“Jeanne!” called the voice of Cayrol from the outside, sounding mournfully in the silence, “Jeanne, open!”

And with his fist he knocked imperatively on the woodwork.

“I know you are there!  Open, I say!” he cried, with increasing rage.  “If you don’t open the door, I’ll—­”

“Go!  I beseech you!” whispered Jeanne, in Panine’s ear.  “Go downstairs again, and break open the door.  You won’t find any one there now.”

“Perhaps he has stationed some one there,” answered Serge.  “Besides, I won’t leave you here alone exposed to his violence.”

“You are not alone.  I can hear you talking!” said Cayrol, beside himself.  “I shall break open this door!”

The husband made a tremendous effort.  Under the pressure of his heavy weight the lock gave way.  With a bound he was in the middle of the room.  Jeanne threw herself before him; she no longer trembled.  Cayrol took another step and fixed his glaring eyes on the man whom he sought, uttering a fearful oath.

“Serge!” cried he.  “I might have guessed it.  It is not only money of which you are robbing me, you villain!”

Panine turned horribly pale, and advanced toward Cayrol, despite Jeanne, who was clinging to him.

“Don’t insult me; it is superfluous,” said he.  “My life belongs to you; you can take it.  I shall be at your service whenever you please.”

Cayrol burst into a fearful laugh.

“Ah! a duel!  Come!  Am I a gentleman?  I am a plebeian! a rustic! a cowherd! you know that!  I have you now!  I am going to smash you!”

He looked round the room as if seeking a weapon, and caught sight of the heavy fire-dogs.  He caught up one with a cry of triumph, and, brandishing it like a club, rushed at Serge.

More rapid than he, Jeanne threw herself before her lover.  She stretched out her arms, and with a sharp voice, and the look of a she-wolf defending her cubs,

“Keep behind me,” said she to Serge; “he loves me and will not dare to strike!”

Cayrol had stopped.  At these words he uttered a loud cry:  “wretched woman!  You first, then!”

Raising his weapon, he was about to strike, when his eyes met Jeanne’s.  The young woman was smiling, happy to die for her lover.  Her pale face beamed from out her black hair with weird beauty.  Cayrol trembled.  That look which he had loved, would he never see it again?  That rosy mouth, whose smile he cherished, would it be hushed in death?  A thousand thoughts of happy days came to his mind.  His arm fell.  A bitter flood rushed from his heart to his eyes; the iron dropped heavily from his hand on to the floor, and the poor man, overcome, sobbing, and ashamed of his weakness, fell senseless on a couch.

Jeanne did not utter a word.  By a sign she showed Serge the door, which was open, and with a swollen heart she leaned on the mantelpiece, waiting for the unfortunate man, from whom she had received such a deep and sad proof of love, to come back to life.