STRONG AS DEATH

By Guy De Maupassant

STRONG AS DEATH

PART I

CHAPTER I

A DUEL OF HEARTS

Broad daylight streamed down into the vast studio through a skylightin the ceiling, which showed a large square of dazzling blue, a brightvista of limitless heights of azure, across which passed flocks of birdsin rapid flight. But the glad light of heaven hardly entered this severeroom, with high ceilings and draped walls, before it began to grow softand dim, to slumber among the hangings and die in the portieres, hardlypenetrating to the dark corners where the gilded frames of portraitsgleamed like flame. Peace and sleep seemed imprisoned there, the peacecharacteristic of an artist's dwelling, where the human soul hastoiled. Within these walls, where thought abides, struggles, and becomesexhausted in its violent efforts, everything appears weary and overcomeas soon as the energy of action is abated; all seems dead after thegreat crises of life, and the furniture, the hangings, and the portraitsof great personages still unfinished on the canvases, all seem to restas if the whole place had suffered the master's fatigue and had toiledwith him, taking part in the daily renewal of his struggle. A vague, heavy odor of paint, turpentine, and tobacco was in the air, clinging tothe rugs and chairs; and no sound broke the deep silence save the sharpshort cries of the swallows that flitted above the open skylight, andthe dull, ceaseless roar of Paris, hardly heard above the roofs. Nothingmoved except a little cloud of smoke that rose intermittently toward theceiling with every puff that Olivier Bertin, lying upon his divan, blewslowly from a cigarette between his lips. 

With gaze lost in the distant sky, he tried to think of a new subjectfor a painting. What should he do? As yet he did not know. He was byno means resolute and sure of himself as an artist, but was of anuncertain, uneasy spirit, whose undecided inspiration ever hesitatedamong all the manifestations of art. Rich, illustrious, the gainer ofall honors, he nevertheless remained, in these his later years, a manwho did not know exactly toward what ideal he had been aiming. He hadwon the _Prix_ of Rome, had been the defender of traditions, andhad evoked, like so many others, the great scenes of history; then, modernizing his tendencies, he had painted living men, but in a way thatshowed the influence of classic memories. Intelligent, enthusiastic, aworker that clung to his changing dreams, in love with his art, whichhe knew to perfection, he had acquired, by reason of the delicacy of hismind, remarkable executive ability and great versatility, due in somedegree to his hesitations and his experiments in all styles of his art. Perhaps, too, the sudden admiration of the world for his works, elegant, correct, and full of distinctions, influenced his nature and preventedhim from becoming what he naturally might have been. Since the triumphof his first success, the desire to please always made him anxious, without his being conscious of it; it influenced his actions andweakened his convictions. This desire to please was apparent in him inmany ways, and had contributed much to his glory. 

His grace of manner, all his habits of life, the care he devoted tohis person, his long-standing reputation for strength and agility asa swordsman and an equestrian, had added further attractions to hissteadily growing fame. After his _Cleopatra_, the first picture thathad made him illustrious, Paris suddenly became enamored of him, adopted him, made a pet of him; and all at once he became one of thosebrilliant, fashionable artists one meets in the Bois, for whose presencehostesses maneuver, and whom the Institute welcomes thenceforth. He hadentered it as a conqueror, with the approval of all Paris. 

Thus Fortune had led him to the beginning of old age, coddling andcaressing him. 

Under the influence of the beautiful day, which he knew was glowingwithout, Bertin sought a poetic subject. He felt somewhat dreamy, however, after his breakfast and his cigarette; he pondered awhile, gazing into space, in fancy sketching rapidly against the blue sky thefigures of graceful women in the Bois or on the sidewalk of a street, lovers by the water--all the pleasing fancies in which his thoughtsreveled. The changing images stood out against the bright sky, vague andfleeting in the hallucination of his eye, while the swallows, dartingthrough space in ceaseless flight, seemed trying to efface them as ifwith strokes of a pen. 

He found nothing. All these half-seen visions resembled things thathe had already done; all the women appeared to be the daughters or thesisters of those that had already been born of his artistic fancy; andthe vague fear, that had haunted him for a year, that he had lost thepower to create, had made the round of all subjects and exhaustedhis inspiration, outlined itself distinctly before this review of hiswork--this lack of power to dream anew, to discover the unknown. 

He arose quietly to look among his unfinished sketches, hoping to findsomething that would inspire him with a new idea. 

Still puffing at his cigarette, he proceeded to turn over the sketches, drawings, and rough drafts that he kept in a large old closet; but, soonbecoming disgusted with this vain quest, and feeling depressed by thelassitude of his spirits, he tossed away his cigarette, whistled apopular street-song, bent down and picked up a heavy dumb-bell that layunder a chair. Having raised with the other hand a curtain that draped amirror, which served him in judging the accuracy of a pose, in verifyinghis perspectives and testing the truth, he placed himself in front of itand began to swing the dumb-bell, meanwhile looking intently at himself. 

He had been celebrated in the studios for his strength; then, in the gayworld, for his good looks. But now the weight of years was making himheavy. Tall, with broad shoulders and full chest, he had acquired theprotruding stomach of an old wrestler, although he kept up his fencingevery day and rode his horse with assiduity. His head was stillremarkable and as handsome as ever, although in a style different fromthat of his earlier days. His thick and short white hair set offthe black eyes beneath heavy gray eyebrows, while his luxuriantmoustache--the moustache of an old soldier--had remained quite dark, andit gave to his countenance a rare characteristic of energy and pride. 

Standing before the mirror, with heels together and body erect, he wentthrough the usual movements with the two iron balls, which he held outat the end of his muscular arm, watching with a complacent expressionits evidence of quiet power. 

But suddenly, in the glass, which reflected the whole studio, he sawone of the portieres move; then appeared a woman's head--only a head, peeping in. A voice behind him asked:

"Anyone here?"

"Present!" he responded promptly, turning around. Then, throwing hisdumb-bell on the floor, he hastened toward the door with an appearanceof youthful agility that was slightly affected. 

A woman entered attired in a light summer costume. They shook hands. 

"You were exercising, I see, " said the lady. 

"Yes, " he replied; "I was playing peacock, and allowed myself to besurprised. "

The lady laughed, and continued:

"Your concierge's lodge was vacant, and as I know you are always aloneat this hour I came up without being announced. "

He looked at her. 

"Heavens, how beautiful you are! What chic!"

"Yes, I have a new frock. Do you think it pretty?"

"Charming, and perfectly harmonious. We can certainly say that nowadaysit is possible to give expression to the lightest textiles. "

He walked around her, gently touching the material of the gown, adjusting its folds with the tips of his fingers, like a man that knowsa woman's toilet as the modiste knows it, having all his life employedhis artist's taste and his athlete's muscles in depicting with slenderbrush changing and delicate fashions, in revealing feminine graceenclosed within a prison of velvet and silk, or hidden by snowy laces. He finished his scrutiny by declaring: "It is a great success, and itbecomes you perfectly!"

The lady allowed herself to be admired, quite content to be pretty andto please him. 

No longer in her first youth, but still beautiful, not very tall, somewhat plump, but with that freshness which lends to a woman of fortyan appearance of having only just reached full maturity, she seemed likeone of those roses that flourish for an indefinite time up to the momentwhen, in too full a bloom, they fall in an hour. 

Beneath her blonde hair she possessed the shrewdness to preserve all thealert and youthful grace of those Parisian women who never grow old; whocarry within themselves a surprising vital force, an indomitablepower of resistance, and who remain for twenty years triumphant andindestructible, careful above all things of their bodies and everwatchful of their health. 

She raised her veil and murmured:

"Well, you do not kiss me!"

"I have been smoking. "

"Pooh!" said the lady. Then, holding up her face, she added, "So muchthe worse!"

Their lips met. 

He took her parasol and divested her of her spring jacket with theprompt, swift movement indicating familiarity with this service. As sheseated herself on the divan, he asked with an air of interest:

"Is all going well with your husband?"

"Very well; he must be making a speech in the House at this verymoment. "

"Ah! On what, pray?"

"Oh--no doubt on beets or on rape-seed oil, as usual!"

Her husband, the Comte de Guilleroy, deputy from the Eure, made aspecial study of all questions of agricultural interest. 

Perceiving in one corner a sketch that she did not recognize, the ladywalked across the studio, asking, "What is that?"

"A pastel that I have just begun--the portrait of the Princesse dePonteve. "

"You know, " said the lady gravely, "that if you go back to paintingportraits of women I shall close your studio. I know only too well towhat that sort of thing leads!"

"Oh, but I do not make twice a portrait of Any!" was the answer. 

"I hope not, indeed!"

She examined the newly begun pastel sketch with the air of a woman thatunderstands the technic of art. She stepped back, advanced, made a shadeof her hand, sought the place where the best light fell on the sketch, and finally expressed her satisfaction. 

"It is very good. You succeed admirably with pastel work. "

"Do you think so?" murmured the flattered artist. 

"Yes; it is a most delicate art, needing great distinction of style. Itcannot be handled by masons in the art of painting. "

For twelve years the Countess had encouraged the painter's leaningtoward the distinguished in art, opposing his occasional return tothe simplicity of realism; and, in consideration of the demands offashionable modern elegance, she had tenderly urged him toward an idealof grace that was slightly affected and artificial. 

"What is the Princess like?" she asked. 

He was compelled to give her all sorts of details--those minute detailsin which the jealous and subtle curiosity of women delights, passingfrom remarks upon her toilet to criticisms of her intelligence. 

Suddenly she inquired: "Does she flirt with you?"

He laughed, and declared that she did not. 

Then, putting both hands on the shoulders of the painter, the Countessgazed fixedly at him. The ardor of her questioning look caused a quiverin the pupils of her blue eyes, flecked with almost imperceptible blackpoints, like tiny ink-spots. 

Again she murmured: "Truly, now, she is not a flirt?"

"No, indeed, I assure you!"

"Well, I am quite reassured on another account, " said the Countess. "Younever will love anyone but me now. It is all over for the others. It istoo late, my poor dear!"

The painter experienced that slight painful emotion which touchesthe heart of middle-aged men when some one mentions their age; and hemurmured: "To-day and to-morrow, as yesterday, there never has been inmy life, and never will be, anyone but you, Any. "

She took him by the arm, and turning again toward the divan made him sitbeside her. 

"Of what were you thinking?" she asked. 

"I am looking for a subject to paint. "

"What, pray?"

"I don't know, you see, since I am still seeking it. "

"What have you been doing lately?"

He was obliged to tell her of all the visits he had received, aboutall the dinners and soirees he had attended, and to repeat all theconversations and chit-chat. Both were really interested in all thesefutile and familiar details of fashionable life. The little rivalries, the flirtations, either well known or suspected, the judgments, athousand times heard and repeated, upon the same persons, the sameevents and opinions, were bearing away and drowning both their minds inthat troubled and agitated stream called Parisian life. Knowing everyonein all classes of society, he as an artist to whom all doors were open, she as the elegant wife of a Conservative deputy, they were expertsin that sport of brilliant French chatter, amiably satirical, banal, brilliant but futile, with a certain shibboleth which gives a particularand greatly envied reputation to those whose tongues have become supplein this sort of malicious small talk. 

"When are you coming to dine?" she asked suddenly. 

"Whenever you wish. Name your day. "

"Friday. I shall have the Duchesse de Mortemain, the Corbelles, andMusadieu, in honor of my daughter's return--she is coming this evening. But do not speak of it, my friend. It is a secret. "

"Oh, yes, I accept. I shall be charmed to see Annette again. I have notseen her in three years. "

"Yes, that is true. Three years!"

Though Annette, in her earliest years, had been brought up in Paris inher parents' home, she had become the object of the last and passionateaffection of her grandmother, Madame Paradin, who, almost blind, lived all the year round on her son-in-law's estate at the castle ofRoncieres, on the Eure. Little by little, the old lady had kept thechild with her more and more, and as the De Guilleroys passed almosthalf their time in this domain, to which a variety of interests, agricultural and political, called them frequently, it ended in takingthe little girl to Paris on occasional visits, for she herself preferredthe free and active life of the country to the cloistered life of thecity. 

For three years she had not visited Paris even once, the Countess havingpreferred to keep her entirely away from it, in order that a new tastefor its gaieties should not be awakened in her before the day fixed forher debut in society. Madame de Guilleroy had given her in the countrytwo governesses, with unexceptionable diplomas, and had visited hermother and her daughter more frequently than before. Moreover, Annette'ssojourn at the castle was rendered almost necessary by the presence ofthe old lady. 

Formerly, Olivier Bertin had passed six weeks or two months at Roncieresevery year; but in the past three years rheumatism had sent him towatering-places at some distance, which had so much revived his love forParis that after his return he could not bring himself to leave it. 

As a matter of custom, the young girl should not have returned homeuntil autumn, but her father had suddenly conceived a plan for hermarriage, and sent for her that she might meet immediately the Marquisde Farandal, to whom he wished her to be betrothed. But this plan waskept quite secret, and Madame de Guilleroy had told only Olivier Bertinof it, in strict confidence. 

"Then your husband's idea is quite decided upon?" said he at last. 

"Yes; I even think it a very happy idea. "

Then they talked of other things. 

She returned to the subject of painting, and wished to make him decideto paint a Christ. He opposed the suggestion, thinking that therewas already enough of them in the world; but she persisted, and grewimpatient in her argument. 

"Oh, if I knew how to draw I would show you my thought: it should bevery new, very bold. They are taking him down from the cross, and theman who has detached the hands has let drop the whole upper part of thebody. It has fallen upon the crowd below, and they lift up their arms toreceive and sustain it. Do you understand?"

Yes, he understood; he even thought the conception quite original; buthe held himself as belonging to the modern style, and as his fair friendreclined upon the divan, with one daintily-shod foot peeping out, giving to the eye the sensation of flesh gleaming through the almosttransparent stocking, he said: "Ah, that is what I should paint! That islife--a woman's foot at the edge of her skirt! Into that subject one mayput everything--truth, desire, poetry. Nothing is more graceful or morecharming than a woman's foot; and what mystery it suggests: the hiddenlimb, lost yet imagined beneath its veiling folds of drapery!"

Sitting on the floor, _a la Turque_, he seized her shoe and drew it off, and the foot, coming out of its leather sheath, moved about quickly, like a little animal surprised at being set free. 

"Isn't that elegant, distinguished, and material--more material than thehand? Show me your hand, Any!"

She wore long gloves reaching to the elbow. In order to remove one shetook it by the upper edge and slipped it down quickly, turning it insideout, as one would skin a snake. The arm appeared, white, plump, round, so suddenly bared as to produce an idea of complete and bold nudity. 

She gave him her hand, which drooped from her wrist. The rings sparkledon her white fingers, and the narrow pink nails seemed like amorousclaws protruding at the tips of that little feminine paw. 

Olivier Bertin handled it tenderly and admiringly. He played with thefingers as if they were live toys, while saying:

"What a strange thing! What a strange thing! What a pretty littlemember, intelligent and adroit, which executes whatever onewills--books, laces, houses, pyramids, locomotives, pastry, or caresses, which last is its pleasantest function. "

He drew off the rings one by one, and as the wedding-ring fell in itsturn, he murmured smilingly:

"The law! Let us salute it!"

"Nonsense!" said the Countess, slightly wounded. 

Bertin had always been inclined to satirical banter, that tendency ofthe French to mingle irony with the most serious sentiments, and he hadoften unintentionally made her sad, without knowing how to understandthe subtle distinctions of women, or to discern the border of sacredground, as he himself said. Above all things it vexed her whenever healluded with a touch of familiar lightness to their attachment, whichwas an affair of such long standing that he declared it the mostbeautiful example of love in the nineteenth century. After a silence, she inquired:

"Will you take Annette and me to the varnishing-day reception?"

"Certainly. "

Then she asked him about the best pictures to be shown in the nextexposition, which was to open in a fortnight. 

Suddenly, however, she appeared to recollect something she hadforgotten. 

"Come, give me my shoe, " she said. "I am going now. "

He was playing dreamily with the light shoe, turning it overabstractedly in his hands. He leaned over, kissed the foot, whichappeared to float between the skirt and the rug, and which, a littlechilled by the air, no longer moved restlessly about; then he slippedon the shoe, and Madame de Guilleroy, rising, approached the table, on which were scattered papers, open letters, old and recent, besidea painter's inkstand, in which the ink had dried. She looked at it allwith curiosity, touched the papers, and lifted them to look underneath. 

Bertin approached her, saying:

"You will disarrange my disorder. "

Without replying to this, she inquired:

"Who is the gentleman that wishes to buy your _Baigneuses_?"

"An American whom I do not know. "

"Have you come to an agreement about the _Chanteuse des rues_?"

"Yes. Ten thousand. "

"You did well. It was pretty, but not exceptional. Good-by, dear. "

She presented her cheek, which he brushed with a calm kiss; then shedisappeared through the portieres, saying in an undertone:

"Friday--eight o'clock. I do not wish you to go with me to the door--youknow that very well. Good-by!"

When she had gone he first lighted another cigarette, then he beganto pace slowly to and fro in his studio. All the past of this liaisonunrolled itself before him. He recalled all its details, now longremote, sought them and put them together, interested in this solitarypursuit of reminiscences. 

It was at the moment when he had just risen like a star on the horizonof artistic Paris, when the painters were monopolizing the favor of thepublic, and had built up a quarter with magnificent dwellings, earned bya few strokes of the brush. 

After his return from Rome, in 1864, he had lived for some years withoutsuccess or renown; then suddenly, in 1868, he exhibited his _Cleopatra_, and in a few days was being praised to the skies by both critics andpublic. 

In 1872, after the war, and after the death of Henri Regnault had madefor all his brethren, a sort of pedestal of glory, a _Jocaste_ a boldsubject, classed Bertin among the daring, although his wisely originalexecution made him acceptable even to the Academicians. In 1873 hisfirst medal placed him beyond competition with his _Juive d'Alger_, which he exhibited on his return from a trip to Africa, and a portraitof the Princesse de Salia, in 1874, made him considered by thefashionable world the first portrait painter of his day. From that timehe became the favorite painter of Parisian women of that class, the mostskilful and ingenious interpreter of their grace, their bearing, andtheir nature. In a few months all the distinguished women in Parissolicited the favor of being reproduced by his brush. He was hard toplease, and made them pay well for that favor. 

After he had become the rage, and was received everywhere as a man ofthe world he saw one day, at the Duchesse de Mortemain's house, a youngwoman in deep mourning, who was just leaving as he entered, and who, inthis chance meeting in a doorway, dazzled him with a charming vision ofgrace and elegance. 

On inquiring her name, he learned that she was the Comtesse deGuilleroy, wife of a Normandy country squire, agriculturist and deputy;that she was in mourning for her husband's father; and that she was veryintellectual, greatly admired, and much sought after. 

Struck by the apparition that had delighted his artist's eye, he said:

"Ah, there is some one whose portrait I should paint willingly!"

This remark was repeated to the young Countess the next day; and thatevening Bertin received a little blue-tinted note, delicately perfumed, in a small, regular handwriting, slanting a little from left to right, which said:

"MONSIEUR:

"The Duchesse de Mortemain, who has just left my house, has assuredme that you would be disposed to make, from my poor face, one of yourmasterpieces. I would entrust it to you willingly if I were certain thatyou did not speak idly, and that you really see in me something that youcould reproduce and idealize. 

"Accept, Monsieur, my sincere regards. 

"ANNE DE GUILLEROY. "

He answered this note, asking when he might present himself at theCountess's house, and was very simply invited to breakfast on thefollowing Monday. 

It was on the first floor of a large and luxurious modern house in theBoulevard Malesherbes. Traversing a large salon with blue silk walls, framed in white and gold, the painter was shown into a sort of boudoirhung with tapestries of the last century, light and coquettish, thosetapestries _a la Watteau_, with their dainty coloring and gracefulfigures, which seem to have been designed and executed by workmendreaming of love. 

He had just seated himself when the Countess appeared. She walked solightly that he had not heard her coming through the next room, and wassurprised when he saw her. She extended her hand in graceful welcome. 

"And so it is true, " said she, "that you really wish to paint myportrait?"

"I shall be very happy to do so, Madame. "

Her close-fitting black gown made her look very slender and gave her ayouthful appearance though a grave air, which was belied, however, by her smiling face, lighted up by her bright golden hair. The Countentered, leading by the hand a little six-year-old girl. 

Madame de Guilleroy presented him, saying, "My husband. "

The Count was rather short, and wore no moustache; his cheeks werehollow, darkened under the skin by his close-shaven beard. He hadsomewhat the appearance of a priest or an actor; his hair was long andwas tossed back carelessly; his manner was polished, and around themouth two large circular lines extended from the cheeks to the chin, seeming to have been acquired from the habit of speaking in public. 

He thanked the painter with a flourish of phrases that betrayed theorator. He had wished for a long time to have a portrait of his wife, and certainly he would have chosen M. Olivier Bertin, had he not feareda refusal, for he well knew that the painter was overwhelmed withorders. 

It was arranged, then, with much ceremony on both sides, that the Countshould accompany the Countess to the studio the next day. He asked, however, whether it would not be better to wait, because of theCountess's deep mourning; but the painter declared that he wished totranslate the first impression she had made upon him, and the strikingcontrast of her animated, delicate head, luminous under the golden hair, with the austere black of her garments. 

She came, then, the following day, with her husband, and afterwardwith her daughter, whom the artist seated before a table covered withpicture-books. 

Olivier Bertin, following his usual custom, showed himself veryreserved. Fashionable women made him a little uneasy, for he hardly knewthem. He supposed them to be at once immoral and shallow, hypocriticaland dangerous, futile and embarrassing. Among the women of thedemi-monde he had had some passing adventures due to his renown, hislively wit, his elegant and athletic figure, and his dark and animatedface. He preferred them, too; he liked their free ways and frank speech, accustomed as he was to the gay and easy manners of the studios andgreen-rooms he frequented. He went into the fashionable world for theglory of it, but his heart was not in it; he enjoyed it through hisvanity, received congratulations and commissions, and played the gallantbefore charming ladies who flattered him, but never paid court to any. As he did not allow himself to indulge in daring pleasantries and spicyjests in their society, he thought them all prudes, and himself wasconsidered as having good taste. Whenever one of them came to pose athis studio, he felt, in spite of any advances she might make to pleasehim, that disparity of rank which prevents any real unity betweenartists and fashionable people, no matter how much they may be throwntogether. Behind the smiles and the admiration which among women arealways a little artificial, he felt the indefinable mental reserve ofthe being that judges itself of superior essence. This brought about inhim an abnormal feeling of pride, which showed itself in a bearing ofhaughty respect, dissembling the vanity of the parvenu who is treatedas an equal by princes and princesses, who owes to his talent thehonor accorded to others by their birth. It was said of him with slightsurprise: "He is really very well bred!" This surprise, although itflattered him, also wounded him, for it indicated a certain socialbarrier. 

The admirable and ceremonious gravity of the painter a little annoyedMadame de Guilleroy, who could find nothing to say to this man, so cold, yet with a reputation for cleverness. 

After settling her little daughter, she would come and sit in anarmchair near the newly begun sketch, and tried, according to theartist's recommendation, to give some expression to her physiognomy. 

In the midst of the fourth sitting, he suddenly ceased painting andinquired:

"What amuses you more than anything else in life?"

She appeared somewhat embarrassed. 

"Why, I hardly know. Why this question?"

"I need a happy thought in those eyes, and I have not seen it yet. "

"Well, try to make me talk; I like very much to chat. "

"Are you gay?"

"Very gay. "

"Well, then, let us chat, Madame. "

He had said "Let us chat, Madame, " in a very grave tone; then, resuminghis painting, he touched upon a variety of subjects, seeking somethingon which their minds could meet. They began by exchanging observationson the people that both knew; then they talked of themselves--always themost agreeable and fascinating subject for a chat. 

When they met again the next day they felt more at ease, and Bertin, noting that he pleased and amused her, began to relate some of thedetails of his artist life, allowing himself to give free scope to hisreminiscences, in a fanciful way that was peculiar to him. 

Accustomed to the dignified presence of the literary lights of thesalons, the Countess was surprised by this almost wild gaiety, whichsaid unusual things quite frankly, enlivening them with irony; andpresently she began to answer in the same way, with a grace at oncedaring and delicate. 

In a week's time she had conquered and charmed him by her good humor, frankness, and simplicity. He had entirely forgotten his prejudicesagainst fashionable women, and would willingly have declared that theyalone had charm and fascination. As he painted, standing before hiscanvas, advancing and retreating, with the movements of a man fighting, he allowed his fancy to flow freely, as if he had known for a longtime this pretty woman, blond and black, made of sunlight and mourning, seated before him, laughing and listening, answering him gaily with somuch animation that she lost her pose every moment. 

Sometimes he would move far away from her, closing one eye, leaning overfor a searching study of his model's pose; then he would draw very nearto her to note the slightest shadows of her face, to catch the mostfleeting expression, to seize and reproduce that which is in a woman'sface beyond its more outward appearance; that emanation of ideal beauty, that reflection of something indescribable, that personal and intimatecharm peculiar to each, which causes her to be loved to distraction byone and not by another. 

One afternoon the little girl advanced, and, planting herself before thecanvas, inquired with childish gravity:

"That is mamma, isn't it?"

The artist took her in his arms to kiss her, flattered by that naïvehomage to the resemblance of his work. 

Another day, when she had been very quiet, they suddenly heard her say, in a sad little voice:

"Mamma, I am so tired of this!"

The painter was so touched by this first complaint that he ordered ashopful of toys to be brought to the studio the following day. 

Little Annette, astonished, pleased, and always thoughtful, put them inorder with great care, that she might play with them one after another, according to the desire of the moment. From the date of this gift, she loved the painter as little children love, with that caressing, animal-like affection which makes them so sweet and captivating. 

Madame de Guilleroy began to take pleasure in the sittings. She wasalmost without amusement or occupation that winter, as she was inmourning; so that, for lack of society and entertainments, her chiefinterest was within the walls of Bertin's studio. 

She was the daughter of a rich and hospitable Parisian merchant, who haddied several years earlier, and of his ailing wife, whose lack of healthkept her in bed six months out of the twelve, and while still very youngshe had become a perfect hostess, knowing how to receive, to smile, tochat, to estimate character, and how to adapt herself to everyone; thusshe early became quite at her ease in society, and was always far-seeingand compliant. When the Count de Guilleroy was presented to her as herbetrothed, she understood at once the advantages to be gained by such amarriage, and, like a sensible girl, admitted them without constraint, knowing well that one cannot have everything and that in every situationwe must strike a balance between good and bad. 

Launched in the world, much sought because of her beauty and brilliance, she was admired and courted by many men without ever feeling the leastquickening of her heart, which was as reasonable as her mind. 

She possessed a touch of coquetry, however, which was neverthelessprudent and aggressive enough never to allow an affair to go too far. Compliments pleased her, awakened desires, fed her vanity, provided shemight seem to ignore them; and when she had received for a whole eveningthe incense of this sort of homage, she slept quietly, as a woman whohas accomplished her mission on earth. This existence, which lastedseven years, did not weary her nor seem monotonous, for she adored theincessant excitement of society, but sometimes she felt that shedesired something different. The men of her world, political advocates, financiers, or wealthy idlers, amused her as actors might; she did nottake them too seriously, although she appreciated their functions, theirstations, and their titles. 

The painter pleased her at first because such a man was entirely anovelty to her. She found the studio a very amusing place, laughedgaily, felt that she, too, was clever, and felt grateful to him for thepleasure she took in the sittings. He pleased her, too, because he washandsome, strong, and famous, no woman, whatever she may pretend, beingindifferent to physical beauty and glory. Flattered at having beenadmired by this expert, and disposed, on her side, to think well of him, she had discovered in him an alert and cultivated mind, delicacy, fancy, the true charm of intelligence, and an eloquence of expression thatseemed to illumine whatever he said. 

A rapid friendship sprang up between them, and the hand-clasp exchangedevery day as she entered seemed more and more to express something ofthe feeling in their hearts. 

Then, without deliberate design, with no definite determination, shefelt within her heart a growing desire to fascinate him, and yielded toit. She had foreseen nothing, planned nothing; she was only coquettishwith added grace, as a woman always is toward a man who pleases her morethan all others; and in her manner with him, in her glances and smiles, was that seductive charm that diffuses itself around a woman in whosebreast has awakened a need of being loved. 

She said flattering things to him which meant "I find you veryagreeable, Monsieur;" and she made him talk at length in order to showhim, by her attention, how much he aroused her interest. He would ceaseto paint and sit beside her; and in that mental exaltation due to anintense desire to please, he had crises of poetry, of gaiety or ofphilosophy, according to his state of mind that day. 

She was merry when he was gay; when he became profound she tried tofollow his discourse, though she did not always succeed; and when hermind wandered to other things, she appeared to listen with so perfectan air of comprehension and such apparent enjoyment of this initiation, that he felt his spirit exalted in noting her attention to his words, and was touched to have discovered a soul so delicate, open, and docile, into which thought fell like a seed. 

The portrait progressed, and was likely to be good, for the painter hadreached the state of emotion that is necessary in order to discover allthe qualities of the model, and to express them with that convincingardor which is the inspiration of true artists. 

Leaning toward her, watching every movement of her face, all the tintsof her flesh, every shadow of her skin, all the expression and thetranslucence of her eyes, every secret of her physiognomy, he hadbecome saturated with her personality as a sponge absorbs water; and, intransferring to canvas that emanation of disturbing charm which his eyeseized, and which flowed like a wave from his thought to his brush, he was overcome and intoxicated by it, as if he had drunk deep of thebeauty of woman. 

She felt that he was drawn toward her, and was amused by this game, thisvictory that was becoming more and more certain, animating even her ownheart. 

A new feeling gave fresh piquancy to her existence, awaking in her amysterious joy. When she heard him spoken of her heart throbbed faster, and she longed to say--a longing that never passed her lips--"He is inlove with me!" She was glad when people praised his talent, and perhapswas even more pleased when she heard him called handsome. When she wasalone, thinking of him, with no indiscreet babble to annoy her, shereally imagined that in him she had found merely a good friend, one thatwould always remain content with a cordial hand-clasp. 

Often, in the midst of a sitting, he would suddenly put down his paletteon the stool and take little Annette in his arms, kissing her tenderlyon her hair, and his eyes, while gazing at the mother, said, "It is you, not the child, that I kiss in this way. "

Occasionally Madame de Guilleroy did not bring her daughter, but camealone. On these days he worked very little, and the time was spent intalking. 

One afternoon she was late. It was a cold day toward the end ofFebruary. Olivier had come in early, as was now his habit whenever shehad an appointment with him, for he always hoped she would arrive beforethe usual hour. While waiting he paced to and fro, smoking, and askinghimself the question that he was surprised to find himself asking forthe hundredth time that week: "Am I in love?" He did not know, neverhaving been really in love. He had had his caprices, certainly, some ofwhich had lasted a long time, but never had he mistaken them for love. To-day he was astonished at the emotion that possessed him. 

Did he love her? He hardly desired her, certainly, never having dreamedof the possibility of possessing her. Heretofore, as soon as a womanattracted him he had desired to make a conquest of her, and had held outhis hand toward her as if to gather fruit, but without feeling his heartaffected profoundly by either her presence or her absence. 

Desire for Madame de Guilleroy hardly occurred to him; it seemed to behidden, crouching behind another and more powerful feeling, which wasstill uncertain and hardly awakened. Olivier had believed that lovebegan with reveries and with poetic exaltations. But his feeling, on thecontrary, seemed to come from an indefinable emotion, more physicalthan mental. He was nervous and restless, as if under the shadow ofthreatening illness, though nothing painful entered into this fever ofthe blood which by contagion stirred his mind also. He was quite awarethat Madame de Guilleroy was the cause of his agitation; that it was dueto the memories she left him and to the expectation of her return. Hedid not feel drawn to her by an impulse of his whole being, but hefelt her always near him, as if she never had left him; she left tohim something of herself when she departed--something subtle andinexpressible. What was it? Was it love? He probed deep in his heart inorder to see, to understand. He thought her charming, but she was notat all the type of ideal woman that his blind hope had created. Whoevercalls upon love has foreseen the moral traits and physical charms of herwho will enslave him; and Madame de Guilleroy, although she pleased himinfinitely, did not appear to him to be that woman. 

But why did she thus occupy his thought, above all others, in a way sodifferent, so unceasing? Had he simply fallen into the trap set by hercoquetry, which he had long before understood, and, circumvented by hisown methods, was he now under the influence of that special fascinationwhich gives to women the desire to please?

He paced here and there, sat down, sprang up, lighted cigarettes andthrew them away, and his eyes every instant looked at the clock, whosehands moved toward the usual hour in slow, unhurried fashion. 

Several times already he had almost raised the convex glass over thetwo golden arrows turning so slowly, in order to push the larger one ontoward the figure it was approaching so lazily. It seemed to him thatthis would suffice to make the door open, and that the expected onewould appear, deceived and brought to him by this ruse. Then he smiledat this childish, persistent, and unreasonable desire. 

At last he asked himself this question: "Could I become her lover?"This idea seemed strange to him, indeed hardly to be realized or evenpursued, because of the complications it might bring into his life. Yetshe pleased him very much, and he concluded: "Decidedly I am in a verystrange state of mind. "

The clock struck, and this reminder of the hour made him start, strikingon his nerves rather than his soul. He awaited her with that impatiencewhich delay increases from second to second. She was always prompt, sothat before ten minutes should pass he would see her enter. When the tenminutes had elapsed, he felt anxious, as at the approach of some grief, then irritated because she had made him lose time; finally, he realizedthat if she failed to come it would cause him actual suffering. Whatshould he do? Should he wait for her? No; he would go out, so that if, by chance, she should arrive very late, she would find the studio empty. 

He would go out, but when? What latitude should he allow her? Wouldit not be better to remain and to make her comprehend, by a few coldlypolite words, that he was not one to be kept waiting. And suppose shedid not come? Then he would receive a despatch, a card, a servant ora messenger. If she did not come, what should he do? It would be a daylost; he could not work. Then? Well, then he would go to seek news ofher, for see her he must!

It was quite true; he felt a profound, tormenting, harassing necessityfor seeing her. What did it mean? Was it love? But he felt no mentalexaltation, no intoxication of the senses; it awakened no reverie ofthe soul, when he realized that if she did not come that day he shouldsuffer keenly. 

The door-bell rang on the stairway of the little hotel, and OlivierBertin suddenly found himself somewhat breathless, then so joyous thathe executed a pirouette and flung his cigarette high in the air. 

She entered; she was alone! Immediately he was seized with a greataudacity. 

"Do you know what I asked myself while waiting for you?"

"No, indeed, I do not. "

"I asked myself whether I were not in love with you?"

"In love with me? You must be mad!"

But she smiled, and her smile said: That is very pretty; I am glad tohear it! However, she said: "You are not serious, of course; why do youmake such a jest?"

"On the contrary, I am absolutely serious, " he replied. "I do notdeclare that I am in love with you; but I ask myself whether I am notwell on the way to become so. "

"What has made you think so?"

"My emotion when you are not here; my happiness when you arrive. "

She seated herself. 

"Oh, don't disturb yourself over anything so trifling! As long as yousleep well and have an appetite for dinner, there will be no danger!"

He began to laugh. 

"And if I lose my sleep and no longer eat?"

"Let me know of it. "

"And then?"

"I will allow you to recover yourself in peace. "

"A thousand thanks!"

And on the theme of this uncertain love they spun theories and fanciesall the afternoon. The same thing occurred on several successive days. Accepting his statement as a sort of jest, of no real importance, shewould say gaily on entering: "Well, how goes your love to-day?"

He would reply lightly, yet with perfect seriousness, telling her of theprogress of his malady, in all its intimate details, and of the depth ofthe tenderness that had been born and was daily increasing. He analyzedhimself minutely before her, hour by hour, since their separation theevening before, with the air of a professor giving a lecture; and shelistened with interest, a little moved, and somewhat disturbed by thisstory which seemed that in a book of which she was the heroine. Whenhe had enumerated, in his gallant and easy manner, all the anxieties ofwhich he had become the prey, his voice sometimes trembled in expressingby a word, or only by an intonation, the tender aching of his heart. 

And she persisted in questioning him, vibrating with curiosity, her eyesfixed upon him, her ear eager for those things that are disturbing toknow but charming to hear. 

Sometimes when he approached her to alter a pose he would seize herhand and try to kiss it. With a swift movement she would draw away herfingers from his lips, saying, with a slight frown:

"Come, come--work!"

He would begin his work again, but within five minutes she would asksome adroit question that led him back to the sole topic that interestedthem. 

By this time she began to feel some fear deep in her heart. She longedto be loved--but not too much! Sure of not being led away, she yetfeared to allow him to venture too far, thereby losing him, sincethen she would be compelled to drive him to despair after seeming toencourage him. Yet, should it become necessary to renounce this tenderand delicate friendship, this stream of pleasant converse which rippledalong bearing nuggets of love like a river whose sand is full of gold, it would cause her great sorrow--a grief that would be heart-breaking. 

When she set out from her own home to go to the painter's studio, a waveof joy, warm and penetrating, overflowed her spirit, making it light andhappy. As she laid her hand on Olivier's bell, her breast throbbed withimpatience, and the stair-carpet seemed the softest her feet ever hadpressed. But Bertin became gloomy, a little nervous, often irritable. Hehad his moments of impatience, soon repressed, but frequently recurring. 

One day, when she had just entered, he sat down beside her instead ofbeginning to paint, saying:

"Madame, you can no longer ignore the fact that what I have said is nota jest, and that I love you madly. "

Troubled by this beginning and seeing that the dreaded crisis hadarrived, she tried to stop him, but he listened to her no longer. Emotion overflowed his heart, and she must hear him, pale, trembling, and anxious as she listened. He spoke a long time, demanding nothing, tenderly, sadly, with despairing resignation; and she allowed him totake her hands, which he kept in his. He was kneeling before her withouther taking any notice of his attitude, and with a far-away look uponhis face he begged her not to work him any harm. What harm? She did notunderstand nor try to understand, overcome by the cruel grief of seeinghim suffer, yet that grief was almost happiness. Suddenly she saw tearsin his eyes and was so deeply moved that she exclaimed: "Oh!"--ready toembrace him as one embraces a crying child. He repeated in a very softtone: "There, there! I suffer too much;" then, suddenly, won by hissorrow, by the contagion of tears, she sobbed, her nerves quivering, herarms trembling, ready to open. 

When she felt herself suddenly clasped in his embrace and kissedpassionately on the lips, she wished to cry out, to struggle, to repulsehim; but she judged herself lost, for she consented while resisting, sheyielded even while she struggled, pressing him to her as she cried: "No, no, I will not!"

Then she was overcome with the emotion of that moment; she hid her facein her hands, then she suddenly sprang to her feet, caught up her hatwhich had fallen to the floor, put it on her head and rushed away, inspite of the supplications of Olivier, who held a fold of her skirt. 

As soon as she was in the street, she had a desire to sit down on thecurbstone, her limbs were so exhausted and powerless. A cab was passing;she called to it and said to the driver: "Drive slowly, and take mewherever you like. " She threw herself into the carriage, closed thedoor, sank back in one corner, feeling herself alone behind the raisedwindows--alone to think. 

For some minutes she heard only the sound of the wheels and the jarringof the cab. She looked at the houses, the pedestrians, people in cabsand omnibuses, with a blank gaze that saw nothing; she thought ofnothing, as if she were giving herself time, granting herself a respitebefore daring to reflect upon what had happened. 

Then, as she had a practical mind and was not lacking in courage, shesaid to herself: "I am a lost woman!" For some time she remained underthat feeling of certainty that irreparable misfortune had befallen her, horror-struck, like a man fallen from a roof, knowing that his legs arebroken but dreading to prove it to himself. 

But, instead of feeling overwhelmed by the anticipation of suffering, her heart remained calm and peaceful after this catastrophe; it beatslowly, softly, after the fall that had terrified her soul, and seemedto take no part in the perturbation of her mind. 

She repeated aloud, as if to understand and convince herself: "Yes, I ama lost woman. " No echo of suffering responded from her heart to this cryof her conscience. 

She allowed herself to be soothed for some time by the movement of thecarriage, putting off a little longer the necessity of facing this cruelsituation. No, she did not suffer. She was afraid to think, that wasall; she feared to know, to comprehend, and to reflect; on the contrary, in that mysterious and impenetrable being created within us by theincessant struggle between our desires and our will, she felt anindescribable peace. 

After perhaps half an hour of this strange repose, understanding atlast that the despair she had invoked would not come, she shook off hertorpor and murmured: "It is strange: I am hardly sorry even!"

Then she began to reproach herself. Anger awakened within her againsther own blindness and her weakness. How had she not foreseen this, notcomprehended that the hour for that struggle must come; that this manwas so dear to her as to render her cowardly, and that sometimes inthe purest hearts desire arises like a gust of wind, carrying the willbefore it?

But, after she had judged and reprimanded herself severely, she askedherself what would happen next?

Her first resolve was to break with the painter and never to see himagain. Hardly had she formed this resolution before a thousand reasonssprang up as quickly to combat it. How could she explain such a break?What should she say to her husband? Would not the suspected truth bewhispered, then spread abroad?

Would it not be better, for the sake of appearances, to act, withOlivier Bertin himself, the hypocritical comedy of indifference andforgetfulness, to show him that she had effaced that moment from hermemory and from her life?

But could she do it? Would she have the audacity to appear to recollectnothing, to assume a look of indignant astonishment in saying: "Whatwould you with me?" to the man with whom she had actually shared thatswift and ardent emotion?

She reflected a long time, and decided that any other solution wasimpossible. 

She would go to him courageously the next day, and make him understandas soon as she could what she desired him to do. She must not use aword, an allusion, a look, that could recall to him that moment ofshame. 

After he had suffered--for assuredly he would have his share ofsuffering, as a loyal and upright man--he would remain in future thatwhich he had been up to the present. 

As soon as this new resolution was formed, she gave her address to thecoachman and returned home, profoundly depressed, with a desire to taketo her bed, to see no one, to sleep and forget. Having shut herself upin her room, she remained there until the dinner hour, lying on a couch, benumbed, not wishing to agitate herself longer with that thought sofull of danger. 

She descended at the exact hour, astonished to find herself so calm, andawaited her husband with her ordinary demeanor. He appeared, carryingtheir little one in his arms; she pressed his hand and kissed the child, and felt no pang of anguish. 

Monsieur de Guilleroy inquired what she had been doing. She repliedindifferently that she had been posing, as usual. 

"And the portrait--is it good?" he asked. 

"It is coming on very well. "

He spoke of his own affairs, in his turn; he enjoyed talking, whiledining, of the sitting of the Chamber, and of the discussion of theproposed law on the adulteration of food-stuffs. 

This rather tiresome talk, which she usually endured amiably, nowirritated her, and made her look with closer attention at the man whowas vulgarly loquacious in his interest in such things; but she smiledas she listened, and replied pleasantly, more gracious even thanusual, more indulgent toward these banalities. As she looked at him shethought: "I have deceived him! He is my husband, and I have deceivedhim! How strange it is! Nothing can change that fact, nothing canobliterate it! I closed my eyes. I submitted for a few seconds, a fewseconds only, to a man's kisses, and I am no longer a virtuous woman. Afew seconds in my life--seconds that never can be effaced--have broughtinto it that little irreparable fact, so grave, so short, a crime, themost shameful one for a woman--and yet I feel no despair! If anyone hadtold me that yesterday, I should not have believed it. If anyone hadconvinced me that it would indeed come to pass, I should have thoughtinstantly of the terrible remorse that would fill my heart to-day. "

Monsieur de Guilleroy went out after dinner, as he did almost everyevening. Then the Countess took her little daughter on her lap, weepingover her and kissing her; the tears she shed were sincere, coming fromher conscience, not from her heart. 

