“What is the matter?”

“Serious news.”  And she explained that she must speak to her lover that evening.

“Where?” Serge asked, with astonishment.

“Here,” answered Jeanne.

“But your husband?” the Prince said.

“Is leaving in an hour.  Our guests will not remain late.  Go to the garden, and wait in the pavilion.  The door of the back stairs leading to my dressing-room will be open.  When everybody has gone, come up.”

“Take care; we are observed,” said Serge, uneasily.

And they began to laugh with affectation and talked aloud about frivolous things, as if nothing serious were occupying their thoughts.  Cayrol had come back again.  He went up to Madame Desvarennes, who was talking with her daughter, and, full of business, thoughtlessly said: 

“I will telegraph you as soon as I reach London.”

“Are you going away?” inquired Micheline, a light dawning on her mind.

“Yes,” said Cayrol; “I have an important matter to settle.”

“And when do you start?” continued Micheline, in such a changed voice that her mother was frightened.

“In a moment,” answered the banker.  “Allow me to leave you.  I have several orders to give.”

And leaving the boudoir, he regained the little drawing-room.

Micheline, with clinched hands and fixed gaze, was saying to herself: 

“She will be alone to-night, and has asked him to come to her.  He told me an untruth about his having to go to the club.  He is going to see her!”

And passing her hand across her brow, as if to drive away an unpleasant thought, the young wife remained silent, dismayed and crushed.

“Micheline, what is the matter with you?” asked Madame Desvarennes, seizing her daughter’s hand, which was icy cold.

“Nothing,” stammered Micheline.

“You are ill, I see.  Come, let us go home.  Come and kiss Jeanne—­”

“I!” cried Micheline, with horror, instinctively recoiling as if dreading some impure contact.

Madame Desvarennes became suddenly cold and calm.  She foresaw a terrible revelation, and observing her daughter narrowly, said: 

“Why do you cry out when I speak of your kissing Jeanne?  Whatever is the matter?”

Micheline grasped her mother’s arm, and pointed to Serge and Jeanne, who were in the little drawing-room, laughing and talking, surrounded by a group of people, yet alone.

“Look at them!” she cried.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed the mother in agony.  She read the truth in her daughter’s eyes.

“You know—­” she began.

“That he is her lover,” cried Micheline, interrupting her.  “Don’t you see that I am dying through it?” she added, sobbing bitterly and falling into her mother’s arms.

The mistress carried her as if she had been a child into Cayrol’s private office, and shut the door.  Then, kneeling beside the couch on which Micheline was stretched, she gave vent to her grief.  She begged her daughter to speak to her, and warmed her hands with kisses; then, seeing her still cold and motionless, she was frightened, and wanted to call for help.