The banker had naturally become one of the intimates of Madame Desvarennes’s house.  For a long time he saw Jeanne without particularly noticing her.  This young girl had not struck his fancy.  It was one night at a ball, on seeing her dancing with Prince Panine, that he perceived that she was marvellously engaging.  His eyes were attracted by an invincible power and followed her graceful figure whirling through the waltz.  He secretly envied the brilliant cavalier who was holding this adorable creature in his arms, who was bending over her bare shoulders, and whose breath lightly touched her hair.  He longed madly for Jeanne, and from that moment thought only of her.

The Prince was then very friendly with Mademoiselle de Cernay; he overwhelmed her with kind attentions.  Cayrol watched him to see if he spoke to her of love, but Panine was a past master in these drawing-room skirmishes, and the banker got nothing for his pains.  That Cayrol was tenacious has been proved.  He became intimate with the Prince.  He tendered him such little services as create intimacy, and when he was sure of not being repulsed with haughtiness, he questioned Serge.  Did he love Mademoiselle de Cernay?  This question, asked in a trembling voice and with a constrained smile, found the Prince quite calm.  He answered lightly that Mademoiselle de Cernay was a very agreeable partner, but that he had never dreamed of offering her his homage.  He had other projects in his head.  Cayrol pressed the Prince’s hand violently, made a thousand protestations of devotedness, and finally obtained his complete confidence.

Serge loved Mademoiselle Desvarennes, and it was to become intimate with her that he had so eagerly sought her friend’s company.  Cayrol, in learning the Prince’s secret, resumed his usual reserved manner.  He knew that Micheline was engaged to Pierre Delarue, but still, women were so whimsical!  Who could tell?  Perhaps Mademoiselle Desvarennes had looked favorably upon the handsome Serge.

He was really admirable to view, this Panine, with his blue eyes, pure as a maiden’s, and his long fair mustache falling on each side of his rosy mouth.  He had a truly royal bearing, and was descended from an ancient aristocratic race; he had a charming hand and an arched foot, enough to make a woman envious.  Soft and insinuating with his tender voice and sweet Sclavonic accent, he was no ordinary man, but one usually creating a great impression wherever he went.

His story was well known in Paris.  He was born in the province of Posen, so violently seized on by Prussia, that octopus of Europe.  Serge’s father had been killed during the insurrection of 1848, and he, when a year old, was brought by his uncle, Thaddeus Panine, to France, and was educated at the College Rollin, where he had not acquired over much learning.