She was compelled to occupy herself with the great affair of the trousseau until evening.

The Duchess and her nephew dined with the Guilleroys, as a family party.  They had just seated themselves at table, and were speaking of the opera of the night before, when the butler appeared, carrying three enormous bouquets.

Madame de Mortemain was surprised.

“Good gracious!  What is that?”

“Oh, how lovely they are!” exclaimed Annette; “who can have sent them?”

“Olivier Bertin, no doubt,” replied her mother.

She had been thinking of him since his departure.  He had seemed so gloomy, so tragic, she understood so clearly his hopeless sorrow, she felt so keenly the counter-stroke of that grief, she loved him so much, so entirely, so tenderly, that her heart was weighed down by sad presentiments.

In the three bouquets were found three of the painter’s cards.  He had written on them in pencil, respectively, the names of the Countess, the Duchess, and Annette.

“Is he ill, your friend Bertin?” the Duchess inquired.  “I thought he looked rather bad last night.”

“Yes, I am a little anxious about him, although he does not complain,” Madame de Guilleroy answered.

“Oh, he is growing old, like all the rest of us,” her husband interposed.  “He is growing old quite fast, indeed.  I believe, however, that bachelors usually go to pieces suddenly.  Their breaking-up comes more abruptly than ours.  He really is very much changed.”

“Ah, yes!” sighed the Countess.

Farandal suddenly stopped his whispering to Annette to say:  “The Figaro has a very disagreeable article about him this morning.”

Any attack, any criticism or allusion unfavorable to her friend’s talent always threw the Countess into a passion.

“Oh,” said she, “men of Bertin’s importance need not mind such rudeness.”

Guilleroy was astonished.

“What!” he exclaimed, “a disagreeable article about Olivier!  But I have not read it.  On what page?”

The Marquis informed him:  “The first page, at the top, with the title, ‘Modern Painting.’”

And the deputy ceased to be astonished.  “Oh, exactly!  I did not read it because it was about painting.”

Everyone smiled, knowing that apart from politics and agriculture M. de Guilleroy was interested in very few things.

The conversation turned upon other subjects until they entered the drawing-room to take coffee.  The Countess was not listening and hardly answered, being pursued by anxiety as to what Olivier might be doing.  Where was he?  Where had he dined?  Where had he taken his hopeless heart at that moment?  She now felt a burning regret at having let him go, not to have kept him; and she fancied him roving the streets, so sad and lonely, fleeing under his burden of woe.

Up to the time of the departure of the Duchess and her nephew she had hardly spoken, lashed by vague and superstitious fears; then she went to bed and lay there long, her eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking of him!