But she slept very little. Amid the darkness of her room, she tormentedherself afresh as to the dangers of the attitude toward the painter thatshe purposed to assume; she dreaded the interview that must take placethe following day, and the things that he must say to her, looking herin the face meanwhile. 

She arose early, but remained lying on her couch all the morning, forcing herself to foresee what it was she had to fear and what she mustsay in reply, in order to be ready for any surprise. 

She went out early, that she might yet think while walking. 

He hardly expected her, and had been asking himself, since the eveningbefore, what he should do when he met her. 

After her hasty departure--that flight which he had not dared tooppose--he had remained alone, still listening, although she was alreadyfar away, for the sound of her step, the rustle of her skirt, and theclosing of the door, touched by the timid hand of his goddess. 

He remained standing, full of deep, ardent, intoxicating joy. He hadwon her, _her_! That had passed between them! Was it possible? After thesurprise of this triumph, he gloated over it, and, to realize it morekeenly, he sat down and almost lay at full length on the divan where hehad made her yield to him. 

He remained there a long time, full of the thought that she was hismistress, and that between them, between the woman he had so muchdesired and himself, had been tied in a few moments that mysterious bondwhich secretly links two beings to each other. He retained in his stillquivering body the piercingly sweet remembrance of that wild, fleetingmoment when their lips had met, when their beings had united andmingled, thrilling together with the deepest emotion of life. 

He did not go out that evening, in order to live over again thatrapturous moment; he retired early, his heart vibrating with happiness. He had hardly awakened the next morning before he asked himself what heshould do. To a _cocotte_ or an actress he would have sent flowersor even a jewel; but he was tortured with perplexity before this newsituation. 

He wished to express, in delicate and charming terms, the gratitude ofhis soul, his ecstasy of mad tenderness, his offer of a devotion thatshould be eternal; but in order to intimate all these passionateand high-souled thoughts he could find only set phrases, commonplaceexpressions, vulgar and puerile. 

Assuredly, he must write--but what? He scribbled, erased, tore up andbegan anew twenty letters, all of which seemed to him insulting, odious, ridiculous. 

He gave up the idea of writing, therefore, and decided to go to see her, as soon as the hour for the sitting had passed, for he felt very surethat she would not come. 

Shutting himself up in his studio, he stood in mental exaltation beforethe portrait, his lips longing to press themselves on the painting, whereon something of herself was fixed; and again and again he lookedout of the window into the street. Every gown he saw in the distancemade his heart throb quickly. Twenty times he believed that he saw her;then when the approaching woman had passed he sat down again, as ifovercome by a deception. 

Suddenly he saw her, doubted, then took his opera-glass, recognized her, and, dizzy with violent emotion, sat down once more to await her. 

When she entered he threw himself on his knees and tried to take herhands, but she drew them away abruptly, and, as he remained at her feet, filled with anguish, his eyes raised to hers, she said haughtily:

"What are you doing, Monsieur? I do not understand that attitude. "

"Oh, Madame, I entreat you--"

She interrupted him harshly:

"Rise! You are ridiculous!"

He rose, dazed, and murmured:

"What is the matter? Do not treat me in this way--I love you!"

Then, in a few short, dry phrases, she signified her wishes, and decreedthe situation. 

"I do not understand what you wish to say. Never speak to me of yourlove, or I shall leave this studio never to return. If you forget for asingle moment this condition of my presence here, you never will see meagain. "

He looked at her, crushed by this unexpected harshness; then heunderstood, and murmured:

"I shall obey, Madame. "

"Very well, " she rejoined; "I expected that of you! Now work, for youare long in finishing that portrait. "

He took up his palette and began to paint, but his hand trembled, histroubled eyes looked without seeing; he felt a desire to weep, so deeplywounded was his heart. 

He tried to talk to her; she barely answered him. When he attempted topay her some little compliment on her color, she cut him short in a toneso brusque that he felt suddenly one of those furies of a lover thatchange tenderness to hatred. Through soul and body he felt a nervousshock, and in a moment he detested her. Yes, yes, that was, indeed, woman! She, too, was like all the others! Why not? She, too, was false, changeable, and weak, like all of them. She had attracted him, seducedhim with girlish ruses, trying to overcome him without intending togive him anything in return, enticing him only to refuse him, employingtoward him all the tricks of cowardly coquettes who seem always on thepoint of yielding so long as the man who cringes like a dog before themdares not carry out his desire. 

But the situation was the worse for her, after all; he had taken her, he had overcome her. She might try to wash away that fact and answerhim insolently; she could efface nothing, and he--he would forget it!Indeed, it would have been a fine bit of folly to embarrass himselfwith this sort of mistress, who would eat into his artist life with thecapricious teeth of a pretty woman. 

He felt a desire to whistle, as he did in the presence of his models, but realized that his nerve was giving way and feared to commitsome stupidity. He cut short the sitting under pretense of having anappointment. When they bowed at parting they felt themselves fartherapart than the day they first met at the Duchesse de Mortemain's. 

As soon as she had gone, he took his hat and topcoat and went out. Acold sun, in a misty blue sky, threw over the city a pale, depressing, unreal light. 

After he had walked a long time, with rapid and irritated step, elbowingthe passers-by that he need not deviate from a straight line, his greatfury against her began to change into sadness and regret. After hehad repeated to himself all the reproaches he had poured upon her, heremembered, as he looked at the women that passed him, how pretty andcharming she was. Like many others who do not admit it, he had alwaysbeen waiting to meet the "impossible she, " to find the rare, unique, poetic and passionate being, the dream of whom hovers over our hearts. Had he not almost found it? Was it not she who might have given himthis almost impossible happiness? Why, then, is it true that nothingis realized? Why can one seize nothing of that which he pursues, or cansucceed only in grasping a phantom, which renders still more grievousthis pursuit of illusions?

He was no longer resentful toward her; it was life itself that made himbitter. Now that he was able to reason, he asked himself what causefor anger he had against her? With what could he reproach her, afterall?--with being amiable, kind, and gracious toward him, while sheherself might well reproach him for having behaved like a villain!

He returned home full of sadness. He would have liked to ask her pardon, to devote himself to her, to make her forget; and he pondered as to howhe might enable her to comprehend that henceforth, until death, he wouldbe obedient to all her wishes. 

The next day she arrived, accompanied by her daughter, with a smile sosad, an expression so pathetic, that the painter fancied he could see inthose poor blue eyes, that had always been so merry, all the pain, allthe remorse, all the desolation of that womanly heart. He was moved topity, and, in order that she might forget, he showed toward her withdelicate reserve the most thoughtful attentions. She acknowledged themwith gentleness and kindness, with the weary and languid manner of awoman who suffers. 

And he, looking at her, seized again with a mad dream of loving andof being loved, asked himself why she was not more indignant at hisconduct, how she could still come to his studio, listen to him andanswer him, with that memory between them. 

Since she could bear to see him again, however, could endure to hearhis voice, having always in her mind the one thought which she could notescape, it must be that this thought had not become intolerable to her. When a woman hates the man who has conquered her thus, she cannot remainin his presence without showing her hatred, but that man never canremain wholly indifferent to her. She must either detest him or pardonhim. And when she pardons that transgression, she is not far from love!

While he painted slowly, he arrived at this conclusion by smallarguments, precise, clear, and sure; he now felt himself strong, steady, and master of the situation. He had only to be prudent, patient, devoted, and one day or another she would again be his. 

He knew how to wait. In order to reassure her and to conquer her oncemore, he practised ruses in his turn; he assumed a tenderness restrainedby apparent remorse, hesitating attentions, and indifferent attitudes. Tranquil in the certainty of approaching happiness, what did it matterwhether it arrived a little sooner, a little later? He even experienceda strange, subtle pleasure in delay, in watching her, and saying tohimself, "She is afraid!" as he saw her coming always with her child. 

He felt that between them a slow work of reconciliation was goingon, and thought that in the Countess's eyes was something strange:constraint, a sweet sadness, that appeal of a struggling soul, of afaltering will, which seems to say: "But--conquer me, then!"

After a while she came alone once more, reassured by his reserve. Thenhe treated her as a friend, a comrade; he talked to her of his life, hisplans, his art, as to a brother. 

Deluded by this attitude, she assumed joyfully the part of counselor, flattered that he distinguished her thus above other women, andconvinced that his talent would gain in delicacy through thisintellectual intimacy. But, from consulting her and showing deference toher, he caused her to pass naturally from the functions of a counselorto the sacred office of inspirer. She found it charming to use herinfluence thus over the great man, and almost consented that he shouldlove her as an artist, since it was she that gave him inspiration forhis work!

It was one evening, after a long talk about the loves of illustriouspainters, that she let herself glide into his arms. She rested therethis time, without trying to escape, and gave him back his kisses. 

She felt no remorse now, only the vague consciousness of a fall; and tostifle the reproaches of her reason she attributed it to fatality. 

Drawn toward him by her virgin heart and her empty soul, the fleshovercome by the slow domination of caresses, little by little sheattached herself to him, as do all tender women who love for the firsttime. 

With Olivier it was a crisis of acute love, sensuous and poetic. Itseemed to him sometimes that one day he had taken flight, with handsextended, and that he had been able to clasp in full embrace that wingedand magnificent dream which is always hovering over our hopes. 

He had finished the Countess's portrait, the best, certainly, thathe ever had painted, for he had discovered and crystallizedthat inexpressible something which a painter seldom succeeds inunveiling--that reflection, that mystery, that physiognomy of the soul, which passes intangibly across a face. 

Months rolled by, then years, which hardly loosened the tie that unitedthe Comtesse de Guilleroy and the painter, Olivier Bertin. With himit was no longer the exaltation of the beginning, but a calm, deepaffection, a sort of loving friendship that had become a habit. 

With her, on the contrary, the passionate, persistent attachment ofcertain women who give themselves to a man wholly and forever was alwaysgrowing. Honest and straight in adulterous love as they might have beenin marriage, they devote themselves to a single object with a tendernessfrom which nothing can turn them. Not only do they love the lover, butthey wish to love him, and, with eyes on him alone, they so fill theirhearts with thoughts of him that nothing strange can thenceforth enterthere. They have bound their lives resolutely, as one who knows how toswim, yet wishes to die, ties his hands together before leaping from ahigh bridge into the water. 

But from the moment when the Countess had yielded, she was assailed byfears for Bertin's constancy. Nothing held him but his masculine will, his caprice, his passing fancy for a woman he had met one day just ashe had already met so many others! She realized that he was so free, so susceptible to temptation--he who lived without duties, habits, orscruples, like all men! He was handsome, celebrated, much sought after, having, to respond to his easily awakened desires, fashionable women, whose modesty is so fragile, women of the demi-monde of the theater, prodigal of their favors with such men as he. One of them, some eveningafter supper, might follow him and please him, take him and keep him. 

Thus she lived in terror of losing him, watching his manner, hisattitudes, startled by a word, full of anguish when he admired anotherwoman, praised the charm of her countenance or her grace of bearing. Allof which she was ignorant in his life made her tremble, and all of whichshe was cognizant alarmed her. At each of their meetings she questionedhim ingeniously, without his perceiving it, in order to make him expresshis opinion on the people he had seen, the houses where he had dined, inshort, the lightest expression of his mind. As soon as she fanciedshe detected the influence of some other person, she combated it withprodigious astuteness and innumerable resources. 

Oh, how often did she suspect those brief intrigues, without depth, lasting perhaps a week or two, from time to time, which come into thelife of every prominent artist!

She had, as it were, an intuition of danger, even before she detectedthe awakening of a new desire in Olivier, by the look of triumph in hiseyes, the expression of a man when swayed by a gallant fancy. 

Then she would suffer; her sleep would be tortured by doubts. In orderto surprise him, she would appear suddenly in his studio, without givinghim notice of her coming, put questions that seemed naïve, tested histenderness while listening to his thoughts, as we test while listeningto detect hidden illness in the body. She would weep as soon as shefound herself sure that some one would take him from her this time, robbing her of that love to which she clung so passionately becauseshe had staked upon it all her will, her strength of affection, all herhopes and dreams. 

Then, when she saw that he came back to her, after these briefdiversions, she experienced, as she drew close to him again, tookpossession of him as of something lost and found, a deep, silenthappiness which sometimes, when she passed a church, urged her go in andthank God. 

Her preoccupation in ever making herself pleasing to him above allothers, and of guarding him against all others, had made her whole lifebecome a combat interrupted by coquetry. She had ceaselessly struggledfor him, and before him, with her grace, her beauty and elegance. Shewished that wherever he went he should hear her praised for her charm, her taste, her wit, and her toilets. She wished to please others for hissake, and to attract them so that he should be both proud and jealous ofher. And every time that she succeeded in arousing his jealousy, aftermaking him suffer a little, she allowed him the triumph of winning herback, which revived his love in exciting his vanity. Then, realizingthat it was always possible for a man to meet in society a woman whosephysical charm would be greater than her own, being a novelty, sheresorted to other means: she flattered and spoiled him. Discreetlybut continuously she heaped praises upon him; she soothed him withadmiration and enveloped him in flattery, so that he might find allother friendship, all other love, even, a little cold and incomplete, and that if others also loved him he would perceive at last that shealone of them all understood him. 

She made the two drawing-rooms in her house, which he entered so often, a place as attractive to the pride of the artist as to the heart of theman, the place in all Paris where he liked best to come, because thereall his cravings were satisfied at the same time. 

Not only did she learn to discover all his tastes, in order that, while gratifying them in her own house, she might give him a feeling ofwell-being that nothing could replace, but she knew how to create newtastes, to arouse appetites of all kinds, material and intellectual, habits of little attentions, of affections, of adoration and flattery!She tried to charm his eye with elegance, his sense of smell withperfumes, and his taste with delicate food. 

But when she had planted in the soul and in the senses of a selfishbachelor a multitude of petty, tyrannical needs, when she had becomequite certain that no mistress would trouble herself as she did to watchover and maintain them, in order to surround him with all the littlepleasures of life, she suddenly feared, as she saw him disgusted withhis own home, always complaining of his solitary life, and, beingunable to come into her home except under all the restraints imposedby society, going to the club, seeking every means to soften his lonelylot--she feared lest he thought of marriage. 

On some days she suffered so much from all these anxieties that shelonged for old age, to have an end of this anguish and rest in a coolerand calmer affection. 

Years passed, however, without disuniting them. The chain wherewith shehad attached him to her was heavy, and she made new links as the oldones wore away. But, always solicitous, she watched over the painter'sheart as one guards a child crossing a street full of vehicles, andday by day she lived in expectation of the unknown danger, the dread ofwhich always hung over her. 

The Count, without suspicion or jealousy, found this intimacy of hiswife with a famous and popular artist a perfectly natural thing. Throughcontinually meeting, the two men, becoming accustomed to each other, finally became excellent friends. 

CHAPTER II

TWIN ROSES FROM A SINGLE STEM

When Bertin entered, on Friday evening, the house of his friend, wherehe was to dine in honor of the return of Antoinette de Guilleroy, hefound in the little Louis XV salon only Monsieur de Musadieu, who hadjust arrived. 

He was a clever old man, who perhaps might have become of someimportance, and who now could not console himself for not havingattained to something worth while. 

He had once been a commissioner of the imperial museums, and had foundmeans to get himself reappointed Inspector of Fine Arts under theRepublic, which did not prevent him from being, above all else, thefriend of princes, of all the princes, princesses, and duchesses ofEuropean aristocracy, and the sworn protector of artists of all sorts. He was endowed with an alert mind and quick perceptions, with greatfacility of speech that enabled him to say agreeably the most ordinarythings, with a suppleness of thought that put him at ease in anysociety, and a subtle diplomatic scent that gave him the power to judgemen at first sight; and he strolled from salon to salon, morning andevening, with his enlightened, useless, and gossiping activity. 

Apt at everything, as he appeared, he would talk on any subject withan air of convincing competence and familiarity that made him greatlyappreciated by fashionable women, whom he served as a sort of travelingbazaar of erudition. As a matter of fact, he knew many things withoutever having read any but the most indispensable books; but he stood verywell with the five Academies, with all the savants, writers, and learnedspecialists, to whom he listened with clever discernment. He knew how toforget at once explanations that were too technical or were useless tohim, remembered the others very well, and lent to the information thusgleaned an easy, clear, and good-natured rendering that made them asreadily comprehensible as the popular presentation of scientific facts. He gave the impression of being a veritable storehouse of ideas, one ofthose vast places wherein one never finds rare objects but discoversa multiplicity of cheap productions of all kinds and from all sources, from household utensils to the popular instruments for physical cultureor for domestic surgery. 

The painters, with whom his official functions brought him in continualcontact, made sport of him but feared him. He rendered them someservices, however, helped them to sell pictures, brought them in contactwith fashionable persons, and enjoyed presenting them, protecting them, launching them. He seemed to devote himself to a mysterious function offusing the fashionable and the artistic worlds, pluming himself onhis intimate acquaintance with these, and of his familiar footing withthose, on breakfasting with the Prince of Wales, on his way throughParis, or dining, the same evening, with Paul Adelmant, Olivier Bertin, and Amaury Maldant. 

Bertin, who liked him well enough, found him amusing, and said of him:"He is the encyclopedia of Jules Verne, bound in ass's skin!"

The two men shook hands and began to talk of the political situation andthe rumors of war, which Musadieu thought alarming, for evident reasonswhich he explained very well, Germany having every interest in crushingus and in hastening that moment for which M. De Bismarck had beenwaiting eighteen years; while Olivier Bertin proved by irrefutableargument that these fears were chimerical, it being impossible forGermany to be foolish enough to risk her conquest in an always doubtfulventure, or for the Chancelor to be imprudent enough to risk, in thelatter years of his life, his achievements and his glory at a singleblow. 

M. De Musadieu, however, seemed to know something of which he did notwish to speak. Furthermore, he had seen a Minister that morning and hadmet the Grand Duke Vladimir, returning from Cannes, the evening before. 

The artist was unconvinced by this, and with quiet irony expressed doubtof the knowledge of even the best informed. Behind all these rumors wasthe influence of the Bourse! Bismarck alone might have a settled opinionon the subject. 

M. De Guilleroy entered, shook hands warmly, excusing himself inunctuous words for having left them alone. 

"And you, my dear Deputy, " asked the painter, "what do you think ofthese rumors of war?"

M. De Guilleroy launched into a discourse. As a member of the Chamber, he knew more of the subject than anyone else, though he held an opiniondiffering from that of most of his colleagues. No, he did not believe inthe probability of an approaching conflict, unless it should be provokedby French turbulence and by the rodomontades of the self-styled patriotsof the League. And he painted Bismarck's portrait in striking colors, aportrait a la Saint-Simon. The man Bismarck was one that no one wishedto understand, because one always lends to others his own ways ofthinking, and credits them with a readiness to do that which he woulddo were he placed in their situation. M. De Bismarck was not a false andlying diplomatist, but frank and brutal, always loudly proclaiming thetruth and announcing his intentions. "I want peace!" said he. That wastrue; he wanted peace, nothing but peace, and everything had proved itin a blinding fashion for eighteen years; everything--his arguments, his alliances, that union of peoples banded together against ourimpetuosity. M. De Guilleroy concluded in a tone of profound conviction:"He is a great man, a very great man, who desires peace, but who hasfaith only in menaces and violent means as the way to obtain it. Inshort, gentlemen, a great barbarian. "

"He that wishes the end must take the means, " M. De Musadieu replied. "Iwill grant you willingly that he adores peace if you will concede to methat he always wishes to make war in order to obtain it. But that isan indisputable and phenomenal truth: In this world war is made only toobtain peace!"

A servant announced: "Madame la Duchesse de Mortemain. "

Between the folding-doors appeared a tall, large woman, who entered withan air of authority. 

Guilleroy hastened to meet her, and kissed her hand, saying:

"How do you do, Duchess?"

The other two men saluted her with a certain distinguished familiarity, for the Duchess's manner was both cordial and abrupt. 

She was the widow of General the Duc de Mortemain, mother of an onlydaughter married to the Prince de Salia; daughter of the Marquis deFarandal, of high family and royally rich, and received at her mansionin the Rue de Varenne all the celebrities of the world, who met andcomplimented one another there. No Highness passed through Paris withoutdining at her table; no man could attract public attention that she didnot immediately wish to know him. She must see him, make him talkto her, form her own judgment of him. This amused her greatly, lentinterest to life, and fed the flame of imperious yet kindly curiositythat burned within her. 

She had hardly seated herself when the same servant announced:

"Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne de Corbelle. "

They were young; the Baron was bald and fat, the Baroness was slender, elegant, and very dark. 

This couple occupied a peculiar situation in the French aristocracy duesolely to a scrupulous choice of connections. Belonging to the politeworld, but without value or talent, moved in all their actions by animmoderate love of that which is select, correct, and distinguished;by dint of visiting only the most princely houses, of professingtheir royalist sentiments, pious and correct to a supreme degree; byrespecting all that should be respected, by condemning all that shouldbe condemned, by never being mistaken on a point of worldly dogma orhesitating over a detail of etiquette, they had succeeded in passingin the eyes of many for the finest flower of high life. Their opinionformed a sort of code of correct form and their presence in a house gaveit a true title of distinction. 

The Corbelles were relatives of the Comte de Guilleroy. 

"Well, " said the Duchess in astonishment, "and your wife?"

"One instant, one little instant, " pleaded the Count. "There is asurprise: she is just about to come. "

When Madame de Guilleroy, as the bride of a month, had enteredsociety, she was presented to the Duchesse de Mortemain, who loved herimmediately, adopted her, and patronized her. 

For twenty years this friendship never had diminished, and when theDuchess said, "_Ma petite_, " one still heard in her voice the tendernessof that sudden and persistent affection. It was at her house that thepainter and the Countess had happened to meet. 

Musadieu approached the group. "Has the Duchess been to see theexposition of the Intemperates?" he inquired. 

"No; what is that?"

"A group of new artists, impressionists in a state of intoxication. Twoof them are very fine. "

The great lady murmured, with disdain: "I do not like the jests of thosegentlemen. "

Authoritative, brusque, barely tolerating any other opinion thanher own, and founding hers solely on the consciousness of her socialstation, considering, without being able to give a good reason for it, that artists and learned men were merely intelligent mercenaries chargedby God to amuse society or to render service to it, she had no otherbasis for her judgments than the degree of astonishment or of pleasureshe experienced at the sight of a thing, the reading of a book, or therecital of a discovery. 

Tall, stout, heavy, red, with a loud voice, she passed as having theair of a great lady because nothing embarrassed her; she dared to sayanything and patronized the whole world, including dethroned princes, with her receptions in their honor, and even the Almighty by hergenerosity to the clergy and her gifts to the churches. 

"Does the Duchess know, " Musadieu continued, "that they say the assassinof Marie Lambourg has been arrested?"

Her interest was awakened at once. 

"No, tell me about it, " she replied. 

He narrated the details. Musadieu was tall and very thin; he worea white waistcoat and little diamond shirt-studs; he spoke withoutgestures, with a correct air which allowed him to say the daringthings which he took delight in uttering. He was very near-sighted, andappeared, notwithstanding his eye-glass, never to see anyone; and whenhe sat down his whole frame seemed to accommodate itself to the shapeof the chair. His figure seemed to shrink into folds, as if his spinalcolumn were made of rubber; his legs, crossed one over the other, lookedlike two rolled ribbons, and his long arms, resting on the arms of thechair, allowed to droop his pale hands with interminable fingers. Hishair and moustache, artistically dyed, with a few white locks cleverlyforgotten, were a subject of frequent jests. 

While he was explaining to the Duchess that the jewels of the murderedprostitute had been given as a present by the suspected murderer toanother girl of the same stamp, the door of the large drawing-roomopened wide once more, and two blond women in white lace, a creamyMechlin, resembling each other like two sisters of different ages, theone a little too mature, the other a little too young, one a trifletoo plump, the other a shade too slender, advanced, clasping each otherround the waist and smiling. 

The guests exclaimed and applauded. No one, except Olivier Bertin, knewof Annette de Guilleroy's return, and the appearance of the young girlbeside her mother, who at a little distance seemed almost as freshand even more beautiful--for, like a flower in full bloom, she hadnot ceased to be brilliant, while the child, hardly budding, was onlybeginning to be pretty--made both appear charming. 

The Duchess, delighted, clapped her hands, exclaiming: "Heavens!How charming and amusing they are, standing beside each other! Look, Monsieur de Musadieu, how much they resemble each other!"

The two were compared, and two opinions were formed. According toMusadieu, the Corbelles, and the Comte de Guilleroy, the Countess andher daughter resembled each other only in coloring, in the hair, andabove all in the eyes, which were exactly alike, both showing tiny blackpoints, like minute drops of ink, on the blue iris. But it was theiropinion that when the young girl should have become a woman they wouldno longer resemble each other. 

According to the Duchess, on the contrary, and also Olivier Bertin, theywere similar in all respects, and only the difference in age made themappear unlike. 

"How much she has changed in three years!" said the painter. "I shouldnot have recognized her, and I don't dare to _tutoyer_ the young lady!"

The Countess laughed. "The idea! I should like to hear you say 'you' toAnnette!"

The young girl, whose future gay audacity was already apparent under anair of timid playfulness, replied: "It is I who shall not dare to say'thou' to Monsieur Bertin. "

Her mother smiled. 

"Yes, continue the old habit--I will allow you to do so, " she said. "Youwill soon renew your acquaintance with him. "

But Annette shook her head. 

"No, no, it would embarrass me, " she said. 

The Duchess embraced her, and examined her with all the interest of aconnoisseur. 

"Look me in the face, my child, " she said. "Yes, you have exactly thesame expression as your mother; you won't be so bad by-and-by, when youhave acquired more polish. And you must grow a little plumper--not verymuch, but a little. You are very thin. "

"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed the Countess. 

"Why not?"

"It is so nice to be slender. I intend to reduce myself at once. "

But Madame de Mortemain took offense, forgetting in her anger thepresence of a young girl. 

"Oh, of course, you are all in favor of bones, because you can dressthem better than flesh. For my part, I belong to the generation of fatwomen! To-day is the day of thin ones. They make me think of the leankine of Egypt. I cannot understand how men can admire your skeletons. Inmy time they demanded more!"

She subsided amid the smiles of the company, but added, turning toAnnette:

"Look at your mamma, little one; she does very well; she has attainedthe happy medium--imitate her. "

They passed into the dining-room. After they were seated, Musadieuresumed the discussion. 

"For my part, I say that men should be thin, because they are formedfor exercises that require address and agility, incompatible withcorpulency. But the women's case is a little different. Don't you thinkso, Corbelle?"

Corbelle was perplexed, the Duchess being stout and his own wife morethan slender. But the Baroness came to the rescue of her husband, andresolutely declared herself in favor of slimness. The year before that, she declared, she had been obliged to struggle with the beginning of_embonpoint_, over which she soon triumphed. 

"Tell us how you did it, " demanded Madame de Guilleroy. 

The Baroness explained the method employed by all the fashionable womenof the day. One must never drink while eating; but an hour after therepast a cup of tea may be taken, boiling hot. This method succeededwith everyone. She cited astonishing cases of fat women who in threemonths had become more slender than the blade of a knife. The Duchessexclaimed in exasperation:

"Good gracious, how stupid to torture oneself like that! You likenothing any more--nothing--not even champagne. Bertin, as an artist, what do you think of this folly?"

"_Mon Dieu_, Madame, I am a painter and I simply arrange the drapery, soit is all the same to me. If I were a sculptor I might complain. "

"But as a man, which do you prefer?"

"I? Oh, a certain rounded slimness--what my cook calls a nice littlecorn-fed chicken. It is not fat, but plump and delicate. "

The comparison caused a laugh; but the incredulous Countess looked ather daughter and murmured:

"No, it is very much better to be thin; slender women never grow old. "

This point also was discussed by the company; and all agreed that a veryfat person should not grow thin too rapidly. 

This observation gave place to a review of women known in society andto new discussions on their grace, their chic and beauty. Musadieupronounced the blonde Marquise de Lochrist incomparably charming, while Bertin esteemed as a beauty Madame Mandeliere, with her brunettecomplexion, low brow, her dusky eyes and somewhat large mouth, in whichher teeth seemed to sparkle. 

He was seated beside the young girl, and said suddenly, turning to her:

"Listen to me, Nanette. Everything that we have just been saying youwill hear repeated at least once a week until you are old. In a week youwill know all that society thinks about politics, women, plays, andall the rest of it. Only an occasional change of names will benecessary--names of persons and titles of works. When you have heard usall express and defend our opinions, you will quietly choose your ownamong those that one must have, and then you need never trouble yourselfto think of anything more, never. You will only have to rest in thatopinion. "

The young girl, without replying, turned upon him her mischievous eyes, wherein sparkled youthful intelligence, restrained, but ready to escape. 

But the Duchess and Musadieu, who played with ideas as one tosses aball, without perceiving that they continually exchanged the same ones, protested in the name of thought and of human activity. 

Then Bertin attempted to show how the intelligence of fashionablepeople, even the brightest of them, is without value, foundation, or weight; how slight is the basis of their beliefs, how feeble andindifferent is their interest in intellectual things, how fickle andquestionable are their tastes. 

Warmed by one of those spasms of indignation, half real, half assumed, aroused at first by a desire to be eloquent, and urged on by the suddenprompting of a clear judgment, ordinarily obscured by an easy-goingnature, he showed how those persons whose sole occupation in life is topay visits and dine in town find themselves becoming, by an irresistiblefatality, light and graceful but utterly trivial beings, vaguelyagitated by superficial cares, beliefs, and appetites. 

He showed that none of that class has either depth, ardor, or sincerity;that, their intellectual culture being slight and their erudition asimple varnish, they must remain, in short, manikins who produce theeffect and make the gesture of the enlightened beings that they are not. He proved that, the frail roots of their instincts having been nourishedon conventionalities instead of realities, they love nothing sincerely, that even the luxury of their existence is a satisfaction of vanity andnot the gratification of a refined bodily necessity, for usually theirtable is indifferent, their wines are bad and very dear. 

They live, as he said, beside everything, but see nothing and studynothing; they are near science, of which they are ignorant; nature, atwhich they do not know how to look; outside of true happiness, for theyare powerless to enjoy it; outside of the beauty of the world and thebeauty of art, of which they chatter without having really discoveredit, or even believing in it, for they are ignorant of the intoxicationof tasting the joys of life and of intelligence. They are incapableof attaching themselves in anything to that degree that existence isillumined by the happiness of comprehending it. 

The Baron de Corbelle thought that it was his duty to come to thedefense of society. This he did with inconsistent and irrefutablearguments, which melt before reason as snow before the fire, yet whichcannot be disproved--the absurd and triumphant arguments of a countrycurate who would demonstrate the existence of God. In concluding, hecompared fashionable people to race-horses, which, in truth, are goodfor nothing, but which are the glory of the equine race. 

Bertin, irritated by this adversary, preserved a politely disdainfulsilence. But suddenly the Baron's imbecilities exasperated him, and, interrupting him adroitly, he recounted the life of a man of fashionfrom his rising to his going to rest, without omitting anything. All thedetails, cleverly described, made up an irresistibly amusing silhouette. Once could see the fine gentleman dressed by his valet, first expressinga few general ideas to the hairdresser that came to shave him; then, when taking his morning stroll, inquiring of the grooms about the healthof the horses; then trotting through the avenues of the Bois, caringonly about saluting and being saluted; then breakfasting opposite hiswife, who in her turn had been out in her coupe, speaking to her only toenumerate the names of the persons he had met that morning; thenpassing from drawing-room to drawing-room until evening, refreshing hisintelligence by contact with others of his circle, dining with a prince, where the affairs of Europe were discussed, and finishing the eveningbehind the scenes at the Opera, where his timid pretensions at being agay dog were innocently satisfied by the appearance of being surroundedby naughtiness. 

The picture was so true, although its satire wounded no one present, that laughter ran around the table. 

The Duchess, shaken by the suppressed merriment of fat persons, relievedherself by discreet chuckles. 

"Really, you are too funny!" she said at last; "you will make me die oflaughter. "

Bertin replied, with some excitement:

"Oh, Madame, in the polite world one does not die of laughter! Onehardly laughs, even. We have sufficient amiability, as a matter ofgood taste, to pretend to be amused and appear to laugh. The grimaceis imitated well enough, but the real thing is never done. Go to thetheaters of the common people--there you will see laughter. Go among the_bourgeoisie_, when they are amusing themselves; you will see them laughto suffocation. Go to the soldiers' quarters, you will see men choking, their eyes full of tears, doubled up on their beds over the jokes ofsome funny fellow. But in our drawing-rooms we never laugh. I tell youthat we simulate everything, even laughter. "

Musadieu interrupted him:

"Permit me to say that you are very severe. It seems to me that youyourself, my dear fellow, do not wholly despise this society at whichyou rail so bitterly. "

Bertin smiled. 

"I? I love it!" he declared. 

"But then----"

"I despise myself a little, as a mongrel of doubtful race. "

"All that sort of talk is nothing but a pose, " said the Duchess. 

And, as he denied having any intention of posing, she cut short thediscussion by declaring that all artists try to make people believe thatchalk is cheese. 

The conversation then became general, touching upon everything, ordinaryand pleasant, friendly and critical, and, as the dinner was drawingtoward its end, the Countess suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the fullglasses of wine that were ranged before her plate:

"Well, you see that I have drunk nothing, nothing, not a drop! We shallsee whether I shall not grow thin!"

The Duchess, furious, tried to make her swallow some mineral water, butin vain; then she exclaimed:

"Oh, the little simpleton! That daughter of hers will turn her head. Ibeg of you, Guilleroy, prevent your wife from committing this folly. "

The Count, who was explaining to Musadieu the system of athreshing-machine invented in America, had not been listening. 

"What folly, Duchess?"

"The folly of wishing to grow thin. "

The Count looked at his wife with an expression of kindly indifference. 

"I never have formed the habit of opposing her, " he replied. 

The Countess had risen, taking the arm of her neighbor; the Countoffered his to the Duchess, and they passed into the large drawing-room, the boudoir at the end being reserved for use in the daytime. 

It was a vast and well lighted room. On the four walls the large andbeautiful panels of pale blue silk, of antique pattern, framed in whiteand gold, took on under the light of the lamps and the chandelier amoonlight softness and brightness. In the center of the principal one, the portrait of the Countess by Olivier Bertin seemed to inhabit, toanimate the apartment. It had a look of being at home there, minglingwith the air of the salon its youthful smile, the grace of its pose, thebright charm of its golden hair. It had become almost a custom, a sortof polite ceremony, like making the sign of the cross on entering achurch, to compliment the model on the work of the painter wheneveranyone stood before it. 

Musadieu never failed to do this. His opinion as a connoisseurcommissioned by the State having the value of that of an officialexpert, he regarded it as his duty to affirm often, with conviction, thesuperiority of that painting. 

"Indeed, " said he, "that is the most beautiful modern portrait I know. There is prodigious life in it. "

The Comte de Guilleroy, who, through hearing this portrait continuallypraised, had acquired a rooted conviction that he possessed amasterpiece, approached to join him, and for a minute or two theylavished upon the portrait all the art technicalities of the day inpraise of the apparent qualities of the work, and also of those thatwere suggested. 

All eyes were lifted toward the portrait, apparently in a rapture ofadmiration, and Olivier Bertin, accustomed to these eulogies, to whichhe paid hardly more attention than to questions about his health whenmeeting some one in the street, nevertheless adjusted the reflector lampplaced before the portrait in order to illumine it, the servant havingcarelessly set it a little on one side. 

Then they seated themselves, and as the Count approached the Duchess, she said to him:

"I believe that my nephew is coming here for me, and to ask you for acup of tea. "

Their wishes, for some time, had been mutually understood and agreed, without either side ever having exchanged confidences or even hints. 

The Marquis de Farandal, who was the brother of the Duchesse deMortemain, after almost ruining himself at the gaming table, had diedof the effects of a fall from his horse, leaving a widow and a son. Thisyoung man, now nearly twenty-eight years of age, was one of the mostpopular leaders of the cotillion in Europe, for he was sometimesrequested to go to Vienna or to London to crown in the waltz someprincely ball. Although possessing very small means, he remained, through his social station, his family, his name, and his almost royalconnections, one of the most popular and envied men in Paris. 

It was necessary to give a solid foundation to this glory of his youth, and after a rich, a very rich marriage, to replace social triumphs bypolitical success. As soon as the Marquis should become a deputy, hewould become also, by that attainment alone, one of the props of thefuture throne, one of the counselors of the King, one of the leaders ofthe party. 

The Duchess, who was well informed, knew the amount of the enormousfortune of the Comte de Guilleroy, a prudent hoarder of money, who livedin a simple apartment when he was quite able to live like a great lordin one of the handsomest mansions of Paris. She knew about his alwayssuccessful speculations, his subtle scent as a financier, his share inthe most fruitful schemes of the past ten years, and she had cherishedthe idea of marrying her nephew to the daughter of the Norman deputy, towhom this marriage would give an immense influence in the aristocraticsociety of the princely circle. Guilleroy, who had made a rich marriage, and had thereby increased a large personal fortune, now nursed otherambitions. 

He had faith in the return of the King, and wished, when that eventshould come, to be so situated as to derive from it the largest personalprofit. 

As a simple deputy, he did not cut a prominent figure. As afather-in-law of the Marquis of Farandal, whose ancestors had been thefaithful and chosen familiars of the royal house of France, he mightrise to the first rank. 

The friendship of the Duchess for his wife lent to this union an elementof intimacy that was very precious; and, for fear some other young girlmight appear who would please the Marquis, he had brought about thereturn of his own daughter in order to hasten events. 

Madame de Mortemain, foreseeing and divining his plans, lent him hersilent complicity; and on that very day, although she had not beeninformed of the sudden return of the young girl, she had made anappointment with her nephew to meet her at the Guilleroys, so that hemight gradually become accustomed to visit that house frequently. 

For the first time, the Count and the Duchess spoke of their mutualdesires in veiled terms; and when they parted, a treaty of alliance hadbeen concluded. 

At the other end of the room everyone was laughing at a story M. DeMusadieu was telling to the Baroness de Corbelle about the presentationof a negro ambassador to the President of the Republic, when the Marquisde Farandal was announced. 

He appeared in the doorway and paused. With a quick and familiargesture, he placed a monocle on his right eye and left it there, as ifto reconnoiter the room he was about to enter, but perhaps to give thosethat were already there the time to see him and to observe his entrance. Then by an imperceptible movement of cheek and eyebrow, he allowed todrop the bit of glass at the end of a black silk hair, and advancedquickly toward Madame de Guilleroy, whose extended hand he kissed, bowing very low. He saluted his aunt likewise, then shook hands withthe rest of the company, going from one to another with easy elegance ofmanner. 

He was a tall fellow, with a red moustache, and was already slightlybald, with the figure of an officer and the gait of an Englishsportsman. It was evident, at first sight of him, that all his limbswere better exercised than his head, and that he cared only for suchoccupations as developed strength and physical activity. He had someeducation, however, for he had learned, and was learning every day, bymuch mental effort, a great deal that would be useful to him to knowlater: history, studying dates unweariedly, but mistaking the lesson tobe learned from facts and the elementary notions of political economynecessary to a deputy, the A B C of sociology for the use of the rulingclasses. 

Musadieu esteemed him, saying: "He will be a valuable man. " Bertinappreciated his skill and his vigor. They went to the same fencing-hall, often hunted together, and met while riding in the avenues of the Bois. Between them, therefore, had been formed a sympathy of similar tastes, that instinctive free-masonry which creates between two men a subject ofconversation, as agreeable to one as to the other. 

When the Marquis was presented to Annette de Guilleroy, he immediatelyhad a suspicion of his aunt's designs, and after saluting her he ran hiseyes over her, with the rapid glance of a connoisseur. 

He decided that she was graceful, and above all full of promise, forhe had led so many cotillions that he knew young girls well, and couldpredict almost to a certainty the future of their beauty, as an expertwho tastes a wine as yet too new. 

He exchanged only a few unimportant words with her, then seated himselfnear the Baroness de Corbelle, so that he could chat with her in anundertone. 

Everyone took leave at an early hour, and when all had gone, when thechild was in her bed, the lamps were extinguished, the servants goneto their own quarters, the Comte de Guilleroy, walking across thedrawing-room, lighted now by only two candles, detained for a long timethe Countess, who was half asleep in an armchair, to tell her of hishopes, to suggest the attitude for themselves to assume, to forecast allcombinations, the chances and the precautions to be taken. 

It was late when he retired, charmed, however, with this evening, andmurmuring, "I believe that that affair is a certainty. "

CHAPTER III

A FLAME REKINDLED

"_When will you come, my friend? I have not seen you for three days, andthat seems a long time to me. My daughter occupies much of my time, butyou know that I can no longer do without you. _"

The painter, who was drawing sketches, ever seeking a new subjectre-read the Countess's note, then, opening the drawer of a writing-desk, he deposited it on a heap of other letters, which had been accumulatingthere since the beginning of their love-affair. 

Thanks to the opportunities given them by the customs of fashionablesociety, they had grown used to seeing each other almost every day. Nowand then she visited him, and sat for an hour or two in the armchair inwhich she had posed, while he worked. But, as she had some fear of thecriticisms of the servants, she preferred to receive him at her ownhouse, or to meet him elsewhere, for that daily interview, that smallchange of love. 

These meetings would be agreed upon beforehand, and always seemedperfectly natural to M. De Guilleroy. 

Twice a week at least the painter dined at the Countess's house, witha few friends; on Monday nights he visited her in her box at the Opera;then they would agree upon a meeting at such or such a house, to whichchance led them at the same hour. He knew the evenings that she didnot go out, and would call then to have a cup of tea with her, feelinghimself very much at home even near the folds of her robe, so tenderlyand so surely settled in that ripe affection, so fixed in the habit offinding her somewhere, of passing some time by her side, or exchanginga few words with her and of mingling a few thoughts, that he felt, although the glow of his passion had long since faded, an incessant needof seeing her. 

The desire for family life, for a full and animated household, for thefamily table, for those evenings when one talks without fatigue withold friends, that desire for contact, for familiarity, for humanintercourse, which dwells dormant in every human heart, and which everyold bachelor carries from door to door to his friends, where he installssomething of himself, added a strain of egoism to his sentiments ofaffection. In that house, where he was loved and spoiled, where he foundeverything, he could still rest and nurse his solitude. 

For three days he had not seen his friends, who must be very muchoccupied by the return of the daughter of the house; and he was alreadyfeeling bored, and even a little offended because they had not sent forhim sooner, but not wishing, as a matter of discretion, to be the firstto make an approach. 

The Countess's letter aroused him like the stroke of a whip. It wasthree o'clock in the afternoon. He decided to go immediately to herhouse, that he might find her before she went out. 

The valet appeared, summoned by the sound of Olivier's bell. 

"What sort of weather is it, Joseph?"

"Very fine, Monsieur. "

"Warm?"

"Yes, Monsieur. "

"White waistcoat, blue jacket, gray hat. "

He always dressed with elegance, but although his tailor turned him outin correct styles, the very way in which he wore his clothes, his mannerof walking, his comfortable proportions encased in a white waistcoat, his high gray felt hat, tilted a little toward the back of his head, seemed to reveal at once that he was both an artist and a bachelor. 

