He still held Musadieu by the arm, and once or twice attempted to continue, by contradicting Musadieu’s opinions, the talk about the future Marquise.  Even that commonplace voice in speaking of her caused her charming image to flit beside them in the night.

When they arrived at the painter’s door, in the Avenue de Villiers, Bertin asked:  “Will you come in?”

“No, thank you.  It is late, and I am going to bed.”

“Oh, come up for half an hour, and we’ll have a little more talk.”

“No, really.  It is too late.”

The thought of staying there alone, after the anguish he had just endured, filled Olivier’s soul with horror.  He had someone with him; he would keep him.

“Do come up; I want you to choose a study that I have intended for a long time to offer you.”

The other, knowing that painters are not always in a giving mood, and that the remembrance of promises is short, seized the opportunity.  In his capacity as Inspector of Fine Arts, he possessed a gallery that had been furnished with skill.

“I am with you,” said he.

They entered.

The valet was aroused and soon brought some grog; and the talk was for some time all about painting.  Bertin showed some studies, and begged Musadieu to take the one that pleased him best; Musadieu hesitated, disturbed by the gaslight, which deceived him as to tones.  At last he chose a group of little girls jumping the rope on a sidewalk; and almost at once he wished to depart, and to take his present with him.

“I will have it taken to your house,” said the painter.

“No; I should like better to have it this very evening, so that I may admire it while I am going to bed,” said Musadieu.

Nothing could keep him, and Olivier Bertin found himself again alone in his house, that prison of his memories and his painful agitation.

When the servant entered the next morning, bringing tea and the newspapers, he found his master sitting up in bed, so pale and shaken that he was alarmed.

“Is Monsieur indisposed?” he inquired.

“It is nothing—­only a little headache.”

“Does not Monsieur wish me to bring him something?”

“No.  What sort of weather is it?”

“It rains, Monsieur.”

“Very well.  That is all.”

The man withdrew, having placed on the little table the tea-tray and the newspapers.

Olivier took up the Figaro and opened it.  The leading article was entitled “Modern Painting.”  It was a dithyrambic eulogy on four or five young painters who, gifted with real ability as colorists, and exaggerating them for effect, now pretended to be revolutionists and renovators of genius.

As did all the older painters, Bertin sneered at these newcomers, was irritated at their assumption of exclusiveness, and disputed their doctrines.  He began to read the article, then, with the rising anger so quickly felt by a nervous person; at last, glancing a little further down, he saw his own name, and these words at the end of a sentence struck him like a blow of the fist full in the chest:  “The old-fashioned art of Olivier Bertin.”