He had just seated himself when the Countess appeared.  She walked so lightly that he had not heard her coming through the next room, and was surprised when he saw her.  She extended her hand in graceful welcome.

“And so it is true,” said she, “that you really wish to paint my portrait?”

“I shall be very happy to do so, Madame.”

Her close-fitting black gown made her look very slender and gave her a youthful appearance though a grave air, which was belied, however, by her smiling face, lighted up by her bright golden hair.  The Count entered, leading by the hand a little six-year-old girl.

Madame de Guilleroy presented him, saying, “My husband.”

The Count was rather short, and wore no moustache; his cheeks were hollow, darkened under the skin by his close-shaven beard.  He had somewhat the appearance of a priest or an actor; his hair was long and was tossed back carelessly; his manner was polished, and around the mouth two large circular lines extended from the cheeks to the chin, seeming to have been acquired from the habit of speaking in public.

He thanked the painter with a flourish of phrases that betrayed the orator.  He had wished for a long time to have a portrait of his wife, and certainly he would have chosen M. Olivier Bertin, had he not feared a refusal, for he well knew that the painter was overwhelmed with orders.

It was arranged, then, with much ceremony on both sides, that the Count should accompany the Countess to the studio the next day.  He asked, however, whether it would not be better to wait, because of the Countess’s deep mourning; but the painter declared that he wished to translate the first impression she had made upon him, and the striking contrast of her animated, delicate head, luminous under the golden hair, with the austere black of her garments.

She came, then, the following day, with her husband, and afterward with her daughter, whom the artist seated before a table covered with picture-books.

Olivier Bertin, following his usual custom, showed himself very reserved.  Fashionable women made him a little uneasy, for he hardly knew them.  He supposed them to be at once immoral and shallow, hypocritical and dangerous, futile and embarrassing.  Among the women of the demi-monde he had had some passing adventures due to his renown, his lively wit, his elegant and athletic figure, and his dark and animated face.  He preferred them, too; he liked their free ways and frank speech, accustomed as he was to the gay and easy manners of the studios and green-rooms he frequented.  He went into the fashionable world for the glory of it, but his heart was not in it; he enjoyed it through his vanity, received congratulations and commissions, and played the gallant before charming ladies who flattered him, but never paid court to any.  As he did not allow himself to indulge in daring pleasantries and spicy jests in their society, he thought them