From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any impression, nor even whether he had understood.  He turned on his heel with his keys in one hand and the letter in the other, and went on his way through the shady avenue, rolling his broad back from side to side, attired in a jacket which might have fitted in front, but was all too short behind.

The shady precincts of which Lampron wrote did not seem to have been pruned.  The park was cool and green.  At the end of the avenue of plane-trees, alternating with secular hawthorns cut into pyramids, we could see the square mass of the villa just peeping over the immense clumps of trees.  Beyond it the tops and naked trunks of a group of umbrella pines stood silhouetted against the sky.

The porter returned, solemn and impassive.  He opened the gate without a word.  We all passed through—­M.  Charnot somewhat uneasy at entering under false pretenses, as I guessed from the way he suddenly drew up his head.  Jeanne seemed pleased; she smoothed down a fold which the wind had raised in her frock, spread out a flounce, drew herself up, pushed back a hairpin which her fair tresses had dragged out of its place, all in quick, deft, and graceful movements, like a goldfinch preening its feathers.

We reached the terrace, and arranged that M. and Mademoiselle Charnot should wait in an alley close at hand till I received permission to visit the collections.

I entered the house, and following a lackey, crossed a large mosaic-paved hall, divided by columns of rare marbles into panels filled with mediocre frescoes on a very large scale.  At the end of this hall was the Countess’s room, which formed a striking contrast, being small, panelled with wood, and filled with devotional knick-knacks that gave it the look of a chapel.

As I entered, an old lady half rose from an armchair, which she could have used as a house, the chair was so large and she was so small.  At first I could distinguish only two bright, anxious eyes.  She looked at me like a prisoner awaiting a verdict.  I began by telling her of the death of Lampron’s mother.  Her only answer was an attentive nod.  She guessed something else was coming and stood on guard, so to speak.  I went on and told her that the portrait of her daughter was on its way to her.  Then she forgot everything—­her age, her rank, and the mournful reserve which had hitherto hedged her about.  Her motherly heart alone spoke within her; a ray of light had come to brighten the incurable gloom which was killing her; she rushed toward me and fell into my arms, and I felt against my heart her poor aged body shaking with sobs.  She thanked me in a flood of words which I did not catch.  Then she drew back and gazed at me, seeking to read in my eyes some emotion responsive to her own, and her eyes, red and swollen and feverishly bright, questioned me more clearly than her words.