When he reached the Countess's house, he was told that she was dressingfor a drive in the Bois. He was a little vexed at this, and waited. 

According to his habit, he began to pace to and fro in the drawing-room, going from one seat to another, or from the windows to the wall, in thelarge drawing-room darkened by the curtains. On the light tables withgilded feet, trifles of various kinds, useless, pretty, and costly, layscattered about in studied disorder. There were little antique boxes ofchased gold, miniature snuff-boxes, ivory statuettes, objects in dullsilver, quite modern, of an exaggerated severity, in which English tasteappeared: a diminutive kitchen stove, and upon it a cat drinking from apan, a cigarette-case simulating a loaf of bread, a coffee-pot to holdmatches, and in a casket a complete set of doll's jewelry--necklaces, bracelets, rings, brooches, ear-rings set with diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, a microscopic fantasy that seemed to have beenexecuted by Lilliputian jewelers. 

From time to time he touched some object, given by himself on someanniversary; he lifted it, handled it, examining it with dreamyindifference, then put it back in its place. 

In one corner some books that were luxuriously bound but seldomopened lay within easy reach on a round table with a single leg for afoundation, which stood before a little curved sofa. The _Revue des DeuxMondes_ lay there also, somewhat worn, with turned-down pages, as if ithad been read and re-read many times; other publications lay near it, some of them uncut: the _Arts modernes_, which is bought only because ofits cost, the subscription price being four hundred francs a year; andthe _Feuille libre_, a thin volume between blue covers, in which appearthe more recent poets, called "_les enerves_. "

Between the windows stood the Countess's writing-desk, a coquettishpiece of furniture of the last century, on which she wrote replies tothose hurried questions handed to her during her receptions. A few bookswere on that, also, familiar books, index to the heart and mind of awoman: Musset, Manon Lescaut, Werther; and, to show that she was not astranger to the complicated sensations and mysteries of psychology, _Les Fleurs du Mal_, _Le Rouge et le Noir_, _La Femme au XVIII Siecle_, _Adolphe_. 

Beside the books lay a charming hand-mirror, a masterpiece of thesilversmith's art, the glass being turned down upon a square ofembroidered velvet, in order to allow one to admire the curious gold andsilver workmanship on the back. Bertin took it up and looked at hisown reflection. For some years he had been growing terribly oldin appearance, and although he thought that his face showed moreoriginality than when he was younger, the sight of his heavy cheeks andincreasing wrinkles saddened him. 

A door opened behind him. 

"Good morning, Monsieur Bertin, " said Annette. 

"Good morning, little one; are you well?"

"Very well; and you?"

"What, are you not saying 'thou' to me, then, after all?"

"No, indeed! It would really embarrass me. "

"Nonsense!"

"Yes, it would. You make me feel timid. "

"And why, pray?"

"Because--because you are neither young enough nor old enough--"

The painter laughed. 

"After such a reason as that I will insist no more. "

She blushed suddenly, up to the white brow, where the waves of hairbegan to ripple, and resumed, with an air of slight confusion:

"Mamma told me to say to you that she will be down immediately, and toask you whether you will go to the Bois de Boulogne with us. "

"Yes, certainly. You are alone?"

"No; with the Duchesse de Mortemain. "

"Very well; I will go. "

"Then will you allow me to go and put on my hat?"

"Yes, go, my child. "

As Annette left the room the Countess entered, veiled, ready to setforth. She extended her hands cordially. 

"We never see you any more. What are you doing?" she inquired. 

"I did not wish to trouble you just at this time, " said Bertin. 

In the tone with which she spoke the word "Olivier!" she expressed allher reproaches and all her attachment. 

"You are the best woman in the world, " he said, touched by the tenderintonation of his name. 

This little love-quarrel being finished and settled, the Countessresumed her light, society tone. 

"We shall pick up the Duchess at her hotel and then make a tour of theBois. We must show all that sort of thing to Nanette, you know. "

The landau awaited them under the porte-cochere. 

Bertin seated himself facing the two ladies, and the carriagedeparted, the pawing of the horses making a resonant sound against theover-arching roof of the porte-cochere. 

Along the grand boulevard descending toward the Madeleine all the gaietyof the springtime seemed to have fallen upon the tide of humanity. 

The soft air and the sunshine lent to the men a festive air, to thewomen a suggestion of love; the bakers' boys deposited their baskets onthe benches to run and play with their brethren, the street urchins; thedogs appeared in a great hurry to go somewhere; the canaries hanging inthe boxes of the concierges trilled loudly; only the ancient cab-horseskept their usual sedate pace. 

"Oh, what a beautiful day! How good it is to live!" murmured theCountess. 

The painter contemplated both mother and daughter in the dazzling light. Certainly, they were different, but at the same time so much alike thatthe latter was veritably a continuation of the former, made of the sameblood, the same flesh, animated by the same life. Their eyes, above all, those blue eyes flecked with tiny black drops, of such a brilliant bluein the daughter, a little faded in the mother, fixed upon him a look sosimilar that he expected to hear them make the same replies. And he wassurprised to discover, as he made them laugh and talk, that before himwere two very distinct women, one who had lived and one who was aboutto live. No, he did not foresee what would become of that child when heryoung mind, influenced by tastes and instincts that were as yet dormant, should have expanded and developed amid the life of the world. This wasa pretty little new person, ready for chances and for love, ignored andignorant, who was sailing out of port like a vessel, while her motherwas returning, having traversed life and having loved!

He was touched at the thought that she had chosen himself, and that shepreferred him still, this woman who had remained so pretty, rocked inthat landau, in the warm air of springtime. 

As he expressed his gratitude to her in a glance, she divined it, and hethought he could feel her thanks in the rustle of her robe. 

In his turn he murmured: "Oh, yes, what a beautiful day!"

When they had taken up the Duchess, in the Rue de Varenne, they spunalong at a swift pace toward the Invalides, crossed the Seine, andreached the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, going up toward the Arc detriomphe de l'Etoile in the midst of a sea of carriages. 

The young girl was seated beside Olivier, riding backward, and sheopened upon this stream of equipages wide and wondering eager eyes. Occasionally, when the Duchess and the Countess acknowledged asalutation with a short movement of the head, she would ask "Who isthat?" Bertin answered: "The Pontaiglin, " "the Puicelci, " "the Comtessede Lochrist, " or "the beautiful Madame Mandeliere. "

Now they were following the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, amid thenoise and the rattling of wheels. The carriages, a little less crowdedthan below the Arc de Triomphe, seemed to struggle in an endless race. The cabs, the heavy landaus, the solemn eight-spring vehicles, passedone another over and over again, distanced suddenly by a rapid victoria, drawn by a single trotter, bearing along at a reckless pace, throughall that rolling throng, _bourgeois_ and aristocratic, through allsocieties, all classes, all hierarchies, an indolent young woman, whosebright and striking toilette diffused among the carriages it touched inpassing a strange perfume of some unknown flower. 

"Who is that lady?" Annette inquired. 

"I don't know, " said Bertin, at which reply the Duchess and the Countessexchanged a smile. 

The leaves were opening, the familiar nightingales of that Parisiangarden were singing already among the tender verdure, and when, as thecarriage approached the lake, it joined the long file of other vehiclesat a walk, there was an incessant exchange of salutations, smiles, andfriendly words, as the wheels touched. The procession seemed now likethe gliding of a flotilla in which were seated very well-bred ladies andgentlemen. The Duchess, who was bowing every moment before raised hatsor inclined heads, appeared to be passing them in review, callingto mind what she knew, thought, or supposed of these people, as theydefiled before her. 

"Look, dearest, there is the lovely Madame Mandeliere again--the beautyof the Republic. "

In a light and dashing carriage, the beauty of the Republic allowed tobe admired, under an apparent indifference to this indisputable glory, her large dark eyes, her low brow beneath a veil of dusky hair, and hermouth, which was a shade too obstinate in its lines. 

"Very beautiful, all the same, " said Bertin. 

The Countess did not like to hear him praise other women. She shruggedher shoulders slightly, but said nothing. 

But the young girl, in whom the instinct of rivalry suddenly awoke, ventured to say: "I do not find her beautiful at all. "

"What! You do not think her beautiful?" said the painter. 

"No; she looks as if she had been dipped in ink. "

The Duchess, delighted, burst into laughter. 

"Bravo, little one!" she cried. "For the last six years half the menin Paris have been swooning at the feet of that negress! I believe thatthey sneer at us. Look at the Comtesse de Lochrist instead. "

Alone, in a landau with a white poodle, the Countess, delicate as aminiature, a blond with brown eyes, whose grace and beauty had servedfor five or six years as the theme for the admiration of her partisans, bowed to the ladies, with a fixed smile on her lips. 

But Nanette exhibited no greater enthusiasm than before. 

"Oh, " she said, "she is no longer young!"

Bertin, who usually did not at all agree with the Countess in the dailydiscussions of these two rivals, felt a sudden irritation at the stupidintolerance of this little simpleton. 

"Nonsense!" he said. "Whether one likes her or not, she is charming; andI only hope that you may become as pretty as she. "

"Pooh! pooh!" said the Duchess. "You notice women only after they havepassed the thirtieth year. The child is right. You admire only _passee_beauty. "

"Pardon me!" he exclaimed; "a woman is really beautiful only aftermaturing, when the expression of her face and eyes has become fullydeveloped!"

He enlarged upon this idea that the first youthful freshness is only thegloss of riper beauty; he demonstrated that men of the world were wisein paying but little attention to young girls in their first season, andthat they were right in proclaiming them beautiful only when they passedinto their later period of bloom. 

The Countess, flattered, murmured: "He is right; he speaks as an artist. The youthful countenance is very charming, but it is always a triflecommonplace. "

The painter continued to urge his point, indicating at what moment aface that was losing, little by little, the undecided grace of youth, really assumed its definite form, its true character and physiognomy. 

At each word the Countess said "Yes, " with a little nod of conviction;and the more he affirmed, with all the heat of a lawyer making a plea, with the animation of the accused pleading his own cause, the more sheapproved, by glance and gesture, as if they two were allied againstsome danger, and must defend themselves against some false and menacingopinion. Annette hardly heard them, she was so engrossed in lookingabout her. Her usually smiling face had become grave, and she said nomore, carried away by the pleasure of the rapid driving. The sunlight, the trees, the carriage, this delightful life, so rich and gay--all thiswas for her!

Every day she might come here, recognized in her turn, saluted andenvied; and perhaps the men, in pointing her out to one another, wouldsay that she was beautiful. She noticed all those that appeared toher distinguished among the throng and inquired their names, withoutthinking of anything beyond the mere sound of the syllables, thoughsometimes they awoke in her an echo of respect and admiration, when sherealized that she had seen them often in the newspapers or heard storiesconcerning them. She could not become accustomed to this long processionof celebrities; it seemed unreal to her, as if she were a part of somestage spectacle. The cabs filled her with disdain mingled with disgust;they annoyed and irritated her, and suddenly she said:

"I think they should not allow anything but private carriages to comehere. "

"Indeed, Mademoiselle!" said Bertin; "and then what becomes of ourequality, liberty and fraternity?"

Annette made a moue that signified "Don't talk about that!" andcontinued:

"They should have a separate drive for cabs--that of Vincennes, forinstance. "

"You are behind the times, little one, and evidently do not know that weare swimming in the full tide of democracy. But, if you wish to see thisplace free from any mingling of the middle class, come in the morning, and then you will find only the fine flower of society. "

He proceeded to describe graphically, as he knew well how to do, theBois in the morning hours with its gay cavaliers and fair Amazons, thatclub where everyone knows everyone else by their Christian names, theirpet names, their family connections, titles, qualities, and vices, as ifthey all lived in the same neighborhood or in the same small town. 

"Do you come here often at that hour?" Annette inquired. 

"Very often; there is no more charming place in Paris. "

"Do you come on horseback in the mornings?"

"Yes. "

"And in the afternoon you pay visits?"

"Yes. "

"Then, when do you work?"

"Oh, I work--sometimes; and besides, you see, I have chosen a specialentertainment suited to my tastes. As I paint the portraits ofbeautiful women, it is necessary that I should see them and follow themeverywhere. "

"On foot and on horseback!" murmured Annette, with a perfectly seriousface. 

He threw her a sidelong glance of appreciation, which seemed to say:"Ah! you are witty, even now! You will do very well. "

A breath of cold air from far away, from the country that was hardlyawake as yet, swept over the park, and the whole Bois, coquettish, frivolous, and fashionable, shivered under its chill. For some secondsit caused the tender leaves to tremble on the trees, and garments onshoulders. All the women, with a movement almost simultaneous, drew upover their arms and chests their wraps lying behind them; and the horsesbegan to trot, from one end of the avenue to the other, as if the keenwind had flicked them like a whip. 

The Countess's party returned quickly, to the silvery jingle of theharness, under the slanting red rays of the setting sun. 

"Shall you go home?" inquired the Countess of Bertin, with whose habitsshe was familiar. 

"No, I am going to the club. "

"Then, shall we set you down there in passing?"

"Thank you, that will be very convenient. "

"And when shall you invite us to breakfast with the Duchess?"

"Name your day. "

This painter in ordinary to the fair Parisians, whom his admirerschristened "a Watteau realist" and his detractors a "photographerof gowns and mantles, " often received at breakfast or at dinner thebeautiful persons whose feature he had reproduced, as well as thecelebrated and the well known, who found very amusing these littleentertainments in a bachelor's establishment. 

"The day after to-morrow, then. Will the day after to-morrow suit you, my dear Duchess?" asked Madame de Guilleroy. 

"Yes, indeed; you are charming! Monsieur Bertin never thinks of mewhen he has his little parties. It is quite evident that I am no longeryoung. "

The Countess, accustomed to consider the artist's home almost the sameas her own, replied:

"Only we four, the four of the landau--the Duchess, Annette, you and I, eh, great artist?"

"Only ourselves, " said he, alighting from the carriage, "and I will haveprepared for you some crabs _a l'alsacienne_. "

"Oh, you will awaken a desire for luxury in the little one!"

He bowed to them, standing beside the carriage door, then enteredquickly the vestibule of the main entrance to the club, threw histopcoat and cane to a group of footmen, who had risen like soldiers atthe passing of an officer; mounted the broad stairway, meeting anotherbrigade of servants in knee-breeches, pushed open a door, feelinghimself suddenly as alert as a young man, as he heard at the end of thecorridor a continuous clash of foils, the sound of stamping feet, andloud exclamations: _"Touche!" "A moi. " "Passe!" "J'en ai!" "Touche!" "Avous!"_

In the fencing-hall the swordsmen, dressed in gray linen, with leathervests, their trousers tight around the ankles, a sort of apron fallingover the front of the body, one arm in the air, with the hand thrownbackward, and in the other hand, enormous in a large fencing-glove, thethin, flexible foil, extended and recovered with the agile swiftness ofmechanical jumping-jacks. 

Others rested and chatted, still out of breath, red and perspiring, withhandkerchief in hand to wipe off faces and necks; others, seated ona square divan that ran along the four sides of the hall, watched thefencing--Liverdy against Landa, and the master of the club, Taillade, against the tall Rocdiane. 

Bertin, smiling, quite at home, shook hands with several men. 

"I choose you!" cried the Baron de Baverie. 

"I am with you, my dear fellow, " said Bertin, passing into thedressing-room to prepare himself. 

He had not felt so agile and vigorous for a long time, and, guessingthat he should fence well that day, he hurried as impatiently as aschoolboy ready for play. As soon as he stood before his adversary heattacked him with great ardor, and in ten minutes he had touched himeleven times and had so fatigued him that the Baron cried for quarter. Then he fenced with Punisimont, and with his colleague, Amaury Maldant. 

The cold douche that followed, freezing his palpitating flesh, remindedhim of the baths of his twentieth year, when he used to plunge headfirst into the Seine from the bridges in the suburbs, in order to amazethe bourgeois passers-by. 

"Shall you dine here?" inquired Maldant. 

"Yes. "

"We have a table with Liverdy, Rocdiane, and Landa; make haste; it is aquarter past seven. "

The dining-room was full, and there was a continuous hum of men'svoices. 

There were all the nocturnal vagabonds of Paris, idlers and workers, allthose who from seven o'clock in the evening know not what to do and dineat the club, ready to catch at anything or anybody that chance may offerto amuse them. 

When the five friends were seated the banker Liverdy, a vigorous andhearty man of forty, said to Bertin:

"You were in fine form this evening. "

"Yes, I could have done surprising things to-day, " Bertin replied. 

The others smiled, and the landscape painter, Amaury Maldant, a thinlittle bald-headed man with a gray beard, said, with a sly expression:

"I, too, always feel the rising of the sap in April; it makes me bringforth a few leaves--half a dozen at most--then it runs into sentiment;there never is any fruit. "

The Marquis de Rocdiane and the Comte Landa sympathized with him. Bothwere older than he, though even a keen eye could not guess their age;clubmen, horsemen, swordsmen, whose incessant exercise had given thembodies of steel, they boasted of being younger in every way than theenervated good-for-nothings of the new generation. 

Rocdiane, of good family, with the entree to all salons, thoughsuspected of financial intrigues of many kinds (which, accordingto Bertin, was not surprising, since he had lived so much in thegaming-houses), married, but separated from his wife, who paid him anannuity, a director of Belgian and Portuguese banks, carried boldly uponhis energetic, Don Quixote-like face the somewhat tarnished honor of agentleman, which was occasionally brightened by the blood from a thrustin a duel. 

The Comte de Landa, a good-natured colossus, proud of his figure andhis shoulders, although married and the father of two children, found itdifficult to dine at home three times a week; he remained at the club onthe other days, with his friends, after the session in the fencing-hall. 

"The club is a family, " he said, "the family of those who as yet havenone, of those who never will have one, and of those who are bored bytheir own. "

The conversation branched off on the subject of women, glided fromanecdotes to reminiscences, from reminiscences to boasts, and then toindiscreet confidences. 

The Marquis de Rocdiane allowed the names of his inamoratas to beguessed by unmistakable hints--society women whose names he did notutter, so that their identity might be the better surmised. The bankerLiverdy indicated his flames by their first names. He would say: "I wasat that time the best of friends with the wife of a diplomat. Now, one evening when I was leaving her, I said to her, 'My littleMarguerite'"--then he checked himself, amid the smiles of his fellows, adding "Ha! I let something slip. One should form a habit of calling allwomen Sophie. "

Olivier Bertin, very reserved, was accustomed to declare, whenquestioned:

"For my part, I content myself with my models. "

They pretended to believe him, and Landa, who was frankly a libertine, grew quite excited at the idea of all the pretty creatures that walkedthe streets and all the young persons who posed undraped before thepainter at ten francs an hour. 

As the bottle became empty, all these gray-beards, as the youngermembers of the club called them, acquired red faces, and their kindlingardor awakened new desires. 

Rocdiane, after the coffee, became still more indiscreet, and forgot thesociety women to celebrate the charms of simple cocottes. 

"Paris!" said he, a glass of kummel in his hand, "The only city wherea man never grows old, the only one where, at fifty, if he is sound andwell preserved, he will always find a young girl, as pretty as an angel, to love him. "

Landa, finding again his Rocdiane after the liqueurs, applauded himenthusiastically, and mentioned the young girls who still adored himevery day. 

But Liverdy, more skeptical, and pretending to know exactly what womenwere worth, murmured: "Yes, they tell you that they adore you!"

"They prove it to me, my dear fellow, " exclaimed Landa. 

"Such proofs don't count. "

"They suffice me!"

"But, _sacrebleu!_ they do mean it, " cried Rocdiane. "Do you believethat a pretty little creature of twenty, who has been going the roundsin Paris for five or six years already, where all our moustaches havetaught her kisses and spoiled her taste for them, still knows how todistinguish a man of thirty from a man of sixty? Pshaw! what nonsense!She has seen and known too many of them. Now, I'll wager that, down inthe bottom of her heart, she actually prefers an old banker to a youngstripling. Does she know or reflect upon that? Have men any age here?Oh, my dear fellow, we grow young as we grow gray, and the whiter ourhair becomes the more they tell us they love us, the more they show it, and the more they believe it. "

They rose from the table, their blood warmed and lashed by alcohol, ready to make any conquest; and they began to deliberate how to spendthe evening, Bertin mentioning the Cirque, Rocdiane the Hippodrome, Maldant the Eden, and Landa the Folies-Bergere, when a light and distantsound of the tuning of violins reached their ears. 

"Ah, there is music at the club to-day, it seems, " said Rocdiane. 

"Yes, " Bertin replied. "Shall we listen for ten minutes before goingout?"

"Agreed. "

They crossed a salon, a billiard-room, a card-room, and finally reacheda sort of box over the gallery of the musicians. Four gentlemen, ensconced in armchairs, were waiting there already, in easy attitudes, while below, among rows of empty seats, a dozen others were chatting, sitting or standing. 

The conductor tapped his desk with his bow; the music began. 

Olivier adored music as an opium-eater adores opium. It made him dream. 

As soon as the sonorous wave from the instruments reached him he felthimself borne away in a sort of nervous intoxication, which thrilledbody and mind indescribably. His imagination ran riot, made drunkby melody, and carried him along through sweet dreams and charmingreveries. With closed eyes, legs crossed, and folded arms, he listenedto the strains, and gave himself up to the visions that passed beforehis eyes and into his mind. 

The orchestra was playing one of Haydn's symphonies, and when Bertin'seyelids drooped over his eyes, he saw again the Bois, the crowd ofcarriages around him, and facing him in the landau the Countess and herdaughter. He heard their voices, followed their words, felt the movementof the carriage, inhaled the air, filled with the odor of young leaves. 

Three times, his neighbor, speaking to him, interrupted this vision, which three times he began again, as the rolling of the vessel seems tocontinue when, after crossing the ocean, one lies motionless in bed. 

Then it extended itself to a long voyage, with the two women alwaysseated before him, sometimes on the railway, again at the tableof strange hotels. During the whole execution of the symphony theyaccompanied him, as if, while driving with him in the sunshine, they hadleft the image of their two faces imprinted on his vision. 

Silence followed; then came a noise of seats being moved and chatteringof voices, which dispelled this vapor of a dream, and he perceived, dozing around him, his four friends, relaxed from a listening attitudeto the comfortable posture of sleep. 

"Well, what shall we do now?" he asked, after he had roused them. 

"I should like to sleep here a little longer, " replied Rocdiane frankly. 

"And I, too, " said Landa. 

Bertin rose. 

"Well, I shall go home, " he said. "I am rather tired. "

He felt very animated, on the contrary, but he wished to go, fearingthe end of the evening around the baccarat-table of the club, whichunfortunately he knew so well. 

He went home, therefore, and the following day, after a nervous night, one of those nights that put artists in that condition of cerebralactivity called inspiration, he decided not to go out, but to work untilevening. 

It was an excellent day, one of those days of facile production, whenideas seem to descend into the hands and fix themselves upon the canvas. 

With doors shut, far from the world, in the quiet of his own dwelling, closed to everyone, in the friendly peace of his studio, with clear eye, lucid mind, enthusiastic, alert, he tasted that happiness given onlyto artists, the happiness of bringing forth their work in joy. Nothingexisted any more for him in such hours of work except the piece ofcanvas on which was born an image under the caress of his brush; and heexperienced, in these crises of productiveness, a strange and delicioussensation of abounding life which intoxicated him. When evening came hewas exhausted as by healthful fatigue, and went to sleep with agreeableanticipation of his breakfast the next morning. 

The table was covered with flowers, the menu was carefully chosen, forMadame de Guilleroy's sake, as she was a refined epicure; and in spiteof strong but brief resistance, the painter compelled his guests todrink champagne. 

"The little one will get intoxicated, " protested the Countess. 

"Dear me! there must be a first time, " replied the indulgent Duchess. 

Everyone, as the party returned to the studio, felt stirred by thatlight gaiety which lifts one as if the feet had wings. 

The Duchess and the Countess, having an engagement at a meeting of theCommittee of French Mothers, were to take Annette home before going tothe meeting; but Bertin offered to take her for a walk, and then to theBoulevard Malesherbes; so both ladies left them. 

"Let us take the longest way, " said Annette. 

"Would you like to stroll about the Monceau Park?" asked Bertin. "It isa very pretty place; we will look at the babies and nurses. "

"Yes, I should like that. "

They passed through the Avenue Velasquez and entered the gilded andmonumental gate that serves as a sign and an entrance to that exquisitejewel of a park, displaying in the heart of Paris its verdant andartificial beauty, surrounded by a belt of princely mansions. 

Along the wide walks, which unroll their massive and artistic curvesthrough grassy lawns, throngs of people, sitting on iron chairs, watchthe passers; while in the little paths, deep in shade and winding likestreams, groups of children crawl in the sand, run about, or jump therope under the indolent eyes of nurses or the anxious watchfulnessof mothers. Two enormous trees, rounded into domes, like monuments ofleaves, the gigantic horse-chestnuts, whose heavy verdure is lighted upby red and white clusters, the showy sycamores, the graceful plane-treeswith their trunks designedly polished, set off in a charming perspectivethe tall, undulating grass. 

The weather was warm, the turtle-doves were cooing among the branches, and flying to meet one another from the tree-tops, while the sparrowsbathed in the rainbow formed by the sunshine and the spray thrown overthe smooth turf. White statues on their pedestals seemed happy in themidst of the green freshness. A little marble boy was drawing from hisfoot an invisible thorn, as if he had just pricked himself in runningafter the Diana fleeing toward the little lake, imprisoned by the woodsthat screened the ruins of a temple. 

Other statues, amorous and cold, embraced one another on the borders ofthe groves, or dreamed there, holding one knee in the hand. A cascadefoamed and rolled over the pretty rocks; a tree, truncated like acolumn, supported an ivy; a tombstone bore an inscription. The stoneshafts erected on the lawns hardly suggest better the Acropolis thanthis elegant little park recalled wild forests. It is the charmingand artificial place where city people go to look at flowers grown inhot-houses, and to admire, as one admires the spectacle of life at thetheater, that agreeable representation of the beauties of nature givenin the heart of Paris. 

Olivier Bertin had come almost every day for years to this favorite spotto look at the fair Parisians moving in their appropriate setting. "Itis a park made for toilettes, " he would say; "Badly dressed people arehorrible in it. " He would rove about there for hours, knowing all theplants and all the habitual visitors. 

He now strolled beside Annette along the avenues, his eye distracted bythe motley and animated crowd in the gardens. 

"Oh, the little love!" exclaimed Annette. She was gazing at a tiny boywith blond curls, who was looking at her with his blue eyes full ofsurprise and delight. 

Then she passed all the children in review, and the pleasure she felt inseeing those living dolls, decked out in their dainty ribbons, made hertalkative and communicative. 

She walked slowly, chatting to Bertin, giving him her reflections on thechildren, the nurses, and the mothers. The larger children drew fromher little exclamations of joy, while the little pale ones touched hersympathy. 

Bertin listened, more amused by her than by the little ones, and, alwaysremembering his work, he murmured, "That is delicious!" thinking thathe must make an exquisite picture, with one corner of this park and abouquet of nurses, mothers and children. Why had he never thought of itbefore?

"You like those little ones?" he inquired. 

"I adore them!"

He felt, from her manner of looking at them, that she longed to takethem in her arms, to hug and kiss them--the natural and tender longingof a future mother; and he was surprised at this secret instinct hiddenin this little woman. 

As she appeared ready to talk, he questioned her about her tastes. Sheadmitted, with pretty naivete, that she had hopes of social success andglory, and that she desired to have fine horses, which she knew almostas well as a horse-dealer, for a part of the farm at Roncieres wasdevoted to breeding; but she appeared to trouble her head no more abouta fiance than one is concerned about an apartment, which is always to befound among the multitude of houses to rent. 

They approached the lake, where two swans and six ducks were quietlyfloating, as clean and calm as porcelain birds, and they passed beforea young woman sitting in a chair, with an open book lying on her knees, her eyes gazing upward, her soul having apparently taken flight in adream. 

She was as motionless as a wax figure. Plain, humble, dressed as amodest girl who has no thought of pleasing, she had gone to the land ofDreams, carried away by a phrase or a word that had bewitched her heart. Undoubtedly she was continuing, according to the impulse of her hopes, the adventure begun in the book. 

Bertin paused, surprised. "How beautiful to dream like that!" said he. 

They had passed before her; now they turned and passed her again withouther perceiving them, so attentively did she follow the distant flight ofher thought. 

"Tell me, little one, " said the painter to Annette, "would it bore youvery much to pose for me once or twice?"

"No, indeed! Quite the contrary. "

"Look well at that young lady who is roaming in the world of fancy. "

"The lady there, in that chair?"

"Yes. Well, you, too, will sit on a chair, you will have an open bookon your knee, and you will try to do as she does. Have you ever haddaydreams?"

"Yes, indeed. "

"Of what?"

He tried to confess her as to her aerial flights, but she would makeno reply, evaded his questions, looked at the ducks swimming after somebread thrown to them by a lady, and seemed embarrassed, as if he hadtouched upon a subject that was a sensitive point with her. 

Then, to change the conversation, she talked about her life atRoncieres, spoke of her grandmother, to whom she read aloud a long timeevery day, and who must now feel very lonely and sad. 

As he listened, the painter felt as gay as a bird, gay as he neverhad been. All that she had said, all the doings, the trifling everydaydetails of the simple life of a young girl, amused and interested him. 

"Let us sit down, " he said. 

They seated themselves near the water, and the two swans came floatingtoward them, expecting some fresh dainty. 

Bertin felt recollections awakening within him--those faded remembrancesthat are drowned in forgetfulness, and which suddenly return, one knowsnot why. They surged up rapidly, of all sorts, and so numerous at thesame time that it seemed to him a hand was stirring the miry depths ofhis memory. 

He tried to guess the reasons of this rising up of his former life whichseveral times already, though never so insistently as to-day, he hadfelt and remarked. A cause always existed for these sudden evocations--anatural and simple cause, an odor, perhaps, often a perfume. Howmany times a woman's draperies had thrown to him in passing, with theevaporating breath of some essence, a host of forgotten events. At thebottom of old perfume-bottles he had often found bits of his formerexistence; and all wandering odors--of streets, fields, houses, furniture, sweet or unsavory, the warm odors of summer evenings, thecold breath of winter nights, revived within him far-off reminiscences, as if odors kept embalmed within him these dead-and-gone memories, asaromatics preserve mummies. 

Was it the damp grass or the chestnut blossoms that thus reanimated thepast? No. What, then?

Was it his eye to which he owed this alertness? What had he seen?Nothing. Among the persons he had met, perhaps one might have resembledsome one he had known, and, although he had not recognized it, it mighthave rung in his heart all the chords of the past. 

Was it not a sound, rather? Very often he had heard by chance a piano, an unknown voice, even a hand-organ in the street playing some oldair, which had suddenly made him feel twenty years younger, filling hisbreast with tender recollections, long buried. 

But this appeal, continued, incessant, intangible, almost irritating!What was there near him to revive thus his extinct emotions?

"It is growing a little cool; we must go home, " he said. 

They rose, and resumed their walk. 

He looked at the poor people sitting on benches, for whom a chair wastoo great an expense. 

Annette also observed them, and felt disturbed at the thought of theirlives, their occupations, surprised that they should come to lounge inthis beautiful public garden, when their own appearance was so forlorn. 

More than ever was Olivier now dreaming over past years. It seemed tohim that a fly was humming in his ear, filling it with a buzzing song ofbygone days. 

The young girl, observing his dreamy air, asked:

"What is the matter? You seem sad. "

His heart thrilled within him. Who had said that? She or her mother?Not her mother with her present voice but with her voice of long ago, sochanged that he had only just recognized it. 

"Nothing, " he replied, smiling. "You entertain me very much; you arevery charming, and you remind me of your mother. "

How was it that he had not sooner remarked this strange echo of a voiceonce so familiar, now coming from these fresh lips?

"Go on talking, " he said. 

"Of what?"

"Tell me what your teachers have taught you. Did you like them?"

She began again to chat pleasantly. He listened, stirred by a growinganxiety; he watched and waited to detect, among the phrases of thisyoung girl, almost a stranger to his heart, a word, a sound, a laugh, that seemed to have been imprisoned in her throat since her mother'syouth. Certain intonations made him tremble with astonishment. Of coursethere were differences in their tones, the resemblance of which he hadnot remarked immediately, and which were in some ways so dissimilar thathe had not confounded them at all; but these differences rendered allthe more striking this sudden reproduction of the maternal speech. Hehad noted their facial resemblance with a friendly and curious eye, butnow the mystery of this resuscitated voice mingled them in such a waythat, turning away his head that he might no longer see the young girl, he asked himself whether it were not the Countess who was speaking thusto him, twelve years earlier. 

Then when he had woven this hallucination, he turned toward her again, and found, as their eyes met, a little of the shy hesitation with whichthe mother's gaze had met his in the first days of their love. 

They had already walked three times around the park, passing alwaysbefore the same persons, the same nurses and children. 

Annette was now inspecting the buildings surrounding the garden, inquiring the names of their owners. She wished to know all about them, asked questions with eager curiosity, seeming to fill her feminine mindwith these details, and, with interested face, listening with her eyesas much as with her ears. 

But when they arrived at the pavilion that separates the two gates ofthe outer boulevard, Bertin perceived that it was almost four o'clock. 

"Oh, " he said, "we must go home. "

They walked slowly toward the Boulevard Malesherbes. 

After the painter had left Annette at her home he proceeded toward thePlace de la Concorde. 

He sang to himself softly, longed to run, and would have been glad tojump over the benches, so agile did he feel. Paris seemed radiant tohim, more beautiful than ever. "Decidedly the springtime revarnishes thewhole world, " was his reflection. 

He was in one of those periods of mental excitement when one understandseverything with more pleasure, when the vision is clearer and morecomprehensive, when one feels a keener joy in seeing and feeling, as ifan all-powerful hand had brightened all the colors of earth, reanimatedall living creatures, and had wound up in us, as in a watch that hasstopped, the activity of sensation. 

He thought, as his glance took in a thousand amusing things: "And I saidthat there were moments when I could no longer find subjects to paint!"

He felt such a sensation of freedom and clear-sightedness that all hisartistic work seemed commonplace to him, and he conceived a new way ofexpressing life, truer and more original; and suddenly he was seizedwith a desire to return home and work, so he retraced his steps and shuthimself up in his studio. 

But as soon as he was alone, before a newly begun picture, the ardorthat had burned in his blood began to cool. He felt tired, sat down onhis divan, and again gave himself up to dreaming. 

The sort of happy indifference in which he lived, that carelessness ofthe satisfied man whose almost every need is gratified, was leaving hisheart by degrees, as if something were still lacking. He realized thathis house was empty and his studio deserted. Then, looking around him, he fancied he saw pass by him the shadow of a woman whose presence wassweet. For a long time he had forgotten the sensation of impatiencethat a lover feels when awaiting the coming of his mistress, and now hesuddenly felt that she was far away, and he longed, with the ardor of ayoung man, to have her near him. 

He was moved in thinking how much they had loved each other; and inthat vast apartment he found once more, where she had come so often, innumerable reminders of her, her gestures, words, and kisses. Herecalled certain days, certain hours, certain moments, and he feltaround him the sweetness of her early caresses. 

He got up, unable to sit quietly any longer, and began to walk, thinkingagain that, in spite of this intimacy that had so filled his life, hestill remained alone, always alone. After the long hours of work, whenhe looked around him, dazed by the reawakening of the man who returns tolife, he saw and felt only walls within reach of his hand and voice. Not having any woman in his home, and not being able to meet the one heloved except with the precautions of a thief, he had been compelled tospend his leisure time in public places where one finds or purchases themeans of killing time. He was accustomed to going to the club, to theCirque and the Hippodrome, on fixed days, to the Opera, and to all sortsof places, so that he should not be compelled to go home, where no doubthe would have lived in perfect happiness had he only had her beside him. 

Long before, in certain hours of tender abandon, he had suffered cruellybecause he could not take her and keep her with him; then, as his ardorcooled, he had accepted quietly their separation and his own liberty;now he regretted them once more, as if he were again beginning to loveher. And this return of tenderness invaded his heart so suddenly, almostwithout reason, because the weather was fine, and possibly because alittle while ago he had recognized the rejuvenated voice of that woman!How slight a thing it takes to move a man's heart, a man who is growingold, with whom remembrance turns into regret!

As in former days, the need of seeing her again came to him, enteringbody and mind, like a fever; and he began to think after the fashion ofa young lover, exalting her in his heart, and feeling himself exalted inhis desire for her; then he decided, although he had seen her only thatmorning, to go and ask for a cup of tea that same evening. 

The hours seemed long to him, and as he set out for the BoulevardMalesherbes he was seized with a fear of not finding her, which wouldforce him still to pass the evening alone, as he had passed so manyothers. 

To his query: "Is the Countess at home?" the servant's answer, "Yes, Monsieur, " filled him with joy. 

He said, with a radiant air: "It is I again!" as he appeared at thethreshold of the smaller drawing-room where the two ladies were working, under the pink shade of a double lamp of English metal, on a high andslender standard. 

"What, is it you? How fortunate!" exclaimed the Countess. 

"Well, yes. I feel very lonely, so I came. "

"How nice of you!"

"You are expecting someone?"

"No--perhaps--I never know. "

He had seated himself and now looked scornfully at the grayknitting-work that mother and daughter were swiftly making from heavywool, working at it with long needles. 

"What is that?" he asked. 

"Coverlets. "

"For the poor?"

"Yes, of course. "

"It is very ugly. "

"It is very warm. "

"Possibly, but it is very ugly, especially in a Louis Fifteenthapartment, where everything else charms the eye. If not for your poor, you really ought to make your charities more elegant, for the sake ofyour friends. "

"Oh, heavens, these men!" said the Countess, with a shrug of hershoulders. "Why, everyone is making this kind of coverlets just now. "

"I know that; I know it only too well! Once cannot make an evening callnow without seeing that frightful gray stuff dragged over the prettiestgowns and the most elegant furniture. Bad taste seems to be the fashionthis spring. "

To judge whether he spoke the truth, the Countess spread out herknitting on a silk-covered chair beside her; then she assentedindifferently:

"Yes, you are right--it is ugly. "

Then she resumed her work. Upon the two bent heads fell a streamof light; a rosy radiance from the lamp illumined their hair andcomplexions, extending to their skirts and their moving fingers. Theywatched their work with that attention, light but continuous, givenby women to this labor of the fingers which the eye follows without athought. 

At the four corners of the room four other lamps of Chinese porcelain, borne by ancient columns of gilded wood, shed upon the hangings a soft, even light, modified by lace shades thrown over the globes. 

Bertin took a very low seat, a dwarf armchair, in which he could barelyseat himself, but which he had always preferred when talking with theCountess because it brought him almost at her feet. 

"You took a long walk with Nane this afternoon in the park, " said theCountess. 

"Yes. We chatted like old friends. I like your daughter very much. Sheresembles you very strongly. When she pronounces certain phrases, onewould believe that you had left your voice in her mouth. "

"My husband has already said that very often. "

He watched the two women work, bathed in the lamplight, and the thoughtthat had often made him suffer, which had given him suffering that day, even--the recollection of his desolate home, still, silent, and cold, whatever the weather, whatever fire might be lighted in chimney orfurnace--saddened him as if he now understood his bachelor's isolationfor the first time. 

Oh, how deeply he longed to be the husband of this woman, and not herlover! Once he had desired to carry her away, to take her from that man, to steal her altogether. To-day he was jealous of him, that deceivedhusband who was installed beside her forever, in the habits of herhousehold and under the sweet influence of her presence. In looking ather he felt his heart full of old things revived, of which he wishedto speak. Certainly, he still loved her very much, even a little moreto-day than he had for some time; and the desire to tell her of thisreturn of youthful feeling, which would be sure to delight her, made himwish that she would send the young girl to bed as soon as possible. 

Obsessed by this strong desire to be alone with her, to sit near her andlay his head on her knee, to take the hands from which would slip thequilt for the poor, the needles, and the ball of wool, which would rollunder a sofa at the end of a long, unwound thread, he looked at thetime, relapsed into almost complete silence, and thought that it wasa great mistake to allow young girls to pass the evening with grown-uppersons. 

Presently a sound of footsteps was heard in the next room, and a servantappeared at the door announcing:

"Monsieur de Musadieu. "

Olivier Bertin felt a spasm of anger, and when he shook hands withthe Inspector of Fine Arts he had a great desire to take him by theshoulders and throw him into the street. 

Musadieu was full of news; the ministry was about to fall, and therewas a whisper of scandal about the Marquis de Rocdiane. He looked at theyoung girl, adding: "I will tell you about that a little later. "

The Countess raised her eyes to the clock and saw that it was about tostrike ten. 

"It is time to go to bed, my child, " she said to her daughter. 

Without replying, Annette folded her knitting-work, rolled up her ballof wool, kissed her mother on the cheeks, gave her hand to thetwo gentlemen, and departed quickly, as if she glided away withoutdisturbing the air as she went. 

"Well, what is your scandal?" her mother demanded, as soon as she hadgone. 

It appeared that rumor said that the Marquis de Rocdiane, amicablyseparated from his wife, who paid to him an allowance that he consideredinsufficient, had discovered a sure if singular means to double it. The Marquise, whom he had had watched, had been surprised _in flagrantedelictu_, and was compelled to buy off, with an increased allowance, thelegal proceedings instituted by the police commissioner. 

The Countess listened with curious gaze, her idle hands holding theinterrupted needle-work on her knee. 

Bertin, who was still more exasperated by Musadieu's presence sinceAnnette had gone, was incensed at this recital, and declared, with theindignation of one who had known of the scandal but did not wish tospeak of it to anyone, that the story was an odious falsehood, one ofthose shameful lies which people of their world ought neither to listento nor repeat. He appeared greatly wrought up over the matter, as hestood leaning against the mantelpiece and speaking with the excitedmanner of a man disposed to make a personal question of the subjectunder discussion. 

Rocdiane was his friend, he said; and, though he might be criticised forfrivolity in certain respects, no one could justly accuse him or evensuspect him of any really unworthy action. Musadieu, surprised andembarrassed, defended himself, tried to explain and to excuse himself. 

"Allow me to say, " he remarked at last, "that I heard this story justbefore I came here, in the drawing-room of the Duchesse de Mortemain. "

"Who told it to you? A woman, no doubt, " said Bertin. 

"No, not at all; it was the Marquis de Farandal. "

The painter, irritated still further, retorted: "That does not astonishme--from him!"

There was a brief silence. The Countess took up her work again. Presently Olivier said in a calmer voice: "I know for a fact that thatstory is false. "

In reality, he knew nothing whatever about it, having heard it mentionedthen for the first time. 

Musadieu thought it wise to prepare the way for his retreat, feelingthe situation rather dangerous; and he was just beginning to say thathe must pay a visit at the Corbelles' that evening when the Comte deGuilleroy appeared, returning from dining in the city. 

Bertin sat down again, overcome, and despairing now of getting rid ofthe husband. 

"You haven't heard, have you, of the great scandal that is running allover town this evening?" inquired the Count pleasantly. 

As no one answered, he continued: "It seems that Rocdiane surprisedhis wife in a criminal situation, and has made her pay dearly for herindiscretion. "

Then Bertin, with his melancholy air, with grief in voice and gesture, placing one hand on Guilleroy's shoulder, repeated in a gentle andamicable manner all that he had just said so roughly to Musadieu. 

The Count, half convinced, annoyed to have allowed himself to repeatso lightly a doubtful and possibly compromising thing, pleaded hisignorance and his innocence. The gossips said so many false and wickedthings!

