“But this is madness,” exclaimed Jeanne, moving away. “Do you forget where we are?”
“Do you forget what you have just been saying?” retorted Serge. “I was there; I did not miss a word.”
“If you heard me,” said Jeanne, “you know that everything separates us. My duty, yours, and my will.”
“A will which is enforced, and against which your heart rebels. A will to which I will not submit.”
As he spoke, Serge advanced toward her, trying to seize her in his arms.
“Take care!” replied Jeanne. “Micheline and my husband are there. You must be mad to forget it. If you come a step farther I shall call out.”
“Call, then!” cried Serge, clasping her in his arms.
Jeanne tried to free herself from him, but could not.
“Serge,” she said, paling with mingled anguish and rapture in the arms of him whom she adored, “what you are doing is cowardly and base!”
A kiss stopped the words on her lips. Jeanne felt herself giving way. She made a supreme effort.
“I won’t, Serge!” she stammered. “Have mercy!”
“No! you belong to me. The other, your husband, stole you from me. I take you back. I love you!”
A fearful longing took possession of Jeanne. She no longer pushed away the arms which clasped her. She placed her hands on Serge’s shoulder, and with a deep sigh gave herself up.
A profound silence reigned around. Suddenly a sound of approaching voices roused them, and at the same moment the heavy curtain which separated the room from the adjoining drawing-room was lifted. A shadow appeared on the threshold, as they were still in each other’s arms. The stifled exclamation, “O God!” followed by a sob of agony, resounded. The door curtain fell, surrounding with its folds the unknown witness of that terrible scene.
Jeanne had risen, trying to collect her ideas. A sudden light dawned on her mind; she realized in a moment the extent of her crime, and uttering a cry of horror and despair, she escaped, followed by Serge, through the gallery.
Then the heavy curtain was lifted again, and tottering, livid, almost dead, Micheline entered the room. Pierre, serious and cold, walked behind her. The Princess, feeling tired, had come into the house. Chance had led her there to witness this proof of misfortune and treason.
Both she and Delarue looked at each other, silent and overwhelmed. Their thoughts whirled through their brains with fearful rapidity. In a moment they looked back on their existence. He saw the pale betrothed of whom he had dreamed as a wife, who had willingly given herself to another, and who now found herself so cruelly punished. She measured the distance which separated these two men: the one good, loyal, generous; the other selfish, base, and unworthy. And seeing him whom she adored, so vile and base compared to him whom she had disdained, Micheline burst into bitter tears.