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Updated: May 22, 2025
She once thought of breaking off the engagement; as she could not belong to the man whom she adored, at least she could belong to herself. But the thought of the struggle she would have to sustain with those who surrounded her, stopped her. What would she do at Madame Desvarennes's? She would have to witness the happiness of Micheline and Serge. She would rather leave the house.
On seeing his aunt enter, Savinien rushed forward and seized both her hands. Madame Desvarennes's arrival was an element of interest in his unoccupied life. The dandy guessed at some mysterious business and thought it possible that he might get to know it. With open ears and prying eyes, he sought the meaning of the least words.
The thought that Micheline had forgotten her promise made the blood rush to his face. Madame Desvarennes's short letter suggested it. That his betrothed was lost to him he understood, but he would not admit it. How was it possible that Micheline should forget him? All his childhood passed before his mind.
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.
One morning in the month of May, 1879, a young man, elegantly attired, alighted from a well-appointed carriage before the door of Madame Desvarennes's house. The young man passed quickly before the porter in uniform, decorated with a military medal, stationed near the door. The visitor found himself in an anteroom which communicated with several corridors.
The flour trade alone occupied Madame Desvarennes's attention. She ruled the prices in the market; and great bankers came to her office and did business with her on a footing of equality. She did not become any prouder for it, she knew too well the strength and weakness of life to have pride; her former plain dealing had not stiffened into self-sufficiency.
Under the watchful eyes of their mothers, who, decked out in grand array, were seated along the walls, they were gamboling, in spite of the stifling heat, with all the impetuosity of young provincials habitually deprived of the pleasures of the ballroom. Crossing the room, Micheline and Serge reached Madame Desvarennes's boudoir. It was delightfully cool in there.
"Until the money is spent!" murmured Marechal, in the ear of Madame Desvarennes's nephew. And taking him by the arm he was leading him toward the safe when the mistress turned to Savinien and said: "By the way, what is your invention?" "Aunt, it is a threshing machine," answered the young man, gravely. "Rather a machine for coining money," said the incorrigible Marechal, in an undertone.
The thought that Micheline had forgotten her promise made the blood rush to his face. Madame Desvarennes's short letter suggested it. That his betrothed was lost to him he understood, but he would not admit it. How was it possible that Micheline should forget him? All his childhood passed before his mind.
There was always some one willing to take a hand, and until dawn he played, wasting his life and energies to satisfy his insane love of gambling. One morning, Marechal entered Madame Desvarennes's private office, holding a little square piece of paper. Without speaking a word, he placed it on the desk.
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