The mother looked on with bitterness; she spoke of this transformation in her child with ironical disdain, She was sure Micheline was not in earnest; only a doll was capable of falling in love so foolishly with a man for his personal beauty.  For to her mind the Prince was as regards mental power painfully deficient.  No sense, dumb as soon as the conversation took a serious turn, only able to talk dress like a woman, or about horses like a jockey.  And it was such a person upon whom Micheline literally doted!  The mistress felt humiliated; she dared not say anything to her daughter, but she relieved herself in company of Marechal, whose discretion she could trust, and whom she willingly called the tomb of her secrets.

Marechal listened patiently to the confidences of Madame Desvarennes, and he tried to fight against the growing animosity of the mistress toward her future son-in-law.  Not that he liked the Prince—­he was too much on Pierre’s side to be well disposed toward Panine; but with his good sense he saw that Madame Desvarennes would find it advantageous to overcome her feeling of dislike.  And when the mistress, so formidable toward everybody except her daughter, cried with rage: 

“That Micheline!  I have just seen her again in the garden, hanging on the arm of that great lanky fellow, her eyes fixed on his like a lark fascinated by a looking-glass.  What on earth has happened to her that she should be in such a state?”

Marechal interrupted her gently.

“All fair people are like that,” he affirmed with ironical gayety.  “You cannot understand it, Madame; you are dark.”

Then Madame Desvarennes became angry.

“Be quiet,” she said, “you are stupid!  She ought to have a shower-bath!  She is mad!”

As for Cayrol he lived in ecstasy, like an Italian kneeling before a madonna.  He had never been so happy; he was overwhelmed with joy.  Until then, he had only thought of business matters.  To be rich was the aim of his life; and now he was going to work for happiness.  It was all pleasure for him.  He was not blase; he amused himself like a child, adorning the rooms which were to be occupied by Jeanne.  To his mind nothing was too expensive for the temple of his goddess, as he said, with a loud laugh which lighted up his whole face.  And when he spoke of his love’s future nest, he exclaimed, with a voluptuous shiver: 

“It is charming; a veritable little paradise!” Then the financier shone through all, and he added: 

“And I know what it costs!”

But he did not grudge his money.  He knew he would get the interest of it back.  On one subject he was anxious—­Mademoiselle de Cernay’s health.  Since the day of their engagement, Jeanne had become more serious and dull.  She had grown thin and her eyes were sunken as if she wept in secret.  When he spoke of his fears to Madame Desvarennes, the latter said: