“No, indeed.  You will amuse yourself very well without me.”

Seeing him discontented and chagrined, she insisted, to show that she felt kindly toward him.

“Yes, come, sir painter!  I assure you that as for myself I cannot do without you.”

His next words escaped him so quickly that he could nether check them as he 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 is beginning again to leave off his ‘tu’ to me!”

His lips were curled in one of those smiles that reveal the suffering of a soul, and he said with a slight bow:  “It will be necessary for me to accustom myself to it one day or another.”

“Why, pray?”

“Because you will marry, and your husband, whoever he may be, would have the right to find that word rather out of place coming from me.”

“It will be time enough then to think about that,” the Countess hastened to say.  “But I trust that Annette will not marry a man so susceptible as to 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, after the usual handshakes and kisses which the Duchess, the Countess, and her daughter exchanged at every meeting as at every parting.

They remained alone, She and He, standing, behind the draperies over the closed 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 come without 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, since they were going to be present at the opening of the session.  I intended to stay at home.  Contrary to what you said just now, you were really inspired 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 very low: 

“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, but I would rather know.  I would rather—­Oh, you do not comprehend what my life has become!”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“What would you have me do?  Is it my fault if you lose your head?”