The newspapers, which he glanced through, could not distract his mind for a minute, and the news he read met his eye without reaching his brain.  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 the Chamber, where the Count had spoken a few words.

His attention, aroused by that call, was now arrested by the name of the celebrated tenor Montrose, who was to give, about the end of December, a single performance at the Opera.  This would be, the newspaper stated, a magnificent musical solemnity, for the tenor Montrose, who had been absent six years from Paris, had just won, throughout Europe and America, a success without precedent; moreover, he would be supported by the illustrious Swedish singer, Helsson, who had not been heard in Paris for five years.

Suddenly Olivier had an idea, which seemed to spring from the depths of his heart—­he would give Annette the pleasure of seeing this performance.  Then he remembered that the Countess’s mourning might be an obstacle to this scheme, and he sought some way to realize it in spite of the difficulty.  Only one method presented itself.  He must take a stage-box where one may be almost invisible, and if the Countess should still not wish to go, he would have Annette accompanied by her father and the Duchess.  In that case, he would have to offer his box to the Duchess.  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 her daughter 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 his suffering, to appear content, and no longer allow himself to be carried away by his rage, as he had done?

Yes, he would invite the Marquis, and so allay the Countess’s suspicions, and keep for himself a friendly door in the new establishment.

As soon as he had breakfasted, he went down to the Opera to engage one of the boxes hidden by the curtain.  It was promised to him.  Then he hastened to the Guilleroys’.

The Countess appeared almost immediately, apparently still a little moved 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 and Montrose.”

“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 opportunity again.”