The portrait of the President of the Republic faced the entrance; while on another wall a general bedizened with gold lace, sporting a hat decorated with ostrich plumes, and wearing red cloth breeches, hung in pleasant proximity to some naked nymphs under a willow-tree, and near by was a vessel in distress almost engulfed by a great wave.  A bishop of the early Church excommunicating a barbarian king, an Oriental street full of dead victims of the plague, and the Shade of Dante in Hell, seized and captivated the eye with irresistible fascination.

Other paintings in the immense room were a charge of cavalry; sharpshooters in a wood; cows in a pasture; two noblemen of the eighteenth century fighting a duel on a street corner; a madwoman sitting on a wall; a priest administering the last rites to a dying man; harvesters, rivers, a sunset, a moonlight effect—­in short, samples of everything that artists paint, have painted, and will paint until the end of the world.

Olivier, in the midst of a group of celebrated brother painters, members of the Institute and of the jury, exchanged opinions with them.  He was oppressed by a certain uneasiness, a dissatisfaction with his own exhibited work, of the success of which he was very doubtful, in spite of the warm congratulations he had received.

Suddenly he sprang forward; the Duchesse de Mortemain had appeared at the main entrance.

“Hasn’t the Countess arrived yet?” she inquired of Bertin.

“I have not seen her.”

“And Monsieur de Musadieu?”

“I have not seen him either.”

“He promised me to be here at ten o’clock, at the top of the stairs, to show me around the principal galleries.”

“Will you permit me to take his place, Duchess?”

“No, no.  Your friends need you.  We shall see each other again very soon, for I shall expect you to lunch with us.”

Musadieu hastened toward them.  He had been detained for some minutes in the hall of sculpture, and excused himself, breathless already.

“This way, Duchess, this way,” said he.  “Let us begin at the right.”

They were just disappearing among the throng when the Comtesse de Guilleroy, leaning on her daughter’s arm, entered and looked around in search of Olivier Bertin.

He saw them and hastened to meet them.  As he greeted the two ladies, he said: 

“How charming you look to-day.  Really, Nanette has improved very much.  She has actually changed in a week.”

He regarded her with the eye of a close observer, adding:  “The lines of her face are softer, yet more expressive; her complexion is clearer.  She is already something less of a little girl and somewhat more of a Parisian.”

Suddenly he bethought himself of the grand affair of the day.

“Let us begin at the right,” said he, “and we shall soon overtake the Duchess.”

The Countess, well informed on all matters connected with painting, and as preoccupied as if she were herself on exhibition, inquired:  “What do they say of the exposition?”