In spite of himself, Serge remembered the night of his union to Micheline, when he had said to Madame Desvarennes:  “Take my life; it is yours!” She had replied seriously, and almost threateningly:  “Very well; I accept it!” These words now resounded in his ears like a verdict.  He promised himself to play a sure game with Madame Desvarennes.  As to Cayrol, he was out of the question; he had only been created as a plaything for princes such as Serge; his destiny was written on his forehead, and he could not escape.  If it had not been Panine, some one else would have done the same thing for him.  Besides, how could that ex-cowherd expect to keep such a woman as Jeanne was to himself.  It would have been manifestly unfair.

The Prince found his valet asleep in the hall.  He went quickly to his bedroom, and slept soundly without remorse, without dreams, until noon.  Coming down to breakfast, he found the family assembled.  Savinien had come to see his aunt, before whom he wanted to place a “colossal idea.”  This time, he said, it was worth a fortune.  He hoped to draw six thousand francs from the mistress who, according to her usual custom, could not fail to buy from him what he called his idea.

The dandy was thoughtful; he was preparing his batteries.  Micheline, pale, and her eyes red for want of rest, was seated near the gallery, silently watching the sea, on which were passing, in the distance, fishing-smacks with their sails looking like white-winged birds.  Madame Desvarennes was serious, and was giving Marechal instructions respecting her correspondence, while at the same time watching her daughter out of the corner of her eye.  Micheline’s depressed manner caused her some anxiety; she guessed some mystery.  Still the young wife’s trouble might be the result of last evening’s serious interview.  But the sagacity of the mistress guessed a new incident.  Perhaps some scene between Serge and Micheline in regard to the club.  She was on the watch.

Cayrol and Jeanne had gone for a drive to Mentone.  With a single glance the Prince took in the attitude of one and all, and after a polite exchange of words and a careless kiss on Micheline’s brow, he seated himself at table.  The repast was silent.  Each one seemed preoccupied.  Serge anxiously asked himself whether Pierre had spoken.  Marechal, deeply interested in his plate, answered briefly, when addressed by Madame Desvarennes.  All the guests seemed constrained.  It was a relief when they rose from the table.

Micheline took her husband’s arm and leading him into the garden, under the shade of the magnolias, said to him: 

“My mother leaves us to-night.  She has received a letter recalling her to Paris.  Her journey here was, you no doubt know, on our account.  Our absence made her sad, and she could no longer refrain from seeing me, so she came.  On her return to Paris she will feel very lonely, and as I am so often alone—­”

“Micheline!” interrupted Serge, with astonishment.