charming white villa with pink shutters. A Russian lady, the Countess
Woreseff, had it built five years ago, and occupied it one winter. Then,
tired of the monotonous noise of the waves beating on the terrace and the
brightness of the calm blue sky, she longed for the mists of her native
country, and suddenly started for St. Petersburg, leaving that charming
residence to be let.

It was there, amid rhododendrons and strawberry-trees in full bloom,
that Micheline and Serge had taken up their abode. Until that day the
Princess had scarcely travelled. Her mother, always occupied in
commercial pursuits, had never left Paris. Micheline had remained with
her. During this long journey, accomplished in most luxurious style,
she had behaved like a child astonished at everything, and pleased at the
least thing. With her face close to the window she saw through the
transparent darkness of a lovely winter's night, villages and forests
gliding past like phantoms. Afar off, in the depths of the country, she
caught sight of a light glimmering, and she loved to picture a family
gathered by the fire, the children asleep and the mother working in the
silence.

Children! She often thought of them, and never without a sigh of regret
rising to her lips. She had been married for some months, and her dreams
of becoming a mother had not been realized. How happy she would have
been to have a baby, with fair hair, to fondle and kiss! Then the idea
of a child reminded her of her own mother. She thought of the deep love
one must feel for a child. And the image of the mistress, sad and alone,
in the large house of the Rue Saint-Dominique, came to her mind. A vague
remorse seized her heart. She felt she had behaved badly. She said to
herself: "If, to punish me, Heaven will not grant me a child!" She wept,
and soon her grief and trouble vanished with her tears. Sleep