“And my love, my devotion?” exclaimed Jeanne, passionately.  “Do you think that I will leave you?  We must go away.  I asked you long ago.  You resisted; the moment has now come.  Be easy!  Madame Desvarennes will pay and save your name.  In exchange you will give her back her daughter.  You don’t care about her, because you love me.  I am your real wife; she who ought to share your life.  Well, I take back my rights.  I pay for them with my honor.  I break all ties which could hold me back.  I am yours, Serge!  Our sin and misfortune will bind us more closely than any laws could.”

“Think, that with me you will have to endure poverty, and, perhaps, misery,” said the Prince, moved by the young woman’s infatuation.

“My love will make you forget everything!”

“You will not feel regret or remorse?”

“Never, so long as you love me.”

“Come, then,” said the Prince, taking Jeanne in his arms.  “And if life is too hard—­”

“Well,” added Jeanne, finishing the sentence with sparkling eyes, “we will seek refuge together in death!  Come!”

Serge bolted the door, through which Pierre had passed, and which alone communicated with the other apartments.  Then, taking his mistress by the hand, he went with her into the dressing-room.  Jeanne threw a dark cloak round her shoulders, put a hat on her head, and without taking either money, jewels, lace, or, in fact, anything that she had received from Cayrol, they went down the little back stairs.

It was very dark.  Jeanne did not take a light, as she did not care to attract attention, so they had to feel every step of the way as quietly as possible, striving not to make the least noise, holding their breath, and with beating hearts.  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jeanne stretched out her hand, and sought the handle of the door which opened into the courtyard.  She turned it, but the door would not open.  She pushed, but it did not give way.  Jeanne uttered a low groan.  Serge shook it vigorously, but it would not open.

“It has been fastened on the outside,” he whispered.

“Fastened?” murmured Jeanne, seized with fear.  “Fastened, and by whom?”

Serge did not answer.  The idea that Cayrol had done it came to his mind at once.  The husband lying in wait, had seen him enter, and to prevent his escaping from his vengeance had cut off all means of retreating.

Silently, they went upstairs again, into the room through the dressing-room.  Jeanne took off her bonnet and cloak, and sank into an armchair.

“I must get away!” said Serge, with suppressed rage; and he walked toward the door of the gallery.

“No! don’t open that,” cried Jeanne, excitedly.

And with a frightened look, she added: 

“What if he were behind the door?”

At the same moment, as if Jeanne’s voice had indeed evoked Cayrol, a heavy step was heard approaching along the gallery, a hand tried to open the bolted door.  Serge and Jeanne remained motionless, waiting.