Suddenly, all agreed upon this statement: the world certainly accused, suspected, and calumniated with deplorable facility! All four appearedto be convinced, during the next five minutes, that all the whisperedscandals were lies; that the women did not have the lovers ascribed tothem; that the men never committed the sins they were accused of; and, in short, that the outward appearance of things was usually much worsethan the real situation. 

Bertin, who no longer felt vexed with Musadieu since De Guilleroy'sarrival, was now very pleasant to him, led him to talk on his favoritesubjects, and opened the sluices of his eloquence. The Count wore thecontented air of a man who carries everywhere with him an atmosphere ofpeace and cordiality. 

Two servants noiselessly entered the drawing-room, bearing thetea-table, on which the boiling water steamed in a pretty, shiningkettle over the blue flame of an alcohol lamp. 

The Countess rose, prepared the hot beverage with the care andprecaution we have learned from the Russians, then offered a cup toMusadieu, another to Bertin, following this with plates containingsandwiches of _pate de foies gras_ and little English and Austriancakes. 

The Count approached the portable table, where was also an assortment ofsyrups, liqueurs, and glasses; he mixed himself a drink, then discreetlydisappeared into the next room. 

Bertin found himself again facing Musadieu, and felt once more thesudden desire to thrust outside this bore, who, now put on his mettle, talked at great length, told stories, repeated jests, and made somehimself. The painter glanced continually at the clock, the hands ofwhich approached midnight. The Countess noticed his glances, understoodthat he wished to speak to her alone, and, with that ability of a cleverwoman of the world to change by indescribable shades of tone the wholeatmosphere of a drawing-room, to make it understood, without sayinganything, whether one is to remain or to go, she diffused about her, by her attitude alone, by the bored expression of her face and eyes, achill as if she had just opened a window. 

Musadieu felt this chilly current freezing his flow of ideas; and, without asking himself the reason, he felt a sudden desire to rise anddepart. 

Bertin, as a matter of discretion, followed his example. The two menpassed through both drawing-rooms together, followed by the Countess, who talked to the painter all the while. She detained him at thethreshold of the ante-chamber to make some trifling explanation, whileMusadieu, assisted by a footman, put on his topcoat. As Madame deGuilleroy continued to talk to Bertin, the Inspector of Fine Arts, having waited some seconds before the front door, held open by anotherservant, decided to depart himself rather than stand there facing thefootman any longer. 

The door was closed softly behind him, and the Countess said to theartist in a perfectly easy tone:

"Why do you go so soon? It is not yet midnight. Stay a little longer. "

They reentered the smaller drawing-room together and seated themselves. 

"My God! how that animal set my teeth on edge!" said Bertin. 

"Why, pray?"

"He took you away from me a little. "

"Oh, not very much. "

"Perhaps not, but he irritated me. "

"Are you jealous?"

"It is not being jealous to find a man a bore. "

He had taken his accustomed armchair, and seated close beside her nowhe smoothed the folds of her robe with his fingers as he told her of thewarm breath of tenderness that had passed through his heart that day. 

The Countess listened, surprised, charmed, and gently laid her hand onhis white locks, which she caressed tenderly, as if to thank him. 

"I should like so much to live always near you!" he sighed. 

He was thinking of her husband, who had retired to rest, asleep, nodoubt, in some neighboring chamber, and he continued:

"It is undoubtedly true that marriage is the only thing that reallyunites two lives. "

"My poor friend!" she murmured, full of pity for him and also forherself. 

He had laid his cheek against the Countess's knees, and he looked up ather with a tenderness touched with sadness, less ardently than a shorttime before, when he had been separated from her by her daughter, herhusband, and Musadieu. 

"Heavens! how white your hair has grown!" said the Countess with asmile, running her fingers lightly over Olivier's head. "Your last blackhairs have disappeared. "

"Alas! I know it. Everything goes so soon!"

She was concerned lest she had made him sad. 

"Oh, but your hair turned gray very early, you know, " she said. "I havealways known you with pepper-and-salt locks. "

"Yes, that is true. "

In order to dispel altogether the slight cloud of regret she had evoked, she leaned over him and, taking his head between her hands, kissed himslowly and tenderly on the forehead, with long kisses that seemed as ifthey never would end. Then they gazed into each other's eyes, seekingtherein the reflection of their mutual fondness. 

"I should like so much to pass a whole day with you, " Bertin continued. He felt himself tormented obscurely by an inexpressible necessityfor close intimacy. He had believed, only a short time ago, that thedeparture of those who had been present would suffice to realize thedesire that had possessed him since morning; and now that he was alonewith his mistress, now that he felt on his brow the touch of her hands, and, against his cheek, through the folds of her skirt, the warmth ofher body, he felt the same agitation reawakened, the same longing fora love hitherto unknown and ever fleeing him. He now fancied that, awayfrom that house--perhaps in the woods where they would be absolutelyalone--this deep yearning of his heart would be calmed and satisfied. 

"What a boy you are!" said the Countess. "Why, we see each other almostevery day. "

He begged her to devise a plan whereby she might breakfast with him, insome suburb of Paris, as she had already done four or five times. 

The Countess was astonished at his caprice, so difficult to realize nowthat her daughter had returned. She assured him that she would try todo it as soon as her husband should go to Ronces; but that it would beimpossible before the varnishing-day reception, which would take placethe following Saturday. 

"And until then when shall I see you?" he asked. 

"To-morrow evening at the Corbelles'. Come over here Thursday, at threeo'clock, if you are free; and I believe that we are to dine togetherwith the Duchess on Friday. "

"Yes, exactly. "

He arose. 

"Good-by!"

"Good-by, my friend. "

He remained standing, unable to decide to go, for he had said almostnothing of all that he had come to say, and his mind was still full ofunsaid things, his heart still swelled with vague desires which he couldnot express. 

"Good-bye!" he repeated, taking her hands. 

"Good-by, my friend!"

"I love you!"

She gave him one of those smiles with which a woman shows a man, in asingle instant, all that she has given him. 

With a throbbing heart he repeated for the third time, "Good-by!" anddeparted. 

CHAPTER IV

A DOUBLE JEALOUSY

One would have said that all the carriages in Paris were making apilgrimage to the Palais de l'Industrie that day. As early as nineo'clock in the morning they began to drive, by way of all streets, avenues, and bridges, toward that hall of the fine arts where allartistic Paris invites all fashionable Paris to be present at thepretended varnishing of three thousand four hundred pictures. 

A long procession of visitors pressed through the doors, and, disdainingthe exhibition of sculpture, hastened upstairs to the picture gallery. Even while mounting the steps they raised their eyes to the canvasesdisplayed on the walls of the staircase, where they hang the specialcategory of decorative painters who have sent canvases of unusualproportions or works that the committee dare not refuse. 

In the square salon a great crowd surged and rustled. The artists, who were in evidence until evening, were easily recognized by theiractivity, the sonorousness of their voices, and the authority of theirgestures. They drew their friends by the sleeve toward the pictures, which they pointed out with exclamations and mimicry of a connoisseur'senergy. All types of artists were to be seen--tall men with long hair, wearing hats of mouse-gray or black and of indescribable shapes, large and round like roofs, with their turned-down brims shadowingthe wearer's whole chest. Others were short, active, slight or stocky, wearing foulard cravats and round jackets, or the sack-like garment ofthe singular costume peculiar to this class of painters. 

There was the clan of the fashionables, of the curious, and of artistsof the boulevard; the clan of Academicians, correct, and decoratedwith red rosettes, enormous or microscopic, according to individualconception of elegance and good form; the clan of bourgeois painters, assisted by the family surrounding the father like a triumphal chorus. 

On the four great walls the canvases admitted to the honor of thesquare salon dazzled one at the very entrance by their brilliant tones, glittering frames, the crudity of new color, vivified by fresh varnish, blinding under the pitiless light poured from above. 

The portrait of the President of the Republic faced the entrance; whileon another wall a general bedizened with gold lace, sporting a hatdecorated with ostrich plumes, and wearing red cloth breeches, hung inpleasant proximity to some naked nymphs under a willow-tree, and nearby was a vessel in distress almost engulfed by a great wave. A bishopof the early Church excommunicating a barbarian king, an Oriental streetfull of dead victims of the plague, and the Shade of Dante in Hell, seized and captivated the eye with irresistible fascination. 

Other paintings in the immense room were a charge of cavalry;sharpshooters in a wood; cows in a pasture; two noblemen of theeighteenth century fighting a duel on a street corner; a madwomansitting on a wall; a priest administering the last rites to a dying man;harvesters, rivers, a sunset, a moonlight effect--in short, samples ofeverything that artists paint, have painted, and will paint until theend of the world. 

Olivier, in the midst of a group of celebrated brother painters, membersof the Institute and of the jury, exchanged opinions with them. Hewas oppressed by a certain uneasiness, a dissatisfaction with his ownexhibited work, of the success of which he was very doubtful, in spiteof the warm congratulations he had received. 

Suddenly he sprang forward; the Duchesse de Mortemain had appeared atthe main entrance. 

"Hasn't the Countess arrived yet?" she inquired of Bertin. 

"I have not seen her. "

"And Monsieur de Musadieu?"

"I have not seen him either. "

"He promised me to be here at ten o'clock, at the top of the stairs, toshow me around the principal galleries. "

"Will you permit me to take his place, Duchess?"

"No, no. Your friends need you. We shall see each other again very soon, for I shall expect you to lunch with us. "

Musadieu hastened toward them. He had been detained for some minutes inthe hall of sculpture, and excused himself, breathless already. 

"This way, Duchess, this way, " said he. "Let us begin at the right. "

They were just disappearing among the throng when the Comtesse deGuilleroy, leaning on her daughter's arm, entered and looked around insearch of Olivier Bertin. 

He saw them and hastened to meet them. As he greeted the two ladies, hesaid:

"How charming you look to-day. Really, Nanette has improved very much. She has actually changed in a week. "

He regarded her with the eye of a close observer, adding: "The lines ofher face are softer, yet more expressive; her complexion is clearer. She is already something less of a little girl and somewhat more of aParisian. "

Suddenly he bethought himself of the grand affair of the day. 

"Let us begin at the right, " said he, "and we shall soon overtake theDuchess. "

The Countess, well informed on all matters connected with painting, andas preoccupied as if she were herself on exhibition, inquired: "What dothey say of the exposition?"

"A fine one, " Bertin replied. "There is a remarkable Bonnat, twoexcellent things by Carolus Duran, an admirable Puvis de Chavannes, avery new and astonishing Roll, an exquisite Gervex, and many others, byBeraud, Cazin, Duez--in short, a heap of good things. "

"And you?" said the Countess. 

"Oh, they compliment me, but I am not satisfied. "

"You never are satisfied. "

"Yes, sometimes. But to-day I really feel that I am right. "

"Why?"

"I do not know. "

"Let us go to see it. "

When they arrived before Bertin's picture--two little peasant-girlstaking a bath in a brook--they found a group admiring it. The Countesswas delighted, and whispered: "It is simply a delicious bit--a jewel!You never have done anything better. "

Bertin pressed close to her, loving her and thanking her for every wordthat calmed his suffering and healed his aching heart. Through his mindran arguments to convince him that she was right, that she must judgeaccurately with the intelligent observation of an experienced Parisian. He forgot, so desirous was he to reassure himself, that for at leasttwelve years he had justly reproached her for too much admiring thedainty trifles, the elegant nothings, the sentimentalities and namelesstrivialities of the passing fancy of the day, and never art, art alone, art detached from the popular ideas, tendencies, and prejudices. 

"Let us go on, " said he, drawing them away from his picture. He led themfor a long time from gallery to gallery, showing them notable canvasesand explaining their subjects, happy to be with them. 

"What time is it?" the Countess asked suddenly. 

"Half after twelve. "

"Oh, let us hasten to luncheon then. The Duchess must be waiting for usat Ledoyen's, where she charged me to bring you, in case we should notmeet her in the galleries. "

The restaurant, in the midst of a little island of trees and shrubs, seemed like an overflowing hive. A confused hum of voices, calls, therattling of plates and glasses came from the open windows and largedoors. The tables, set close together and filled with people eating, extended in long rows right and left of a narrow passage, up and downwhich ran the distracted waiters, holding along their arms dishes filledwith meats, fish, or fruit. 

Under the circular gallery there was such a throng of men and women asto suggest a living pate. Everyone there laughed, called out, drank andate, enlivened by the wines and inundated by one of those waves of joythat sweep over Paris, on certain days, with the sunshine. 

An attendant showed the Countess, Annette, and Bertin upstairs intoa reserved room, where the Duchess awaited them. As they entered, thepainter observed, beside his aunt, the Marquis de Farandal, attentiveand smiling, and extending his hand to receive the parasols and wraps ofthe Countess and her daughter. He felt again so much displeasure that hesuddenly desired to say rude and irritating things. 

The Duchess explained the meeting of her nephew and the departure ofMusadieu, who had been carried off by the Minister of the Fine Arts, andBertin, at the thought that this insipidly good-looking Marquis mightmarry Annette, that he had come there only to see her, and that heregarded her already as destined to share his bed, unnerved and revoltedhim, as if some one had ignored his own rights--sacred and mysteriousrights. 

As soon as they were at table, the Marquis, who sat beside the younggirl, occupied himself in talking to her with the devoted air of a manauthorized to pay his addresses. 

He assumed a curious manner, which seemed to the painter bold andsearching; his smiles were satisfied and almost tender, his gallantrywas familiar and officious. In manner and word appeared alreadysomething of decision, as if he were about to announce that he had wonthe prize. 

The Duchess and the Countess seemed to protect and approve this attitudeof a pretender, and exchanged glances of complicity. 

As soon as the luncheon was finished the party returned to theExposition. There was such a dense crowd in the galleries, it seemedimpossible to penetrate it. An odor of perspiring humanity, a stalesmell of old gowns and coats, made an atmosphere at once heavy andsickening. No one looked at the pictures any more, but at faces andtoilets, seeking out well-known persons; and at times came a greatjostling of the crowd as it was forced to give way before the highdouble ladder of the varnishers, who cried: "Make way, Messieurs! Makeway, Mesdames!"

At the end of ten minutes, the Countess and Olivier found themselvesseparated from the others. He wished to find them immediately, but, leaning upon him, the Countess said: "Are we not very well off as itis? Let them go, since it is quite natural that we should lose sight ofthem; we will meet them again in the buffet at four o'clock. "

"That is true, " he replied. 

But he was absorbed by the idea that the Marquis was accompanyingAnnette and continuing his attempts to please her by his fatuous andaffected gallantry. 

"You love me always, then?" murmured the Countess. 

"Yes, certainly, " he replied, with a preoccupied air, trying to catch aglimpse of the Marquis's gray hat over the heads of the crowd. 

Feeling that he was abstracted, and wishing to lead him back to her owntrain of thought, the Countess continued:

"If you only knew how I adore your picture of this year! It is certainlyyour _chef-d'oeuvre_. "

He smiled, suddenly, forgetting the young people in remembering hisanxiety of the morning. 

"Do you really think so?" he asked. 

"Yes, I prefer it above all others. "

With artful wheedling, she crowned him anew, having known well for along time that nothing has a stronger effect on an artist than tenderand continuous flattery. Captivated, reanimated, cheered by her sweetwords, he began again to chat gaily, seeing and hearing only her in thattumultuous throng. 

By way of expressing his thanks, he murmured in her ear: "I have a maddesire to embrace you!"

A warm wave of emotion swept over her, and, raising her shining eyes tohis, she repeated her question: "You love me always, then?"

He replied, with the intonation she wished to hear, and which she hadnot heard before:

"Yes, I love you, my dear Any. "

"Come often to see me in the evenings, " she said. "Now that I have mydaughter I shall not go out very much. "

Since she had recognized in him this unexpected reawakening oftenderness, her heart was stirred with great happiness. In view ofOlivier's silvery hair, and the calming touch of time, she had notsuspected that he was fascinated by another woman, but she was terriblyafraid that, from pure dread of loneliness, he might marry. This fear, which was of long standing, increased constantly, and set her witsto contriving plans whereby she might have him near her as much aspossible, and to see that he should not pass long evenings alone in thechill silence of his empty rooms. Not being always able to hold andkeep him, she would suggest amusements for him, sent him to the theater, forced him to go into society, being better pleased to know that he wasmingling with many other women than alone in his gloomy house. 

She resumed, answering his secret thought: "Ah, if I could only have youalways with me, how I should spoil you! Promise me to come often, sinceI hardly go out at all now. "

"I promise it. "

At that moment a voice murmured "Mamma!" in her ear. 

The Countess started and turned. Annette, the Duchess, and the Marquishad just rejoined them. 

"It is four o'clock, " said the Duchess. "I am very tired and I wish togo now. "

"I will go, too; I have had enough of it, " said the Countess. 

They reached the interior stairway which divides the galleries wherethe drawings and water-colors are hung, overlooking the immense gardeninclosed in glass, where the works of sculpture are exhibited. 

From the platform of this stairway they could see from one end to theother of this great conservatory, filled with statues set up along thepathway around large green shrubs, and below was the crowd which coveredthe paths like a moving black wave. The marbles rose from this mass ofdark hats and shoulders, piercing it in a thousand places, and seemingalmost luminous in their dazzling whiteness. 

As Bertin took leave of the ladies at the door of exit, Madame deGuilleroy whispered:

"Then--will you come this evening?"

"Yes, certainly. "

Bertin reentered the Exposition, to talk with the artists over theimpressions of the day. 

Painters and sculptors stood talking in groups around the statues andin front of the buffet, upholding or attacking the same ideas that werediscussed every year, using the same arguments over works almost exactlysimilar. Olivier, who usually took a lively share in these disputes, being quick in repartee and clever in disconcerting attacks, besideshaving a reputation as an ingenious theorist of which he was proud, tried to urge himself to take an active part in the debates, but thethings he said interested him no more than those he heard, and he longedto go away, to listen no more, to understand no more, knowing beforehandas he did all that anyone could say on those ancient questions of art, of which he knew all sides. 

He loved these things, however, and had loved them until now in analmost exclusive way; but to-day he was distracted by one of thoseslight but persistent preoccupations, one of those petty anxieties whichare so small we ought not to allow ourselves to be troubled by them, butwhich, in spite of all we do or say, prick through our thoughts like aninvisible thorn buried in the flesh. 

He had even forgotten his anxiety over his little peasant bathers in theremembrance of the displeasing idea of the Marquis approaching Annette. What did it matter to him, after all? Had he any right? Why should hewish to prevent this precious marriage, already arranged, and suitablefrom every point of view? But no reasoning could efface that impressionof uneasiness and discontent which had seized him when he had beheldFarandal talking and smiling like an accepted suitor, caressing with hisglances the fair face of the young girl. 

When he entered the Countess's drawing-room that evening, and found heralone with her daughter, continuing by the lamplight their knittingfor the poor, he had great difficulty in preventing himself from sayingsneering things about the Marquis, and from revealing to Annette hisreal banality, veiled by a mask of elegance and good form. 

For a long time, during these after-dinner evening visits, he had oftenallowed himself to lapse into occasional silence that was slightlysomnolent, and was accustomed to fall into the easy attitudes of an oldfriend who does not stand on ceremony. But now he seemed suddenly torouse himself and to show the alertness of men who do their best to beagreeable, who take thought as to what they wish to say, and who, beforecertain persons, seek for the best phrases in which to expresstheir ideas and render them attractive. No longer did he allow theconversation to lag, but did his best to keep it bright and interesting;and when he had made the Countess and her daughter laugh gaily, when hefelt that he had touched their emotions, or when they ceased to work inorder to listen to him, he felt a thrill of pleasure, an assurance ofsuccess, which rewarded him for his efforts. 

He came now every time that he knew they were alone, and never, perhaps, had he passed such delightful evenings. 

Madame de Guilleroy, whose continual fears were soothed by thisassiduity, made fresh efforts to attract him and to keep him near her. She refused invitations to dinners in the city, she did not go to balls, nor to the theaters, in order to have the joy of throwing into thetelegraph-box, on going out at three o'clock, a little blue despatchwhich said: "Come to-night. " At first, wishing to give him earlier thetete-a-tete that he desired, she had sent her daughter to bed as soonas it was ten o'clock. Then after one occasion when he had appearedsurprised at this and had begged laughingly that Annette should notbe treated any longer like a naughty little girl, she had allowed herdaughter a quarter of an hour's grace, then half an hour, and finally awhole hour. Bertin never remained long after the young girl had retired;it was as if half the charm that held him there had departed with her. He would soon take the little low seat that he preferred beside theCountess and lay his cheek against her knee with a caressing movement. She would give him one of her hands, which he clasped in his, and thefever of his spirit would suddenly be abated; he ceased to talk, andappeared to find repose in tender silence from the effort he had made. 

Little by little the Countess, with the keenness of feminine instinct, comprehended that Annette attracted him almost as much as she herself. This did not anger her; she was glad that between them he could findsomething of that domestic happiness which he lacked; and she imprisonedhim between them, as it were, playing the part of tender mother in sucha way that he might almost believe himself the young girl's father; anda new bond of tenderness was added to that which had always held him tothis household. 

Her personal vanity, always alert, but disturbed since she had felt inseveral ways, like almost invisible pin-pricks, the innumerable attacksof advancing age, took on a new allurement. In order to become asslender as Annette, she continued to drink nothing, and the realslimness of her figure gave her the appearance of a young girl. When herback was turned one could hardly distinguish her from Annette; buther face showed the effect of this regime. The plump flesh began to bewrinkled and took on a yellowish tint which rendered more dazzling bycontrast the superb freshness of the young girl's complexion. Then theCountess began to make up her face with theatrical art, and, though inbroad daylight she produced an effect that was slightly artificial, inthe evening her complexion had that charmingly soft tint obtained bywomen who know how to make up well. 

The realization of her fading beauty, and the employment of artificialaid to restore it, somewhat changed her habits. As much as possible, she avoided comparison with her daughter in the full light of day, butrather sought it by lamplight, which, if anything, showed herself togreater advantage. When she was fatigued, pale, and felt that she lookedolder than usual, she had convenient headaches by reason of which sheexcused herself from going to balls and theaters; but on days when sheknew she looked well she triumphed again and played the elder sisterwith the grave modesty of a little mother. In order always to wear gownslike those of her daughter, she made Annette wear toilettes suitablefor a fully-grown young woman, a trifle too old for her; and Annette whoshowed more and more plainly her joyous and laughing disposition, worethem with sparkling vivacity that rendered her still more attractive. She lent herself with all her heart to the coquettish arts of hermother, acting with her, as if by instinct, graceful little domesticscenes; she knew when to embrace her at the effective moment, how toclasp her tenderly round the waist, and to show by a movement, a caress, or some ingenious pose, how pretty both were and how much they resembledeach other. 

From seeing the two so much together, and from continually comparingthem, Olivier Bertin sometimes actually confused them in his own mind. Sometimes, when Annette spoke, and he happened to be looking elsewhere, he was compelled to ask: "Which of you said that?" He often amusedhimself by playing this game of confusion when all three were alone inthe drawing-room with the Louis XV tapestries. He would close his eyesand beg them to ask him the same question, the one after the other, andthen change the order of the interrogations, so that he might recognizetheir voices. They did this with so much cleverness in imitating eachother's intonations, in saying the same phrases with the same accents, that often he could not tell which spoke. In fact, they had come tospeak so much alike that the servants answered "Yes, Madame" to thedaughter and "Yes, Mademoiselle" to the mother. 

From imitating each other's voices and movements for amusement, they acquired such a similarity of gait and gesture that Monsieur deGuilleroy himself, when he saw one or the other pass through the shadowyend of the drawing-room, confounded them for an instant and asked: "Isthat you, Annette, or is it your mamma?"

From this resemblance, natural and assumed, was engendered in the mindand heart of the painter a strange impression of a double entity, oldand young, wise yet ignorant, two bodies made, the one after the other, with the same flesh; in fact, the same woman continued, but rejuvenated, having become once more what she was formerly. Thus he lived near them, shared between them, uneasy, troubled, feeling for the mother his oldardor awakened, and for the daughter an indefinable tenderness. 

PART II

CHAPTER I

A WILLING ENVOY

"Paris, July 20, 11 P. M. 

"MY FRIEND: My mother has just died at Roncieres. We shall leave here atmidnight. Do not come, for we have told no one. But pity me and think ofme. YOUR ANY. "

"July 21, 12 M. 

"MY POOR FRIEND: I should have gone, notwithstanding what you wrote, ifI had not become used to regarding all your wishes as commands. I havethought of you with poignant grief ever since last night. I think ofthat silent journey you made, sitting opposite your daughter and yourhusband, in that dimly-lighted carriage, which bore you toward yourdead. I could see all three of you under the oil lamp, you weeping andAnnette sobbing. I saw your arrival at the station, the entrance ofthe castle in the midst of a group of servants, your rush up the stairstoward that room, toward that bed where she lies, your first look ather, and your kiss on her thin, motionless face. And I thought of yourheart, your poor heart--that poor heart, of which half belongs to me andwhich is breaking, which suffers so much, which stifles you, making mesuffer also at this moment. 

"With profound pity, I kiss your eyes filled with tears. 

"OLIVIER. "

"Roncieres, July 24. 

"Your letter would have done me good, my friend, if anything could do megood in the horrible situation into which I have fallen. We buried heryesterday, and since her poor lifeless body has gone out of this houseit seems to me that I am alone in the world. We love our mothers almostwithout knowing or feeling it, for such love is as natural as it isto live, and we do not realize how deep-rooted is that love until themoment of final separation. No other affection is comparable to that, for all others come by chance, while this begins at birth; all theothers are brought to us later by the accidents of life, while thishas lived in our very blood since our first day on earth. And then, andthere, we have lost not only a mother but our childhood itself, whichhalf disappears, for our little life of girlhood belonged to her asmuch as to ourselves. She alone knew it as we knew it; she knew aboutinnumerable things, remote, insignificant and dear, which are and whichwere the first sweet emotions of our heart. To her alone I could stillsay: 'Do you remember, mother, the day when--? Do you remember, mother, the china doll that grandmother gave me?' Both of us murmured to eachother a long, sweet chapter of trifling childish memories, which noone on earth now knows of but me. So it is a part of myself that isdead--the older, the better. I have lost the poor heart wherein thelittle girl I was once still lived. Now no one knows her any more; noone remembers the little Anne, her short skirts, her laughter and herfaces. 

"And a day will come--and perhaps it is not far away--when in my turn Itoo shall go, leaving my dear Annette alone in the world, as mamma hasleft me to-day. How sad all this is, how hard, and cruel! Yet one neverthinks about it; we never look about us to see death take someone everyinstant, as it will soon take us. If we should look at it, if we shouldthink of it, if we were not distracted, rejoiced, or blinded by all thatpasses before us, we could no longer live, for the sight of this endlessmassacre would drive us mad. 

"I am so crushed, so despairing, that I have no longer strength to doanything. Day and night I think of my poor mamma, nailed in that box, buried beneath that earth, in that field, under the rain, whose oldface, which I used to kiss with so much happiness, is now only a mass offrightful decay! Oh, what horror!

"When I lost papa, I was just married, and I did not feel all thesethings as I do to-day. Yes, pity me, think of me, write to me. I needyou so much just now. 

"ANNE. "

"Paris, July 25. 

"MY POOR FRIEND: Your grief gives me horrible pain, and life no longerseems rosy to me. Since your departure I am lost, abandoned, withoutties or refuge. Everything fatigues me, bores me and irritates me. I amceaselessly thinking of you and Annette; I feel that you are both far, far away when I need you near me so much. 

"It is extraordinary how far away from me you seem to be, and how I missyou. Never, even in my younger days, have you been my _all_, as you areat this moment. I have foreseen for some time that I should reach thiscrisis, which must be a sun-stroke in Indian summer. What I feel is sovery strange that I wish to tell you about it. Just fancy that sinceyour absence I cannot take walks any more! Formerly, and even during thelast few months, I liked very much to set out alone and stroll along thestreet, amusing myself by looking at people and things, and enjoyingthe mere sight of everything and the exercise of walking. I used to walkalong without knowing where I was going, simply to walk, to breathe, todream. Now, I can no longer do this. As soon as I reach the street Iam oppressed by anguish, like the fear of a blind man that has lost hisdog. I become uneasy, exactly like a traveler that has lost his wayin the wood, and I am compelled to return home. Paris seems empty, frightful, alarming. I ask myself: 'Where am I going?' I answer myself:'Nowhere, since I am still walking. ' Well, I cannot, for I can no longerwalk without some aim. The bare thought of walking straight before mewearies and bores me inexpressibly. Then I drag my melancholy to theclub. 

"And do you know why? Only because you are no longer here. I am certainof this. When I know that you are in Paris, my walks are no longeruseless, for it is possible that I may meet you in the first street Iturn into. I can go anywhere because you may go anywhere. If I do notsee you, I may at least find Annette, who is an emanation of yourself. You and she fill the streets full of hope for me--the hope ofrecognizing you, whether you approach me from a distance, or whetherI divine your identity in following you. And then the city becomescharming to me, and the women whose figures resemble yours stir my heartwith all the liveliness of the streets, hold my attention, occupy myeyes, and give me a sort of hunger to see you. 

"You will consider me very selfish, my poor friend, to speak to you inthis way of the solitude of an old cooing pigeon when you are sheddingsuch bitter tears. Pardon me! I am so used to being spoiled by you thatI cry 'Help! Help!' when I have you no longer. 

"I kiss your feet so that you may have pity on me. 

"OLIVIER. "

"Roncieres, July 30. 

"MY FRIEND: Thanks for your letter. I need so much to know that youlove me! I have just passed some frightful days. Indeed, I believed thatgrief would kill me in my turn. 

"It was like a block of suffering in my breast, growing larger andlarger, stifling me, strangling me. The physician that was called totreat me for the nervous crisis I was enduring, which recurred four orfive times a day, injected morphine, which made me almost wild, and thegreat heat we have had aggravated my condition and threw me into a stateof over-excitement that was almost delirium. I am a little more calmsince the great storm of Friday. I must tell you that since the day ofthe funeral I could weep no more, but during the storm, the approachof which upset me, I suddenly felt the tears beginning to flow from myeyes, slow, small, burning. Oh, those first tears, how they hurt me!They seemed to tear me, as if they had claws, and my throat was sochoked that I could hardly breathe. Then the tears came faster, larger, cooler. They ran from my eyes as from a spring, and came so fast that myhandkerchief was saturated and I had to take another. The great block ofgrief seemed to soften and to flow away through my eyes. 

"From that moment I have been weeping from morning till night, and thatis saving me. One would really end by going mad or dying, if one couldnot weep. I am all alone, too. My husband is making some little tripsaround the country, and I insisted that he should take Annette withhim, to distract and console her a little. They go in the carriage or onhorseback as far as eight or ten leagues from Roncieres, and she returnsto me rosy with youth, in spite of her sadness, her eyes shining withlife, animated by the country air and the excursion she has had. Howbeautiful it is to be at that age! I think that we shall remain here afortnight or three weeks longer; then, although it will be August, weshall return to Paris for the reason you know. 

"I send to you all that remains to me of my heart. 

"ANY. "

"Paris, August 4th. 

"I can bear this no longer, my dear friend; you must come back, forsomething is certainly going to happen to me. I ask myself whether I amnot already ill, so great a dislike have I for everything I used to takepleasure in doing, or did with indifferent resignation. For one thing, it is so warm in Paris that every night means a Turkish bath of eightor nine hours. I get up overcome by the fatigue of this sleep in a hotbath, and for an hour or two I walk about before a white canvas, withthe intention to draw something. But mind, eye, and hand are all empty. I am no longer a painter! This futile effort to work is exasperating. Isummon my models; I place them, and they give me poses, movements, andexpressions that I have painted to satiety. I make them dress again andlet them go. Indeed, I can no longer see anything new, and I suffer fromthis as if I were blind. What is it? Is it fatigue of the eye or of thebrain, exhaustion of the artistic faculty or of the optic nerve? Whoknows? It seems to me that I have ceased to discover anything in theunexplored corner that I have been permitted to visit. I no longerperceive anything but that which all the world knows; I do the thingsthat all poor painters have done; I have only one subject now, and onlythe observation of a vulgar pedant. Once upon a time, and not so verylong ago, either, the number of new subjects seemed to me unlimited, andin order to express them I had such a variety of means the difficulty ofmaking a choice made me hesitate. But now, alas! Suddenly the world ofhalf-seen subjects has become depopulated, my study has become powerlessand useless. The people that pass have no more sense for me. I no longerfind in every human being the character and savor which once I liked somuch to discern and reveal. I believe, however, that I could make a verypretty portrait of your daughter. Is it because she resembles you somuch that I confound you both in my mind? Yes, perhaps. 

"Well, then, after forcing myself to sketch a man or a woman who doesnot resemble any of the familiar models, I decide to go and breakfastsomewhere, for I no longer have the courage to sit down alone in myown dining-room. The Boulevard Malesherbes seems like a forest pathimprisoned in a dead city. All the houses smell empty. On the street thesprinklers throw showers of white rain, splashing the wooden pavementwhence rises the vapor of damp tar and stable refuse; and from oneend to the other of the long descent from the Parc Monceau to SaintAugustin, one sees five or six black forms, unimportant passers, tradesmen or domestics. The shade of the plane-trees spreads over theburning sidewalks, making a curious spot, looking almost like liquid, asif water spilled there were drying. The stillness of the leaves on thebranches, and of their gray silhouettes on the asphalt, expresses thefatigue of the roasted city, slumbering and perspiring like a workmanasleep on a bench in the sun. Yes, she perspires, the beggar, and shesmells frightfully through her sewer mouths, the vent-holes of sinks andkitchens, the streams through which the filth of her streets is running. Then I think of those summer mornings in your orchard full of littlewild-flowers that flavor the air with a suggestion of honey. Then Ienter, sickened already, the restaurant where bald, fat, tired-lookingmen are eating, with half-opened waistcoats and moist, shiningforeheads. The food shows the effect of heat--the melon growing softunder the ice, the soft bread, the flabby filet, the warmed-overvegetables, the purulent cheese, the fruits ripened on the premises. Igo out, nauseated, and go home to try to sleep a little until the hourfor dinner, which I take at the club. 

"There I always find Adelmans, Maldant, Rocdiane, Landa, and manyothers, who bore and weary me as much as hand-organs. Each one has hisown little tune, or tunes, which I have heard for fifteen years, and they play them all together every evening in that club, which isapparently a place where one goes to be entertained. Someone shouldchange my own generation for my benefit, for my eyes, my ears, and mymind have had enough of it. They still make conquests, however, theyboast of them and congratulate one another on them!

"After yawning as many times as there are minutes between eight o'clockand midnight, I go home and go to bed, and while I undress I think thatthe same thing will begin over again the next day. 

"Yes, my dear friend, I am at the age when a bachelor's life becomesintolerable, because there is nothing new for me under the sun. Anunmarried man should be young, curious, eager. When one is no longerall that, it becomes dangerous to remain free. Heavens! how I loved myliberty, long ago, before I loved you more! How burdensome it is to meto-day! For an old bachelor like me, liberty is an empty thing, emptyeverywhere; it is the path to death, with nothing in himself to preventhim from seeing the end; it is the ceaseless query: 'What shall I do?Whom can I go to see, so that I shall not be alone?' And I go from onefriend to another, from one handshake to the next, begging for a littlefriendship. I gather up my crumbs, but they do not make a loaf. You, Ihave You, my friend, but you do not belong to me. Perhaps it is becauseof you that I suffer this anguish, for it is the desire for contact withyou, for your presence, for the same roof over our heads, for thesame walls inclosing our lives, the same interests binding our heartstogether, the need of that community of hopes, griefs, pleasures, joys, sadness, and also of material things, that fills me with so muchyearning. You do belong to me--that is to say, I steal a little of youfrom time to time. But I long to breathe forever the same air that youbreathe, to share everything with you, to possess nothing that doesnot belong to both of us, to feel that all which makes up my own lifebelongs to you as much as to me--the glass from which I drink, the chairon which I sit, the bread I eat and the fire that warms me. 

"Adieu! Return soon. I suffer too much when you are far away. 

"OLIVIER. "

"Roncieres, August 8th. 

"MY FRIEND: I am ill, and so fatigued that you would not recognize me atall. I believe that I have wept too much. I must rest a little before Ireturn, for I do not wish you to see me as I am. My husband sets out forParis the day after to-morrow, and will give you news of us. He expectsto take you to dinner somewhere, and charges me to ask you to wait forhim at your house about seven o'clock. 

"As for me, as soon as I feel a little better, as soon as I have no morethis corpse-like face which frightens me, I will return to be near you. In all the world, I have only Annette and you, and I wish to offer toeach of you all that I can give without robbing the other. 

"I hold out my eyes, which have wept so much, so that you may kiss them. 

"ANY. "

When he received this letter announcing the still delayed return, Olivier was seized with an immoderate desire to take a carriage for therailway station to catch a train for Roncieres; then, thinking that M. De Guilleroy must return the next day, he resigned himself, and evenbegan to wish for the arrival of the husband with almost as muchimpatience as if it were that of the wife herself. 

Never had he liked Guilleroy as during those twenty-four hours ofwaiting. When he saw him enter, he rushed toward him, with handsextended, exclaiming:

"Ah, dear friend! how happy I am to see you!"

The other also seemed very glad, delighted above all things to returnto Paris, for life was not gay in Normandy during the three weeks he hadpassed there. 

The two men sat down on a little two-seated sofa in a corner of thestudio, under a canopy of Oriental stuffs, and again shook hands withmutual sympathy. 

"And the Countess?" asked Bertin, "how is she?"

"Not very well. She has been very much affected, and is recovering tooslowly. I must confess that I am a little anxious about her. "

"But why does she not return?"

"I know nothing about it. It was impossible for me to induce her toreturn here. "

"What does she do all day?"

"Oh, heavens! She weeps, and thinks of her mother. That is not good forher. I should like very much to have her decide to have a change of air, to leave the place where that happened, you understand?"

"And Annette?"

"Oh, she is a blooming flower. "

Olivier smiled with joy. 

"Was she very much grieved?" he asked again. 

"Yes, very much, very much, but you know that the grief of eighteenyears does not last long. "

After a silence Guilleroy resumed:

"Where shall we dine, my dear fellow? I need to be cheered up, to hearsome noise and see some movement. "

"Well, at this season, it seems to me that the Cafe des Ambassadeurs isthe right place. "

So they set out, arm in arm, toward the Champs-Elysees. Guilleroy, filled with the gaiety of Parisians when they return, to whom the city, after every absence, seems rejuvenated and full of possible surprises, questioned the painter about a thousand details of what people had beendoing and saying; and Olivier, after indifferent replies which betrayedall the boredom of his solitude, spoke of Roncieres, tried to capturefrom this man, in order to gather round him that almost tangiblesomething left with us by persons with whom we have recently beenassociated, that subtle emanation of being one carries away whenleaving them, which remains with us a few hours and evaporates amid newsurroundings. 

The heavy sky of a summer evening hung over the city and over the greatavenue where, under the trees, the gay refrains of open-air concertswere beginning to sound. The two men, seated on the balcony of the Cafedes Ambassadeurs, looked down upon the still empty benches and chairs ofthe inclosure up to the little stage, where the singers, in the mingledlight of electric globes and fading day, displayed their strikingcostumes and their rosy complexions. Odors of frying, of sauces, of hotfood, floated in the slight breezes from the chestnut-trees, and whena woman passed, seeing her reserved chair, followed by a man in a blackcoat, she diffused on her way the fresh perfume of her dress and herperson. 

Guilleroy, who was radiant, murmured:

"Oh, I like to be here much better than in the country!"

"And I, " Bertin replied, "should like it much better to be there thanhere. "

"Nonsense!"

"Heavens, yes! I find Paris tainted this summer. "

"Oh, well, my dear fellow, it is always Paris, after all. "

The Deputy seemed to be enjoying his day, one of those rare days ofeffervescence and gaiety in which grave men do foolish things. He lookedat two cocottes dining at a neighboring table with three thin young men, superlatively correct, and he slyly questioned Olivier about all thewell-known girls, whose names were heard every day. Then he murmured ina tone of deep regret:

"You were lucky to have remained a bachelor. You can do and see manythings. "

But the painter did not agree with him, and, as a man will do whenhaunted by a persistent idea, he took Guilleroy into his confidence onthe subject of his sadness and isolation. When he had said everything, had recited to the end of his litany of melancholy, and, urged by thelonging to relieve his heart, had confessed naively how much he wouldhave enjoyed the love and companionship of a woman installed in hishome, the Count, in his turn, admitted that marriage had its advantages. Recovering his parliamentary eloquence in order to sing the praises ofhis domestic happiness, he eulogized the Countess in the highest terms, to which Olivier listened gravely with frequent nods of approval. 

Happy to hear her spoken of, but jealous of that intimate happinesswhich Guilleroy praised as a matter of duty, the painter finallymurmured, with sincere conviction:

"Yes, indeed, you were the lucky one!"

The Deputy, flattered, assented to this; then he resumed:

"I should like very much to see her return; indeed, I am a littleanxious about her just now. Wait--since you are bored in Paris, youmight go to Roncieres and bring her back. She will listen to you, foryou are her best friend; while a husband--you know----"

Delighted, Olivier replied: "I ask nothing better. But do you think itwould not annoy her to see me arriving in that abrupt way?"

"No, not at all. Go, by all means, my dear fellow. "

"Well, then, I will. I will leave to-morrow by the one o'clock train. Shall I send her a telegram?"

"No, I will attend to that. I will telegraph, so that you will find acarriage at the station. "

As they had finished dinner, they strolled again up the Boulevard, butin half an hour the Count suddenly left the painter, under the pretextof an urgent affair that he had quite forgotten. 

CHAPTER II

SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN

The Countess and her daughter, dressed in black crape, had just seatedthemselves opposite each other, for breakfast, in the large dining-roomat Roncieres. The portraits of many ancestors, crudely painted, one in acuirass, another in a tight-fitting coat, this a powdered officer of theFrench Guards, that a colonel of the Restoration, hung in line on thewalls, a collection of deceased Guilleroys, in old frames from which thegilding was peeling. Two servants, stepping softly, began to serve thetwo silent women, and the flies made a little cloud of black specks, dancing and buzzing around the crystal chandelier that hung over thecenter of the table. 

"Open the windows, " said the Countess, "It is a little cool here. "

The three long windows, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, andlarge as bay-windows, were opened wide. A breath of soft air, bearingthe odor of warm grass and the distant sounds of the country, swept inimmediately through these openings, mingling with the slightly damp airof the room, inclosed by the thick walls of the castle. 

"Ah, that is good!" said Annette, taking a full breath. 

The eyes of the two women had turned toward the outside and now gazed, beneath the blue sky, lightly veiled by the midday haze which wasreflected on the meadows impregnated with sunshine, at the long andverdant lawns of the park, with its groups of trees here and there, andits perspective opening to the yellow fields, illuminated as far as theeye could see by the golden gleam of ripe grain. 

"We will take a long walk after breakfast, " said the Countess. "We mightwalk as far as Berville, following the river, for it will be too warm onthe plain. "

"Yes, mamma, and let us take Julio to scare up some partridges. "

"You know that your father forbids it. "

"Oh, but since papa is in Paris!--it is so amusing to see Julio pointingafter them. There he is now, worrying the cows! Oh, how funny he is, thedear fellow!"

Pushing back her chair, she jumped up and ran to the window, callingout: "Go on, Julio! After them!"

