Micheline and Jeanne were still in the garden, seated in the same place on the lawn.  Cayrol had joined Serge.  Both, profiting by the lovely morning, were enjoying the society of their beloved ones.  A quick step on the gravel walk attracted their attention.  In the sunlight a young man, whom neither Jeanne nor Micheline recognized, was advancing.  When about two yards distant from the group he slowly raised his hat.

Seeing the constrained and astonished manner of the young girls, a sad smile played on his lips, then he said, softly: 

“Am I then so changed that I must tell you my name?”

At these words Micheline jumped up, she became as white as her collar, and trembling, with sobs rising to her lips, stood silent and petrified before Pierre.  She could not speak, but her eyes were eagerly fixed on the young man.  It was he, the companion of her youth, so changed that she had not recognized him; worn by hard work, perhaps by anxieties, bronzed—­and with his face hidden by a black beard which gave him a manly and energetic appearance.  It was certainly he, with a thin red ribbon at his button-hole, which he had not when he went away, and which showed the importance of the works he had executed and of great perils he had faced.  Pierre, trembling and motionless, was silent; the sound of his voice choked with emotion had frightened him.  He had expected a cold reception, but this scared look, which resembled terror, was beyond all he had pictured.  Serge wondered and watched.

Jeanne broke the icy silence.  She went up to Pierre, and presented her forehead.

“Well,” she said, “don’t you kiss your friends?”

She smiled affectionately on him.  Two grateful tears sparkled in the young man’s eyes, and fell on Mademoiselle de Cernay’s hair.  Micheline, led away by the example and without quite knowing what she was doing, found herself in Pierre’s arms.  The situation was becoming singularly perplexing to Serge.  Cayrol, who had not lost his presence of mind, understood it, and turning toward the Prince, said: 

“Monsieur Pierre Delarue:  an old friend and companion of Mademoiselle Desvarennes’s; almost a brother to her,” thus explaining in one word all that could appear unusual in such a scene of tenderness.

Then, addressing Pierre, he simply added—­“Prince Panine.”

The two men looked at each other.  Serge, with haughty curiosity; Pierre, with inexpressible rage.  In a moment, he guessed that the tall, handsome man beside his betrothed was his rival.  If looks could kill, the Prince would have fallen down dead.  Panine did not deign to notice the hatred which glistened in the eyes of the newcomer.  He turned toward Micheline with exquisite grace and said: 

“Your mother receives her friends this evening, I think, Mademoiselle; I shall have the honor of paying my respects to her.”

And taking leave of Jeanne with a smile, and of Pierre with a courteous bow, he left, accompanied by Cayrol.