Madame Desvarennes, who had heard the last words, was no longer listening.  She was lost in a deep reverie.  She was much altered since grief and trouble had come upon her; her face was worn, her temples hollow, her chin was more prominent.  Her eyes had sunk into her head, and were surrounded by dark rims.

Serge, leaning against the wall near the window, was observing her.  He was wondering with secret anxiety what had brought Madame Desvarennes so suddenly to his house after a separation of two months, during which time she had scarcely written to Micheline.  Was the question of money to be resumed?  Since the morning Madame had been smiling, calm and pleased like a schoolgirl home for her holidays.  This was the first time she had allowed a sad expression to rest on her face.  Her gayety was feigned then.

A look crossing his made him start.  Jeanne had just turned her eyes toward him.  For a second they met his own.  Serge could not help shuddering.  Jeanne was calling his attention to Madame Desvarennes; she, too, was observing her.  Was it on their account she had come to Nice?  Had their secret fallen into her hands?  He resolved to find out.

Jeanne had turned away her eyes from him.  He could feast his on her now.  She had become more beautiful.  The tone of her complexion had become warmer.  Her figure had developed.  Serge longed to call her his own.  For a moment his hands trembled; his throat was dry, his heart seemed to stop beating.

He tried to shake off this attraction, and walked to the centre of the room.  At the same time visitors were announced.  Le Bride, with his inseparable friend, Du Tremblay, escorting Lady Harton, Serge’s beautiful cousin, who had caused Micheline some anxiety on the day of her marriage, but whom she no longer feared; then the Prince and Princess Odescalchi, Venetian nobles, followed by Monsieur Clement Souverain, a young Belgian, starter of the Nice races, a great pigeon shot, and a mad leader of cotillons.

“Oh, dear me! my lady, all in black?” said Micheline, pointing to the tight-fitting black satin worn by the English beauty.

“Yes, my dear Princess; mourning,” replied Lady Harton, with a vigorous shake of the hands.  “Ball-room mourning—­one of my best partners; gentlemen, you know Harry Tornwall?”

“Countess Alberti’s cavalier?” added Serge.  “Well?”

“Well! he has just killed himself.”

A concert of exclamations arose in the drawing-room, and the visitors suddenly surrounded her.

“What! did you not know?  It was the sole topic of conversation at Monaco to-day.  Poor Tornwall, being completely cleared out, went during the night to the park belonging to the villa occupied by Countess Alberti, and blew his brains out under her window.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Micheline.

“It was very bad taste on your countryman’s part,” observed Serge.

“The Countess was furious, and said that Tornwall’s coming to her house to kill himself proved clearly to her that he did not know how to behave.”