“God! how beautiful she is!”

But he remained stupefied before the livid and convulsed face of Madame de Guilleroy.  Her large eyes, full of a sort of terror, gazed at her daughter and the painter.  He approached her, suddenly touched with anxiety.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

“I wish to speak to you.”

Rising, she said quickly to Annette; “Wait a moment, my child; I have a word to say to Monsieur Bertin.”

She passed swiftly into the little drawing-room near by, where he often made his visitors wait.  He followed her, his head confused, understanding nothing.  As soon as they were alone, she seized his hands and stammered: 

“Olivier!  Olivier, I beg you not to make her pose for you!”

“But why?” he murmured, disturbed.

“Why?  Why?” she said precipitately.  “He asks it!  You do not feel it, then yourself?  Why?  Oh, I should have guessed it sooner myself, but I only discovered it this moment.  I cannot tell you anything now.  Go and find my daughter.  Tell her that I am ill; fetch a cab, and come to see me in an hour.  I will receive you alone.”

“But, really, what is the matter with you?”

She seemed on the verge of hysterics.

“Leave me!  I cannot speak here.  Get my daughter and call a cab.”

He had to obey and reentered the studio.  Annette, unsuspicious, had resumed her reading, her heart overflowing with sadness by the poetic and lamentable story.

“Your mother is indisposed,” said Olivier.  “She became very ill when she went into the other room.  I will take some ether to her.”

He went out, ran to get a flask from his room and returned.

He found them weeping in each other’s arms.  Annette, moved by “Les Pauvres Gens,” allowed her feelings full sway, and the Countess was somewhat solaced by blending her grief with that sweet sorrow, in mingling her tears with those of her daughter.

He waited for some time, not daring to speak; he looked at them, his own heart oppressed with an incomprehensible melancholy.

“Well,” said he at last.  “Are you better?”

“Yes, a little,” the Countess replied.  “It was nothing.  Have you ordered a carriage?”

“Yes, it will come directly.”

“Thank you, my friend—­it is nothing.  I have had too much grief for a long time.”

“The carriage is here,” a servant announced.

And Bertin, full of secret anguish, escorted his friend, pale and almost swooning, to the door, feeling her heart throb against his arm.

When he was alone he asked himself what was the matter with her, and why had she made this scene.  And he began to seek a reason, wandering around the truth without deciding to discover it.  Finally, he began to suspect.  “Well,” he said to himself, “is it possible she believes that I am making love to her daughter?  No, that would be too much!” And, combating with ingenious and loyal arguments