Beside the books lay a charming hand-mirror, a masterpiece of the silversmith’s art, the glass being turned down upon a square of embroidered velvet, in order to allow one to admire the curious gold and silver workmanship on the back.  Bertin took it up and looked at his own reflection.  For some years he had been growing terribly old in appearance, and although he thought that his face showed more originality than when he was younger, the sight of his heavy cheeks and increasing wrinkles saddened him.

A door opened behind him.

“Good morning, Monsieur Bertin,” said Annette.

“Good morning, little one; are you well?”

“Very well; and you?”

“What, are you not saying ‘thou’ to me, then, after all?”

“No, indeed!  It would really embarrass me.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes, it would.  You make me feel timid.”

“And why, pray?”

“Because—­because you are neither young enough nor old enough—­”

The painter laughed.

“After such a reason as that I will insist no more.”

She blushed suddenly, up to the white brow, where the waves of hair began to ripple, and resumed, with an air of slight confusion: 

“Mamma told me to say to you that she will be down immediately, and to ask you whether you will go to the Bois de Boulogne with us.”

“Yes, certainly.  You are alone?”

“No; with the Duchesse de Mortemain.”

“Very well; I will go.”

“Then will you allow me to go and put on my hat?”

“Yes, go, my child.”

As Annette left the room the Countess entered, veiled, ready to set forth.  She extended her hands cordially.

“We never see you any more.  What are you doing?” she inquired.

“I did not wish to trouble you just at this time,” said Bertin.

In the tone with which she spoke the word “Olivier!” she expressed all her reproaches and all her attachment.

“You are the best woman in the world,” he said, touched by the tender intonation of his name.

This little love-quarrel being finished and settled, the Countess resumed her light, society tone.

“We shall pick up the Duchess at her hotel and then make a tour of the Bois.  We must show all that sort of thing to Nanette, you know.”

The landau awaited them under the porte-cochere.

Bertin seated himself facing the two ladies, and the carriage departed, the pawing of the horses making a resonant sound against the over-arching roof of the porte-cochere.

Along the grand boulevard descending toward the Madeleine all the gaiety of the springtime seemed to have fallen upon the tide of humanity.

The soft air and the sunshine lent to the men a festive air, to the women a suggestion of love; the bakers’ boys deposited their baskets on the benches to run and play with their brethren, the street urchins; the dogs appeared in a great hurry to go somewhere; the canaries hanging in the boxes of the concierges trilled loudly; only the ancient cab-horses kept their usual sedate pace.