,
brandishing it like a club, rushed at Serge.

More rapid than he, Jeanne threw herself before her lover. She stretched
out her arms, and with a sharp voice, and the look of a she-wolf
defending her cubs,

"Keep behind me," said she to Serge; "he loves me and will not dare to
strike!"

Cayrol had stopped. At these words he uttered a loud cry: "wretched
woman! You first, then!"

Raising his weapon, he was about to strike, when his eyes met Jeanne's.
The young woman was smiling, happy to die for her lover. Her pale face
beamed from out her black hair with weird beauty. Cayrol trembled. That
look which he had loved, would he never see it again? That rosy mouth,
whose smile he cherished, would it be hushed in death? A thousand
thoughts of happy days came to his mind. His arm fell. A bitter flood
rushed from his heart to his eyes; the iron dropped heavily from his
hand on to the floor, and the poor man, overcome, sobbing, and ashamed
of his weakness, fell senseless on a couch.

Jeanne did not utter a word. By a sign she showed Serge the door,
which was open, and with a swollen heart she leaned on the mantelpiece,
waiting for the unfortunate man, from whom she had received such a deep
and sad proof of love, to come back to life.

Serge had disappeared.

CHAPTER XXI. "WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT"

The night seemed long to Madame Desvarennes. Agitated and feverish,
she listened through the silence, expecting every moment to hear some
fearful news. In fancy she saw Cayrol entering his wife's room like a
madman, unawares. She seemed to hear a cry of rage, answered by a sigh
of terror; then a double shot resounded, the room filled with smoke,
and, struck down in their guilty love, Serge and Jeanne rolled in death,
interlaced in each other's arms, like Paolo and Francesca de Rimini,
those sad lovers of whom Dante tells us.

Hour after hour passed; not a sound disturbed the mansion. The Prince
had not come in. Madame Desvarennes, unable to lie in bed, arose, and
now and again, to pass the time, stole on tiptoe to her daughter's room.
Micheline, thoroughly exhausted with fatigue and emotion, had fallen
asleep on her pillow, which was wet with tears.

Bending over her, by the light of the lamp, the mistress gazed at
Micheline's pale face, and a sigh rose to her lips.

"She is still young," she thought; "she may begin life afresh. The
remembrance of these sad days will be wiped out, and I sh