Cayrol.

Serge had just introduced Micheline to Count Soutzko, a gray-haired old
gentleman of military appearance, whose right sleeve was empty. He was a
veteran of the Polish wars, and an old friend of Prince Panine's, at
whose side he had received the wounds which had so frightfully mutilated
him. Micheline, smiling, was listening to flattering tales which the old
soldier was relating about Serge. Cayrol, who had got rid of Herzog,
was looking for Jeanne, who had just disappeared in the direction of the
terrace.

The rooms were uncomfortably warm, and many of the visitors had found
their way to the terraces. Along the marble veranda, overlooking the
lake, chairs had been placed. The ladies, wrapped in their lace scarfs,
had formed into groups and were enjoying the delights of the beautiful
evening. Bursts of subdued laughter came from behind fans, while the
gentlemen talked in whispers. Above all this whispering was heard the
distant sound of the cornet at the peasants' ball.

Leaning over the balustrade, in a shady corner, far from the noise which
troubled him and far from the fete which hurt him, Pierre was dreaming.
His eyes were fixed on the illuminations in the park, but he did not see
them. He thought of his vanished hopes. Another was beloved by
Micheline, and in a few hours he would take her away, triumphant and
happy. A great sadness stole over the young man's spirit; he was
disgusted with life and hated humanity. What was to become of him now?
His life was shattered; a heart like his could not love twice, and
Micheline's image was too deeply engraven on it for it ever to be
effaced. Of what use was all the trouble he had taken to raise himself
above others? A worthless fellow had passed that way and Micheline had