Upon the lawn three heavy cows, gorged with grass and overcome withheat, lay on their sides, their bellies protruding from the pressure ofthe earth. Rushing from one to another, barking and bounding wildly, ina sort of mad abandon, partly real, partly feigned, a hunting spaniel, slender, white and red, whose curly ears flapped at every bound, wastrying to rouse the three big beasts, which did not wish to get up. Itwas evidently the dog's favorite sport, with which he amused himselfwhenever he saw the cows lying down. Irritated, but not frightened, theygazed at him with their large, moist eyes, turning their heads to watchhim. 

Annette, from her window, cried:

"Fetch them, Julio, fetch them!"

The excited spaniel, growing bolder, barked louder and ventured as faras their cruppers, feigning to be about to bite them. They began togrow uneasy, and the nervous twitching of their skin, to get rid of theflies, became more frequent and protracted. 

Suddenly the dog, carried along by the impetus of a rush that he couldnot check in time, bounced so close to one cow that, in order not tofall against her, he was obliged to jump over her. Startled by thebound, the heavy animal took fright, and first raising her head shefinally raised herself slowly on her four legs, sniffing loudly. Seeingher erect, the other two immediately got up also, and Julio began toprance around them in a dance of triumph, while Annette praised him. 

"Bravo, Julio, bravo!"

"Come, " said the Countess, "come to breakfast, my child. "

But the young girl, shading her eyes with one hand, announced:

"There comes a telegraph messenger!"

Along the invisible path among the wheat and the oats a blue blouseappeared to be gliding along the top of the grain, and it came towardthe castle with the firm step of a man. 

"Oh, heavens!" murmured the Countess; "I hope he does not bring badnews!"

She was still shaken with that terror which remains with us a long timeafter the death of some loved one has been announced by a telegram. Now she could not remove the gummed band to open the little blue paperwithout feeling her fingers tremble and her soul agitated, believingthat from those folds which it took so long to open would come a griefthat would cause her tears to flow afresh. 

Annette, on the contrary, full of girlish curiosity, was delighted tomeet with the unknown mystery that comes to all of us at times. Herheart, which life had just saddened for the first time, could anticipateonly something joyful from that black and ominous bag hanging from theside of the mail-carrier, who saw so many emotions through the citystreets and the country lanes. 

The Countess ceased to eat, concentrating her thoughts on the man whowas approaching, bearer of a few written words that might wound her asif a knife had been thrust in her throat. The anguish of having knownthat experience made her breathless, and she tried to guess what thishurried message might be. About what? From whom? The thought of Olivierflashed through her mind. Was he ill? Dead, perhaps, too!

The ten minutes she had to wait seemed interminable to her; then, whenshe had torn open the despatch and recognized the name of her husband, she read: "I telegraph to tell you that our friend Bertin leaves forRoncieres on the one o'clock train. Send Phaeton station. Love. "

"Well, mamma?" said Annette. 

"Monsieur Olivier Bertin is coming to see us. "

"Ah, how lucky! When?"

"Very soon. "

"At four o'clock?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, how kind he is!"

But the Countess had turned pale, for a new anxiety had lately troubledher, and the sudden arrival of the painter seemed to her as painful amenace as anything she might have been able to foresee. 

"You will go to meet him with the carriage, " she said to her daughter. 

"And will you not come, too, mamma?"

"No, I will wait for you here. "

"Why? That will hurt him. "

"I do not feel very well. "

"You wished to walk as far as Berville just now. "

"Yes, but my breakfast has made me feel ill. "

"You will feel better between now and the time to go. "

"No, I am going up to my room. Let me know as soon as you arrive. "

"Yes, mamma. "

After giving orders that the phaeton should be ready at the proper hour, and that a room be prepared, the Countess returned to her own room, andshut herself in. 

Up to this time her life had passed almost without suffering, affectedonly by Olivier's love and concerned only by her anxiety to retainit. She had succeeded, always victorious in that struggle. Her heart, soothed by success and by flattery, had become the exacting heart of abeautiful worldly woman to whom are due all the good things of earth, and, after consenting to a brilliant marriage, with which affection hadnothing to do, after accepting love later as the complement of a happyexistence, after taking her part in a guilty intimacy, largely frominclination, a little from a leaning toward sentiment itself as acompensation for the prosaic hum-drum of daily life, had barricadeditself in the happiness that chance had offered her, with no otherdesire than to defend it against the surprises of each day. She hadtherefore accepted with the complacency of a pretty woman the agreeableevents that occurred; and, though she ventured little, and was troubledlittle by new necessities and desires for the unknown; though shewas tender, tenacious, and farseeing, content with the present, butnaturally anxious about the morrow, she had known how to enjoy theelements that Destiny had furnished her with wise and economicalprudence. 

Now, little by little, without daring to acknowledge it even to herself, the vague preoccupation of passing time, of advancing age, had glidedinto her soul. In her consciousness it had the effect of a gnawingtrouble that never ceased. But, knowing well that this descent of lifewas without an end, that once begun it never could be stopped, andyielding to the instinct of danger, she closed her eyes in lettingherself glide along, that she might retain her dream, that she might notbe seized with dizziness at sight of the abyss or be made desperate byher impotence. 

She lived, then, smiling, with a sort of factitious pride in remainingbeautiful so long, and when Annette appeared at her side with thefreshness of her eighteen years, instead of suffering from thiscontrast, she was proud, on the contrary, of being able to commandpreference, in the ripe grace of her womanhood, over that blooming younggirl in the radiant beauty of first youth. 

She had even believed that she had entered upon the beginning of ahappy, tranquil period when the death of her mother struck a blow ather heart. During the first few days she was filled with that profounddespair that leaves no room for any other thought. She remained frommorning until night buried in grief, trying to recall a thousand thingsof the dead, her familiar words, her face in earlier days, the gowns sheused to wear, as if she had stored her memory with relics; and from thenow buried past she gathered all the intimate and trivial recollectionswith which to feed her cruel reveries. Then, when she had arrived atsuch paroxysms of despair that she fell into hysterics and swooned, allher accumulated grief broke forth in tears, flowing from her eyes by dayand by night. 

One morning, when her maid entered, and opened the shutters afterraising the shades, asking: "How does Madame feel to-day?" she answered, feeling exhausted from having wept so much: "Oh, not at all well!Indeed, I can bear no more. "

The servant, who was holding a tea-tray, looked at her mistress, and, touched to see her lying so pale amide the whiteness of the bed, shestammered, in a tone of genuine sadness: "Madame really looks very ill. Madame would do well to take care of herself. "

The tone in which this was said pierced the Countess's heart like asharp needle, and as soon as the maid had gone she rose to go and lookat her face in her large dressing-mirror. 

She was stupefied at the sight of herself, frightened by her hollowcheeks, her red eyes, the ravages produced in her by these days ofsuffering. Her face, which she knew so well, which she had often lookedat in so many different mirrors, of which she knew all the expressions, all the smiles, the pallor which she had already corrected so manytimes, smoothing away the marks of fatigue, and the tiny wrinkles at thecorners of the eyes, visible in too strong a light--her face suddenlyseemed to her that of another woman, a new face that was distorted andirreparably ill. 

In order to see herself better, to be surer with regard to thisunexpected misfortune, she approached near enough to the mirror to touchit with her forehead, so that her breath, spreading a light mist overthe glass, almost obscured the pale image she was contemplating. She wascompelled to take a handkerchief to wipe away this mist, and, tremblingwith a strange emotion, she made a long and patient examination of thealterations in her face. With a light finger she stretched the skin ofher cheeks, smoothed her forehead, pushed back her hair, and turned theeyelids to look at the whites of her eyes. Then she opened her mouth andexamined her teeth which were a little tarnished where the gold fillingsshone, and she was disturbed to note the livid gums and the yellow tintof the flesh above the cheeks and at the temples. 

She was so lost in this examination of her fading beauty that she didnot hear the door open, and was startled when her maid, standing behindher, said:

"Madame has forgotten to take her tea. "

The Countess turned, confused, surprised, ashamed, and the servant, guessing her thoughts continued:

"Madame has wept too much; there is nothing worse to spoil the skin. One's blood turns to water. "

And as the Countess added sadly: "There is age also, " the maidexclaimed: "Oh, but Madame has not reached that time yet! With a fewdays of rest not a trace will be left. But Madame must go to walk, andtake great care not to weep. "

As soon as she was dressed the Countess descended to the park, and forthe first time since her mother's death she visited the little orchardwhere long ago she had liked to cultivate and gather flowers; then shewent to the river and strolled beside the stream until the hour forbreakfast. 

She sat down at the table opposite her husband, and beside her daughter, and remarked, that she might know what they thought: "I feel bettertoday. I must be less pale. "

"Oh, you still look very ill, " said the Count. 

Her heart contracted and she felt like weeping, for she had fallen intothe habit of it. 

Until evening, and the next day, and all the following days, whether shethought of her mother or of herself, every moment she felt her throatswelling with sobs and her eyes filling with tears, but to prevent themfrom overflowing and furrowing her cheeks she repressed them, and bya superhuman effort of will turned her thoughts in other directions, mastered them, ruled them, separated them from her sorrow, forcedherself to feel consoled, tried to amuse herself and to think of sadthings no more, in order to regain the hue of health. 

Above all, she did not wish to return to Paris and to receive OlivierBertin until she had become more like her former self. Realizing thatshe had grown too thin, that the flesh of women of her age needs to befull in order to keep fresh, she sought to create appetite by walkingin the woods and along the roads; and though she returned weary and nothungry she forced herself to eat a great deal. 

The Count, who wished to go away, could not understand her obstinacy. Finally, as her resistance seemed invincible, he declared that he wouldgo alone, leaving the Countess free to return when she might feel sodisposed. 

The next day she received the telegram announcing Olivier's arrival. 

A desire to flee seized her, so much did she fear his first look. Shewould have preferred to wait another week or two. In a week, with careone may change the face completely, since women, even when young and ingood health, under the least change of influence become unrecognizablefrom one day to another. But the idea of appearing in broad daylightbefore Olivier, in the open fields, in the heat of August, besideAnnette, so fresh and blooming, disturbed her so much that shedecided immediately not to go to the station, but to await him in thehalf-darkened drawing-room. 

She went up to her room and fell into a dream. Breaths of warm airstirred the curtains from time to time; the song of the crickets filledthe air. Never before had she felt so sad. It was no more the greatgrief that had shattered her heart, overwhelming her before the soullessbody of her beloved old mother. That grief, which she had believedincurable, had in a few days become softened, and was now but a sorrowof the memory; but now she felt herself swept away on a deep wave ofmelancholy into which she had entered gradually, and from which shenever would emerge. 

She had an almost irresistible desire to weep--and would not. Every timeshe felt her eyelids grow moist she wiped them away quickly, rose, pacedabout the room, looked out into the park and gazed at the tall trees, watched the slow, black flight of the crows against the background ofblue sky. Then she passed before her mirror, judged her appearance withone glance, effaced the trace of a tear by touching the corner of hereye with rice powder, and looked at the clock, trying to guess at whatpoint of the route he must have reached. 

Like all women who are carried away by a distress of soul, whether realor unreasonable, she clung to her lover with a sort of frenzy. Was henot her all--all, everything, more than life, all that anyone must bewho has come to be the sole affection of one who feels the approach ofage?

Suddenly she heard in the distance the crack of a whip; she ran to thewindow and saw the phaeton as it made the turn round the lawn, drawnby two horses. Seated beside Annette, in the back seat of the carriage, Olivier waved his handkerchief as he saw the Countess, to which sheresponded by waving him a salutation from the window. Then she went downstairs with a heart throbbing fast but happy now, thrilled with joy atknowing him so near, of speaking to him and seeing him. 

They met in the antechamber, before the drawing-room door. 

He opened his arms to her with an irresistible impulse, and in a voicewarmed by real emotion, exclaimed: "Ah, my poor Countess, let me embraceyou!"

She closed her eyes, leaned toward him and pressed against him, liftedher cheek to him, and as he pressed his lips upon it, she murmured inhis ear: "I love thee!"

Then Olivier, without dropping the hands he clasped in his own, lookedat her, saying: "Let us see that sad face. "

She felt ready to faint. 

"Yes, a little pale, " said he, "but that is nothing. "

To thank him for saying that, she said brokenly, "Ah, dear friend, dear friend!" finding nothing else to say. 

But he turned, looking behind her in search of Annette, who haddisappeared. 

"Is it not strange, " he said abruptly, "to see your daughter inmourning?"

"Why?" inquired the Countess. 

"What? You ask why?" he exclaimed, with extraordinary animation. "Why, it is your own portrait painted by me--it is my portrait. It isyourself, such as you were when I met you long ago when I entered theDuchess's house! Ah, do you remember that door where you passed under mygaze, as a frigate passes under a cannon of a fort? Good heavens! whenI saw the little one, just now, at the railway station, standing on theplatform, all in black, with the sun shining on her hair massed aroundher face, the blood rushed to my head. I thought I should weep. I tellyou, it is enough to drive one mad, when one has known you as I have, who has studied you as no one else has, and reproduced you in painting, Madame. Ah, I thought that you had sent her alone to meet me at thestation in order to give me that surprise. My God! but I was surprised, indeed! I tell you, it is enough to drive one mad. "

He called: "Annette! Nane!"

The young girl's voice replied from outside, where she was giving sugarto the horses:

"Yes, yes, I am here!"

"Come in here!"

She entered quickly. 

"Here, stand close beside your mother. "

She obeyed, and he compared the two, but repeated mechanically, "Yes, it is astonishing, astonishing!" for they resembled each other less whenside by side than they did before leaving Paris, the young girl havingacquired a new expression of luminous youth in her black attire, whilethe mother had for a long time lost that radiance of hair and complexionthat had dazzled and entranced the painter when they met for the firsttime. 

Then the Countess and Olivier entered the drawing-room. He seemed inhigh spirits. 

"Ah, what a good plan it was to come here!" he said. "But it was yourhusband's idea that I should come, you know. He charged me to take youback with me. And I--do you know what I propose? You have no idea, haveyou? Well, I propose, on the contrary, to remain here! Paris is odiousin this heat, while the country is delicious. Heavens! how sweet it ishere!"

The dews of evening impregnated the park with freshness, the soft breezemade the trees tremble, and the earth exhaled imperceptible vaporswhich threw a light, transparent veil over the horizon. The three cows, standing with drooping heads, cropped the grass with avidity, and fourpeacocks, with a loud rustling of wings, flew up into their accustomedperch in a cedar-tree under the windows of the castle. The barking ofdogs in the distance came to the ear, and in the quiet air of the closeof day the calls of human voices were heard, in phrases shouted acrossthe fields, from one meadow to another, and in those short, gutturalcries used in driving animals. 

The painter, with bared head and shining eyes, breathed deeply, and, ashe met the Countess's look, he said:

"This is happiness!"

"It never lasts, " she answered, approaching nearer. 

"Let us take it when it comes, " said he. 

"You never used to like the country until now, " the Countess replied, smiling. 

"I like it to-day because I find you here. I do not know how to live anymore where you are not. When one is young, he may be in love though faraway, through letters, thoughts, or dreams, perhaps because he feelsthat life is all before him, perhaps too because passion is strongerthan pure affection; at my age, on the contrary, love has become likethe habit of an invalid; it is a binding up of the soul, which flies nowwith only one wing, and mounts less frequently into the ideal. The heartknows no more ecstasy, only selfish wants. And then I know quite wellthat I have no time to lose to enjoy what remains for me. "

"Oh, old!" she remonstrated, taking his hand tenderly. 

"Yes, yes, I am old, " he repeated. "Everything shows it, my hair, mychanging character, the coming sadness. Alas! that is something I neverhave known till now--sadness. If someone had told me when I was thirtythat a time would come when I should be sad without cause, uneasy, discontented with everything, I should not have believed it. That provesthat my heart also has grown old. "

The Countess replied with an air of profound certainty:

"Oh, as for me, my heart is still young. It never has changed. Yes, ithas grown younger, perhaps. Once it was twenty; now it is only sixteen!"

They remained a long while thus, talking in the open window, mingledwith the spirit of evening, very near each other, nearer than they everhad been, in this hour of tenderness, this twilight of love, like thatof the day. 

A servant entered, announcing:

"Madame la Comtesse is served. "

"Have you called my daughter?" the Countess asked. 

"Mademoiselle is in the dining-room. "

All three sat down at the table. The shutters were closed, and two largecandelabra with six candles each illumined Annette's face and seemedto powder her hair with gold dust. Bertin, smiling, looked at hercontinually. 

"Heavens, now pretty she is in black!" he said. 

And he turned toward the Countess while admiring the daughter, as if tothank the mother for having given him this pleasure. 

When they returned to the drawing-room the moon had risen above thetrees in the park. Their somber mass appeared like a great island, andthe country round about like a sea hidden under the light mist thatfloated over the plains. 

"Oh, mamma, let us take a walk, " said Annette. 

The Countess consented. 

"I will take Julio. "

"Very well, if you wish. "

They set out. The young girl walked in front, amusing herself with thedog. When they crossed the lawn they heard the breathing of the cows, which, awake and scenting their enemy, raised their heads to look. Under the trees, farther away, the moon was pouring among the branchesa shower of fine rays that fell to earth, seeming to wet the leaves thatwere spread out on the path in little patches of yellow light. Annetteand Julio ran along, each seeming to have on this serene night, the samejoyful and unburdened hearts, the gaiety of which expressed itself ingraceful gambols. 

In the little openings, where the wave of moonlight descended as intoa well, the young girl looked like a spirit, and the painter called herback, marveling at this dark vision with its clear and brilliant face. Then when she darted away again, he took the Countess's hand and pressedit, often seeking her lips as they traversed the deeper shadows, as ifthe sight of Annette had revived the impatience of his heart. 

At last they reached the edge of the plain, where they could justdiscern, afar, here and there, the groups of trees belonging to thefarms. Through the milky mist that bathed the fields the horizonappeared illimitable, and the soft silence, the living silence of thatvast space, so warm and luminous, was full of inexpressible hope, ofthat indefinable expectancy which makes summer nights so sweet. Farup in the heavens a few long slender clouds looked like silver shells. Standing still for a few seconds, one could hear in that nocturnal peacea confused, continuous murmur of life, a thousand slight sounds, theharmony of which seemed like silence. 

A quail in a neighboring field uttered her double cry, and Julio, hisears erect, glided furtively toward the two flute-like notes of thebird, Annette following, as softly as he, holding her breath andcrouching low. 

"Ah, " said the Countess, standing alone with the painter, "why domoments like this pass so quickly? We can hold nothing, keep nothing. Wehave not even time to taste what is good. It is over already. "

Olivier kissed her hand, and replied, smiling:

"Oh, I cannot philosophize this evening! I belong to the present hourentirely. "

"You do not love me as I love you, " she murmured. 

"Ah, do not--"

"No, " she interrupted, "in me you love, as you said very truly beforedinner, a woman who satisfies the needs of your heart, a woman who neverhas caused you a pain, and who has put a little happiness into yourlife. I know that; I feel it. Yes, I have the good consciousness, theardent joy of having been good, useful, and helpful to you. You haveloved, you still love all that you find agreeable in me, my attentionsto you, my admiration, my wish to please you, my passion, the completegift I made to you of my whole being. But it is not I you really love, do you know? Oh, I feel that as one feels a cold current of air. Youlove a thousand things about me--my beauty, which is fast leaving me, mydevotion, the wit they say I possess, the opinion the world has of me, and that which I have of you in my heart; but it is not _I_--I, nothingbut myself--do you understand?"

He laughed in a soft and friendly way. 

"No, I do not understand you very well. You make a reproachful attackwhich is quite unexpected. "

"Oh, my God! I wish I could make you understand how I love you! I amalways seeking, but cannot find a means. When I think of you--and I amalways thinking of you--I feel in the depths of my being an unspeakableintoxication of longing to be yours, an irresistible need of givingmyself to you even more completely. I should like to sacrifice myself insome absolute way, for there is nothing better, when one loves, than togive, to give always, all, all, life, thought, body, all that one has, to feel that one is giving, to be ready to risk anything to give stillmore. I love you so much that I love to suffer for you, I love even myanxieties, my torments, my jealousies, the pain I feel when I realizethat you are not longer tender toward me. I love in you a someone thatonly I have discovered, a you which is not the you of the world thatis admired and known, a you which is mine, which cannot change nor growold, which I cannot cease to love, for I have, to look at it, eyes thatsee it alone. But one cannot say these things. There are no words toexpress them. "

He repeated softly, over and over:

"Dear, dear, dear Any!"

Julio came back, bounding toward them, without having found the quail, which had kept still at his approach; Annette followed him, breathlessfrom running. 

"I can't run any more, " said she. "I will prop myself up with you, Monsieur painter!"

She leaned on Olivier's free arm, and they returned, walking thus, hebetween them, under the shadow of the trees. They spoke no more. Hewalked on, possessed by them, penetrated by a sort of feminine essencewith which their contact filled him. He did not try to see them, sincehe had them near him; he even closed his eyes that he might feel theirproximity the better. They guided him, conducted him, and he walkedstraight before him, fascinated by them, with the one on the left aswell as the one on the right, without knowing, indeed, which was on theleft or which on the right, which was mother, which was daughter. He abandoned himself willingly to the pleasure of unpremeditated andexquisite sensuous delight. He even tried to mingle them in his heart, not to distinguish them in his thought, and quieted desire with thecharm of this confusion. Was it not only one woman beside him, composedof this mother and daughter, so much alike? And did not the daughterseem to have come to earth only for the purpose of reanimating hisformer love for the mother?

When he opened his eyes on entering the castle, it seemed to him that hehad just passed through the most delicious moments of his life; that hehad experienced the strangest, the most puzzling, yet complete emotiona man might feel, intoxicated with the same love by the seductivenessemanating from two women. 

"Ah, what an exquisite evening!" said he, as soon as he found himselfbetween them in the lamplight. 

"I am not at all sleepy, " said Annette; "I could pass the whole nightwalking when the weather is fine. "

The Countess looked at the clock. 

"Oh, it is half after eleven. You must go to bed, my child. "

They separated, and went to their own apartments. The young girl who didnot wish to go to bed was the only one that went to sleep at once. 

The next morning, at the usual hour, when the maid, after opening thecurtains and the shutters, brought the tea and looked at her mistress, who was still drowsy, she said:

"Madame looks better to-day, already. "

"Do you think so?"

"Oh, yes. Madame's face looks more rested. "

Though she had not yet looked at herself, the Countess knew that thiswas true. Her heart was light, she did not feel it throb, and she feltonce more as if she lived. The blood flowing in her veins was no longercoursing so rapidly as on the day before, hot and feverish, sendingnervousness and restlessness through all her body, but gave her a senseof well-being and happy confidence. 

When the maid had gone she went to look at herself in the mirror. Shewas a little surprised, for she felt so much better that she expectedto find herself rejuvenated by several years in a single night. Thenshe realized the childishness of such a hope, and, after another glance, resigned herself to the knowledge that her complexion was only clearer, her eyes less fatigued, her lips a little redder than on the daybefore. As her soul was content, she could not feel sad, and she smiled, thinking: "Yes, in a few days I shall be quite myself again. I have gonethrough too much to recover so quickly. "

But she remained seated a very long time before her toilet-table, uponwhich were laid out in graceful order on a muslin scarf borderedwith lace, before a beautiful mirror of cut crystal, all her littleivory-handled instruments of coquetry, bearing her arms surmounted by acoronet. There they were, innumerable, pretty, all different, destinedfor delicate and secret use, some of steel, fine and sharp, of strangeshapes, like surgical instruments for operations on children, othersround and soft, of feathers, of down, of the skins of unknown animals, made to lay upon the tender skin the caresses of fragrant powders or ofpowerful liquid perfumes. 

She handled them a long time with practised fingers, carrying them fromher lips to her temples with touches softer than a kiss, correctingimperfections, underlining the eyes, beautifying the eyelashes. At last, when she went down stairs, she felt almost sure that the first glancecast upon her would not be too unfavorable. 

"Where is Monsieur Bertin?" she inquired of a servant she met in thevestibule. 

"Monsieur Bertin is in the orchard, playing tennis with Mademoiselle, "the man replied. 

She heard them from a distance counting the points. One after the other, the deep voice of the painter and the light one of the young girl, called: "Fifteen, thirty, forty, vantage, deuce, vantage, game!"

The orchard, where a space had been leveled for a tennis-court, wasa great, square grass-plot, planted with apple-trees, inclosed by thepark, the vegetable-garden, and the farms belonging to the castle. Alongthe slope that formed a boundary on three sides, like the defenses ofan intrenched camp, grew borders of various kinds of flowers, wild andcultivated, roses in masses, pinks, heliotrope, fuchsias, mignonnette, and many more, which as Bertin said gave the air a taste of honey. Besides this, the bees, whose hives, thatched with straw, lined thewall of the vegetable-garden, covered the flowery field in their yellow, buzzing flight. 

In the exact center of this orchard a few apple-trees had been cut down, in order to make a good court for tennis, and a tarry net, stretchedacross this space, separated it into two camps. 

Annette, on one side, with bare head, her black skirt caught up, showingher ankles and half way up to her knee when she ran to catch a ball, dashed to and fro, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, tired, out ofbreath with the sure and practised play of her adversary. 

He, in white flannels, fitting tightly over the hips, a white shirt, and a white tennis cap, his abdomen somewhat prominent in that costume, awaited the ball coolly, judged its fall with precision, received andreturned it without haste, without running, with the elegant pose, thepassionate attention, and professional skill which he displayed in allathletic sports. 

It was Annette that spied her mother first. 

"Good morning, mamma!" she cried, "wait till we have finished thisplay. "

That second's distraction lost her the game. The ball passed againsther, almost rolling, touched the ground and went out of the game. 

Bertin shouted "Won!" and the young girl, surprised, accused him ofhaving profited by her inattention. Julio, trained to seek and find thelost balls, as if they were partridges fallen among the bushes, sprangbehind her to get the ball rolling in the grass, seized it in his jaws, and brought it back, wagging his tail. 

The painter now saluted the Countess, but, urged to resume the game, animated by the contest, pleased to find himself so agile, he threw onlya short, preoccupied glance at the face prepared so carefully for him, asking:

"Will you allow me, dear Countess? I am afraid of taking cold and havingneuralgia. "

"Oh, yes, " the Countess replied. 

She sat down on a hay-stack, mowed that morning in order to give a clearfield to the players, and, her heart suddenly touched with sadness, looked on at the game. 

Her daughter, irritated at losing continually, grew more animated, excited, uttered cries of vexation or of triumph, and flew impetuouslyfrom one end of the court to the other. Often, in her swift movements, little locks of hair were loosened, rolled down and fell upon hershoulders. She seized them with impatient movements, and, holding theracket between her knees, fastened them up in place, thrusting hairpinsinto the golden mass. 

And Bertin, from his position, cried to the Countess:

"Isn't she pretty like that, and fresh as the day?"

Yes, she was young, she could run, grow warm, become red, let her hairfly, brave anything, dare everything, for all that only made her morebeautiful. 

Then, when they resumed their play with ardor, the Countess, more andmore melancholy, felt that Olivier preferred that game, that childishsport, like the play of kittens jumping after paper balls, to thesweetness of sitting beside her that warm morning, and feeling herloving pressure against him. 

When the bell, far away, rang the first signal for breakfast, it seemedto her that someone had freed her, that a weight had been lifted fromher heart. But as she returned, leaning on his arm, he said to her:

"I have been amusing myself like a boy. It is a great thing to be, or tofeel oneself, young. Ah, yes, there is nothing like that. When we do notlike to run any more, it is all over with us. "

When they left the table the Countess, who on the preceding day had forthe first time omitted her daily visit to the cemetery, proposed thatthey should go there together; so all three set out for the village. 

They were obliged to go through some woods, through which ran a streamcalled "La Rainette, " no doubt because of the frogs that peopled it;then they had to cross the end of a plain before arriving at the church, situated in the midst of a group of houses that sheltered the grocer, the baker, the butcher, the wine-merchant, and several other modesttradesmen who supplied the needs of the peasants. 

The walk was made in thoughtful silence, the recollection of the deadweighing on their spirits. Arrived at the grave, the women knelt andprayed a long time. The Countess, motionless, bent low, her handkerchiefat her eyes, for she feared to weep lest her tears run down her cheeks. She prayed, but not as she had prayed before this day, in a sort ofinvocation to her mother, a despairing appeal penetrating under themarble of the tomb until she seemed to feel by the poignancy of herown anguish that the dead must hear her, listen to her, but a simple, hesitating, and earnest utterance of the consecrated words of the _PaterNoster_ and the _Ave Maria_. She would not have had that day sufficientstrength and steadiness of nerve necessary for that cruel communion thatbrought no response with what remained of that being who had disappearedin the tomb where all that was left of her was concealed. Otheranxieties had penetrated her woman's heart, had agitated, wounded, anddistracted her; and her fervent prayer rose to Heaven, full of vaguesupplications. She offered her adoration to God, the inexorable God whohas made all poor creatures on the earth, and begged Him to take pity onher as well as on the one He had recalled to Himself. 

She could not have told what she had asked of God, so vague andconfused were her fears still; but she felt the need of Divine aid, of asuperhuman support against approaching dangers and inevitable sorrows. 

Annette, with closed eyes, having also murmured the formulas, sank intoa reverie, for she did not wish to rise before her mother. 

Olivier Bertin looked at them, thinking that he never had seen amore ravishing picture, and somewhat regretful that it was out of thequestion for him to be permitted to make a sketch of the scene. 

On their way back they talked of human life, softly stirring thosebitter and poetic ideas of a tender but pessimistic philosophy, which isa frequent subject of conversation between men and women whom life haswounded a little, and whose hearts mingle as they sympathize with eachother's grief. 

Annette, who was not ripe for such thoughts, left them frequently togather wild flowers beside the road. 

But Olivier, desiring to keep her near him, nervous at seeing hercontinually darting away, never removed his eyes from her. He wasirritated that she should show more interest in the colors of theplants than in the words he spoke. He experienced an inexpressibledissatisfaction at not being able to charm her, to dominate her, as hehad captivated her mother; and he felt a desire to hold out his handand seize her, hold her, forbid her to go away. He felt that she was tooalert, too young, too indifferent, too free--free as a bird, or likea little dog that will not come back, will not obey, which hasindependence in its veins, that sweet instinct of liberty which neithervoice nor whip has yet vanquished. 

In order to attract her he talked of gayer things, and at times hequestioned her, trying to awaken her feminine curiosity so that shewould listen; but one would think that the capricious wind of heavenwas blowing through Annette's head that day, as it blew across theundulating grain, carrying away and dispersing her attention into space, for she hardly uttered even the commonplace replies expected of her, between her short digressions, and made them with an absent air, thenreturned to her flowers. Finally he became exasperated, filled with achildish impatience, and as she ran up to beg her mother to carry herfirst bouquet so that she could gather another, he caught her by theelbow and pressed her arm, so that she could not escape again. Shestruggled, laughing, pulling with all her strength to get away fromhim; then, moved by masculine instinct, he tried gentler means, and, notbeing able to win her attention he tried to purchase it by tempting hercoquetry. 

"Tell me, " said he, "what flower you prefer, and I will have a broochmade of it for you. "

She hesitated, surprised. 

"What, a brooch?"

"In stones of the same color; in rubies if it is the poppy; in sapphiresif it is the cornflower, with a little leaf in emeralds. "

Annette's face lighted up with that affectionate joy with which promisesand presents animate a woman's countenance. 

"The cornflower, " said she, "it is so pretty. "

"The cornflower it shall be. We will go to order it as soon as we returnto Paris. "

She no longer tried to leave him, attracted by the thought of the jewelshe already tried to see, to imagine. 

"Does it take very long to make a thing like that?" she asked. 

He laughed, feeling that he had caught her. 

"I don't know; it depends upon the difficulties. We will make thejeweler do it quickly. "

A dismal thought suddenly crossed her mind. 

"But I cannot wear it since I am in deep mourning!"

He had passed his arm under that of the young girl, and pressed itagainst him. 

"Well, you will keep the brooch until you cease to wear mourning, " saidhe; "that will not prevent you from looking at it. "

As on the preceding evening, he was walking between them, held captivebetween their shoulders, and in order to see their eyes, of a similarblue dotted with tiny black spots, raised to his, he spoke to them inturn, moving his head first toward the one, then toward the other. Asthe bright sunlight now shone on them, he did not so fully confound theCountess with Annette, but he did more and more associate the daughterwith the new-born remembrances of what the mother had been. He had astrong desire to embrace both, the one to find again upon cheek and necka little of that pink and white freshness which he had already tasted, and which he saw now reproduced as by a miracle; the other because heloved her as he always had, and felt that from her came the powerfulappeal of long habit. He even realized at that moment that his desireand affection for her, which for some time had been waning, had revivedat the sight of her resuscitated youth. 

Annette went away again to gather more flowers. This time Olivierdid not call her back; it was as if the contact of her arm and thesatisfaction of knowing that he had given her pleasure had quieted him;but he followed all her movements with the pleasure one feels in seeingthe persons or things that captivate and intoxicate our eyes. Whenshe returned, with a large cluster of flowers, he drew a deep breath, seeking unconsciously to inhale something of her, a little of her breathor the warmth of her skin in the air stirred by her running. He lookedat her, enraptured, as one watches the dawn, or listens to music, withthrills of delight when she bent, rose again, or raised her arms toarrange her hair. And then, more and more, hour by hour, she evoked inhim the memory of the past! Her laughter, her pretty ways, her motions, brought back to his lips the savor of former kisses given and returned;she made of the far-off past, of which he had forgotten the precisesensation, something like a dream in the present; she confused epochs, dates, the ages of his heart, and rekindling the embers of cooledemotions, she mingled, without his realizing it, yesterday withto-morrow, recollection with hope. 

He asked himself as he questioned his memory whether the Countess inher brightest bloom had had that fawn-like, supple grace, that bold, capricious, irresistible charm, like the grace of a running, leapinganimal. No. She had had a riper bloom but was less untamed. First, achild of the city, then a woman, never having imbibed the air of thefields and lived in the grass, she had grown pretty under the shade ofthe walls and not in the sunlight of heaven. 

When they reentered the castle the Countess began to write letters ather little low table in the bay-window; Annette went up to her own room, and the painter went out again to walk slowly, cigar in mouth, handsclasped behind him, through the winding paths of the park. But he didnot go away so far that he lost sight of the white facade or the pointedroof of the castle. As soon as it disappeared behind groups of trees orclusters of shrubbery, a shadow seemed to fall over his heart, as when acloud hides the sun; and when it reappeared through the apertures inthe foliage he paused a few seconds to contemplate the two rows oftall windows. Then he resumed his walk. He felt agitated, but content. Content with what? With everything. 

The air seemed pure to him, life was good that day. His body felt oncemore the liveliness of a small boy, a desire to run, to catch the yellowbutterflies fluttering over the lawn, as if they were suspended at theend of elastic threads. He sang little airs from the opera. Severaltimes he repeated the celebrated phrase by Gounod: "_Laisse-moicontempler ton visage_, " discovering in it a profoundly tenderexpression which never before he had felt in the same way. 

Suddenly he asked himself how it was that he had so soon becomedifferent from his usual self. Yesterday, in Paris, dissatisfiedwith everything, disgusted, irritated; to-day calm, satisfied witheverything--one would say that some benevolent god had changed his soul. "That same kind god, " he thought, "might well have changed my bodyat the same time, and rejuvenated me a little. " Suddenly he saw Juliohunting among the bushes. He called him, and when the dog ran up to puthis finely formed head, with its curly ears, under his hand, he sat downon the grass to pet him more comfortably, spoke gentle words to him, laid him on his knees, and growing tender as he caressed the animal, hekissed it, after the fashion of women whose hearts are easily moved todemonstration. 

After dinner, instead of going out as on the evening before, they spentthe hours in the drawing-room. 

Suddenly the Countess said: "We must leave here soon. "

"Oh, don't speak of that yet!" Olivier exclaimed. "You would not leaveRoncieres when I was not here; now what I have come, you think only ofgoing away. "

"But, my dear friend, " said she, "we three cannot remain hereindefinitely. "

"It does not necessarily follow that we need stay indefinitely, but justa few days. How many times have I stayed at your house for whole weeks?"

"Yes, but in different circumstances, when the house was open toeveryone. "

"Oh, mamma, " said Annette, coaxingly, "let us stay a few days more, justtwo or three. He teaches me so well how to play tennis. It annoys me tolose, but afterward I am glad to have made such progress. "

Only that morning the Countess had been planning to make this mysteriousvisit of her friend's last until Sunday, and now she wished to go away, without knowing why. That day which she had hoped would be such ahappy one had left in her soul an inexpressible but poignant sadness, acauseless apprehension, as tenacious and confused as a presentiment. 

When she was once more alone in her room she even sought to define thisnew access of melancholy. 

Had she experienced one of those imperceptible emotions whose touch hasbeen so slight that reason does not remember it, but whose vibrationsstill stir the most sensitive chords of the heart? Perhaps? Which? Sherecalled, certainly, some little annoyances, in the thousand degrees ofsentiment through which she had passed, each minute having its own. Butthey were too petty to have thus disheartened her. "I am exacting, " shethought. "I have no right to torment myself in this way. "

She opened her window, to breathe the night air, and leaned on thewindow-sill, gazing at the moon. 

A slight noise made her look down. Olivier was pacing before the castle. "Why did he say that he was going to his room?" she thought; "why did henot tell me he was going out again? Why did he not ask me to come withhim? He knows very well that it would have made me so happy. What is hethinking of now?"

This idea that he had not wished to have her with him on his walk, thathe had preferred to go out alone this beautiful night, alone, with acigar in his mouth, for she could see its fiery-red point--alone, whenhe might have given her the joy of taking her with him; this idea thathe had not continual need of her, that he did not desire her always, created within her soul a new fermentation of bitterness. 

She was about to close the window, that she might not see him or betempted to call to him, when he raised his eyes and saw her. 

"Well, are you star-gazing, Countess?"

"Yes, " she answered. "You also, as it appears. "

"Oh, I am simply smoking. "

She could not resist the desire to ask: "Why did you not tell me youwere going out?"

"I only wanted to smoke a cigar. I am coming in now. "

"Then good-night, my friend. "

"Good-night, Countess. "

She retired as far as her low chair, sat down in it and wept; and hermaid, who was called to assist her to bed, seeing her red eyes said withcompassion:

"Ah, Madame is going to make a sad face for herself again to-morrow. "

The Countess slept badly; she was feverish and had nightmare. As soon asshe awoke she opened her window and her curtains to look at herselfin the mirror. Her features were drawn, her eyelids swollen, her skinlooked yellow; and she felt such violent grief because of this thatshe wished to say she was ill and to keep her bed, so that she need notappear until evening. 

Then, suddenly, the necessity to go away entered her mind, to departimmediately, by the first train, to quit the country, where one couldsee too clearly by the broad light of the fields the ineffaceable marksof sorrow and of life itself. In Paris one lives in the half shadowof apartments, where heavy curtains, even at noontime, admit only asoftened light. She would herself become beautiful again there, with thepallor one should have in that discreetly softened light. Then Annette'sface rose before her eyes--so fresh and pink, with slightly disheveledhair, as when she was playing tennis. She understood then the unknownanxiety from which her soul had suffered. She was not jealous of herdaughter's beauty! No, certainly not; but she felt, she acknowledged forthe first time that she must never again show herself by Annette's sidein the bright sunlight. 

She rang, and before drinking her tea she gave orders for departure, wrote some telegrams, even ordering her dinner for that eveningby telegraph, settled her bills in the country, gave her finalinstructions, arranged everything in less than an hour, a prey tofeverish and increasing impatience. 

When she went down stairs, Annette and Olivier, who had been told of herdecision, questioned her with surprise. Then, seeing that she wouldnot give any precise reason for this sudden departure, they grumbled alittle and expressed their dissatisfaction until they separated at thestation in Paris. 

The Countess, holding out her hand to the painter, said: "Will you dinewith us to-morrow?"

"Certainly, I will come, " he replied, rather sulkily. "All the same, what you have done was not nice. We were so happy down there, all threeof us. "

CHAPTER III

A DANGEROUS WARNING

As soon as the Countess was alone with her daughter in her carriage, which was taking her back to her home, she suddenly felt tranquiland quieted, as if she had just passed through a serious crisis. Shebreathed easier, smiled at the houses, recognized with joy the look ofthe city, whose details all true Parisians seem to carry in their eyesand hearts. Each shop she passed suggested the ones beyond, on a linealong the Boulevard, and the tradesman's face so often seen behind hisshow-case. She felt saved. From what? Reassured. Why? Confident. Ofwhat?

When the carriage stopped under the arch of the porte-cochere, shealighted quickly and entered, as if flying, the shadow of the stairway;then passed to the shadow of her drawing-room, then to that of herbedroom. There she remained standing a few moments, glad to be at home, in security, in the dim and misty daylight of Paris, which, hardlybrightening, compels one to guess as well as to see, where one may showwhat he pleases and hide what he will; and the unreasoning memory ofthe dazzling glare that bathed the country remained in her like animpression of past suffering. 

When she went down to dinner, her husband, who had just arrived at home, embraced her affectionately, and said, smiling: "Ah, ha! I knew verywell that our friend Bertin would bring you back. It was very clever ofme to send him after you. "

Annette responded gravely, in the peculiar tone she affected when shesaid something in jest without smiling:

"Oh, he had a great deal of trouble. Mamma could not decide forherself. "

The Countess said nothing, but felt a little confused. 

The doors being closed to visitors, no one called that evening. Madamede Guilleroy passed the whole of the following day in different shops, choosing or ordering what she needed. She had loved, from her youth, almost from her infancy, those long sittings before the mirrors ofthe great shops. From the moment of entering one, she took delight inthinking of all the details of that minute rehearsal in the green-roomof Parisian life. She adored the rustle of the dresses worn by thesalesgirls, who hastened forward to meet her, all smiles, with theiroffers, their queries; and Madame the dressmaker, the milliner, orcorset-maker, was to her a person of consequence, whom she treated as anartist when she expressed an opinion in asking advice. She enjoyedeven more to feel herself in the skilful hands of the young girls whoundressed her and dressed her again, causing her to turn gently aroundbefore her own gracious reflection. The little shiver that the touch oftheir fingers produced on her skin, her neck, or in her hair, was one ofthe best and sweetest little pleasures that belonged to her life of anelegant woman. 

This day, however, she passed before those candid mirrors, withouther veil or hat, feeling a certain anxiety. Her first visit, atthe milliner's, reassured her. The three hats which she chose werewonderfully becoming; she could not doubt it, and when the millinersaid, with an air of conviction, "Oh, Madame la Comtesse, blondes shouldnever leave off mourning" she went away much pleased, and entered othershops with a heart full of confidence. 

Then she found at home a note from the Duchess, who had come to seeher, saying that she would return in the evening; then she wrote someletters; then she fell into dreamy reverie for some time, surprisedthat this simple change of place had caused to recede into a past thatalready seemed far away the great misfortune that had overwhelmed her. She could not even convince herself that her return from Roncieres datedonly from the day before, so much was the condition of her soul modifiedsince her return to Paris, as if that little change had healed herwounds. 

Bertin, arriving at dinner-time, exclaimed on seeing her:

"You are dazzling this evening!"

And this exclamation sent a warm wave of happiness through her being. 

When they were leaving the table, the Count, who had a passion forbilliards, offered to play a game with Bertin, and the two ladiesaccompanied them to the billiard-room, where the coffee was served. 

