The thought of staying there alone, after the anguish he had just endured, filled Olivier's soul with horror. He had someone with him; he would keep him.
"Do come up; I want you to choose a study that I have intended for a long time to offer you."
The other, knowing that painters are not always in a giving mood, and that the remembrance of promises is short, seized the opportunity. In his capacity as Inspector of Fine Arts, he possessed a gallery that had been furnished with skill.
"I am with you," said he.
They entered.
The valet was aroused and soon brought some grog; and the talk was for some time all about painting. Bertin showed some studies, and begged Musadieu to take the one that pleased him best; Musadieu hesitated, disturbed by the gaslight, which deceived him as to tones. At last he chose a group of little girls jumping the rope on a sidewalk; and almost at once he wished to depart, and to take his present with him.
"I will have it taken to your house," said the painter.
"No; I should like better to have it this very evening, so that I may admire it while I am going to bed," said Musadieu.
Nothing could keep him, and Olivier Bertin found himself again alone in his house, that prison of his memories and his painful agitation.
When the servant entered the next morning, bringing tea and the newspapers, he found his master sitting up in bed, so pale and shaken that he was alarmed.
"Is Monsieur indisposed?" he inquired.
"It is nothing--only a little headache."
"Does not Monsieur wish me to bring him something?"
"No. What sort of weather is it?"
"It rains, Monsieur."
"Very well. That is all."
The man withdrew, having placed on the little table the tea-tray and the newspapers.
Olivier took up the _Figaro_ and opened it. The leading article was entitled "Modern Painting." It was a dithyrambic eulogy on four or five young painters who, gifted with real ability as colorists, and exaggerating them for effect, now pretended to be revolutionists and renovators of genius.
As did all the older painters, Bertin sneered at these newcomers, was irritated at their assumption of exclusiveness, and disputed their doctrines. He began to read the article, then, with the rising anger so quickly felt by a nervous person; at last, glancing a little further down, he saw his own name, and these words at the end of a sentence struck him like a blow of the fist full in the chest: "The old-fashioned art of Olivier Bertin."
He had always been sensitive to either criticism or praise, but, at the bottom of his heart, in spite of his legitimate vanity, he suffered more from being criticised than he enjoyed being praised, because of the uneasiness concerning himself which his hesitations had always encouraged. Formerly, however, at the time of his triumphs, the incense offered was so frequent that it made him forget the pin-pricks.
To-day, before the ceaseless influx of new artists and new admirers, congratulations were more rare and criticism was more marked. He felt that he had been enrolled in the battalion of old painters of talent, whom the younger ones do not treat as masters; and as he was as intelligent as he was perspicacious he suffered now from the least insinuations as much as from direct attacks.
But never had any wound to his pride as an artist hurt him like this.
He remained gasping, and reread the article in order to grasp its every meaning. He and his equals were thrown aside with outrageous disrespect; and he arose murmuring those words, which remained on his lips: "The old-fashioned art of Olivier Bertin."
Never had such sadness, such discouragement, such a sensation of having reached the end of everything, the end of his mental and physical being, thrown him into such desperate distress of soul. He sat until two o'clock in his armchair, before the fireplace, his legs extended toward the fire, not having strength to move, or to do anything. Then the need of being consoled rose within him, the need to clasp devoted hands, to see faithful eyes, to be pitied, succored, caressed with friendly words.
So he went, as usual, to the Countess.
When he entered Annette was alone in the drawing-room, standing with her back toward him, hastily writing the address on a letter. On a table beside her lay a copy of _Figaro_. Bertin saw the journal at the moment that he saw the young girl and was bewildered, not daring to advance!
Oh, if she had read it! She turned, and in a preoccupied, hurried way, her mind haunted with feminine cares, she said to him:
"Ah, good-morning, sir painter! You will excuse me if I leave you?
I have a dressmaker upstairs who claims me. You understand that a dressmaker, at the time of a wedding, is very important. I will lend you mamma, who is talking and arguing with my artist. If I need her I will call her for a few minutes."
And she hastened away, running a little, to show how much she was hurried.
This abrupt departure, without a word of affection, without a tender look for him who loved her so much--so much!--quite upset him. His eyes rested again on the _Figaro_, and he thought: "She has read it! They laugh at me, they deny me. She no longer believes in me. I am nothing to her any more."
He took two steps toward the journal, as one walks toward a man to strike him. Then he said to himself: "Perhaps she has not read it, after all. She is so preoccupied to-day. But someone will undoubtedly speak of it before her, perhaps this evening, at dinner, and that will make her curious to read it."
With a spontaneous, almost unthinking, movement he took the copy, closed it, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket with the swiftness of a thief.
The Countess entered. As soon as she saw Olivier's convulsed and livid face, she guessed that he had reached the limit of suffering.
She hastened toward him, with an impulse from all her poor soul, so agonized also, and from her poor body, that was itself so wounded.
Throwing her hands upon his shoulders, and plunging her glance into the depths of his eyes, she said:
"Oh, how unhappy you are!"
This time he did not deny it; his throat swelled with a spasm of pain, and he stammered:
"Yes--yes--yes!"
She felt that he was near weeping, and led him into the darkest corner of the drawing-room, toward two armchairs hidden by a small screen of antique silk. They sat down behind this slight embroidered wall, veiled also by the gray shadow of a rainy day.
She resumed, pitying him, deeply moved by his grief:
"My poor Olivier, how you suffer!"
He leaned his white head on the shoulder of his friend.
"More than you believe!" he said.
"Oh, I knew it! I have felt it all. I saw it from the beginning and watched it grow."
He answered as if she had accused him: "It is not my faulty, Any."
"I know it well; I do not reproach you for it."
And softly, turning a little, she laid her lips on one of Olivier's eyes, where she found a bitter tear.
She started, as if she had just tasted a drop of despair, and repeated several times:
"Ah, poor friend--poor friend--poor friend!"
Then after a moment of silence she added: "It is the fault of our hearts, which never have grown old. I feel that my own is full of life!"
He tried to speak but could not, for now his sobs choked him. She listened, as he leaned against her, to the struggle in his breast. Then, seized by the selfish anguish of love, which had gnawed at her heart so long, she said in the agonized tone in which one realizes a horrible misfortune:
"God! how you love her!"