“Yes; to continue the journey together. A party of four; two newly-married couples. It will be charming. I spoke to Serge on the subject. He objected at first, but the Princess came to my assistance. And when he saw that his wife and I were agreed, he commenced to laugh, and said: ‘You wish it? I consent. Don’t say anything more!’ It is all very well to talk of love’s solitude; in about a fortnight, passed tete-a-tete, Serge will be glad to have us. We will go to Italy to see the lakes; and there, in a boat, all four, of us will have such pleasant times.” Cayrol might have gone on talking for an hour, but Jeanne was not listening. She was thinking. Thus all the efforts which she had decided to make to escape from him whom she loved would be useless. An invincible fatality ever brought her toward him whom she was seeking to avoid. And it was her husband who was aiding this inevitable and execrable meeting. A bitter smile played on her lips. 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. The banker, quite discomfited on seeing the effect of his words, continued: “You object to this journey? If so, I am willing to give it up.” The young wife was touched by this humble servility. “Well, yes,” she said, softly, “I should be grateful to you.” “I had hoped to please you,” said Cayrol. “It is for me to beg pardon for having succeeded so badly. Let us remain in Paris. It does not matter to me what place we are in! Being near to you is all I desire.” He approached her, and, with beaming eyes, added: “You are so beautiful, Jeanne; and I have loved you so long a time!” She moved away, full of a vague dread. Cayrol, very excitedly, put her cloak round her shoulders, and looking toward the door, added: “The carriage is there, we can go now.” Jeanne, much troubled, did not rise. “Wait another minute,” said she. Cayrol smiled constrainedly: “A little while ago you were hurrying me off.” It was true. But a sudden change had come over Jeanne. Her energy had given way. She felt very weary. The idea of going away with Cayrol, and of being alone with him in the carriage frightened her. She looked vaguely at her husband, and saw, in a sort of mist, this great fat man, with a protruding shirt-front, rolls of red flesh on his neck above his collar, long fat ears which only needed gold ear-rings, and his great hairy hands, on the finger of one of which shone the new wedding-ring. Then, in a rapid vision, she beheld the refined profile, the beautiful blue eyes, and the long, fair mustache of Serge. A profound sadness came over the young woman, and tears rushed to her eyes.