The men were still playing when the Duchess was announced, and theyall returned to the drawing-room. Madame de Corbelle and her husbandpresented themselves at the same time, their voices full of tears. Forsome minutes it seemed, from the doleful tones, that everyone was aboutto weep; but little by little, after a few tender words and inquiries, another current of thought set in; the voices took on a more cheerfultone, and everyone began to talk naturally, as if the shadow of themisfortune that had saddened them had suddenly been dissipated. 

Then Bertin rose, took Annette by the hand, led her under the portraitof her mother, in the ray of light from the reflector, and said:

"Isn't this stupefying?"

The Duchess was so greatly surprised that she seemed dazed; she repeatedmany times: "Heavens! is it possible? Heavens! is it possible? It islike someone raised from the dead. To think that I did not see that whenI came in! Oh, my little Any, I find you again, I, who knew you so wellthen in your first mourning as a woman--no, in your second, for you hadalready lost your father. Oh, that Annette, in black like that--why, itis her mother come back to earth! What a miracle! Without that portraitwe never should have perceived it. Your daughter resembles you verymuch, but she resembles that portrait much more. "

Musadieu now appeared, having heard of Madame de Guilleroy's return, as he wished to be one of the first to offer her the "homage of hissorrowful sympathy. "

He interrupted his first speech on perceiving the young girl standingagainst the frame, illumined by the same ray of light, appearing likethe living sister of the painting. 

"Ah, that is certainly one of the most astonishing things I ever haveseen, " he exclaimed. 

The Corbelles, whose convictions always followed established opinions, marveled in their turn with a little less exuberant ardor. 

The Countess's heart seemed to contract, little by little, as if allthese exclamations of astonishment had hurt it. Without speaking, shelooked at her daughter standing by the image of herself, and a suddenfeeling of weakness came over her. She longed to cry out: "Say no more!I know very well that she resembles me!"

Until the end of the evening she remained in a melancholy mood, havinglost once more the confidence she had felt the day before. 

Bertin was chatting with her when the Marquis de Farandal was announced. As soon as the painter saw him enter and approach the hostess he roseand glided behind her armchair, murmuring: "This is delightful! Therecomes that great animal now. " Then, making a detour of the apartment, hereached the door and departed. 

After receiving the salutations of the newcomer, the Countess lookedaround to find Olivier, to resume with him the talk in which she hadbeen interested. Not seeing him, she asked:

"What, has the great man gone?"

"I believe so, my dear, " her husband answered; "I just saw him goingaway in the English fashion. "

She was surprised, reflected a few moments, and then began to talk tothe Marquis. 

Her intimate friends, however, discreetly took their leave early, for, so soon after her affliction, she had only half-opened her door, as itwere. 

When she found herself again lying on her bed, all the griefs that hadassailed her in the country reappeared. They took a more distinct form;she felt them more keenly. She realized that she was growing old!

That evening, for the first time, she had understood that, in her owndrawing-room, where until now she alone had been admired, complimented, flattered, loved, another, her daughter, was taking her place. She hadcomprehended this suddenly, when feeling that everyone's homage was paidto Annette. In that kingdom, the house of a pretty woman, where she willpermit no one to overshadow her, where she eliminated with discreet andunceasing care all disadvantageous comparisons, where she allows theentrance of her equals only to attempt to make them her vassals, she sawplainly that her daughter was about to become the sovereign. How strangehad been that contraction of her heart when all eyes were turned uponAnnette as Bertin held her by the hand standing before the portrait!She herself felt as if she had suddenly disappeared, dispossessed, dethroned. Everyone looked at Annette; no one had a glance for her anymore! She was so accustomed to hear compliments and flattery, wheneverher portrait was admired, she was so sure of eulogistic phrases, whichshe had little regarded but which pleased her nevertheless, thatthis desertion of herself, this unexpected defection, this admirationintended wholly for her daughter, had moved, astonished, and hurt hermore than if it had been a question of no matter what rivalry under anykind of conditions. 

But, as she had one of those natures which, in all crises, after thefirst blow, react, struggle, and find arguments for consolation, shereasoned that, once her dear little daughter should be married, whenthey should no longer live under the same roof, she herself wouldno longer be compelled to endure that incessant comparison whichwas beginning to be too painful for her under the eyes of her friendOlivier. 

But the shock had been too much for her that evening. She was feverishand hardly slept at all. In the morning she awoke weary and overcome byextreme lassitude, and then within her surged up an irresistible longingto be comforted again, to be succored, to ask help from someone whocould cure all her ills, all her moral and physical ailments. 

Indeed, she felt so ill at ease and weak that she had an idea ofconsulting her physician. Perhaps she was about to be seriouslyaffected, for it was not natural that in a few hours she should passthrough those successive phases of suffering and relief. So she sent hima telegram, and awaited his coming. 

He arrived about eleven o'clock. He was one of those dignified, fashionable physicians whose decorations and titles guarantee theirability, whose tact at least equals mere skill, and who have, above all, when treating women, an adroitness that is surer than medicines. 

He entered, bowed, looked at his patient, and said with a smile: "Come, this is not a very grave case. With eyes like yours one is never veryill. "

She felt immediate gratitude to him for this beginning, and told himof her troubles, her weakness, her nervousness and melancholy; then shementioned, without laying too much stress on the matter, her alarminglyill appearance. After listening to her with an attentive air, thoughasking no questions except as to her appetite, as if he knew well thesecret nature of this feminine ailment, he sounded her, examined her, felt of her shoulders with the tips of his fingers, lifted her arms, having undoubtedly met her thought and understood with the shrewdness ofa practitioner who lifts all veils that she was consulting him more forher beauty than for her health. Then he said:

"Yes, we are a little anemic, and have some nervous troubles. That isnot surprising, since you have experienced such a great affliction. Iwill write you a little prescription that will set you right again. Butabove all, you must eat strengthening food, take beef-tea, no water, butdrink beer. I will indicate an excellent brand. Do not tire yourself bylate hours, but walk as much as you can. Sleep a good deal and grow alittle plumper. This is all that I can advise you, my fair patient. "

She had listened to him with deep interest, trying to guess at what hiswords implied. She caught at the last word. 

"Yes, I am too thin, " said she. "I was a little too stout at one time, and perhaps I weakened myself by dieting. "

"Without any doubt. There is no harm in remaining thin when one hasalways been so; but when one grows thin on principle it is always at theexpense of something else. Happily, that can be soon remedied. Good-bye, Madame. "

She felt better already, more alert; and she wished to send for theprescribed beer for her breakfast, at its headquarters, in order toobtain it quite fresh. 

She was just leaving the table when Bertin was announced. 

"It is I, again, " said he, "always I. I have come to ask you something. Have you anything particular to do this afternoon?"

"No, nothing. Why?"

"And Annette?"

"Nothing, also. "

"Then, can you come to the studio about four o'clock?"

"Yes, but for what purpose?"

"I am sketching the face of my _Reverie_, of which I spoke to you whenI asked you whether Annette might pose for me a few moments. It wouldrender me a great service if I could have her for only an hour to-day. Will you?"

The Countess hesitated, annoyed, without knowing the reason why. But shereplied:

"Very well, my friend; we shall be with you at four o'clock. "

"Thank you! You are goodness itself!"

He went away to prepare his canvas and study his subject, so that heneed not tire his model too much. 

Then the Countess went out alone, on foot, to finish her shopping. She went down to the great central streets, then walked slowly up theBoulevard Malesherbes, for she felt as if her limbs were breaking. Asshe passed Saint Augustin's, she was seized with a desire to enter thechurch and rest. She pushed open the door, sighed with satisfaction inbreathing the cool air of the vast nave, took a chair and sat down. 

She was religious as very many Parisians are religious. She believedin God without a doubt, not being able to admit the existence of theuniverse without the existence of a creator. But associating, as doeseveryone, the attributes of divinity with the nature of the createdmatter that she beheld with her own eyes, she almost personified theEternal God with what she knew of His work, without having a very clearidea as to what this mysterious Maker might really be. 

She believed in Him firmly, adored Him theoretically, feared Him veryvaguely, for she did not profess to understand His intentions or Hiswill, having a very limited confidence in the priests, whom she regardedmerely as the sons of peasants revolting from military service. Her father, a middle-class Parisian, never had imposed upon her anyparticular principles of devotion, and she had lived on thinking littleabout religious matters until her marriage. Then, her new station inlife indicating more strictly her apparent duties toward the Church, shehad conformed punctiliously to this light servitude, as do so many ofher station. 

She was lady patroness to numerous and very well known infant asylums, never failed to attend mass at one o'clock on Sundays, gave alms forherself directly, and for the world by means of an abbe, the vicar ofher parish. 

She had often prayed, from a sense of duty, as a soldier mounts guardat a general's door. Sometimes she had prayed because her heart wassad, especially when she suspected Olivier of infidelity to her. At suchtimes, without confiding to Heaven the cause for her appeal, treatingGod with the same naïve hypocrisy that is shown to a husband, she askedHim to succor her. When her father died, long before, and again quiterecently, at her mother's death, she had had violent crises of religiousfervor, and had passionately implored Him who watches over us andconsoles us. 

And, now behold! to-day, in that church where she had entered by chance, she suddenly felt a profound need to pray, not for some one nor for something, but for herself, for herself alone, as she had already prayed theother day at her mother's grave. She must have help from some source, and she called on God now as she had summoned the physician that verymorning. 

She remained a long time on her knees, in the deep silence of thechurch, broken only by the sound of footsteps. Then suddenly, as if aclock had struck in her heart, she awoke from her memories, drew out herwatch and started to see that it was already four o'clock. She hastenedaway to take her daughter to the studio, where Olivier must already beexpecting them. 

They found the artist in his studio, studying upon the canvas the poseof his _Reverie_. He wished to reproduce exactly what he had seen in theParc Monceau while walking with Annette: a young girl, dreaming, with anopen book upon her knees. He had hesitated as to whether he should makeher plain or pretty. If she were ugly she would have more character, would arouse more thought and emotion, would contain more philosophy. Ifpretty, she would be more seductive, would diffuse more charm, and wouldplease better. 

The desire to make a study after his little friend decided him. The_Reveuse_ should be pretty, and therefore might realize her poeticvision one day or other; whereas if ugly she would remain condemned to adream without hope and without end. 

As soon as the two ladies entered Olivier said, rubbing his hands:

"Well, Mademoiselle Nane, we are going to work together, it seems!"

The Countess seemed anxious. She sat in an armchair, and watched Olivieras he placed an iron garden-chair in the right light. He opened hisbookcase to get a book, then asked, hesitating:

"What does your daughter read?"

"Dear me! anything you like! Give her a volume of Victor Hugo. "

"'_La Legende des Siecles_?'"

"That will do. "

"Little one, sit down here, " he continued, "and take this volume ofverse. Look for page--page 336, where you will find a poem entitled 'LesPauvres Gens. ' Absorb it, as one drinks the best wines, slowly, word byword, and let it intoxicate you and move you. Then close the book, raiseyour eyes, think and dream. Now I will go and prepare my brushes. "

He went into a corner to put the colors on his palette, but whileemptying on the thin board the leaden tubes whence issued slender, twisting snakes of color, he turned from time to time to look at theyoung girl absorbed in her reading. 

His heart was oppressed, his fingers trembled; he no longer knew whathe was doing, and he mingled the tones as he mixed the little piles ofpaste, so strongly did he feel once more before this apparition, before that resurrection, in that same place, after twelve years, anirresistible flood of emotion overwhelming his heart. 

Now Annette had finished her reading and was looking straight beforeher. Approaching her, Olivier saw in her eyes two bright drops which, breaking forth, ran down her cheeks. He was startled by one of thoseshocks that make a man forget himself, and turning toward the Countesshe murmured:

"God! how beautiful she is!"

But he remained stupefied before the livid and convulsed face of Madamede Guilleroy. Her large eyes, full of a sort of terror, gazed at herdaughter and the painter. He approached her, suddenly touched withanxiety. 

"What is the matter?" he asked. 

"I wish to speak to you. "

Rising, she said quickly to Annette; "Wait a moment, my child; I have aword to say to Monsieur Bertin. "

She passed swiftly into the little drawing-room near by, where heoften made his visitors wait. He followed her, his head confused, understanding nothing. As soon as they were alone, she seized his handsand stammered:

"Olivier! Olivier, I beg you not to make her pose for you!"

"But why?" he murmured, disturbed. 

"Why? Why?" she said precipitately. "He asks it! You do not feel it, then yourself? Why? Oh, I should have guessed it sooner myself, but Ionly discovered it this moment. I cannot tell you anything now. Go andfind my daughter. Tell her that I am ill; fetch a cab, and come to seeme in an hour. I will receive you alone. "

"But, really, what is the matter with you?"

She seemed on the verge of hysterics. 

"Leave me! I cannot speak here. Get my daughter and call a cab. "

He had to obey and reentered the studio. Annette, unsuspicious, hadresumed her reading, her heart overflowing with sadness by the poeticand lamentable story. 

"Your mother is indisposed, " said Olivier. "She became very ill when shewent into the other room. I will take some ether to her. "

He went out, ran to get a flask from his room and returned. 

He found them weeping in each other's arms. Annette, moved by "LesPauvres Gens, " allowed her feelings full sway, and the Countess wassomewhat solaced by blending her grief with that sweet sorrow, inmingling her tears with those of her daughter. 

He waited for some time, not daring to speak; he looked at them, his ownheart oppressed with an incomprehensible melancholy. 

"Well, " said he at last. "Are you better?"

"Yes, a little, " the Countess replied. "It was nothing. Have you ordereda carriage?"

"Yes, it will come directly. "

"Thank you, my friend--it is nothing. I have had too much grief for along time. "

"The carriage is here, " a servant announced. 

And Bertin, full of secret anguish, escorted his friend, pale and almostswooning, to the door, feeling her heart throb against his arm. 

When he was alone he asked himself what was the matter with her, and whyhad she made this scene. And he began to seek a reason, wandering aroundthe truth without deciding to discover it. Finally, he began to suspect. "Well, " he said to himself, "is it possible she believes that I ammaking love to her daughter? No, that would be too much!" And, combatingwith ingenious and loyal arguments that supposititious conviction, hefelt indignant that she had lent for an instant to this healthy andalmost paternal affection any suspicion of gallantry. He became more andmore irritated against the Countess, utterly unwilling to concedethat she had dared suspect him of such villainy, of an infamy sounqualifiable; and he resolved, when the time should come for him toanswer her, that he would not soften the expression of his resentment. 

He soon left his studio to go to her house, impatient for anexplanation. All along the way he prepared, with a growing irritation, the arguments and phrases that must justify him and avenge him for sucha suspicion. 

He found her on her lounge, her face changed by suffering. 

"Well, " said he, drily, "explain to me, my dear friend, the strangescene that has just occurred. "

"What, you have not yet understood it?" she said, in a broken voice. 

"No, I confess I have not. "

"Come, Olivier, search your own heart well. "

"My heart?"

"Yes, at the bottom of your heart. "

"I don't understand. Explain yourself better. "

"Look well into the depths of your heart, and see whether you findnothing there that is dangerous for you and for me. "

"I repeat that I do not comprehend you. I guess that there is somethingin your imagination, but in my own conscience I see nothing. "

"I am not speaking of your conscience, but of your heart. "

"I cannot guess enigmas. I entreat you to be more clear. "

Then, slowing raising her hands, she took the hands of the painter andheld them; then, as if each word broke her heart, she said:

"Take care, my friend, or you will fall in love with my daughter!"

He withdrew his hands abruptly, and with the vivacity of innocence whichcombats a shameful accusation, with animated gesture and increasingexcitement, he defended himself, accusing her in her turn of havingsuspected him unjustly. 

She let him talk for some time, obstinately incredulous, sure of whatshe had said. Then she resumed:

"But I do not suspect you, my friend. You were ignorant of what waspassing within you, as I was ignorant of it until this morning. Youtreat me as if I had accused you of wishing to seduce Annette. Oh, no, no! I know how loyal you are, worthy of all esteem and of everyconfidence. I only beg you, I entreat you to look into the depths ofyour heart and see whether the affection which, in spite of yourself, you are beginning to have for my daughter, has not a characteristic alittle different from simple friendship. "

Now he was offended, and, growing still more excited, he began once moreto plead his loyalty, just as he argued all alone in the street. 

She waited until he had finished his defense; then, without anger, butwithout being shaken in her conviction, though frightfully pale, shemurmured:

"Olivier, I know very well all that you have just said to me, and Ithink as you do. But I am sure that I do not deceive myself. Listen, reflect, understand. My daughter resembles me too much, she is too muchwhat I was once when you began to love me, that you should not begin tolove her, too. "

"Then, " he exclaimed, "you dare to throw in my face such a thing as thaton this simple supposition and ridiculous reasoning: 'He loves me; mydaughter resembles me; therefore he will love her'!"

But seeing the Countess's face changing more and more, he continued in asofter tone:

"Now, my dear Any, it is precisely because I do find you once more inher that this young girl pleases me so much. It is you, you alone, thatI love when I look at her. "

"Yes, and it is just that from which I begin to suffer, and which makesme so anxious. You are not yet aware of what you feel, but by and by youwill no longer be able to deceive yourself regarding it. "

"Any, I assure you that you are mad. "

"Do you wish proofs?"

"Yes. "

"You had not come to Roncieres for three years, in spite of my desire tohave you come. But you rushed down there when it was proposed that youshould come to fetch us. "

"Oh, indeed! You reproach me for not leaving you alone down there, knowing that you were ill, after your mother's death!"

"So be it! I do not insist. But look: the desire to see Annette again isso imperious with you that you could not pass this day without asking meto take her to your studio, under the pretext of posing her. "

"And do you not suppose it was you I wished to see?"

"At this moment you are arguing against yourself, trying to convinceyourself--but you do not deceive me. Listen again: Why did you leaveabruptly, the night before last, when the Marquis de Farandal entered?Do you know why?"

He hesitated, very much surprised, disturbed, disarmed by thisobservation. Then he said slowly:

"But--I hardly know--I was tired, and then, to be candid, that imbecilemakes me nervous. "

"Since when?"

"Always. "

"Pardon me, I have heard you sing his praises. You liked him once. Bequite sincere, Olivier. "

He reflected a few moments; then, choosing his words, he said:

"Yes, it is possible that the great love I have for you makes me loveso much everything that belongs to you as to modify my opinion of thatbore, whom I might meet occasionally with indifference, but whom Ishould not like to see in your house almost every day. "

"My daughter's house will not be mine. But this is sufficient. I knowthe uprightness of your heart. I know that you will reflect deeplyon what I have just said to you. When you have reflected you willunderstand that I have pointed out a great danger to you, while yetthere is time to escape it. And you will beware. Now let us talk ofsomething else, will you?"

He did not insist, but he was much disturbed; he no longer knew what tothink, though indeed he had need for reflection. He went away after aquarter of an hour of unimportant conversation. 

CHAPTER IV

SWEET POISON

With slow steps, Olivier returned to his own house, troubled as if hehad just learned some shameful family secret. He tried to sound hisheart, to see clearly within himself, to read those intimate pages ofthe inner book which seemed glued together, and which sometimes onlya strange hand can turn over by separating them. Certainly he did notbelieve himself in love with Annette. The Countess, whose watchfuljealousy never slept, had foreseen this danger from afar, and hadsignaled it before it even existed. But might that peril existto-morrow, the day after, in a month? It was the frank question thathe tried to answer sincerely. It was true that the child stirred hisinstincts of tenderness, but these instincts in men are so numerous thatthe dangerous ones should not be confounded with the inoffensive. Thushe adored animals, especially cats, and could not see their silky furwithout being seized with an irresistible sensuous desire to caresstheir soft, undulating backs and kiss their electric fur. 

The attraction that impelled him toward this girl a little resembledthose obscure yet innocent desires that go to make up part of all theceaseless and unappeasable vibrations of human nerves. His eye of theartist, as well as that of the man, was captivated by her freshness, bythat springing of beautiful clear life, by that essence of youth thatglowed in her; and his heart, full of memories of his long intimacy withthe Countess, finding in the extraordinary resemblance of Annette toher mother a reawakening of old feelings, of emotions sleeping since thebeginning of his love, had been startled perhaps by the sensation of anawakening. An awakening? Yes. Was it that? This idea illumined his mind. He felt that he had awakened after years of sleep. If he had loved theyoung girl without being aware of it, he should have experienced nearher that rejuvenation of his whole being which creates a different manas soon as the flame of a new desire is kindled within him. No, thechild had only breathed upon the former fire. It had always been themother that he loved, but now a little more than recently, no doubt, because of her daughter, this reincarnation of herself. And heformulated this decision with the reassuring sophism: "One loves butonce! The heart may often be affected at meeting some other being, foreveryone exercises on others either attractions or repulsions. All theseinfluences create friendship, caprices, desire for possession, quickand fleeting ardors, but not real love. That this love may exist it isnecessary that two beings should be so truly born for each other, shouldbe linked together in so many different ways, by so many similar tastes, by so many affinities of body, of mind, and of character, and so manyties of all kinds that the whole shall form a union of bonds. That whichwe love, in short, is not so much Madame X. Or Monsieur Z. ; it is awomen or a man, a creature without a name, something sprung from Nature, that great female, with organs, a form, a heart, a mind, a combinationof attributes which like a magnet attract our organs, our eyes, ourlips, our hearts, our thoughts, all our appetites, sensual as well asintellectual. We love a type, that is, the reunion in one single personof all the human qualities that may separately attract us in others. "

For him, the Comtesse de Guilleroy had been this type, and theirlong-standing liaison, of which he had not wearied, proved it to himbeyond doubt. Now, Annette so much resembled physically what her motherhad been as to deceive the eye; so there was nothing astonishing in thefact that this man's heart had been surprised, if even it had not beenwholly captured. He had adored one woman! Another woman was born of her, almost her counterpart. He could not prevent himself from bestowing onthe latter a little tender remnant of the passionate attachment he hadhad for the former. There was no harm nor danger in that. Only his eyesand his memory allowed themselves to be deluded by this appearance ofresurrection; but his instinct never had been affected, for never had hefelt the least stirring of desire for the young girl. 

However, the Countess had reproached him with being jealous of theMarquis! Was it true? Again he examined his conscience severely, anddecided that as a matter of fact he was indeed a little jealous. Whatwas there astonishing in that, after all? Are we not always beingjealous of men who pay court to no matter what woman? Does not oneexperience in the street, at a restaurant, or a theater, a littlefeeling of enmity toward the gentleman who is passing or who enterswith a lovely girl on his arm? Every possessor of a woman is a rival, a triumphant male, a conqueror envied by all the other males. And then, without considering these physiological reasons, if it was natural thathe should have for Annette a sympathy a little excessive because of hislove for her mother, was it not natural also that he should feel in hisheart a little masculine hatred of the future husband? He could conquerthis unworthy feeling without much trouble. 

But in the depths of his heart he still felt a sort of bitter discontentwith himself and with the Countess. Would not their daily intercoursebe made disagreeable by the suspicion that he would be aware of inher? Should he not be compelled to watch with tiresome and scrupulousattention all that he said and did, his very looks, his slightestapproach toward the young girl? for all that he might do or say wouldappear suspicious to the mother. He reached his home in a gloomy moodand began to smoke cigarettes, with the vehemence of an irritated manwho uses ten matches to light his tobacco. He tried in vain to work. Hishand, his eye, and his brain seemed to have lost the knack of painting, as if they had forgotten it, or never had known and practised the art. He had taken up to finish a little sketch on canvas--a street corner, atwhich a blind man stood singing--and he looked at it with unconquerableindifference, with such a lack of power to continue it that he sat downbefore it, palette in hand, and forgot it, though continuing to gaze atit with attention and abstracted fixity. 

Then, suddenly, impatience at the slowness of time, at the interminableminutes, began to gnaw him with its intolerable fever. What should hedo until he could go to the club for dinner, since he could not work athome? The thought of the streets tired him only to think of, filledhim with disgust for the sidewalks, the pedestrians, the carriagesand shops; and the idea of paying visits that day, to no matter whom, aroused in him an instantaneous hatred for everyone he knew. 

Then, what should he do? Should he pace to and fro in his studio, looking at the clock at every turn, watching the displacement of thelong hand every few seconds? Ah, he well knew those walks from the doorto the cabinet, covered with ornaments. In his hours of excitement, impulse, ambition, of fruitful and facile execution, these pacings hadbeen delicious recreation--these goings and comings across the largeroom, brightened, animated, and warmed by work; but now, in his hours ofpowerlessness and nausea, the miserable hours, when nothing seemedworth the trouble of an effort or a movement, it was like the terribletramping of a prisoner in his cell. If only he could have slept, evenfor an hour, on his divan! But no, he should not sleep; he should onlyagitate himself until he trembled with exasperation. Whence came thissudden attack of bad temper? He thought: "I am becoming excessivelynervous to have worked myself into such a state for so insignificant acause. "

Then he thought he would take a book. The volume of _La Legende desSiecles_ had remained on the iron chair where Annette had laid it. Heopened it and read two pages of verse without understanding them. Heunderstood them no more than if they had been written in a foreigntongue. He was determined, however, and began again, only to find thatwhat he read had not really penetrated to his mind. "Well, " said heto himself, "it appears that I am becoming imbecile!" But a suddeninspiration reassured him as to how he should fill the two hours thatmust elapse before dinner-time. He had a hot bath prepared, and there heremained stretched out, relaxed and soothed by the warm water, until hisvalet, bringing his clothes, roused him from a doze. Then he went tothe club, where he found the usual companions. He was received with openarms and exclamations, for they had not seen him for several days. 

"I have just returned from the country, " he explained. 

All those men, except Musadieu, the landscape painter, professed aprofound contempt for the fields. Rocdiane and Landa, to be sure, wenthunting there, but among plains or woods they only enjoyed the pleasureof seeing pheasants, quail, or partridges falling like handfuls offeathers under their bullets, or little rabbits riddled with shot, turning somersaults like clowns, going heels over head four or fivetimes, showing their white bellies and tails at every bound. Except forthese sports of autumn and winter, they thought the country a bore. AsRocdiane would say: "I prefer little women to little peas!"

The dinner was lively and jovial as usual, animated by discussionswherein nothing unforeseen occurs. Bertin, to arouse himself, talked agreat deal. They found him amusing, but as soon as he had had coffee, and a sixty-point game of billiards with the banker Liverdy, he wentout, rambling from the Madeleine to the Rue Taitbout; after passingthree times before the Vaudeville, he asked himself whether he shouldenter; almost called a cab to take him to the Hippodrome; changed hismind and turned toward the Nouveau Cirque, then made an abrupt halfturn, without motive, design, or pretext, went up the BoulevardMalesherbes, and walked more slowly as he approached the dwelling ofthe Comtesse de Guilleroy. "Perhaps she will think it strange to see meagain this evening, " he thought. But he reassured himself in reflectingthat there was nothing astonishing in his coming a second time toinquire how she felt. 

She was alone with Annette, in the little back drawing-room, and wasstill working on her coverlets for the poor. 

She said simply, on seeing him enter: "Ah, is it you, my friend?"

"Yes, I felt anxious; I wished to see you. How are you?"

"Thank you, very well. "

She paused a moment, then added, significantly:

"And you?"

He began to laugh unconcernedly, as he replied: "Oh. I am very well, very well. Your fears were entirely without foundation. "

She raised her eyes, pausing in her work, and fixed her gaze upon him, agaze full of doubt and entreaty. 

"It is true, " said he. 

"So much the better, " she replied, with a smile that was slightlyforced. 

He sat down, and for the first time in that house he was seized withirresistible uneasiness, a sort of paralysis of ideas, still greaterthan that which had seized him that day as he sat before his canvas. 

"You may go on, my child; it will not annoy him, " said the Countess toher daughter. 

"What was she doing?"

"She was studying a _fantaisie_. "

Annette rose to go to the piano. He followed her with his eyes, unconsciously, as he always did, finding her pretty. Then he felt themother's eye upon him, and turned his head abruptly, as if he wereseeking something in the shadowy corner of the drawing-room. 

The Countess took from her work-table a little gold case that he hadgiven her, opened it, and offered him some cigarettes. 

"Pray smoke, my friend, " said she; "you know I like it when we are alonehere. "

He obeyed, and the music began. It was the music of the distant past, graceful and light, one of those compositions that seem to have inspiredthe artist on a soft moonlight evening in springtime. 

"Who is the composer of that?" asked Bertin. 

"Schumann, " the Countess replied. "It is little known and charming. "

A desire to look at Annette grew stronger within him, but he did notdare. He would have to make only a slight movement, merely a turn ofthe neck, for he could see out of the corner of his eye the two candleslighting the score; but he guessed so well, read so clearly, thewatchful gaze of the Countess that he remained motionless, his eyeslooking straight before him, interested apparently in the gray thread ofsmoke from his cigarette. 

"Was that all you had to say to me?" Madame de Guilleroy murmured tohim. 

He smiled. 

"Don't be vexed with me. You know that music hypnotizes me; it drinks mythoughts. I will talk soon. "

"I must tell you, " said the Countess, "that I had studied something foryou before mamma's death. I never had you hear it, but I will play itfor you immediately, as soon as the little one has finished; you shallsee how odd it is. "

She had real talent, and a subtle comprehension of the emotion thatflows through sounds. It was indeed one of her surest powers over thepainter's sensibility. 

As soon as Annette had finished the pastoral symphony by Mehul, theCountess rose, took her place, and awakened a strange melody with herfingers, a melody of which all the phrases seemed complaints, diverscomplaints, changing, numerous, interrupted by a single note, beginningagain, falling into the midst of the strains, cutting them short, scanning them, crashing into them, like a monotonous, incessant, persecuting cry, an unappeasable call of obsession. 

But Olivier was looking at Annette, who had sat down facing him, and heheard nothing, comprehended nothing. 

He looked at her, without thinking, indulging himself with the sight ofher, as a good and habitual possession of which he had been deprived, drinking her youthful beauty wholesomely, as we drink water whenthirsty. 

"Well, " said the Countess, "was not that beautiful?"

"Admirable! Superb!" he said, aroused. "By whom?"

"You do not know it?"

"No. "

"What, really, you do not know it?"

"No, indeed. "

"By Schubert. "

"That does not astonish me at all, " he said, with an air of profoundconviction. "It is superb! You would be delightful if you would play itover again. "

She began once more, and he, turning his head, began again tocontemplate Annette, but listened also to the music, that he might tastetwo pleasures at the same time. 

When Madame de Guilleroy had returned to her chair, in simple obedienceto the natural duplicity of man he did not allow his gaze to rest longeron the fair profile of the young girl, who knitted opposite her mother, on the other side of the lamp. 

But, though he did not see her, he tasted the sweetness of her presence, as one feels the proximity of a fire on the hearth; and the desire tocast upon her swift glances only to transfer them immediately to theCountess, tormented him--the desire of the schoolboy who climbs upto the window looking into the street as soon as the master's back isturned. 

He went away early, for his power of speech was as paralyzed as hismind, and his persistent silence might be interpreted. 

As soon as he found himself in the street a desire to wander tookpossession of him, for whenever he heard music it remained in his braina long time, threw him into reveries that seemed the music itself ina dream, but in a clearer sequel. The sound of the notes returned, intermittent and fugitive, bringing separate measures, weakened, and faroff as an echo; then, sinking into silence, appeared to leave it to themind to give a meaning to the themes, and to seek a sort of tender andharmonious ideal. He turned to the left on reaching the outer Boulevard, perceiving the fairylike illumination of the Parc Monceau, and enteredits central avenue, curving under the electric moons. A policemanwas slowly strolling along; now and then a belated cab passed; a man, sitting on a bench in a bluish bath of electric light, was reading anewspaper, at the foot of a bronze mast that bore the dazzling globe. Other lights on the broad lawns, scattered among the trees, shed theircold and powerful rays into the foliage and on the grass, animating thisgreat city garden with a pale life. 

Bertin, with hands behind his back, paced the sidewalk, thinking of hiswalk with Annette in this same park when he had recognized in her thevoice of her mother. 

He let himself fall upon a bench, and, breathing in the cool freshnessof the dewy lawns, he felt himself assailed by all the passionateexpectancy that transforms the soul of youth into the incoherent canvasof an unfinished romance of love. Long ago he had known such evenings, those evenings of errant fancy, when he had allowed his caprice to roamthrough imaginary adventures, and he was astonished to feel a return ofsensations that did not now belong to his age. 

But, like the persistent note in the Schubert melody, the thought ofAnnette, the vision of her face bent beside the lamp, and the strangesuspicion of the Countess, recurred to him at every instant. Hecontinued, in spite of himself, to occupy his heart with this question, to sound the impenetrable depths where human feelings germinatebefore being born. This obstinate research agitated him; this constantpreoccupation regarding the young girl seemed to open to his soul theway to tender reveries. He could not drive her from his mind; he borewithin himself a sort of evocation of her image, as once he had bornethe image of the Countess after she had left him; he often had thestrange sensation of her presence in the studio. 

Suddenly, impatient at being dominated by a memory, he arose, muttering:"Any was stupid to say that to me. Now she will make me think of thelittle one!"

He went home, disturbed about himself. After he had gone to bed he feltthat sleep would not come to him, for a fever coursed in his veins, anda desire for reverie fermented in his heart. Dreading a wakeful night, one of those enervating attacks of insomnia brought about by agitationof the spirit, he thought he would try to read. How many times had ashort reading served him as a narcotic! So he got up and went into hislibrary to choose a good and soporific work; but his mind, aroused inspite of himself, eager for any emotion it could find, sought among theshelves for the name of some author that would respond to his state ofexaltation and expectancy. Balzac, whom he loved, said nothing to him;he disdained Hugo, scorned Lamartine, who usually touched his emotions, and fell eagerly upon Musset, the poet of youth. He took the volume andcarried it to bed, to read whatever he might chance to find. 

When he had settled himself in bed, he began to drink, as with thethirst of a drunkard, those flowing verses of an inspired being whosang, like a bird, of the dawn of existence, and having breath only forthe morning, was silent in the arid light of day; those verses of apoet who above all mankind was intoxicated with life, expressing hisintoxication in fanfares of frank and triumphant love, the echo of allyoung hearts bewildered with desires. 

Never had Bertin so perfectly comprehended the physical charm of thosepoems, which move the senses but hardly touch the intelligence. With hiseyes on those vibrating stanzas, he felt that his soul was but twentyyears old, radiant with hopes, and he read the volume through in a stateof youthful intoxication. Three o'clock struck, and he was astonished tofind that he had not yet grown sleepy. He rose to shut his window and tocarry his book to a table in the middle of the room; but at the contactof the cold air a pain, of which several seasons at Aix had not curedhim, ran through his loins, like a warning or a recall; and he threwaside the poet with an impatient movement, muttering: "Old fool!" Thenhe returned to bed and blew out his light. 

He did not go to see the Countess the next day, and he even made theenergetic resolution not to return there for two days. But whateverhe did, whether he tried to paint or to walk, whether he bore hismelancholy mood with him from house to house, his mind was everywhereharassed by the preoccupation of those two women, who would not bebanished. 

Having forbidden himself to go to see them, he solaced himself bythinking of them, and he allowed both mind and heart to give themselvesup to memories of both. It happened often that in that species ofhallucination in which he lulled his isolation the two faces approachedeach other, different, such as he knew them; then, passing one beforethe other, mingled, blended together, forming only one face, a littleconfused, a face that was no longer the mother's, not altogether thatof the daughter, but the face of a woman loved madly, long ago, in thepresent, and forever. 

Then he felt remorse at having abandoned himself to the influence ofthese emotions, which he knew were powerful and dangerous. To escapethem, to drive them away, to deliver his soul from this sweet andcaptivating dream, he directed his mind toward all imaginable ideas, allpossible subjects of reflection and meditation. Vain efforts! All thepaths of distraction that he took led him back to the same point, wherehe met a fair young face that seemed to be lying in wait for him. It wasa vague and inevitable obsession that floated round him, recalling him, stopping him, no matter what detour he might make in order to fly fromit. 

The confusion of these two beings, which had so troubled him on theevening of their walk at Roncieres, rose again in his memory as soon ashe evoked them, after ceasing to reflect and reason, and he attempted tocomprehend what strange emotion was this that stirred his being. He saidto himself: "Now, have I for Annette a more tender feeling than I shouldhave?" Then, probing his heart, he felt it burning with affection for awoman who was certainly young, who had Annette's features, but who wasnot she. And he reassured himself in a cowardly way by thinking: "No, Ido not love the little one; I am the victim of a resemblance. "

However, those two days at Roncieres remained in his soul like a sourceof heat, of happiness, of intoxication; and the least details of thosedays returned to him, one by one, with precision, sweeter even than atthe time they occurred. Suddenly, while reviewing the course of thesememories, he saw once more the road they had followed on leaving thecemetery, the young girl plucking flowers, and he recollected that hehad promised her a cornflower in sapphires as soon as they returned toParis. 

All his resolutions took flight, and without struggling longer he tookhis hat and went out, rejoiced at the thought of the pleasure he wasabout to give her. 

The footman answered him, when he presented himself:

"Madame is out, but Mademoiselle is at home. "

Again he felt a thrill of joy. 

"Tell her that I should like to speak to her. "

Annette appeared very soon. 

"Good-day, dear master, " said she gravely. 

He began to laugh, shook hands with her, and sitting near her, said:

"Guess why I have come. "

She thought a few seconds. 

"I don't know. "

"To take you and your mother to the jeweler's to choose the sapphirecornflower I promised you at Roncieres. "

The young girl's face was illumined with delight. 

"Oh, and mamma has gone out, " said she. "But she will return soon. Youwill wait for her, won't you?"

"Yes, if she is not too long. "

"Oh, how insolent! Too long, with me! You treat me like a child. "

"No, not so much as you think, " he replied. 

He felt in his heart a longing to please her, to be gallant and witty, as in the most successful days of his youth, one of those instinctivedesires that excite all the faculties of charming, that make the peacockspread its tail and the poet write verses. Quick and vivacious phrasesrose to his lips, and he talked as he knew how to talk when he was athis best. The young girl, animated by his vivacity, answered him withall the mischief and playful shrewdness that were in her. 

Suddenly, while he was discussing an opinion, he exclaimed: "But youhave already said that to me often, and I answered you--"

She interrupted him with a burst of laughter. 

"Ah, you don't say '_tu_' to me any more! You take me for mamma!"

He blushed and was silent, then he stammered:

"Your mother has already sustained that opinion with me a hundredtimes. "

His eloquence was extinguished; he knew no more what to say, and he nowfelt afraid, incomprehensibly afraid, of this little girl. 

"Here is mamma, " said she. 

She had heard the door open in the outer drawing-room, and Olivier, disturbed as if some one had caught him in a fault, explained how hehad suddenly bethought him of his promise, and had come for them to takethem to the jeweler's. 

"I have a coupe, " said he. "I will take the bracket seat. "

They set out, and a little later they entered Montara's. 

Having passed all his life in the intimacy, observation, study, andaffection of women, having always occupied his mind with them, havingbeen obliged to sound and discover their tastes, to know the detailsof dress and fashion as they knew them, being familiar with the minutedetails of their private life, he had arrived at a point thatenabled him often to share certain of their sensations, and he alwaysexperienced, when entering one of the great shops where the charmingand delicate accessories of their beauty are to be found, an emotionof pleasure that almost equaled that which stirred their hearts. Heinterested himself as they did in those coquettish trifles with whichthey set forth their beauty; the stuffs pleased his eyes; the lacesattracted his hands; the most insignificant furbelows held hisattention. In jewelers' shops he felt for the showcases a sort ofreligious respect, as if before a sanctuary of opulent seduction; andthe counter, covered with dark cloth, upon which the supple fingersof the goldsmith make the jewels roll, displaying their preciousreflections, filled him with a certain esteem. 

When he had seated the Countess and her daughter before this severepiece of furniture, on which each, with a natural movement, placed onehand, he indicated what he wanted, and they showed him models of littleflowers. 

Then they spread sapphires before him, from which it was necessary tochoose four. This took a long time. The two women turned them over onthe cloth with the tips of their fingers, then lifted them carefully, looked through them at the light, studying them with knowing andpassionate attention. When they had laid aside those they had chosen, three emeralds had to be selected to make the leaves, then a tinydiamond that would tremble in the center like a drop of dew. 

Then Olivier, intoxicated with the joy of giving, said to the Countess:

"Will you do me the favor to choose two rings?"

"I?"

"Yes. One for you, one for Annette. Let me make you these littlepresents in memory of the two days I passed at Roncieres. "

She refused. He insisted. A long discussion followed, a struggleof words and arguments, which ended, not without difficulty, in histriumph. 

Rings were brought, some, the rarest, alone in special cases; othersarranged in similar groups in large square boxes, wherein all thefancifulness of their settings were displayed in alignment on thevelvet. The painter was seated between the two women, and began, withthe same ardent curiosity, to take up the gold rings, one by one, fromthe narrow slits that held them. He deposited them before him on thecloth-covered counter where they were massed in two groups, those thathad been rejected at first sight and those from which a choice would bemade. 

Time was passing, insensibly and sweetly, in this pretty work ofselection, more captivating than all the pleasures of the world, distracting and varied as a play, stirring also an exquisite and almostsensuous pleasure in a woman's heart. 

Then they compared, grew animated, and, after some hesitation, thechoice of the three judges settled upon a little golden serpent holdinga beautiful ruby between his thin jaws and his twisted tail. 

Olivier, radiant, now arose. 

"I will leave you my carriage, " said he; "I have something to lookafter, and I must go. "

But Annette begged her mother to walk home, since the weather was sofine. The Countess consented, and, having thanked Bertin, went out intothe street with her daughter. 

They walked for some time in silence, enjoying the sweet realization ofpresents received; then they began to talk of all the jewels they hadseen and handled. Within their minds still lingered a sort of glitteringand jingling, an echo of gaiety. They walked quickly through the crowdwhich fills the street about five o'clock on a summer evening. Menturned to look at Annette, and murmured in distinct words of admirationas they passed. It was the first time since her mourning, since blackattire had added brilliancy to her daughter's beauty, that the Countesshad gone out with her in the streets of Paris; and the sensation of thatstreet success, that awakened attention, those whispered compliments, that little wake of flattering emotion which the passing of a prettywoman leaves in a crowd of men, contracted her heart little by littlewith the same painful feeling she had had the other evening in herdrawing-room, when her guests had compared the little one with herown portrait. In spite of herself, she watched for those glances thatAnnette attracted; she felt them coming from a distance, pass over herown face without stopping and suddenly settle upon the fair face besideher own. She guessed, she saw in the eyes the rapid and silent homageto this blooming youth, to the powerful charm of that radiant freshness, and she thought: "I was as pretty as she, if not prettier. " Suddenly thethought of Olivier flashed across her mind, and she was seized, as atRoncieres, with a longing to flee. 

She did not wish to feel herself any longer in this bright light, amidthis stream of people, seen by all those men who yet did not look ather. Those days seemed far away, though in reality quite recent, whenshe had sought and provoked comparison with her daughter. Who, to-day, among the passers, thought of comparing them? Only one person hadthought of it, perhaps, a little while ago, in the jeweler's shop. He?Oh, what suffering! Could it be that he was thinking continually of thatcomparison? Certainly he could not see them together without thinkingof it, and without remembering the time when she herself had entered hishouse, so fresh, so pretty, so sure of being loved!

"I feel ill, " said she. "We will take a cab, my child. "

Annette was uneasy. 

"What is the matter, mamma?" she asked. 

"It is nothing; you know that since your grandmother's death I oftenhave these moments of weakness. "

CHAPTER V

A WANING MOON

Fixed ideas have the tenacity of incurable maladies. Once entered in thesoul they devour it, leaving it no longer free to think of anything, orto have a taste for the least thing. Whatever she did, or wherever shewas, alone or surrounded by friends, she could no longer rid herselfof the thought that had seized her in coming home side by side with herdaughter. Could it be that Olivier, seeing them together almost everyday, thought continually of the comparison between them?

