“With whom could she go?”

“With her father and the Duchess, whom I am about to invite.  I intend also to offer a seat to the Marquis.”

She gazed deep into his eyes, and a wild desire to kiss him rose to her lips.  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 their marriage?”

“Oh, yes, almost.  We have reasons for hastening it very much, especially as 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 told you 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 love changes 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.  I assure you that then it will be indispensable.  Better say ‘you’ now than later.”

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of discontent, while the Countess remained 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 to give.  She was delighted, and, throwing her arms around his neck with the manner of a little girl, she kissed him on both cheeks.

He felt ready to sink, and understood, when he felt the light caresses of that little mouth with its sweet breath, that he never should be cured of his passion.

The Countess, annoyed, said to her daughter:  “You know that your father is 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, and the intention which he had just expressed of inviting the Marquis to the performance at the Opera, had given new hope to the Countess.

But it was short.  A week had not passed ere she was again following the expression of this man’s face with tortured and jealous attention, watching every stage of his suffering.  She could ignore nothing, herself enduring all the pain that she guessed at in him; and Annette’s constant presence reminded her at every moment of the day of the hopelessness of her efforts.