The town seemed deserted to Serge.  Still, returning to his splendid apartments was a great satisfaction and pleasure to him.  Everything appeared new.  He reviewed the hangings, the expensive furniture, the paintings and rare objects.  He was charmed.  It was really of wonderful beauty, and the cage seemed worthy of the bird.  For several evenings he remained quietly at home with Micheline, in the little silver-gray drawing-room that was his favorite room.  He looked through albums, too, while his wife played at her piano quietly or sang.

They retired early and came down late.  Then he had become a gourmand.  He spent hours in arranging menus and inventing unknown dishes about which he consulted his chef, a cook of note.

He rode in the Bois in the course of the day, but did not meet any one there; for of every two carriages one was a hackney coach with a worn-out sleepy horse, his head hanging between his knees, going the round of the lake.  He ceased going to the Bois, and went out on foot in the Champs-Elysees.  He crossed the Pont de la Concorde, and walked up and down the avenues near the Cirque.

He was wearied.  Life had never appeared so monotonous to him.  Formerly he had at least the preoccupations of the future.  He asked himself how he could alter the sad condition in which he vegetated!  Shut up in this happy existence, without a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisoner in his cell.  He longed for the unforeseen; his wife irritated him, she was of too equable a temperament.  She always met him with the same smile on her lips.  And then happiness agreed with her too well; she was growing stout.

One day, on the Boulevard des Italiens, Serge met an old friend, the Baron de Prefont, a hardened ‘roue’.  He had not seen him since his marriage.  It was a pleasure to him.  They had a thousand things to say to each other.  And walking along, they came to the Rue Royale.

“Come to the club,” said Prefont, taking Serge by the arm.

The Prince, having nothing else to do, allowed himself to be led away, and went.  He felt a strange pleasure in those large rooms of the club, the Grand Cercle, with their glaring furniture.  The common easy-chairs, covered with dark leather, seemed delightful.  He did not notice the well-worn carpets burned here and there by the hot cigar-ash; the strong smell of tobacco, impregnated in the curtains, did not make him feel qualmish.  He was away from home, and was satisfied with anything for a change.  He had been domesticated long enough.

One morning, taking up the newspaper, a name caught Madame Desvarennes’s eye-that of the Prince.  She read: 

“The golden book of the Grand Cercle has just had another illustrious name inscribed in it.  The Prince Panine was admitted yesterday, proposed by the Baron de Prefont and the Duc de Bligny.”

These few lines made Madame Desvarennes’s blood boil.  Her ears tingled as if all the bells of Saint-Etienne-du-Mont had been rung together.  In a rapid vision, she saw misfortune coming.  Her son-in-law, that born gambler, at the Grand Cercle!  No more smiles for Micheline; henceforth she had a terrible rival—­the devouring love of play.