Surely he must do it in spite of himself, incessantly, himself hauntedby that unforgettable resemblance, accentuated still further by theimitation of tone and gesture they had tried to produce. Every time heentered she thought of that comparison; she read it in his eyes, guessedit and pondered over it in her heart and in her mind. Then she wastortured by a desire to hide herself, to disappear, never to showherself again beside her daughter. 

She suffered, too, in all ways, not feeling at home any more in herown house. That pained feeling of dispossession which she had hadone evening, when all eyes were fixed on Annette under her portrait, continued, stronger and more exasperating than before. She reproachedherself unceasingly for feeling that yearning need for deliverance, that unspeakable desire to send her daughter away from her, likea troublesome and tenacious guest; and she labored against it withunconscious skill, convinced of the necessity of struggling to retain, in spite of everything, the man she loved. 

Unable to hasten Annette's marriage too urgently, because of theirrecent mourning, she feared, with a confused yet dominating fear, anything that might defeat that plan; and she sought, almost in spiteof herself, to awaken in her daughter's heart some feeling of tendernessfor the Marquis. 

All the resourceful diplomacy she had employed so long to hold Oliviernow took with her a new form, shrewder, more secret, exerting itself tokindle affection between the young people, and to keep the two men frommeeting. 

As the painter, who kept regular hours of work, never breakfasted awayfrom home, and usually gave only his evenings to his friends, she ofteninvited the Marquis to breakfast. He would arrive, spreading aroundhim the animation of his ride, a sort of breath of morning air. And hetalked gaily of all those worldly things that seem to float every dayupon the autumnal awakening of brilliant and horse-loving Paris in theavenues of the Bois. Annette was amused in listening to him, acquiredsome taste for those topics of the days that he recounted to her, freshand piquant as they were. An intimacy of youth sprang up between them, a pleasant companionship which a common and passionate love for horsesnaturally fostered. When he had gone the Countess and the Count wouldartfully praise him, saying everything necessary to let the young girlknow that it depended only upon herself to marry him if he pleased her. 

She had understood very quickly, however, and reasoning frankly withherself, judged it a very simple thing to take for a husband thishandsome fellow, who would give her, besides other satisfactions, thatwhich she preferred above all others, the pleasure of galloping besidehim every morning on a thoroughbred. 

They found themselves betrothed one day, quite naturally, after a claspof the hand and a smile, and the marriage was spoken of as somethinglong decided. Then the Marquis began to bring gifts, and the Duchesstreated Annette like her own daughter. The whole affair, then, had beenfostered by common accord, warmed over the fire of a little intimacy, during the quiet hours of the day; and the Marquis, having many otheroccupations, relatives, obligations and duties, rarely came in theevening. 

That was Olivier's time. He dined regularly every week with his friends, and also continued to appear without appointment to ask for a cup of teabetween ten o'clock and midnight. 

As soon as he entered the Countess watched him, devoured by a desire toknow what was passing in his heart. He gave no glance, made no gesturethat she did not immediately interpret, and she was tortured by thisthought: "It is impossible that he is not in love with her, seeing us soclose together. "

He, too, brought gifts. Not a week passed that he did not appear bearingtwo little packages in his hands, offering one to the mother, the otherto the daughter; and the Countess, opening the boxes, which often heldvaluable objects, felt again that contraction of the heart. She knew sowell that desire to give which, as a woman, she never had been able tosatisfy--that desire to bring something that would give pleasure, to purchase for someone, to find in the shops some trifle that wouldplease. 

The painter had already been through this phase, and she had seen himcome in many times with that same smile, that same gesture, a littlepacket in his hand. That habit had ceased after awhile, and now it hadbegun again. For whom? She had no matter of doubt. It was not for her!

He appeared fatigued and thin. She concluded that he was suffering. Shecompared his entrances, his manner, his bearing with the attitude of theMarquis, who was also beginning to be attracted by Annette's grace. Itwas not at all the same thing: Monsieur de Farandal admired her, OlivierBertin loved! She believed this at least during her hours of torture;then, in quieter moments she still hoped that she had deceived herself. 

Oh, often she could hardly restrain herself from questioning him whenshe was alone with him, praying, entreating him to speak, to confessall, to hide nothing! She preferred to know and to weep under certaintythan to suffer thus under doubt, not able to read that closed heart, wherein she felt another love was growing. 

That heart, which she prized more highly than her life, over which shehad watched, and which she had warmed and animated with her love fortwelve years, of which she had believed herself sure, which she hadhoped was definitely hers, conquered, submissive, passionately devotedfor the rest of their lives, behold! now that heart was escaping her byan inconceivable, horrible, and monstrous fatality! Yes, it had suddenlyclosed itself, upon a secret. She could no longer penetrate it bya familiar word, or hide therein her own affection as in a faithfulretreat open for herself alone. What is the use of loving, of givingoneself without reserve, if suddenly he to whom one has offered herwhole being, her entire existence, all, everything she had in the world, is to escape thus because another face has pleased him, transforming himin a few days almost into a stranger?

A stranger! He, Olivier? He spoke to her, as always, with the samewords, the same voice, the same tone. And yet there was somethingbetween them, something inexplicable, intangible, invincible, almostnothing--that almost nothing that causes a sail to float away when thewind turns. 

He was drifting, in fact, drifting away from her a little more each day, by all the glances he cast upon Annette. He himself did not attemptto see clearly into the depths of his heart. He felt, indeed, thatfermentation of love, that irresistible attraction; but he would notunderstand, he trusted to events, to the unforeseen chances of life. 

He had no longer any other interest than that of his dinners and hisevenings between those two women, separated from the gay world by theirmourning. Meeting only indifferent faces at their house--those of theCorbelles, and Musadieu oftener--he fancied himself almost alone in theworld with them; and as he now seldom saw the Duchess and the Marquis, for whom the morning and noontimes were reserved, he wished to forgetthem, suspecting that the marriage had been indefinitely postponed. 

Besides, Annette never spoke of Monsieur de Farandal before him. Wasthis because of a sort of instinctive modesty, or was it perhaps fromone of those secret intuitions of the feminine heart which enable themto foretell that of which they are ignorant?

Weeks followed weeks, without changing this manner of life, and autumncame, bringing the reopening of the Chamber, earlier than usual becauseof certain political dangers. 

On the day of the reopening, the Comte de Guilleroy was to take to themeeting of Parliament Madame de Mortemain, the Marquis, and Annette, after a breakfast at his own house. The Countess alone, isolated inher sorrow, which was steadily increasing, had declared that she wouldremain at home. 

They had left the table and were drinking coffee in the largedrawing-room, in a merry mood. The Count, happy to resume parliamentarywork, his only pleasure, talked very well concerning the existingsituation and of the embarrassments of the Republic; the Marquis, unmistakably in love, answered him brightly, while gazing at Annette;and the Duchess was almost equally pleased with the emotion of hernephew and the distress of the government. The air of the drawing-roomwas warm with that first concentrated heat of newly-lighted furnaces, the heat of draperies, carpets, and walls, in which the perfumes ofasphyxiated flowers was evaporating. There was in this closely shutroom, filled with the aroma of coffee, an air of comfort, intimate, familiar, and satisfied, when the door was opened before Olivier Bertin. 

He paused at the threshold, so surprised that he hesitated to enter, surprised as a deceived husband who beholds his wife's crime. Aconfusion of anger and mingled emotion suffocated him, revealing tohim the fact that his heart was worm-eaten with love! All that they hadhidden from him, and all that he had concealed from himself appearedbefore him as he perceived the Marquis installed in the house, as abetrothed lover!

He understood, in a transport of exasperation, all that which he wouldrather not have known and all that the Countess had not dared to tellhim. He did not ask himself why all those preparations for marriage hadbeen concealed from him. He guessed it, and his eyes, growing hard, metthose of the Countess, who blushed. They understood each other. 

When he was seated, everyone was silent for a few seconds, hisunexpected entrance having paralyzed their flow of spirits; then theDuchess began to speak to him, and he replied in a brief manner, hisvoice suddenly changed. 

He looked around at these people who were now chatting again, and saidto himself: "They are making game of me. They shall pay for it. " Hewas especially vexed with the Countess and Annette, whose innocentdissimulation he suddenly understood. 

"Oh, oh! it is time to go, " exclaimed the Count, looking at the clock. Turning to the painter, he added: "We are going to the opening ofParliament. My wife will remain here, however. Will you accompany us? Itwould give me great pleasure. "

"No, thanks, " replied Olivier drily. "Your Chamber does not tempt me. "

Annette approached in a playful way, saying: "Oh, do come, dear master!I am sure that you would amuse us much more than the deputies. "

"No, indeed. You will amuse yourself very well without me. "

Seeing him discontented and chagrined, she insisted, to show that shefelt kindly toward him. 

"Yes, come, sir painter! I assure you that as for myself I cannot dowithout you. "

His next words escaped him so quickly that he could nether check them ashe spoke nor soften their tone:

"Bah! You do well enough without me, just as everyone else does!"

A little surprised at his tone, she exclaimed: "Come, now! Here he isbeginning again to leave off his 'tu' to me!"

His lips were curled in one of those smiles that reveal the suffering ofa soul, and he said with a slight bow: "It will be necessary for me toaccustom myself to it one day or another. "

"Why, pray?"

"Because you will marry, and your husband, whoever he may be, would havethe right to find that word rather out of place coming from me. "

"It will be time enough then to think about that, " the Countess hastenedto say. "But I trust that Annette will not marry a man so susceptible asto object to such familiarity from so old a friend. "

"Come, come!" cried the Count; "let us go. We shall be late. "

Those who were to accompany him, having risen, went out after him, afterthe usual handshakes and kisses which the Duchess, the Countess, and herdaughter exchanged at every meeting as at every parting. 

They remained alone, She and He, standing, behind the draperies over theclosed door. 

"Sit down, my friend, " said she softly. 

But he answered, almost violently: "No, thanks! I am going, too. "

"Oh, why?" she murmured, entreatingly. 

"Because this is not my hour, it appears. I ask pardon for having comewithout warning. "

"Olivier, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing. I only regret having disturbed an organized pleasure party. "

She seized his hand. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. "They were just about to set out, sincethey were going to be present at the opening of the session. I intendedto stay at home. Contrary to what you said just now, you were reallyinspired in coming to-day when I am alone. "

He sneered. 

"Inspired? Yes, I was inspired!"

She seized his wrists, and looking deep into his eyes she murmured verylow:

"Confess to me that you love her!"

He withdrew his hands, unable to control his impatience any longer. 

"But you are simply insane with that idea!"

She seized him again by the arm and, tightening her hold on his sleeve, she implored:

"Olivier! Confess, confess! I would rather know. I am certain of it, butI would rather know. I would rather--Oh, you do not comprehend what mylife has become!"

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"What would you have me do? Is it my fault if you lose your head?"

She held him, drawing him toward the other salon at the back, wherethey could not be heard. She drew him by his coat, clinging to him andpanting. When she had led him as far as the little circular divan, shemade him let himself fall upon it; then she sat down beside him. 

"Olivier, my friend, my only friend, I pray you to tell me that you loveher. I know it, I feel it from all that you do. I cannot doubt it. I amdying of it, but I wish to know it from your own lips. "

As he still resisted, she fell on her knees at his feet. Her voiceshook. 

"Oh, my friend, my only friend! Is it true that you love her?"

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed, as he tried to make her rise. "I swear toyou that I do not. "

She reached up her hand to his mouth and pressed it there tight, stammering: "Oh, do not lie! I suffer too much!"

Then, letting her head fall on this man's knees, she sobbed. 

He could see only the back of her neck, a mass of blond hair, mingledwith many white threads, and he was filled with immense pity, immensegrief. 

Seizing that heavy hair in both hands he raised her head violently, turning toward himself two bewildered eyes, from which tears wereflowing. And then on those tearful eyes he pressed his lips many times, repeating:

"Any! Any! My dear, my dear Any!"

Then she, attempting to smile, and speaking in that hesitating voice ofchildren when choking with grief, said:

"Oh, my friend, only tell me that you still love me a little. "

He embraced her again, even more tenderly than before. 

"Yes, I love you, my dear Any. "

She arose, sat down beside him again, seized his hands, looked at him, and said tenderly:

"It is such a long time that we have loved each other. It should not endlike this. "

He pressed her close to him, asking:

"Why should it end?"

"Because I am old, and because Annette resembles too much what I waswhen you first knew me. "

Now it was his turn to close her sad lips with his fingers, saying:

"Again! I beg that you will speak no more of that. I swear to you thatyou deceive yourself. "

"Oh, if you will only love me a little, " she repeated. 

"Yes, I love you, " he said again. 

They remained a long time without speaking, hands clasped in hands, deeply moved and very sad. At last she broke the silence, murmuring:

"Oh, the hours that remain for me to live will not be gay!"

"I will try to make them sweet to you. "

The shadow of the clouded sky that precedes the twilight by two hourswas darkening the drawing-room, burying them little by little in thegray dimness of an autumn evening. 

The clock struck. 

"It is a long time since we came in here, " said she. "You must go, forsomeone might come, and we are not calm. "

He arose, clasped her close, kissing her half-open lips, as he usedto do; then they crossed the two drawing-rooms, arm in arm, like anewly-married pair. 

"Good-by, my friend. "

"Good-by, my friend. "

And the portiere fell behind him. 

He went downstairs, turned toward the Madeleine, and began to walkwithout knowing what he was doing, dazed as if from a blow, his legsweak, his heart hot and palpitating as if something burning shook withinhis breast. For two or three hours, perhaps four, he walked straightbefore him, in a sort of moral stupor and physical prostration whichleft him only just strength enough to put one foot before the other. Then he went home to reflect. 

He loved this little girl, then. He comprehended now all that he hadfelt near her since that walk in the Parc Monceau, when he found in hermouth the call from a voice hardly recognized, the voice that long agohad awakened his heart; then all that slow, irresistible renewal ofa love not yet extinct, not yet frozen, which he persisted in notacknowledging to himself. 

What should he do? But what could he do? When she was married he wouldavoid seeing her often, that was all. Meantime, he would continue toreturn to the house, so that no one should suspect anything, and hewould hide his secret from everyone. 

He dined at home, which he very seldom did. Then he had a fire made inthe large stove in his studio, for the night promised to be very cold. He even ordered the chandeliers to be lighted, as if he dislikedthe dark corners, and then he shut himself in. What strange emotion, profound, physical, frightfully sad, had seized him! He felt it in histhroat, in his breast, in all his relaxed muscles as well as in hisfainting soul. The walls of the apartment oppressed him; all his lifewas inclosed therein--his life as an artist, his life as a man. Everypainted study hanging there recalled a success, each piece of furniturespoke of some memory. But successes and memories were things of thepast. His life? How short, how empty it seemed to him, yet full. He hadmade pictures, and more pictures, and always pictures, and had loved onewoman. He recalled the evenings of exaltation, after their meetings, inthis same studio. He had walked whole nights with his being on fire withfever. The joy of happy love, the joy of worldly success, the uniqueintoxication of glory, had caused him to taste unforgettable hours ofinward triumph. 

He had loved a woman, and that woman had loved him. Through her hehad received that baptism which reveals to man the mysterious world ofemotions and of love. She had opened his heart almost by force, and nowhe could no longer close it. Another love had entered, in spite of him, through this opening--another, or rather the same relighted by a newface; the same, stronger by all the force which this need to adore takeson in old age. So he loved this little girl! He need no longer struggle, resist, or deny; he loved her with the despairing knowledge that heshould not even gain a little pity from her, that she would always beignorant of his terrible torment, and that another would marry her!At this thought constantly recurring, impossible to drive away, he wasseized with an animal-like desire to howl like chained dogs, for likethem he felt powerless, enslaved, imprisoned. Becoming more and morenervous, the longer he thought, he walked with long strides throughthe vast room, lighted up as if for a celebration. At last, unable totolerate longer the pain of that reopened wound, he wished to try tocalm it with the recollection of his early love, to drown it in evokinghis first and great passion. From the closet where he kept it he tookthe copy of the Countess's portrait that he had made formerly forhimself, then he put it on his easel, and sitting down in front of it, gazed at it. He tried to see her again, to find her living again, suchas he had loved her before. But it was always Annette that rose upon thecanvas. The mother had disappeared, vanished, leaving in her place thatother face which resembled hers so strangely. It was the little one, with her hair a little lighter, her smile a little more mischievous, herair a little more mocking; and he felt that he belonged body and soulto that young being, as he never had belonged to the other, as a sinkingvessel belongs to the waves!

Then he arose, and in order to see this apparition no more he turned thepainting around; then, as he felt his heart full of sadness, he wentto his chamber to bring into the studio the drawer of his desk, whereinwere sleeping all the letters of the mistress of his heart. There theylay, as if in a bed, one upon the other, forming a thick layer of littlethin papers. He thrust his hands among the mass, among all that whichspoke of both of them, deep into that bath of their long intimacy. Helooked at that narrow board coffin in which lay the mass of piled-upenvelopes, on which his name, his name alone, was always written. Hereflected that the love, the tender attachment of two beings, one forthe other, were recounted therein, among that yellowish wave of papersspotted by red seals, and he inhaled, in bending over it, the oldmelancholy odor of letters that have been packed away. 

He wished to re-read them, and feeling in the bottom of the drawer, hedrew out a handful of the earlier ones. As soon as he opened them vividmemories emerged from them, which stirred his soul. He recognized manythat he had carried about on his person for whole weeks, and foundagain, throughout the delicate handwriting that said such sweet thingsto him, the forgotten emotions of early days. Suddenly he found underhis fingers a fine embroidered handkerchief. What was that? He pondereda few minutes, then he remembered! One day, at his house, she hadwept because she was a little jealous, and he had stolen and kept herhandkerchief, moist with her tears!

Ah, what sad things! What sad things! The poor woman!

From the depths of that drawer, from the depths of his past, all thesereminiscences rose like a vapor, but it was only the impalpable vapor ofa reality now dead. Nevertheless, he suffered and wept over the letters, as one weeps over the dead because they are no more. 

But the remembrance of all his early love awakened in him a new andyouthful ardor, a wave of irresistible tenderness which called up inhis mind the radiant face of Annette. He had loved the mother, through apassionate impulse of voluntary servitude; he was beginning to lovethis little girl like a slave, a trembling old slave on whom fettersare riveted that he never can break. He felt this in the depths ofhis being, and was terrified. He tried to understand how and why shepossessed him thus. He knew her so little! She was hardly a woman asyet; her heart and soul still slept with the sleep of youth. 

He, on the other hand, was now almost at the end of his life. How, then, had this child been able to capture him with a few smiles and locks ofher hair? Ah, the smiles, the hair of that little blonde maiden made himlong to fall on his knees and strike the dust with his head!

Does one know, does one ever know why a woman's face has suddenly thepower of poison upon us? It seems as if one had been drinking her withthe eyes, that she had become one's mind and body. We are intoxicatedwith her, mad over her; we live of that absorbed image and would die ofit!

How one suffers sometimes from this ferocious and incomprehensible powerof a certain face on a man's heart!

Olivier Bertin began to pace his room again; night was advancing, hisfire had gone out. Through the window-panes the cold air penetratedfrom outside. Then he went back to bed, where he continued to think andsuffer until daylight. 

He rose early, without knowing why, nor what he was going to do, agitated by his nervousness, irresolute as a whirling weather-vane. 

In seeking some distraction for his mind, some occupation for his body, he recollected that on that particular day of the week certain membersof his club had the habit of meeting regularly at the Moorish Baths, where they breakfasted after the massage. So he dressed quickly, hopingthat the hot room and the shower would calm him, and he went out. 

As soon as he found himself in the street, he felt the cold air, thatfirst crisp cold of the early frost, which destroys in a single nightthe last trances of summer. 

All along the Boulevards fell a thick shower of large yellow leaveswhich rustled down with a dry sound. As far as could be seen, they fellfrom one end of the broad avenue to the other, between the facades ofthe houses, as if all their stems had just been cut from the branchesby a thin blade of ice. The road and the sidewalks were already coveredwith them, resembling for a few hours the paths in the woods at thebeginning of winter. All that dead foliage crackled under the feet, and massed itself, from time to time, in light waves under the gusts ofwind. 

This was one of those days of transition which mark the end of oneseason and the beginning of another, which have a savor or a specialsadness--the sadness of the death-struggle or the savor of rising sap. 

In crossing the threshold of the Moorish Baths, the thought of the heatthat would soon penetrate his flesh after his walk in the cold air gavea feeling of satisfaction to Olivier's sad heart. 

He undressed quickly, wrapping around his body the light scarf theattendant handed to him, and disappeared behind the padded door openbefore him. 

A warm, oppressive breath, which seemed to come from a distant furnace, made him pant as if he needed air while traversing a Moorish gallerylighted by two Oriental lanterns. Then a negro with woolly head, attiredonly in a girdle, with shining body and muscular limbs, ran beforehim to raise a curtain at the other end; and Bertin entered the largehot-air room, round, high-studded, silent, almost as mystic as a temple. Daylight fell from above through a cupola and through trefoils ofcolored glass into the immense circular room, with paved floor and wallscovered with pottery decorated after the Arab fashion. 

Men of all ages, almost naked, walked slowly about, grave and silent;others were seated on marble benches, with arms crossed; others stillchatted in low tones. 

The burning air made one pant at the very entrance. There was, withinthat stifling and decorated circular room, where human flesh was heated, where black and yellow attendants with copper-colored legs moved about, something antique and mysterious. 

The first face the painter saw was that of the Comte de Landa. He waspromenading around like a Roman wrestler, proud of his enormous chestand of his great arms crossed over it. A frequenter of the hot baths, he felt when there like an admired actor on the stage, and he criticisedlike an expert the muscles of all the strong men in Paris. 

"Good-morning, Bertin, " said he. 

They shook hands; then Landa continued: "Splendid weather for sweating!"

"Yes, magnificent. "

"Have you seen Rocdiane? He is down there. I was at his house just as hewas getting out of bed. Oh, look at that anatomy!"

A little gentleman was passing, bow-legged, with thin arms and flanks, the sight of whom caused the two old models of human vigor to smiledisdainfully. 

Rocdiane approached them, having perceived the painter. They sat downon a long marble table and began to chat quite as if they were in adrawing-room. The attendants moved about, offering drinks. One couldhear the clapping of the masseurs' hands on bare flesh and the suddenflow of the shower-baths. A continuous pattering of water, coming fromall corners of the great amphitheater, filled it also with a sound likerain. 

At every instant some newcomer saluted the three friends, or approachedthem to shake hands. Among them were the big Duke of Harrison, thelittle Prince Epilati, Baron Flach, and others. 

Suddenly Rocdiane said: "How are you, Farandal?"

The Marquis entered, his hands on his hips, with the easy air ofwell-made men, who never feel embarrassed at anything. 

"He is a gladiator, that chap!" Landa murmured. 

Rocdiane resumed, turning toward Bertin: "Is it true that he is to marrythe daughter of your friend?"

"I think so, " said the painter. 

But the question, before that man, in that place, gave to Olivier'sheart a frightful shock of despair and revolt. The horror of allthe realities he had foreseen appeared to him for a second with suchacuteness that he struggled an instant or so against an animal-likedesire to fling himself on Farandal. 

He arose. 

"I am tired, " said he. "I am going to the massage now. "

An Arab was passing. 

"Ahmed, are you at liberty?"

"Yes, Monsieur Bertin. "

And he went away quickly in order to avoid shaking hands with Farandal, who was approaching slowly in making the rounds of the Hammam. 

He remained barely a quarter of an hour in the large quiet resting-room, in the center of a row of cells containing the beds, with a _parterre_of African plants and a little fountain in the center. He had a feelingof being pursued, menaced, that the Marquis would join him, and that heshould be compelled, with extended hand, to treat him as a friend, whenhe longed to kill him. 

He soon found himself again on the Boulevard, covered with dead leaves. They fell no more, the last ones having been detached by a long blast ofwind. Their red and yellow carpet shivered, stirred, undulated from onesidewalk to another, blown by puffs of the rising wind. 

Suddenly a sort of roaring noise glided over the roofs, the animal-likesound of a passing tempest, and at the same time a furious gust of windthat seemed to come from the Madeleine swept through the Boulevard. 

All the fallen leaves, which appeared to have been waiting for it, roseat its approach. They ran before it, massing themselves, whirling, andrising in spirals up to the tops of the buildings. The wind chased themlike a flock, a mad flock that fled before it, flying toward the gatesof Paris and the free sky of the suburbs. And when the great cloudof leaves and dust had disappeared on the heights of the QuartierMalesherbes, the sidewalks and roads remained bare, strangely clean andswept. 

Bertin was thinking: "What will become of me? What shall I do? Whereshall I go?" And he returned home, unable to think of anything. 

A news-stand attracted his eye. He bought seven or eight newspapers, hoping that he might find in them something to read for an hour or two. 

"I will breakfast here, " said he, as he entered, and went up to hisstudio. 

But as he sat down he felt that he could not stay there, for throughouthis body surged the excitement of an angry beast. 

The newspapers, which he glanced through, could not distract his mindfor a minute, and the news he read met his eye without reaching hisbrain. In the midst of an article which he was not trying to comprehend, the name of Guilleroy made him start. It was about the session of theChamber, where the Count had spoken a few words. 

His attention, aroused by that call, was now arrested by the name of thecelebrated tenor Montrose, who was to give, about the end of December, asingle performance at the Opera. This would be, the newspaper stated, a magnificent musical solemnity, for the tenor Montrose, who hadbeen absent six years from Paris, had just won, throughout Europe andAmerica, a success without precedent; moreover, he would be supported bythe illustrious Swedish singer, Helsson, who had not been heard in Parisfor five years. 

Suddenly Olivier had an idea, which seemed to spring from the depthsof his heart--he would give Annette the pleasure of seeing thisperformance. Then he remembered that the Countess's mourning might be anobstacle to this scheme, and he sought some way to realize it in spiteof the difficulty. Only one method presented itself. He must take astage-box where one may be almost invisible, and if the Countess shouldstill not wish to go, he would have Annette accompanied by her fatherand the Duchess. In that case, he would have to offer his box to theDuchess. But then he would be obliged to invite the Marquis!

He hesitated and reflected a long time. 

Certainly, the marriage was decided upon; no doubt the date was settled. He guessed the reason for his friend's haste in having it finished soon;he understood that in the shortest time possible she would give herdaughter to Farandal. He could not help it. He could neither prevent, nor modify, nor delay this frightful thing. Since he must bear it, would it not be better for him to try to master his soul, to hide hissuffering, to appear content, and no longer allow himself to be carriedaway by his rage, as he had done?

Yes, he would invite the Marquis, and so allay the Countess'ssuspicions, and keep for himself a friendly door in the newestablishment. 

As soon as he had breakfasted, he went down to the Opera to engage oneof the boxes hidden by the curtain. It was promised to him. Then hehastened to the Guilleroys'. 

The Countess appeared almost immediately, apparently still a littlemoved by their tender interview of the day before. 

"How kind of you to come again to-day!" said she. 

"I am bringing you something, " he faltered. 

"What is it?"

"A stage-box at the Opera for the single performance of Helsson andMontrose. "

"Oh, my friend, what a pity! And my mourning?"

"Your mourning has lasted for almost four months. "

"I assure you that I cannot. "

"And Annette? Remember that she may never have such an opportunityagain. "

"With whom could she go?"

"With her father and the Duchess, whom I am about to invite. I intendalso to offer a seat to the Marquis. "

She gazed deep into his eyes, and a wild desire to kiss him rose to herlips. Hardly believing her ears, she repeated: "To the Marquis?"

"Why, yes. "

She consented at once to this arrangement. 

He continued, in an indifferent tone: "Have you fixed the date of theirmarriage?"

"Oh, yes, almost. We have reasons for hastening it very much, especiallyas it was decided upon before my mother's death. You remember that?"

"Yes, perfectly. And when will it take place?"

"About the beginning of January. I ask your pardon for not having toldyou of it sooner. "

Annette entered. He felt his heart leap within him as if on springs, and all the tenderness that drew him toward her suddenly became bitter, arousing in his heart that strange, passionate animosity into which lovechanges when lashed by jealousy. 

"I have brought you something, " he said. 

"So we have decided to say 'you'?" she replied. 

He assumed a paternal tone. 

"Listen, my child, I know all about the event that is soon to occur. Iassure you that then it will be indispensable. Better say 'you' now thanlater. "

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of discontent, while the Countessremained silent, looking afar off, her thoughts preoccupied. 

"Well, what have you brought me?" inquired Annette. 

He told her about the performance, and the invitations he intended togive. She was delighted, and, throwing her arms around his neck with themanner of a little girl, she kissed him on both cheeks. 

He felt ready to sink, and understood, when he felt the light caressesof that little mouth with its sweet breath, that he never should becured of his passion. 

The Countess, annoyed, said to her daughter: "You know that your fatheris waiting for you. "

"Yes, mamma, I am going. "

She ran away, still throwing kisses from the tips of her fingers. 

As soon as she had gone, Olivier asked: "Will they travel?"

"Yes, for three months. "

"So much the better, " he murmured in spite of himself. 

"We will resume our former life, " said the Countess. 

"Yes, I hope so, " said he, hesitatingly. 

"But do not neglect me meanwhile. "

"No, my friend. "

The impulse he had shown the evening before, when seeing her weep, andthe intention which he had just expressed of inviting the Marquis to theperformance at the Opera, had given new hope to the Countess. 

But it was short. A week had not passed ere she was again followingthe expression of this man's face with tortured and jealous attention, watching every stage of his suffering. She could ignore nothing, herselfenduring all the pain that she guessed at in him; and Annette's constantpresence reminded her at every moment of the day of the hopelessness ofher efforts. 

Everything oppressed her at the same time--her age and her mourning. Her active, intelligent, and ingenious coquetry, which all her life hadgiven her triumph, found itself paralyzed by that black uniform whichmarked her pallor and the change in her features, while it rendered theadolescence of her daughter absolutely dazzling. The time seemed faraway, though it was quite recent, when, on Annette's return to Paris, she had proudly sought similar toilets which at that time were favorableto her. Now she had a furious longing to tear from her body thosevestments of death which made her ugly and tortured her. 

If she had felt that all the resources of elegance were at her service, if she had been able to choose and use delicately shaded stuffs, inharmony with her coloring, which would have lent a studied power to herfading charms, as captivating as the inert grace of her daughter, shewould no doubt have known how to remain still the more charming. 

She knew so well the influences of the fever-giving costume ofevening, and the soft sensuousness of morning attire, of the disturbing_deshabille_ worn at breakfast with intimate friends, which lend to awoman until noontime a sort of reminiscence of her rising, the materialand warm impression of the bed and of her perfumed room!

But what could she attempt under that sepulchral robe, that convict'sdress, which must cover her for a whole year? A year! She must remaina year imprisoned in that black attire, inactive and vanquished. For awhole year she would feel herself growing old, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, under that sheath of crape! What would she be in ayear if her poor ailing body continued to alter thus under the anguishof her soul?

These thoughts never left her, and spoiled for her everything she mighthave enjoyed, turned into sadness things that would have given her joy, leaving her not a pleasure, a contentment, or a gaiety intact. She wasagitated incessantly by an exasperating need to shake off this weight ofmisery that crushed her, for without this tormenting obsession she wouldstill have been so happy, alert, and healthy! She felt that her soul wasstill fresh and bright, her heart still young, the ardor of a beingthat is beginning to live, an insatiable appetite for happiness, morevoracious even than before, and a devouring desire to love. 

And now, all good things, all things sweet, delicious and poetic, whichembellish life and make it enjoyable, were withdrawing from her, becauseshe was growing old! It was all finished! Yet she still found withinher the tenderness of the young girl and the passionate impulses of theyoung woman. Nothing had grown old but her body, that miserable skin, that stuff over the bones, fading little by little like the coveringof a piece of furniture. The curse of this decay had attached itselfto her, and had become almost a physical suffering. This fixed ideahad created a sensation of the epidermis, the sensation of growing old, continuous and imperceptible, like that of cold or of heat. She reallybelieved that she felt an indescribable sort of itching, the slow marchof wrinkles upon her forehead, the weakening of the tissues of thecheeks and throat, and the multiplication of those innumerable littlemarks that wear out the tired skin. Like some one afflicted witha consuming disease, whom a continual prurience induces to scratchhimself, the perception and terror of that abominable, swift and secretwork of time filled her soul with an irresistible need of verifyingit in her mirrors. They called her, drew her, forced her to come, withfixed eyes, to see, to look again, to recognize incessantly, to touchwith her finger, as if to assure herself, the indelible mark of theyears. At first this was an intermittent thought, returning whenever shesaw the polished surface of the dreaded crystal, at home or abroad. Shepaused in the street to gaze at herself in the shop-windows, hangingas if by one hand to all the glass plates with which merchants ornamenttheir facades. It became a disease, an obsession. She carried in herpocket a dainty little ivory powder-box, as large as a nut, the interiorof which contained a tiny mirror; and often, while walking, she held itopen in her hand and raised it to her eyes. 

When she sat down to read or write in the tapestried drawing-room, hermind, distracted for the time by a new occupation, would soon returnto its obsession. She struggled, tried to amuse herself, to haveother ideas, to continue her work. It was in vain; the prick of desiretormented her, and soon dropping her book or her pen, her hand wouldsteal out, by an irresistible impulse, toward the little hand-glassmounted in antique silver that lay upon her desk. In this oval, chiseledframe her whole face was inclosed, like a face of days gone by, aportrait of the last century, or a once fresh pastel now tarnished bythe sun. Then after gazing at herself a long time, she laid, with aweary movement, the little glass upon the desk and tried to resume herwork; but ere she had read two pages or written twenty lines, shewas again seized with the invincible and torturing need of looking atherself, and once more would extend her hand to take up the mirror. 

She now handled it like an irritating and familiar toy that the handcannot let alone, used it continually even when receiving her friends, and made herself nervous enough to cry out, hating it as if it were asentient thing while turning it in her fingers. 

One day, exasperated by this struggle between herself and this bit ofglass, she threw it against the wall, where it was broken to pieces. 

But after a time her husband, who had it repaired, brought it back toher, clearer than ever; and she was compelled to take it, to thank him, and resign herself to keep it. 

Every evening, too, and every morning, shut up in her own room, sheresumed, in spite of herself, that minute and patient examination of thequiet, odious havoc. 

When she was in bed she could not sleep; she would light a candle againand lie, wide-eyed, thinking how insomnia and grief hasten irremediablythe horrible work of fleeting time. She listened in the silence ofthe night to the ticking of the clock, which seemed to murmur, in itsmonotonous and regular tic-tac: "It goes, it goes, it goes!" and herheart shrank with such suffering that, with the sheet gripped betweenher teeth, she groaned in despair. 

Once, like everyone else, she had some notion of the passing years andof the changes they bring. Like everyone else, she had said to herselfevery winter, every spring, and every summer, "I have changed very muchsince last year. " But, always beautiful, with a changing beauty, shewas never uneasy about it. Now, however, suddenly, instead of admittingpeacefully the slow march of the seasons, she had just discovered andunderstood the formidable flight of the minutes. She had had a suddenrevelation of the gliding of the hour, of that imperceptible race, maddening when we think of it--of that infinite defile of littlehurrying seconds, which nibble at the body and the life of men. 

After these miserable nights, she had long periods of somnolence thatmade her more tranquil, in the warmth of her bed, when her maid hadopened the curtains and lighted the morning fire. She lay there tired, drowsy, neither awake nor asleep, in the torpor of thought which bringsabout the revival of that instinctive and providential hope which giveslight and life to the hearts of men up to their last days. 

Every morning now, as soon as she had risen from her bed, she felt movedby a powerful desire to pray to God, to obtain from Him a little reliefand consolation. 

She would kneel, then, before a large figure of Christ carved in oak, agift from Olivier, a rare work he had discovered; and, with lipsclosed, but imploring with that voice of the soul with which we speak toourselves, she lifted toward the Divine martyr a sorrowful supplication. Distracted by the need of being heard and succored, naïve in herdistress, as are all faithful ones on their knees, she could not doubtthat He heard her, that He was attentive to her request, and was perhapstouched at her grief. She did not ask Him to do for her that which Henever had done for anyone--to leave her until death all her charm, herfreshness and grace; she begged only a little repose, a little respite. She must grow old, of course, just as she must die. But why so soon?Some women remain beautiful so long! Could He not grant that she shouldbe one of these? How good He would be, He who had also suffered so much, if only He would let her keep for two or three years still the littlecharm she needed in order to be pleasing. 

She did not say these things to Him, of course, but she sighed themforth, in the confused plaint of her being. 

Then, having risen, she would sit before her toilet-table, and witha tension of thought as ardent as in her prayer, she would handle thepowders, the pastes, the pencils, the puffs and brushes, which gave heronce more a plaster-like beauty, fragile, lasting only for a day. 

CHAPTER VI

THE ASHES OF LOVE

On the Boulevard two names were heard from all lips: "Emma Helsson" and"Montrose. " The nearer one approached the Opera, the oftener he heardthose names repeated. Immense posters, too, affixed to the Morriscolumns, announced them in the eyes of passers, and in the evening aircould be felt the excitement of an approaching event. 

That heavy monument called the National Academy of Music, squatted underthe black sky, exhibited to the crowd before its doors the pompous, whitish facade and marble colonnade of its balcony, illuminated like astage setting by invisible electric lights. 

In the square the mounted Republican guards directed the movement ofthe crowds, and the innumerable carriages coming from all parts ofParis allowed glimpses of creamy light stuff and fair faces behind theirlowered windows. 

The coupes and landaus formed in line under the reserved arcades, andstopped for a moment, and from them alighted fashionable and otherwomen, in their opera-cloaks, trimmed with fur, feathers, and rarelaces--precious bodies, divinely set forth!

All the way along the celebrated stairway was a sort of fairy flight, anuninterrupted mounting of ladies dressed like queens, whose throats andears scattered flashing rays from their diamonds, and whose long trainsswept the stairs. 

The theater was filling early, for no one wished to lose a note of thetwo illustrious artists; and throughout the vast amphitheater, under thedazzling electric light from the great chandelier, a throng of peoplewere seating themselves amid an uproar of voices. 

From the stage-box, already occupied by the Duchess, Annette, the Count, the Marquis, Bertin and Musadieu, one could see nothing but the wings, where men were talking, running about, and shouting, machinists inblouses, gentlemen in evening dress, actors in costume. But behindthe great curtain one heard the deep sound of the crowd, one felt thepresence of a mass of moving, over-excited beings, whose agitationseemed to penetrate the curtain, and to extend even to the decorations. 

They were about to present _Faust_. 

Musadieu was relating anecdotes about the first representatives ofthis work at the Theatre Lyrique, of its half success in the beginningfollowed by brilliant triumph, of the original cast, and their manner ofsinging each aria. Annette, half turned toward him, listened with thateager, youthful curiosity with which she regarded the whole world; andat times she cast a tender glance at her fiance, who in a few days wouldbe her husband. She loved him, now, as innocent hearts love; that isto say she loved in him all the hopes she had for the future. Theintoxication of the first feasts of life, and the ardent longing to behappy, made her tremble with joy and expectation. 

And Olivier, who saw all, and knew all, who had sounded all the depthsof secret, helpless, and jealous love, down in the furnace of humansuffering, where the heart seems to crackle like flesh over hot coals, stood in the back of the box looking at them with eyes that betrayed historture. 

The three blows were struck, and suddenly the sharp little tap of abow on the leader's desk stopped short all movement, all coughing andwhispering; then, after a brief and profound silence, the first measureof the introduction arose, filling the house with the invisible andirresistible mystery of the music that penetrates our bodies, thrillsour nerves and souls with a poetic and sensuous fever, mingling with thelimpid air we breathe a wave of sound to which we listen. 

Olivier took a seat at the back of the box, painfully affected, asif his heart's wounds had been touched by those accents. But when thecurtain rose he stood up again, and saw Doctor Faust, lost in sorrowfulmeditation, seated in his alchemist's laboratory. 

He had already heard the opera twenty times, and almost knew it byheart, and his attention soon wandered from the stage to the audience. He could see only a small part of it behind the frame of the stage whichconcealed their box, but the angle that was visible, extending from theorchestra to the top gallery, showed him a portion of the audience inwhich he recognized many faces. In the orchestra rows, the men in whitecravats, sitting side by side, seemed a museum of familiar countenances, society men, artists, journalists, the whole category of those thatnever fail to go where everyone else goes. In the balcony and inthe boxes he noted and named to himself the women he recognized. TheComtesse de Lochrist, in a proscenium box, was absolutely ravishing, while a little farther on a bride, the Marquise d'Ebelin, was alreadylooking through her lorgnette. "That is a pretty debut, " said Bertin tohimself. 

The audience listened with deep attention and evident sympathy to thetenor Montrose, who was lamenting over his waning life. 

Olivier thought: "What a farce! There is Faust, the mysterious andsublime Faust who sings the horrible disgust and nothingness ofeverything; and this crowd are asking themselves anxiously whetherMontrose's voice has not changed!" Then he listened, like the others, and behind the trivial words of the libretto, through that music whichawakens profound perception in the soul, he had a sort of revelation asto how Goethe had been able to conceive the heart of Faust. 

He had read the poem some time before, and thought it very beautifulwithout being moved by it, but now he suddenly realized its unfathomabledepth, for it seemed to him that on that evening he himself had become aFaust. 

Leaning lightly upon the railing of the box, Annette was listening withall her ears; and murmurs of satisfaction were beginning to be heardfrom the audience, for Montrose's voice was better and richer than ever!

Bertin had closed his eyes. For a whole month, all that he had seen, all that he had felt, everything that he had encountered in life hehad immediately transformed into a sort of accessory to his passion. Hethrew the world and himself as nourishment to this fixed idea. Allthat he saw that was beautiful or rare, all that he imagined that wascharming, he mentally offered to his little friend; and he had no longeran idea that he did not in some way connect with his love. 

Now he listened from the depths of his soul to the echo of Faust'slamentations, and the desire to die surged up within him, the desire tohave done with all his grief, with all the misery of his hopelesslove. He looked at Annette's delicate profile, and saw the Marquis deFarandal, seated behind her, also looking at it. He felt old, lost, despairing. Ah, never to await anything more, never to hope for anythingmore, no longer to have even the right to desire, to feel himselfoutside of everything, in the evening of life, like a superannuatedfunctionary whose career is ended--what intolerable torture!

Applause burst forth; Montrose had triumphed already. And Labarriere asMephistopheles sprang up from the earth. 

Olivier, who never had heard him in this role, listened with renewedattention. The remembrance of Aubin, so dramatic with his bass voice, then of Faure, so seductive with his baritone, distracted him a shorttime. 

But suddenly a phrase sung by Montrose with irresistible power stirredhim to the heart. Faust was saying to Satan:

 "Je veux un tresor qui les contient tous-- Je veux la jeunesse. "

And the tenor appeared in silken doublet, a sword by his side, a plumedcap on his head, elegant, young, and handsome, with the affectations ofa handsome singer. 

A murmur arose. He was very attractive and the women were pleased withhim. But Olivier felt some disappointment, for the poignant evocation ofGoethe's dramatic poem disappeared in this metamorphosis. Thenceforth hesaw before him only a fairy spectacle, filled with pretty little songs, and actors of talent whose voices were all he listened to. That man in adoublet, that pretty youth with his roulades, who showed his thighsand displayed his voice, displeased him. This was not the real, irresistible, and sinister Chevalier Faust, who was about to seduce thefair Marguerite. 

