several orders to give."

And leaving the boudoir, he regained the little drawing-room.

Micheline, with clinched hands and fixed gaze, was saying to herself:

"She will be alone to-night, and has asked him to come to her. He told
me an untruth about his having to go to the club. He is going to see
her!"

And passing her hand across her brow, as if to drive away an unpleasant
thought, the young wife remained silent, dismayed and crushed.

"Micheline, what is the matter with you?" asked Madame Desvarennes,
seizing her daughter's hand, which was icy cold.

"Nothing," stammered Micheline.

"You are ill, I see. Come, let us go home. Come and kiss Jeanne--"

"I!" cried Micheline, with horror, instinctively recoiling as if
dreading some impure contact.

Madame Desvarennes became suddenly cold and calm. She foresaw a terrible
revelation, and observing her daughter narrowly, said:

"Why do you cry out when I speak of your kissing Jeanne? Whatever is the
matter?"

Micheline grasped her mother's arm, and pointed to Serge and Jeanne, who