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"What do you mean?" exclaimed the mother in agony. She read the truth in her daughter's eyes. "You know " she began. "That he is her lover," cried Micheline, interrupting her. "Don't you see that I am dying through it?" she added, sobbing bitterly and falling into her mother's arms. The mistress carried her as if she had been a child into Cayrol's private office, and shut the door.
"You don't like music?" asked Marechal, with a laugh. "Yes, military music. But two hours of Schumann and Mendelssohn at high pressure is too much for one man. But I say, Marechal, what do you think of Mademoiselle Herzog's being at Cayrol's soiree. It is a little too strong." "How so?" "Why, the father has bolted, and the daughter is preparing a dance.
The German knew what opinion he was held in by the public, and that without the prestige of Cayrol's name, and behind that, the house of Desvarennes, he would never have been able to float the European Credit as it had been. He was too cunning not to know this, and Cayrol having declined to join him, he looked round in search of a suitable person to inspire the shareholders with confidence.
"Ah! pride!" murmured Herzog. "After all it is your right It is you who pay!" Without answering a word the Prince went out. At that same hour, Madame Desvarennes, tired by long waiting, was pacing up and down her little drawing-room. A door opened and Marechal, the long-looked for messenger, appeared. He had been to Cayrol's, but could not see him.
Marechal listened silently to Suzanne, not daring to tell her what he thought of Herzog, and respected the real ignorance or willing blindness of the young girl who did not doubt her father's loyalty. The Princess, leaning on Cayrol's arm, had just finished promenading round the rooms, when she perceived Suzanne and, leaving the banker, came and seated herself beside her.
The secretary joined Madame Desvarennes, who had come with Pierre and had remained in Cayrol's private office. During this party matters of moment were to be discussed, and a consultation was about to take place between the interested parties. On seeing Marechal enter, Madame only uttered one word: "Cayrol?" "Here he is," answered the secretary. Cayrol came in, hurriedly.
The gathering was numerous. Merchant-princes came for Madame Desvarennes's sake; bankers for Cayrol's; and the aristocrats and foreign nobility for the Prince's. An assemblage as opposed in ideas as in manners: some valuing only money, others high birth; all proud and elbowing each other with haughty assurance, speaking ill of each other and secretly jealous.
"Not myself, though, thank you," replied Micheline, with a sad smile, "I am still very weak, but I will look on." And on Cayrol's arm she entered the large drawing-room. Serge followed with Jeanne. The festivities were at their height. The orchestra was playing a waltz, and in a whirl of silk and gauze the young people seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.
The stairs leading to the first floor were covered by a well-worn carpet. Here was a long corridor into which the different offices opened. On their glass doors might be read: "Payments of dividends." "Accounts." "Foreign correspondence." "General office." Cayrol's own room was quite at the end, and communicated with his private apartments. Everything breathed of simplicity and honesty.
There was something mournfully comic in this stubbornness of Cayrol's, in throwing her in the way of Serge. Cayrol, embarrassed by Jeanne's silence, waited a moment. "What is the matter?" he asked. "You are just like the Prince when I spoke to him on the subject." Jeanne turned away abruptly. Cayrol's comparison was too direct. His blunders were becoming wearisome.
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