He sat down again, and the phrase he had just heard returned to hismind:

"I would have a treasure that embraces all--Youth!"

He murmured it between his teeth, sang it sadly in the depths of hissoul, and, with eyes fixed always upon Annette's blonde head, which rosein the square opening of the box, he felt all the bitterness of thatdesire that never could be realized. 

But Montrose had just finished the first act with such perfection thatenthusiasm broke forth. For several minutes, the noise of clapping, stamping, and bravos swept like a storm through the theater. In allthe boxes the women clapped their gloved hands, while the men standingbehind them shouted as they applauded. 

The curtain fell, but it was raised twice before the applause subsided. Then, when the curtain had fallen for the third time, separating thestage and the interior boxes from the audience, the Duchess and Annettecontinued their applause a few moments, and were specially thanked by adiscreet bow from the tenor. 

"Oh, he looked at us!" said Annette. 

"What an admirable artist!" said the Duchess. 

And Bertin, who had been leaning over, looked with a mingled feeling ofirritation and disdain at the admired actor as he disappeared betweentwo wings, waddling a little, his legs stiff, one hand on his hip, inthe affected pose of a theatrical hero. 

They began to talk of him. His social successes had made him as famousas his talent. He had visited every capital, in the midst of feminineecstasies of those who, hearing before he appeared that he wasirresistible, had felt their hearts throb as he appeared upon thestage. But it was said that he appeared to care very little for all thissentimental delirium, and contented himself with his musical triumphs. Musadieu related, in veiled language because of Annette's presence, details of the life of this handsome singer, and the Duchess, quitecarried away, understood and approved all the follies that he was ableto create, so seductive, elegant, and distinguished did she considerthis exceptional musician! She concluded, laughing: "And how can anyoneresist that voice!"

Olivier felt angry and bitter. He did not understand how anyone couldreally care for a mere actor, for that perpetual representation ofhuman types which never resembled himself in the least; that illusorypersonification of imaginary men, that nocturnal and painted manikin whoplays all his characters at so much a night. 

"You are jealous of them!" said the Duchess. "You men of the worldand artists all have a grudge against actors because they are moresuccessful than you. " Turning to Annette, she added: "Come, little one, you who are entering life and look at it with healthy eyes, what do youthink of this tenor?"

"I think he is very good indeed, " Annette replied, with an air ofconviction. 

The three strokes sounded for the second act, and the curtain rose onthe Kermesse. 

Helsson's passage was superb. She seemed to have more voice thanformerly, and to have acquired more certainty of method. She had, indeed, become the great, excellent, exquisite singer, whose worldlyfame equaled that of Bismarck or De Lesseps. 

When Faust rushed toward her, when he sang in his bewitching voicephrases so full of charm and when the pretty blonde Marguerite repliedso touchingly the whole house was moved with a thrill of pleasure. 

When the curtain fell, the applause was tremendous, and Annetteapplauded so long that Bertin wished to seize her hands to make herstop. His heart was stung by a new torment. He did not speak between theacts, for he was pursuing into the wings, his fixed thought now becomeabsolute hatred, following to his box, where he saw, putting more whitepowder on his cheeks, the odious singer who was thus over-exciting thischild!

Then the curtain rose on the garden scene. Immediately a sort of feverof love seemed to spread through the house, for never had that music, which seems like the breath of kisses, been rendered by two suchinterpreters. It was no longer two illustrious actors, Montrose andHelsson; they became two beings from the ideal world, hardly two beings, indeed, but two voices: the eternal voice of the man that loves, theeternal voice of the woman that yields; and together they sighed forthall the poetry of human tenderness. 

When Faust sang:

"Laisse-moi, laisse-moi contempler ton visage, "

in the notes that soared from his mouth there was such an accent ofadoration, of transport and supplication that for a moment a desire tolove filled every heart. 

Olivier remembered that he had murmured that phrase himself in the parkat Roncieres, under the castle windows. 

Until then he had thought it rather ordinary; but now it rose to hislips like a last cry of passion, a last prayer, the last hope and thelast favor he might expect in this life. 

Then he listened no more, heard nothing more. A sharp pang of jealousytore his heart, for he had just seen Annette carry her handkerchief toher eyes. 

She wept! Then her heart was awakening, becoming animated and moved, herlittle woman's heart which as yet knew nothing! There, very near him, without giving a thought to him, she had a revelation of the way inwhich love may overwhelm a human being; and this revelation, thisinitiation had come to her from that miserable strolling singer!

Ah, he felt very little anger now toward the Marquis de Farandal, thatstupid creature who saw nothing, who did not know, did not understand!But how he execrated that man in tights, who was illuminating the soulof that young girl!

He longed to throw himself upon her, as one throws himself upon a personin danger of being run over by a fractious horse, to seize her by thearm and drag her away, and say to her: "Let us go! let us go! I entreatyou!"

How she listened, how she palpitated! And how he suffered. He hadsuffered thus before, but less cruelly. He remembered it, for the stingsof jealousy smart afresh like reopened wounds. He had first felt it atRoncieres, in returning from the cemetery, when he felt for the firsttime that she was escaping from him, that he could not control her, thatyoung girl as independent as a young animal. But down there, when shehad irritated him by leaving him to pluck flowers, he had experiencedchiefly a brutal desire to check her playful flights, to compel herperson to remain beside him; to-day it was her fleeting, intangiblesoul that was escaping. Ah, that gnawing irritation which he had justrecognized, how often he had experienced it by the indescribable littlewounds which seem to be always bruising a loving heart. He recalled allthe painful impressions of petty jealousy that he had endured, in littlestings, day after day. Every time that she had remarked, admired, liked, desired something, he had been jealous of it; jealous in animperceptible but continuous fashion, jealous of all that absorbedthe time, the looks, the attention, the gaiety, the astonishment oraffection of Annette, for all that took a little of her away from him. He had been jealous of all that she did without him, of all that he didnot know, of her going about, her reading, of everything that seemed toplease her, jealous even of a heroic officer wounded in Africa, of whomParis talked for a week, of the author of a much praised romance, ofa young unknown poet she never had seen, but whose verses Musadieuhad recited; in short, of all men that anyone praised before her, evencarelessly, for when one loves a woman one cannot tolerate withoutanguish that she should even think of another with an appearance ofinterest. In one's heart is felt the imperious need of being for her theonly being in the world. One wishes her to see, to know, to appreciateno one else. So soon as she shows an indication of turning to look at orrecognize some person, one throws himself before her, and if one cannotturn aside or absorb her interest he suffers to the bottom of his heart. 

Olivier suffered thus in the presence of this singer, who seemed toscatter and to gather love in that opera-house, and he felt vexed witheveryone because of the tenor's triumph, with the women whom he sawapplauding him from their boxes, with the men, those idiots who weregiving a sort of apotheosis to that coxcomb!

An artist! They called him a artist, a great artist! And he hadsuccesses, this paid actor, interpreter of another's thought, such asno creator had ever known! Ah, that was like the justice and theintelligence of the fashionable world, those ignorant and pretentiousamateurs for whom the masters of human art work until death. He lookedat them, applauding, shouting, going into ecstasies; and the ancienthostility that had always seethed at the bottom of his proud heart ofa parvenu became a furious anger against those imbeciles, all-powerfulonly by right of birth and wealth. 

Until the end of the performance he remained silent, a prey to thought;then when the storm of enthusiasm had at last subsided he offered hisarm to the Duchess, while the Marquis took Annette's. They descended thegrand stairway again, in the midst of a stream of men and women, in asort of slow and magnificent cascade of bare shoulders, sumptuous gowns, and black coats. Then the Duchess, the young girl, her father, and theMarquis entered the same landau, and Olivier Bertin remained alone withMusadieu in the Place de l'Opera. 

Suddenly he felt a sort of affection for this man, or rather thatnatural attraction one feels for a fellow-countryman met in a distantland, for he now felt lost in that strange, indifferent crowd, whereaswith Musadieu he might still speak of her. 

So he took his arm. 

"You are not going home now?" said he. "It is a fine night; let us takea walk. "

"Willingly. "

They went toward the Madeleine, in the mist of the nocturnal crowdpossessed by that short and violent midnight excitement which stirs theBoulevards when the theaters are being emptied. 

Musadieu had a thousand things in his mind, all his subjects forconversation from the moment when Bertin should name his preference; andhe let his eloquence loose upon the two or three topics that interestedhim most. The painter allowed him to run on without listening to him, and holding him by the arm, sure of being able soon to lead him totalk of Annette, he walked along without noticing his surroundings, imprisoned within his love. He walked, exhausted by that fit of jealousywhich had bruised him like a fall, overcome by the conviction that hehad nothing more to do in the world. 

He should go on suffering thus, more and more, without expectinganything. He should pass empty days, one after another, seeing her fromafar, living, happy, loved and loving, without doubt. A lover! Perhapsshe would have a lover, as her mother had had one! He felt within himsources of suffering so numerous, diverse, and complicated, such anafflux of miseries, such inevitable tortures, he felt so lost, so faroverwhelmed, from this moment, by a wave of unimaginable agony that hecould not suppose anyone ever had suffered as he did. And he suddenlythought of the puerility of poets who have invented the useless laborof Sisyphus, the material thirst of Tantalus, the devoured heart ofPrometheus! Oh, if they had foreseen, if they had experienced the madlove of an elderly man for a young girl, how would they had expressedthe painful and secret effort of a being who can no longer inspire love, the tortures of fruitless desire, and, more terrible than a vulture'sbeak, a little blonde face rending a heart!

Musadieu talked without stopping, and Bertin interrupted him, murmuringalmost in spite of himself, under the impulse of his fixed idea:

"Annette was charming this evening. "

"Yes, delicious!"

The painter added, to prevent Musadieu from taking up the broken threadof his ideas: "She is prettier than her mother ever was. "

To this the other agreed absent-mindedly, repeating "Yes, yes, yes!"several times in succession, without his mind having yet settled itselfon this new idea. 

Olivier endeavored to continue the subject, and in order to attract hisattention by one of Musadieu's own favorite fads, he continued:

"She will have one of the first salons in Paris after her marriage. "

That was enough, and, the man of fashion being convinced, as well as theInspector of Fine Arts, he began to talk wisely of the social footing onwhich the Marquise de Farandal would stand in French society. 

Bertin listened to him, and fancied Annette in a large salon full oflight, surrounded by men and women. This vision, too, made him jealous. 

They were now going up the Boulevard Malesherbes. As they passed theGuilleroys' house the painter looked up. Lights seemed to be shiningthrough the windows, among the openings in the curtains. He suspectedthat the Duchess and the Marquis had been invited to come and have a cupof tea. And a burning rage made him suffer terribly. 

He still held Musadieu by the arm, and once or twice attempted tocontinue, by contradicting Musadieu's opinions, the talk about thefuture Marquise. Even that commonplace voice in speaking of her causedher charming image to flit beside them in the night. 

When they arrived at the painter's door, in the Avenue de Villiers, Bertin asked: "Will you come in?"

"No, thank you. It is late, and I am going to bed. "

"Oh, come up for half an hour, and we'll have a little more talk. "

"No, really. It is too late. "

The thought of staying there alone, after the anguish he had justendured, filled Olivier's soul with horror. He had someone with him; hewould keep him. 

"Do come up; I want you to choose a study that I have intended for along time to offer you. "

The other, knowing that painters are not always in a giving mood, andthat the remembrance of promises is short, seized the opportunity. Inhis capacity as Inspector of Fine Arts, he possessed a gallery that hadbeen furnished with skill. 

"I am with you, " said he. 

They entered. 

The valet was aroused and soon brought some grog; and the talk was forsome time all about painting. Bertin showed some studies, and beggedMusadieu to take the one that pleased him best; Musadieu hesitated, disturbed by the gaslight, which deceived him as to tones. At last hechose a group of little girls jumping the rope on a sidewalk; and almostat once he wished to depart, and to take his present with him. 

"I will have it taken to your house, " said the painter. 

"No; I should like better to have it this very evening, so that I mayadmire it while I am going to bed, " said Musadieu. 

Nothing could keep him, and Olivier Bertin found himself again alone inhis house, that prison of his memories and his painful agitation. 

When the servant entered the next morning, bringing tea and thenewspapers, he found his master sitting up in bed, so pale and shakenthat he was alarmed. 

"Is Monsieur indisposed?" he inquired. 

"It is nothing--only a little headache. "

"Does not Monsieur wish me to bring him something?"

"No. What sort of weather is it?"

"It rains, Monsieur. "

"Very well. That is all. "

The man withdrew, having placed on the little table the tea-tray and thenewspapers. 

Olivier took up the _Figaro_ and opened it. The leading article wasentitled "Modern Painting. " It was a dithyrambic eulogy on four orfive young painters who, gifted with real ability as colorists, andexaggerating them for effect, now pretended to be revolutionists andrenovators of genius. 

As did all the older painters, Bertin sneered at these newcomers, wasirritated at their assumption of exclusiveness, and disputed theirdoctrines. He began to read the article, then, with the rising angerso quickly felt by a nervous person; at last, glancing a little furtherdown, he saw his own name, and these words at the end of a sentencestruck him like a blow of the fist full in the chest: "The old-fashionedart of Olivier Bertin. "

He had always been sensitive to either criticism or praise, but, at thebottom of his heart, in spite of his legitimate vanity, he sufferedmore from being criticised than he enjoyed being praised, because ofthe uneasiness concerning himself which his hesitations had alwaysencouraged. Formerly, however, at the time of his triumphs, the incenseoffered was so frequent that it made him forget the pin-pricks. To-day, before the ceaseless influx of new artists and new admirers, congratulations were more rare and criticism was more marked. He feltthat he had been enrolled in the battalion of old painters of talent, whom the younger ones do not treat as masters; and as he was asintelligent as he was perspicacious he suffered now from the leastinsinuations as much as from direct attacks. 

But never had any wound to his pride as an artist hurt him like this. He remained gasping, and reread the article in order to grasp its everymeaning. He and his equals were thrown aside with outrageous disrespect;and he arose murmuring those words, which remained on his lips: "Theold-fashioned art of Olivier Bertin. "

Never had such sadness, such discouragement, such a sensation of havingreached the end of everything, the end of his mental and physicalbeing, thrown him into such desperate distress of soul. He sat until twoo'clock in his armchair, before the fireplace, his legs extended towardthe fire, not having strength to move, or to do anything. Then the needof being consoled rose within him, the need to clasp devoted hands, tosee faithful eyes, to be pitied, succored, caressed with friendly words. So he went, as usual, to the Countess. 

When he entered Annette was alone in the drawing-room, standing withher back toward him, hastily writing the address on a letter. On a tablebeside her lay a copy of _Figaro_. Bertin saw the journal at the momentthat he saw the young girl and was bewildered, not daring to advance!Oh, if she had read it! She turned, and in a preoccupied, hurried way, her mind haunted with feminine cares, she said to him:

"Ah, good-morning, sir painter! You will excuse me if I leave you?I have a dressmaker upstairs who claims me. You understand that adressmaker, at the time of a wedding, is very important. I will lend youmamma, who is talking and arguing with my artist. If I need her I willcall her for a few minutes. "

And she hastened away, running a little, to show how much she washurried. 

This abrupt departure, without a word of affection, without a tenderlook for him who loved her so much--so much!--quite upset him. His eyesrested again on the _Figaro_, and he thought: "She has read it! Theylaugh at me, they deny me. She no longer believes in me. I am nothing toher any more. "

He took two steps toward the journal, as one walks toward a man tostrike him. Then he said to himself: "Perhaps she has not read it, afterall. She is so preoccupied to-day. But someone will undoubtedly speak ofit before her, perhaps this evening, at dinner, and that will make hercurious to read it. "

With a spontaneous, almost unthinking, movement he took the copy, closedit, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket with the swiftness of athief. 

The Countess entered. As soon as she saw Olivier's convulsed and lividface, she guessed that he had reached the limit of suffering. 

She hastened toward him, with an impulse from all her poor soul, soagonized also, and from her poor body, that was itself so wounded. Throwing her hands upon his shoulders, and plunging her glance into thedepths of his eyes, she said:

"Oh, how unhappy you are!"

This time he did not deny it; his throat swelled with a spasm of pain, and he stammered:

"Yes--yes--yes!"

She felt that he was near weeping, and led him into the darkest cornerof the drawing-room, toward two armchairs hidden by a small screen ofantique silk. They sat down behind this slight embroidered wall, veiledalso by the gray shadow of a rainy day. 

She resumed, pitying him, deeply moved by his grief:

"My poor Olivier, how you suffer!"

He leaned his white head on the shoulder of his friend. 

"More than you believe!" he said. 

"Oh, I knew it! I have felt it all. I saw it from the beginning andwatched it grow. "

He answered as if she had accused him: "It is not my faulty, Any. "

"I know it well; I do not reproach you for it. "

And softly, turning a little, she laid her lips on one of Olivier'seyes, where she found a bitter tear. 

She started, as if she had just tasted a drop of despair, and repeatedseveral times:

"Ah, poor friend--poor friend--poor friend!"

Then after a moment of silence she added: "It is the fault of ourhearts, which never have grown old. I feel that my own is full of life!"

He tried to speak but could not, for now his sobs choked him. Shelistened, as he leaned against her, to the struggle in his breast. Then, seized by the selfish anguish of love, which had gnawed at her heartso long, she said in the agonized tone in which one realizes a horriblemisfortune:

"God! how you love her!"

Again he confessed: "Ah, yes! I love her!"

She reflected a few moments, then continued: "You never have loved methus?"

He did not deny it, for he was passing through one of those periods inwhich one speaks with absolute truth, and he murmured:

"No, I was too young then. "

She was surprised. 

"Too young? Why?"

"Because life was too sweet. It is only at our age that one lovesdespairingly. "

"Does the love you feel for her resemble that which you felt for me?"the Countess asked. 

"Yes and no--and yet it is almost the same thing. I have loved you asmuch as anyone can love a woman. As for her, I love her just as Iloved you, since she is yourself; but this love has become somethingirresistible, destroying, stronger than death. I belong to it as aburning house belongs to the fire. "

She felt her sympathy wither up under a breath of jealousy; but, assuming a consoling tone, she said:

"My poor friend! In a few days she will be married and gone. When yousee her no more no doubt you will be cured of this fancy. "

He shook his head. 

"Oh, I am lost, lost, lost!"

"No, no, I say! It will be three months before you see her again. Thatwill be sufficient. Three months were quite enough for you to love hermore than you love me, whom you have known for twelve years!"

Then, in his infinite distress, he implored: "Any, do not abandon me!"

"What can I do, my friend?"

"Do not leave me alone. "

"I will go to see you as often as you wish. "

"No. Keep me here as much as possible. "

"But then you would be near her. "

"And near you!"

"You must not see her any more before her marriage. "

"Oh, Any!"

"Well, at least, not often. "

"May I stay here this evening?"

"No, not in your present condition. You must divert your mind; go to theclub, or the theater--no matter where, but do not stay here. "

"I entreat you--"

"No, Olivier, it is impossible. And, besides, I have guests coming todinner whose presence would agitate you still more. "

"The Duchess and--he!"

"Yes. "

"But I spent last evening with them. "

"And you speak of it! You are in a fine state to-day. "

"I promise you to be calm. "

"No, it is impossible. "

"Then I am going away. "

"Why do you hurry now?"

"I must walk. "

"That is right! Walk a great deal, walk until evening, kill yourselfwith fatigue and then go to bed. "

He had risen. 

"Good-by, Any!"

"Good-by, dear friend. I will come to see you to-morrow morning. Wouldyou like me to do something very imprudent, as I used to do--pretendto breakfast here at noon, and then go and have breakfast with you at aquarter past one?"

"Yes, I should like it very much. You are so good!"

"It is because I love you. "

"And I love you, too. "

"Oh, don't speak of that any more!"

"Good-by, Any. "

"Good-by, dear friend, till to-morrow. "

"Good-by!"

He kissed her hands many times, then he kissed her brow, then the cornerof her lips. His eyes were dry now, his bearing resolute. Just as he wasabout to go, he seized her, clasped her close in both arms, and pressinghis lips to her forehead, he seemed to drink in, to inhale from her allthe love she had for him. 

Then he departed quickly, without turning toward her again. 

When she was alone she let herself sink, sobbing, upon a chair. Shewould have remained there till night if Annette had not suddenlyappeared in search of her. In order to gain time to dry her red eyelids, the Countess answered: "I have a little note to write, my child. Goup-stairs, and I will join you in a few seconds. "

She was compelled to occupy herself with the great affair of thetrousseau until evening. 

The Duchess and her nephew dined with the Guilleroys, as a family party. They had just seated themselves at table, and were speaking of the operaof the night before, when the butler appeared, carrying three enormousbouquets. 

Madame de Mortemain was surprised. 

"Good gracious! What is that?"

"Oh, how lovely they are!" exclaimed Annette; "who can have sent them?"

"Olivier Bertin, no doubt, " replied her mother. 

She had been thinking of him since his departure. He had seemed sogloomy, so tragic, she understood so clearly his hopeless sorrow, shefelt so keenly the counter-stroke of that grief, she loved him somuch, so entirely, so tenderly, that her heart was weighed down by sadpresentiments. 

In the three bouquets were found three of the painter's cards. He hadwritten on them in pencil, respectively, the names of the Countess, theDuchess, and Annette. 

"Is he ill, your friend Bertin?" the Duchess inquired. "I thought helooked rather bad last night. "

"Yes, I am a little anxious about him, although he does not complain, "Madame de Guilleroy answered. 

"Oh, he is growing old, like all the rest of us, " her husbandinterposed. "He is growing old quite fast, indeed. I believe, however, that bachelors usually go to pieces suddenly. Their breaking-up comesmore abruptly than ours. He really is very much changed. "

"Ah, yes!" sighed the Countess. 

Farandal suddenly stopped his whispering to Annette to say: "The_Figaro_ has a very disagreeable article about him this morning. "

Any attack, any criticism or allusion unfavorable to her friend's talentalways threw the Countess into a passion. 

"Oh, " said she, "men of Bertin's importance need not mind suchrudeness. "

Guilleroy was astonished. 

"What!" he exclaimed, "a disagreeable article about Olivier! But I havenot read it. On what page?"

The Marquis informed him: "The first page, at the top, with the title, 'Modern Painting. '"

And the deputy ceased to be astonished. "Oh, exactly! I did not read itbecause it was about painting. "

Everyone smiled, knowing that apart from politics and agriculture M. DeGuilleroy was interested in very few things. 

The conversation turned upon other subjects until they entered thedrawing-room to take coffee. The Countess was not listening and hardlyanswered, being pursued by anxiety as to what Olivier might be doing. Where was he? Where had he dined? Where had he taken his hopeless heartat that moment? She now felt a burning regret at having let him go, notto have kept him; and she fancied him roving the streets, so sad andlonely, fleeing under his burden of woe. 

Up to the time of the departure of the Duchess and her nephew she hadhardly spoken, lashed by vague and superstitious fears; then she went tobed and lay there long, her eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking ofhim!

A very long time had passed when she thought she heard the bell of herapartment ring. She started, sat up and listened. A second time thevibrating tinkle broke the stillness of the night. 

She leaped out of bed, and with all her strength pressed the electricbutton that summoned her maid. Then, candle in hand, she ran to thevestibule. 

Through the door she asked: "Who is there?"

"It is a letter, " an unknown voice replied. 

"A letter! From whom?"

"From a physician. "

"What physician?"

"I do not know; it is about some accident. "

Hesitating no more, she opened the door, and found herself facing acab-driver in an oilskin cap. He held a paper in his hand, whichhe presented to her. She read: "Very urgent--Monsieur le Comte deGuilleroy. "

The writing was unknown. 

"Enter, my good man, " said she; "sit down, and wait for me. "

When she reached her husband's door her heart was beating so violentlythat she could not call him. She pounded on the wood with her metalcandlestick. The Count was asleep and did not hear. 

Then, impatient, nervous, she kicked the door, and heard a sleepy voiceasking: "Who is there? What time is it?"

"It is I, " she called. "I have an urgent letter for you, brought by acabman. There has been some accident. "

"Wait! I am getting up. I'll be there, " he stammered from behind hisbed-curtains. 

In another minute he appeared in his dressing-gown. At the same timetwo servants came running, aroused by the ringing of the bell. They werealarmed and bewildered, having seen a stranger sitting on a chair in thedining-room. 

The Count had taken the letter and was turning it over in his fingers, murmuring: "What is that? I cannot imagine. "

"Well, read it, then!" said the Countess, in a fever. 

He tore off the envelope, unfolded the paper, uttered an exclamation ofamazement, then looked at his wife with frightened eyes. 

"My God! what is it?" said she. 

He stammered, hardly able to speak, so great was his emotion: "Oh, a great misfortune--a great misfortune! Bertin has fallen under acarriage!"

"Dead?" she cried. 

"No, no!" said he; "read for yourself. "

She snatched from his hand the letter he held out and read:

"MONSIEUR: A great misfortune has just happened. Your friend, theeminent artist, M. Olivier Bertin, has been run over by an omnibus, the wheel of which passed over his body. I cannot as yet say anythingdecisive as to the probable result of this accident, which may not beserious, although it may have an immediate and fatal result. M. Bertinbegs you earnestly and entreats Madame la Comtesse de Guilleroy to cometo him at once. I hope, Monsieur, that Madame la Comtesse and yourselfwill grant the desire of our friend in common, who before daylight mayhave ceased to live. 

"DR. DE RIVIL. "

The Countess stared at her husband with great, fixed eyes, full ofterror. Then suddenly she experienced, like an electric shock, anawakening of that courage which comes to women at times, which makesthem in moments of terror the most valiant of creatures. 

Turning to her maid she said: "Quick! I am going to dress. "

"What will Madame wear?" asked the servant. 

"Never mind that. Anything you like. James, " she added, "be ready infive minutes. "

Returning toward her room, her soul overwhelmed, she noticed the cabman, still waiting, and said to him: "You have your carriage?"

"Yes, Madame. "

"That is well; we will take that. "

Wildly, with precipitate haste, she threw on her clothes, hooking, clasping, tying, and fastening at hap-hazard; then, before the mirror, she lifted and twisted her hair without a semblance of order, gazingwithout thinking of what she was doing at the reflection of her paleface and haggard eyes. 

When her cloak was over her shoulders, she rushed to her husband's room, but he was not yet ready. She dragged him along. 

"Come, come!" said she; "remember, he may die!"

The Count, dazed, followed her stumblingly, feeling his way with hisfeet on the dark stairs, trying to distinguish the steps, so that heshould not fall. 

The drive was short and silent. The Countess trembled so violently thather teeth rattled, and through the window she saw the flying gas-jets, veiled by the falling rain. The sidewalks gleamed, the Boulevard wasdeserted, the night was sinister. On arriving, they found that thepainter's door was open, and that the concierge's lodge was lighted butempty. 

At the top of the stairs the physician, Dr. De Rivil, a little gray man, short, round, very well dressed, extremely polite, came to meet them. Hebowed low to the Countess and held out his hand to the Count. 

She asked him, breathing rapidly as if climbing the stairs had exhaustedher and put her out of breath:

"Well, doctor?"

"Well, Madame, I hope that it will be less serious than I thought atfirst. "

"He will not die?" she exclaimed. 

"No. At least, I do not believe so. "

"Will you answer for that?"

"No. I only say that I hope to find only a simple abdominal contusionwithout internal lesions. "

"What do you call lesions?"

"Lacerations. "

"How do you know that there are none?"

"I suppose it. "

"And if there are?"

"Oh, then it would be serious. "

"He might die of them?"

"Yes. "

"Very soon?"

"Very soon. In a few minutes or even seconds. But reassure yourself, Madame; I am convinced that he will be quite well again in two weeks. "

She had listened, with profound attention, to know all and understandall. 

"What laceration might he have?"

"A laceration of the liver, for instance. "

"That would be very dangerous?"

"Yes--but I should be surprised to find any complication now. Let us goto him. It will do him good, for he awaits you with great impatience. "

On entering the room she saw first a pale face on a white pillow. Somecandles and the firelight illumined it, defined the profile, deepenedthe shadows; and in that pale face the Countess saw two eyes thatwatched her coming. 

All her courage, energy, and resolution fell, so much did those hollowand altered features resemble those of a dying man. He, whom she hadseen only a little while ago, had become this thing, this specter!"Oh, my God!" she murmured between her teeth, and she approached him, palpitating with horror. 

He tried to smile, to reassure her, and the grimace of that attempt wasfrightful. 

When she was beside the bed, she put both hands gently on one ofOlivier's, which lay along his body, and stammered: "Oh, my poorfriend!"

"It is nothing, " said he, in a low tone, without moving his head. 

She now looked at him closely, frightened at the change in him. He wasso pale that he seemed no longer to have a drop of blood under his skin. His hollow cheeks seemed to have been sucked in from the interior of hisface, and his eyes were sunken as if drawn by a string from within. 

He saw the terror of his friend, and sighed: "Here I am in a finestate!"

"How did it happen?" she asked, looking at him with fixed gaze. 

He was making a great effort to speak, and his whole face twitched withpain. 

"I was not looking about me--I was thinking of something else--somethingvery different--oh, yes!--and an omnibus knocked me down and ran over myabdomen. "

As she listened she saw the accident, and shaking with terror, sheasked: "Did you bleed?"

"No. I am only a little bruised--a little crushed. "

"Where did it happen?" she inquired. 

"I do not know exactly, " he answered in a very low voice; "it was faraway from here. "

The physician rolled up an armchair, and the Countess sank into it. TheCount remained standing at the foot of the bed, repeating betweenhis teeth: "Oh, my poor friend! my poor friend! What a frightfulmisfortune!"

And he was indeed deeply grieved, for he loved Olivier very much. 

"But where did it happen?" the Countess repeated. 

"I know hardly anything about it myself, or rather I do not understandit at all, " the physician replied. "It was at the Gobelins, almostoutside of Paris! At least, the cabman that brought him home declared tome that he took him in at a pharmacy of that quarter, to which someonehad carried him, at nine o'clock in the evening!" Then, leaning towardOlivier, he asked: "Did the accident really happen near the Gobelins?"

Bertin closed his eyes, as if to recollect; then murmured: "I do notknow. "

"But where were you going?"

"I do not remember now. I was walking straight before me. "

A groan that she could not stifle came from the Countess's lips; thenoppressed with a choking that stopped her breathing a few seconds, shedrew out her handkerchief, covered her eyes, and wept bitterly. 

She knew--she guessed! Something intolerable, overwhelming had justfallen on her heart--remorse for not keeping Olivier near her, fordriving him away, for throwing him into the street, where, stupefiedwith grief, he had fallen under the omnibus. 

He said in that colorless voice he now had: "Do not weep. It distressesme. "

By a tremendous effort of will, she ceased to sob, uncovered her eyesand fixed them, wide open, upon him, without a quiver of her face, whereon the tears continued slowly to roll down. 

They looked at each other, both motionless, their hands clasped underthe coverlet. They gazed at each other, no longer knowing that any otherperson was in the room; and that gaze carried a superhuman emotion fromone heart to the other. 

They gazed upon each other, and the need of talking, unheard, of hearingthe thousand intimate things, so sad, which they had still to say, roseirresistibly to their lips. She felt that she must at any price sendaway the two men that stood behind her; she must find a way, some ruse, some inspiration, she, the woman, fruitful in resources! She began toreflect, her eyes always fixed on Olivier. 

Her husband and the doctor were talking in undertones, discussing thecare to be given. Turning her head the Countess said to the doctor:"Have you brought a nurse?"

"No, I prefer to send a hospital surgeon, who will keep a better watchover the case. "

"Send both. One never can be too careful. Can you still get themto-night, for I do not suppose you will stay here till morning?"

"Indeed, I was just about to go home. I have been here four hoursalready. "

"But on your way back you will send us the nurse and the surgeon?"

"It will be difficult in the middle of the night. But I shall try. "

"You must!"

"They may promise, but will they come?"

"My husband will accompany you and will bring them back either willinglyor by force. "

"You cannot remain here alone, Madame!"

"I?" she exclaimed with a sort of cry of defiance, of indignant protestagainst any resistance to her will. Then she pointed out, in thatauthoritative tone to which no one ventures a reply, the necessities ofthe situation. It was necessary that the nurse and the surgeon should bethere within an hour, to forestall all accident. To insure this, someonemust get out of bed and bring them. Her husband alone could do that. During this time she would remain near the injured man, she, for whomit was a duty and a right. She would thereby simply fulfil her role offriend, her role of woman. Besides, this was her will, and no one shoulddissuade her from it. 

Her reasoning was sensible. They could only agree upon that, and theydecided to obey her. 

She had risen, full of the thought of their departure, impatient to knowthat they were off and that she was left alone. Now, in order that sheshould commit no error during their absence, she listened, trying tounderstand perfectly, to remember everything, to forget nothing of thephysician's directions. The painter's valet, standing near her, listenedalso, and behind him his wife, the cook, who had helped in the firstbinding of the patient, indicated by nods of the head that she toounderstood. When the Countess had recited all the instructions like alesson, she urged the two men to go, repeating to her husband:

"Return soon, above all things, return soon!"

"I will take you in my coupe, " said the doctor to the Count. "It willbring you back quicker. You will be here again in an hour. "

Before leaving, the doctor again carefully examined the wounded man, toassure himself that his condition remained satisfactory. 

Guilleroy still hesitated. 

"You do not think that we are doing anything imprudent?" he asked. 

"No, " said the doctor. "He needs only rest and quiet. Madame deGuilleroy will see that he does not talk, and will speak to him aslittle as possible. "

The Countess was startled, and said:

"Then I must not talk to him?"

"Oh, no, Madame! Take an armchair and sit beside him. He will not feelthat he is alone and will be quite content; but no fatigue of words, or even of thoughts. I will call about nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Good-bye, Madame. I salute you!"

He left the room with a low bow, followed by the Count who repeated:

"Do not worry yourself, my dear. Within an hour I shall return, and thenyou can go home. "

When they were gone, she listened for the sound of the door below beingclosed, then to the rolling wheels of the coupe in the street. 

The valet and the cook still stood there, awaiting orders. The Countessdismissed them. 

"You may go now, " said she; "I will ring if I need anything. "

They too withdrew, and she remained alone with him. 

She had drawn quite near to the bed, and putting her hands on the twoedges of the pillow, on both sides of that dear face, she leaned overto look upon it. Then, with her face so close to his that she seemed tobreathe her words upon it, she whispered:

"Did you throw yourself under that carriage?"

He tried to smile still, saying: "No, it was _that_ which threw itselfupon me. "

"That is not true; it was you. "

"No, I swear to you it was _it_!"

After a few moments of silence, those instants when souls seem mingledin glances, she murmured: "Oh, my dear, dear Olivier, to think that Ilet you go, that I did not keep you with me!"

"It would have happened just the same, some day or another, " he repliedwith conviction. 

They still gazed at each other, seeking to read each other's inmostthoughts. 

"I do not believe that I shall recover, " he said at last. "I suffer toomuch. "

"Do you suffer very much?" she murmured. 

"Oh, yes!"

Bending a little lower, she brushed his forehead, then his eyes, thenhis cheeks with slow kisses, light, delicate as her care for him. Shebarely touched him with her lips, with that soft little breath thatchildren give when they kiss. This lasted a long time, a very longtime. He let that sweet rain of caresses fall on him, and they seemed tosoothe and refresh him, for his drawn face twitched less than before. 

"Any!" he said finally. 

She ceased her kissing to listen to him. 

"What, my friend?"

"You must make me a promise. "

"I will promise anything you wish. "

"If I am not dead before morning, swear to me that you will bringAnnette to me, just once, only once! I cannot bear to die without seeingher again. . . . Think that . . . To-morrow . . . At this time perhapsI shall have . . . Shall surely have closed my eyes forever and that Inever shall see you again. I . . . Nor you . . . Nor her!"

She stopped him; her heart was breaking. 

"Oh, hush . . . Hush! Yes, I promise you to bring her!"

"You swear it?"

"I swear it, my friend. But hush, do not talk any more. You hurt mefrightfully--hush!"

A quick convulsion passed over his face; when it had passed he said:

"Since we have only a few minutes more to remain together, do not let uslose them; let us seize them to bid each other good-by. I have loved youso much----"

"And I, " she sighed, "how I still love you!"

He spoke again:

"I never have had real happiness except through you. Only these lastdays have been hard. . . . It was not your fault. . . . Ah, my poor Any, how sad life is! . . . And how hard it is to die!"

"Hush, Olivier, I implore you!"

He continued, without listening to her: "I should have been a happy manif you had not had your daughter. . . . "

"Hush! My God! Hush! . . . "

He seemed to dream rather than speak. 

"Ah, he that invented this existence and made men was either blind orvery wicked. . . . "

"Olivier, I entreat you . . . If you ever have loved me, be quiet, donot talk like that any more!"

He looked at her, leaning over him, she herself so pale that she lookedas if she were dying, too; and he was silent. 

Then she seated herself in the armchair, close to the bed, and againtook the hand on the coverlet. 

"Now I forbid you to speak, " said she. "Do not stir, and think of me asI think of you. "

Again they looked at each other, motionless, joined together by theburning contact of their hands. She pressed, with gentle movement, thefeverish hand she clasped, and he answered these calls by tighteninghis fingers a little. Each pressure said something to them, evoked someperiod of their finished past, revived in their memory the stagnantrecollections of their love. Each was a secret question, each wasa mysterious reply, sad questions and sad replies, those "do youremembers?" of a bygone love. 

Their minds, in this agonizing meeting, which might be the last, traveled back through the years, through the whole history of theirpassion; and nothing was audible in the room save the crackling of thefire. 

Suddenly, as if awakening from a dream, he said, with a start of terror:

"Your letters!"

"What? My letters?" she queried. 

"I might have died without destroying them!"

"Oh, what does that matter to me? That is of no consequence now. Letthem find them and read them--I don't care!"

"I will not have that, " he said. "Get up, Any; open the lowest drawer ofmy desk, the large one; they are all there, all. You must take them andthrow them into the fire. "

She did not move at all, but remained crouching, as if he had counseledher to do something cowardly. 

"Any, I entreat you!" he continued; "if you do not do this, you willtorture me, unnerve me, drive me mad. Think--they may fall into anyone'shands, a notary, a servant, or even your husband. . . . I do notwish. . . . "

She rose, still hesitating, and repeating:

"No, that is too hard, too cruel! I feel as if you were compelling me toburn both our hearts!"

He supplicated her, his face drawn with pain. 

Seeing him suffer thus, she resigned herself and walked toward the desk. On opening the drawer, she found it filled to the edge with a thickpacket of letters, piled one on top of another, and she recognized onall the envelopes the two lines of the address she had written so often. She knew them--those two lines--a man's name, the name of a street--aswell as she knew her own name, as well as one can know the few wordsthat have represented to us in life all hope and all happiness. Shelooked at them, those little square things that contained all she hadknown how to express of her love, all that she could take of herself togive to him, with a little ink on a bit of white paper. 

He had tried to turn his head on the pillow that he might watch her, andagain he said: "Burn them, quick!"

Then she took two handfuls, holding them a few seconds in her grasp. They seemed heavy to her, painful, living, at the same time dead, so many different things were in them, so many things that were nowover--so sweet to feel, to dream! It was the soul of her soul, the heartof her heart, the essence of her loving self that she was holding there;and she remembered with what delirium she had scribbled some of them, with what exaltation, what intoxication of living and of adoring someone, and of expressing it. 

"Burn them! Burn them, Any!" Olivier repeated. 

With the same movement of both hands, she cast into the fireplace thetwo packets of papers, which became scattered as they fell upon thewood. Then she seized those that remained in the desk and threw them ontop of the others, then another handful, with swift movements, stoopingand rising again quickly, to finish as soon as might be this terribletask. 

When the fireplace was full and the drawer empty, she remained standing, waiting, watching the almost smothered flames as they crept up from allsides on that mountain of envelopes. They attacked them first at theedges, gnawed at the corners, ran along the edge of the paper, wentout, sprang up again, and went creeping on and on. Soon, all around thatwhite pyramid glowed a vivid girdle of clear fire which filled the roomwith light; and this light, illuminating the woman standing and the mandying, was their burning love, their love turned to ashes. 

The Countess turned, and in the dazzling light of that fire she beheldher friend leaning with a haggard face on the edge of the bed. 

"Are they all there?" he demanded. 

"Yes, all. "

But before returning to him she cast a last look upon that destruction, and on that mass of papers, already half consumed, twisting and turningblack, and she saw something red flowing. It looked like drops of blood, and seemed to come out of the very heart of the letters, as from awound; it ran slowly toward the flames, leaving a purple train. 

The Countess received in her soul the shock of supernatural terror, andrecoiled as if she had seen the assassination of a human being; thenshe suddenly understood that she had seen simply the melting of the waxseals. 

She returned to the wounded man, and lifting his head tenderly laidit back in the center of the pillow. But he had moved, and his painincreased. He was panting now, his face drawn by fearful suffering, andhe no longer seemed to know that she was there. 

She waited for him to become a little calmer, to open his eyes, whichremained closed, to be able to say one word more to her. 

Presently she asked: "Do you suffer much?"

He did not reply. 

She bent over him and laid a finger on his forehead to make him look ather. He opened his eyes then, but they were wild and dazed. 

Terrified, she repeated: "Do you suffer? Olivier! Answer me! Shall Icall? Make an effort! Say something to me!"

She thought she heard him murmur: "Bring her . . . You swore to me. "

Then he writhed under the bedclothes, his body grew rigid, his faceconvulsed with awful grimaces. 

"Olivier! My God! Olivier!" she cried. "What is the matter? Shall Icall?"

This time he heard her, for he replied, "No . . . It is nothing. "

He appeared to grow easier, in fact, to suffer less, to fall suddenlyinto a sort of drowsy stupor. Hoping that he would sleep, she sat downagain beside the bed, took his hand, and waited. He moved no more, hischin had dropped to his breast, his mouth was half opened by his shortbreath, which seemed to rasp his throat in passing. Only his fingersmoved involuntarily now and then, with slight tremors which the Countessfelt to the roots of her hair, making her long to cry out. They were nomore the tender little meaning pressures which, in place of the wearylips, told of all the sadness of their hearts; they were spasms of painwhich spoke only of the torture of the body. 

Now she was frightened, terribly frightened, and had a wild desireto run away, to ring, to call, but she dared not move, lest she mightdisturb his repose. 

The far-off sound of vehicles in the streets penetrated the walls; andshe listened to hear whether that rolling of wheels did not stop beforethe door, whether her husband were not coming to deliver her, to tearher away at last from this sad tete-a-tete. 

As she tried to draw her hand from Olivier's, he pressed it, utteringa deep sigh! Then she resigned herself to wait, so that she should nottrouble him. 

The fire was dying out on the hearth, under the black ashes of theletters; two candles went out; some pieces of furniture cracked. 

All was silent in the house; everything seemed dead except a tallFlemish clock on the stairs, which regularly chimed the hour, thehalf hour, and the quarter, singing the march of time in the night, modulating it in divers tones. 

The Countess, motionless, felt an intolerable terror rising in hersoul. Nightmare assailed her; fearful thoughts filled her mind; and shethought she could feel that Olivier's fingers were growing cold withinher own. Was that true? No, certainly not. But whence had come thatsensation of inexpressible, frozen contact? She roused herself, wildwith terror, to look at his face. It was relaxed, impassive, inanimate, indifferent to all misery, suddenly soothed by the Eternal Oblivion.