Serge, bending toward Micheline, was speaking tenderly.  A rush of bitter feeling caused Jeanne’s heart to swell.  She was alone, she, while he whom she loved-her whole being revolted.  Unhappy one!  Why did she think of this man?  Had she the right to do so now?  She no longer belonged to herself.  Another, who was as kind to her as Serge was ungrateful, was her husband.  She thought thus in sincerity of heart.  She wished to love Cayrol.  Alas, poor Jeanne!  She would load him with attentions and caresses!  And Serge would be jealous, for he could never have forgotten her so soon.

Her thoughts again turned to him whom she wished to forget.  She made an effort, but in vain.  Serge was uppermost; he possessed her.  She was afraid.  Would she never be able to break off the remembrance?  Would his name be ever on her lips, his face ever before her eyes?

Thank heaven! she was about to leave.  Travelling, and the sight of strange places other than those where she had lived near Serge, would draw her attention from the persecution she suffered.  Her husband was about to take her away, to defend her.  It was his duty, and she would help him with energy.  With all the strength of her will she summoned Cayrol.  She clung violently to him as a drowning person catches at a straw, with the vigor of despair.

There was between Jeanne and Cayrol a sympathetic communication.  Mentally called by his wife, the husband appeared.

“Ah! at last!” said she.

Cayrol, surprised at this welcome, smiled.  Jeanne, without noticing, added: 

“Well, Monsieur; are we leaving soon?”

The banker’s surprise increased.  But as this surprise was decidedly an agreeable one he did not protest.

“In a moment, Jeanne, dear,” he said.

“Why this delay?” asked the young wife, nervously.

“You will understand.  There are more than twenty carriages before the front door.  Our coachman is driving round, and we will go out by the conservatory door without being seen.”

“Very well; we will wait.”

This delay displeased Jeanne.  In the ardor of her resolution, in the first warmth of her struggle, she wished at once to put space between her and Serge.  Unfortunately, Cayrol had thwarted this effort of proud revolt.  She was vexed with him.  He, without knowing the motives which actuated his wife, guessed that something had displeased her.  He wished to change the current of her thoughts.

“You were marvellously beautiful to-night,” he said, approaching her gallantly.  “You were much admired, and I was proud of you.  If you had heard my friends!  It was a concert of congratulations:  What a fortunate fellow that Cayrol is!  He is rich; he has a charming wife!  You see, Jeanne, thanks to you, in the eyes of all, my happiness is complete.”

Jeanne frowned, and without answering, shook her head haughtily.  Cayrol continued, without noticing this forecast of a storm: