Pierre could not help laughing and said,

“Come, don’t talk such nonsense!”

“My dear fellow,” concluded Marechal, “in life it is only nonsense that is common-sense.  Come and smoke a cigar.”

They traversed several groups of people and bent their steps in the direction of the chateau.  The Prince was advancing toward the terrace, with an elegantly dressed and beautiful woman on his arm.  Savinien, in the midst of a circle of dandies, was picking the passers-by to pieces in his easy-going way.  Pierre and Marechal came behind these young men without being noticed.

“Who is that hanging on the arm of our dear Prince?” asked a little fat man, girt in a white satin waistcoat, and a spray of white lilac in his buttonhole.

“Eh!  Why, Le Brede, my boy, you don’t know anything!” cried Savinien in a bantering, jocose tone.

“Because I don’t know that lovely fair woman?” said Le Brede, in a piqued voice.  “I don’t profess to know the names of all the pretty women in Paris!”

“In Paris?  That woman from Paris?  You have not looked at her.  Come, open your eyes.  Pure English style, my friend.”

The dandies roared with laughter.  They had at once recognized the pure English style.  They were not men to be deceived.  One of them, a tall, dark fellow, named Du Tremblays, affected an aggrieved air, and said: 

“Le Brede, my dear fellow, you make us blush for you!”

The Prince passed, smiling and speaking in a low voice to the beautiful Englishwoman, who was resting the tips of her white gloved fingers on her cavalier’s arm.

“Who is she?” inquired Le Brede, impatiently.

“Eh, my dear fellow, it is Lady Harton, a cousin of the Prince.  She is extremely rich, and owns a district in London.”

“They say that a year ago she was very kind to Serge Panine,” added Du Tremblays, confidentially.

“Why did he not marry her, then, since she is so rich?  He has been quite a year in the market, the dear Prince.”

“She is married.”

“Oh, that is a good reason.  But where is her husband?”

“Shut up in a castle in Scotland.  Nobody ever sees him.  He is out of his mind; and is surrounded by every attention.”

“And a strait-waistcoat!  Then why does not this pretty woman get a divorce?”

“The money belongs to the husband.”

“Really!”

Pierre and Marechal had listened, in silence, to this cool and yet terrible conversation.  The group of young men dispersed.  The two friends looked at each other.  Thus, then, Serge Panine was judged by his companions in pleasure, by the frequenters of the clubs in which he had spent a part of his existence.  The Prince being “in the market” was obliged to marry a rich woman.  He could not marry Lady Harton, so he had sought Micheline.  And the sweet child was the wife of such a man!  And what could be done?  She loved him!