Micheline came closer to her husband, not quite understanding what Serge meant, but her mind was on the alert, and in an alarmed tone, she resumed:
“What strange words you are uttering? Are we not both young? And, if you like, is there not much happiness in store for us?”
And she clung to him. Serge turned away.
“Oh, stay,” she murmured, again putting her arms round him. “You are so truly mine at this moment!”
Panine saw that the opportunity for confessing all had come. He was able to bring tears to his eyes, and went toward the window as if to hide his emotion. Micheline followed him, and, in an eager tone, continued:
“Ah! I knew you were hiding something. You are unhappy or in pain; threatened perhaps? Ah! if you love me, tell me the truth!”
“Well, yes! It is true, I am threatened. I am suffering and unhappy! But don’t expect a confession from me. I should blush to make it. But, thank Heaven, if I cannot extricate myself from the difficulty in which I am placed through my own folly and imprudence—there is yet another way out of it.”
“Serge! you would kill yourself!” cried Micheline, terrified at the gesture Panine had made. “What would become of me then? But what is there that is so hard to explain? And to whom should it be said?”
“To your mother,” answered Serge, bowing his head.
“To my mother? Very well, I will go to her. Oh! don’t fear anything. I can defend you, and to strike you she will first have to attack me.”