And turning toward Madame Desvarennes he added: “I only ask a quarter of an hour.”
“Don’t defend yourself too much,” said Micheline in her companion’s ear, and giving her a tender kiss which the latter did not return.
“Come with me,” said Micheline to Pierre, offering him her arm; “I want to belong to you alone while Serge is pleading with Jeanne. I will be your sister as formerly. If you only knew how I love you!”
The large French window which led to the garden had just been opened by Marechal, and the mild odors of a lovely spring night perfumed the drawing-room. They all went out on the lawn. Thousands of stars were twinkling in the sky, and the eyes of Micheline and Pierre were lifted toward the dark blue heavens seeking vaguely for the star which presided over their destiny. She, to know whether her life would be the long poem of love of which she dreamed; he, to ask whether glory, that exacting mistress for whom he had made so many sacrifices, would at least comfort him for his lost love.
BOOK 2.
CHAPTER VII. JEANNE’S SECRET
In the drawing-room Jeanne and Serge remained standing, facing each other. The mask had fallen from their faces; the forced smile had disappeared. They looked at each other attentively, like two duellists seeking to read each other’s game, so that they may ward off the fatal stroke and prepare the decisive parry.
“Why did you leave for England three weeks ago, without seeing me and without speaking to me?”