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In the angle of the large bay-window, opening into the garden, he waited with palpitating heart. Madame Desvarennes's voice was heard in the silence of the drawing-room; he listened. "Sit down, Jeanne; our interview will be short, and it could not be delayed, for to-morrow I shall not be here." "You are leaving so soon?" "Yes; I only left Paris on my daughter's account, and on yours.
"Certainly," said the German; "Madame Desvarennes's son-in-law will become a financial power. And a Prince, too. What a fine name for a board of directors!" The two financiers looked at each other for a moment; the same thought had struck them. "Yes, but," replied Cayrol, "Madame Desvarennes will never allow Panine to take part in business." "Who knows?" said Herzog.
Tired with healthy exercise, Micheline would go smiling to the office where her mother was hard at work, and say: "Here we are, mamma!" The mistress would rise and kiss her daughter beaming with freshness. Then they would go up to breakfast. Madame Desvarennes's doubts were lulled to rest. She saw her daughter happy. Her son-in-law was in every respect cordial and charming toward her.
She found these flatteries wounding, and thought Madame Desvarennes's preferences for Micheline unjust. All these accumulated grievances made Jeanne conceive the wish one morning of leaving the house where she had been brought up, and where she now felt humiliated.
"Don't thank me," replied Pierre; "I have no merit in accomplishing what you admire. I am weak, you see, and I could not bear to see you suffer." There was a great commotion in the drawing-room. Cayrol was explaining to Herzog, who was listening with great attention, what was taking place. Serge Panine was to be Madame Desvarennes's son-in-law. It was a great event.
The simple, lively, and frank young girl attracted him, and he liked to talk with her. On several occasions, at Madame Desvarennes's, he had been her partner. There was through this a certain intimacy between them which he could not extend to the father. Herzog had that faculty, fortunately for him, of never appearing offended at what was said to him.
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.
But admitting that you came to Nice, why accept hospitality in this house?" "Micheline offered it to us," said Jeanne. "And even that did not make you refuse. What part do you purpose playing here? After six months of honesty, are you going to change your mind?" Serge, behind his shelter, shuddered. Madame Desvarennes's words were clear. She knew all.
"Very well, then!" said she, hastily walking toward the door. "Are you going already?" asked Jeanne, offering her brow to Madame Desvarennes's lips. "Yes, good-by!" said the latter, with an icy kiss. Jeanne, without again turning round, went into the drawing-room. At the same moment, Cayrol, in a travelling-coat, entered the office, followed by Pierre.
Pierre, her boy, had grown up under the shadow of the bakery, the cradle of the Desvarennes's fortunes. On Sundays the mistress would give him a gingerbread or a cracknel, and amuse herself with his baby prattle. She did not lose sight of him when she removed to the Rue Vivienne.
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