Pierre disregarded what was insulting in the Prince’s answer, and calming himself, by force of will, replied: 

“I desire, since you ask me, that you forget the folly and error of a moment, and that you swear to me on your honor never to see Madame Cayrol again.”

Pierre’s moderation wounded the Prince more than his rage had affected him.  He felt petty beside this devoted friend, who only thought of the happiness of her whom he loved without hope.  His temper increased.

“And what if I refuse to lend myself to those whims which you express so candidly?”

“Then,” said Pierre, resolutely, “I shall remember that, when renouncing Micheline, I promised to be a brother to her, and if you compel me I will defend her.”

“You are threatening me, I think,” cried Serge, beside himself.

“No!  I warn you.”

“Enough,” said the Prince, scarcely able to command himself.  “For any little service you have rendered me, from henceforth we are quits.  Don’t think that I am one of those who yield to violence.  Keep out of my path; it will be prudent.”

“Listen, then, to this.  I am not one of those who shirk a duty, whatever the peril be in accomplishing it.  You know what price I put on Micheline’s happiness; you are responsible for it, and I shall oblige you to respect it.”

And leaving Serge dumb with suppressed rage, Pierre went out on the terrace.

On the high road the sound of the carriages bearing away Savinien, Herzog and his daughter, resounded in the calm starry night.  In the villa everything was quiet.  Pierre breathed with delight; he instinctively turned his eyes toward the brilliant sky, and in the far-off firmament, the star which he appropriated to himself long ago, and which he had so desperately looked for when he was unhappy, suddenly appeared bright and twinkling.  He sighed and moved on.

The Prince spent a part of the night at the club; he was excessively nervous, and after alternate losses and gains, he retired, carrying off a goodly sum from his opponents.  It was a long time since he had been so lucky, and on his way home he smiled when he thought how false was the proverb, “Lucky at play, unlucky in love.”  He thought of that adorable Jeanne whom he had held in his arms a few hours before, and who had so eagerly clung to him.  He understood that she had never ceased to belong to him.  The image of Cayrol, self-confident man, happy in his love, coming to his mind, caused Serge to laugh.

There was no thought for Micheline; she had been the stepping-stone to fortune for him; he knew that she was gentle and thought her not very discerning.  He could easily deceive her; with a few caresses and a little consideration he could maintain the illusion of his love for her.  Madame Desvarennes alone inconvenienced him in his arrangements.  She was sagacious, and on several occasions he had seen her unveil plots which he thought were well contrived.  He must really beware of her.  He had often noticed in her voice and look an alarming hardness.  She was not a woman to be afraid of a scandal.  On the contrary, she would hail it with joy, and be happy to get rid of him whom she hated with all her might.