His attention, aroused by that call, was now arrested by the name of the celebrated tenor Montrose, who was to give, about the end of December, a single performance at the Opera. This would be, the newspaper stated, a magnificent musical solemnity, for the tenor Montrose, who had been absent six years from Paris, had just won, throughout Europe and America, a success without precedent; moreover, he would be supported by the illustrious Swedish singer, Helsson, who had not been heard in Paris for five years.
Suddenly Olivier had an idea, which seemed to spring from the depths of his heart--he would give Annette the pleasure of seeing this performance. Then he remembered that the Countess's mourning might be an obstacle to this scheme, and he sought some way to realize it in spite of the difficulty. Only one method presented itself. He must take a stage-box where one may be almost invisible, and if the Countess should still not wish to go, he would have Annette accompanied by her father and the Duchess. In that case, he would have to offer his box to the Duchess. But then he would be obliged to invite the Marquis!
He hesitated and reflected a long time.
Certainly, the marriage was decided upon; no doubt the date was settled.
He guessed the reason for his friend's haste in having it finished soon; he understood that in the shortest time possible she would give her daughter to Farandal. He could not help it. He could neither prevent, nor modify, nor delay this frightful thing. Since he must bear it, would it not be better for him to try to master his soul, to hide his suffering, to appear content, and no longer allow himself to be carried away by his rage, as he had done?
Yes, he would invite the Marquis, and so allay the Countess's suspicions, and keep for himself a friendly door in the new establishment.
As soon as he had breakfasted, he went down to the Opera to engage one of the boxes hidden by the curtain. It was promised to him. Then he hastened to the Guilleroys'.
The Countess appeared almost immediately, apparently still a little moved by their tender interview of the day before.
"How kind of you to come again to-day!" said she.
"I am bringing you something," he faltered.
"What is it?"
"A stage-box at the Opera for the single performance of Helsson and Montrose."
"Oh, my friend, what a pity! And my mourning?"
"Your mourning has lasted for almost four months."
"I assure you that I cannot."
"And Annette? Remember that she may never have such an opportunity again."
"With whom could she go?"
"With her father and the Duchess, whom I am about to invite. I intend also to offer a seat to the Marquis."
She gazed deep into his eyes, and a wild desire to kiss him rose to her lips. Hardly believing her ears, she repeated: "To the Marquis?"
"Why, yes."
She consented at once to this arrangement.
He continued, in an indifferent tone: "Have you fixed the date of their marriage?"
"Oh, yes, almost. We have reasons for hastening it very much, especially as it was decided upon before my mother's death. You remember that?"
"Yes, perfectly. And when will it take place?"
"About the beginning of January. I ask your pardon for not having told you of it sooner."
Annette entered. He felt his heart leap within him as if on springs, and all the tenderness that drew him toward her suddenly became bitter, arousing in his heart that strange, passionate animosity into which love changes when lashed by jealousy.
"I have brought you something," he said.
"So we have decided to say 'you'?" she replied.
He assumed a paternal tone.
"Listen, my child, I know all about the event that is soon to occur. I assure you that then it will be indispensable. Better say 'you' now than later."
She shrugged her shoulders with an air of discontent, while the Countess remained silent, looking afar off, her thoughts preoccupied.
"Well, what have you brought me?" inquired Annette.
He told her about the performance, and the invitations he intended to give. She was delighted, and, throwing her arms around his neck with the manner of a little girl, she kissed him on both cheeks.
He felt ready to sink, and understood, when he felt the light caresses of that little mouth with its sweet breath, that he never should be cured of his passion.
The Countess, annoyed, said to her daughter: "You know that your father is waiting for you."
"Yes, mamma, I am going."
She ran away, still throwing kisses from the tips of her fingers.
As soon as she had gone, Olivier asked: "Will they travel?"
"Yes, for three months."
"So much the better," he murmured in spite of himself.
"We will resume our former life," said the Countess.
"Yes, I hope so," said he, hesitatingly.
"But do not neglect me meanwhile."
"No, my friend."
The impulse he had shown the evening before, when seeing her weep, and the intention which he had just expressed of inviting the Marquis to the performance at the Opera, had given new hope to the Countess.
But it was short. A week had not passed ere she was again following the expression of this man's face with tortured and jealous attention, watching every stage of his suffering. She could ignore nothing, herself enduring all the pain that she guessed at in him; and Annette's constant presence reminded her at every moment of the day of the hopelessness of her efforts.
Everything oppressed her at the same time--her age and her mourning.
Her active, intelligent, and ingenious coquetry, which all her life had given her triumph, found itself paralyzed by that black uniform which marked her pallor and the change in her features, while it rendered the adolescence of her daughter absolutely dazzling. The time seemed far away, though it was quite recent, when, on Annette's return to Paris, she had proudly sought similar toilets which at that time were favorable to her. Now she had a furious longing to tear from her body those vestments of death which made her ugly and tortured her.
If she had felt that all the resources of elegance were at her service, if she had been able to choose and use delicately shaded stuffs, in harmony with her coloring, which would have lent a studied power to her fading charms, as captivating as the inert grace of her daughter, she would no doubt have known how to remain still the more charming.
She knew so well the influences of the fever-giving costume of evening, and the soft sensuousness of morning attire, of the disturbing _deshabille_ worn at breakfast with intimate friends, which lend to a woman until noontime a sort of reminiscence of her rising, the material and warm impression of the bed and of her perfumed room!
But what could she attempt under that sepulchral robe, that convict's dress, which must cover her for a whole year? A year! She must remain a year imprisoned in that black attire, inactive and vanquished. For a whole year she would feel herself growing old, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, under that sheath of crape! What would she be in a year if her poor ailing body continued to alter thus under the anguish of her soul?