As the painter, who kept regular hours of work, never breakfasted away from home, and usually gave only his evenings to his friends, she often invited the Marquis to breakfast.  He would arrive, spreading around him the animation of his ride, a sort of breath of morning air.  And he talked gaily of all those worldly things that seem to float every day upon the autumnal awakening of brilliant and horse-loving Paris in the avenues of the Bois.  Annette was amused in listening to him, acquired some taste for those topics of the days that he recounted to her, fresh and piquant as they were.  An intimacy of youth sprang up between them, a pleasant companionship which a common and passionate love for horses naturally fostered.  When he had gone the Countess and the Count would artfully praise him, saying everything necessary to let the young girl know that it depended only upon herself to marry him if he pleased her.

She had understood very quickly, however, and reasoning frankly with herself, judged it a very simple thing to take for a husband this handsome fellow, who would give her, besides other satisfactions, that which she preferred above all others, the pleasure of galloping beside him every morning on a thoroughbred.

They found themselves betrothed one day, quite naturally, after a clasp of the hand and a smile, and the marriage was spoken of as something long decided.  Then the Marquis began to bring gifts, and the Duchess treated Annette like her own daughter.  The whole affair, then, had been fostered by common accord, warmed over the fire of a little intimacy, during the quiet hours of the day; and the Marquis, having many other occupations, relatives, obligations and duties, rarely came in the evening.

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 tea between ten o’clock and midnight.

As soon as he entered the Countess watched him, devoured by a desire to know what was passing in his heart.  He gave no glance, made no gesture that she did not immediately interpret, and she was tortured by this thought:  “It is impossible that he is not in love with her, seeing us so close together.”

He, too, brought gifts.  Not a week passed that he did not appear bearing two little packages in his hands, offering one to the mother, the other to the daughter; and the Countess, opening the boxes, which often held valuable objects, felt again that contraction of the heart.  She knew so well that desire to give which, as a woman, she never had been able to satisfy—­that desire to bring something that would give pleasure, to purchase for someone, to find in the shops some trifle that would please.

The painter had already been through this phase, and she had seen him come in many times with that same smile, that same gesture, a little packet in his hand.  That habit had ceased after awhile, and now it had begun again.  For whom?  She had no matter of doubt.  It was not for her!