When she was alone she let herself sink, sobbing, upon a chair. She would have remained there till night if Annette had not suddenly appeared in search of her. In order to gain time to dry her red eyelids, the Countess answered: "I have a little note to write, my child. Go up-stairs, and I will join you in a few seconds."
She was compelled to occupy herself with the great affair of the trousseau until evening.
The Duchess and her nephew dined with the Guilleroys, as a family party.
They had just seated themselves at table, and were speaking of the opera of the night before, when the butler appeared, carrying three enormous bouquets.
Madame de Mortemain was surprised.
"Good gracious! What is that?"
"Oh, how lovely they are!" exclaimed Annette; "who can have sent them?"
"Olivier Bertin, no doubt," replied her mother.
She had been thinking of him since his departure. He had seemed so gloomy, so tragic, she understood so clearly his hopeless sorrow, she felt so keenly the counter-stroke of that grief, she loved him so much, so entirely, so tenderly, that her heart was weighed down by sad presentiments.
In the three bouquets were found three of the painter's cards. He had written on them in pencil, respectively, the names of the Countess, the Duchess, and Annette.
"Is he ill, your friend Bertin?" the Duchess inquired. "I thought he looked rather bad last night."
"Yes, I am a little anxious about him, although he does not complain,"
Madame de Guilleroy answered.
"Oh, he is growing old, like all the rest of us," her husband interposed. "He is growing old quite fast, indeed. I believe, however, that bachelors usually go to pieces suddenly. Their breaking-up comes more abruptly than ours. He really is very much changed."
"Ah, yes!" sighed the Countess.
Farandal suddenly stopped his whispering to Annette to say: "The _Figaro_ has a very disagreeable article about him this morning."
Any attack, any criticism or allusion unfavorable to her friend's talent always threw the Countess into a passion.
"Oh," said she, "men of Bertin's importance need not mind such rudeness."
Guilleroy was astonished.
"What!" he exclaimed, "a disagreeable article about Olivier! But I have not read it. On what page?"
The Marquis informed him: "The first page, at the top, with the title, 'Modern Painting.'"
And the deputy ceased to be astonished. "Oh, exactly! I did not read it because it was about painting."
Everyone smiled, knowing that apart from politics and agriculture M. de Guilleroy was interested in very few things.
The conversation turned upon other subjects until they entered the drawing-room to take coffee. The Countess was not listening and hardly answered, being pursued by anxiety as to what Olivier might be doing.
Where was he? Where had he dined? Where had he taken his hopeless heart at that moment? She now felt a burning regret at having let him go, not to have kept him; and she fancied him roving the streets, so sad and lonely, fleeing under his burden of woe.
Up to the time of the departure of the Duchess and her nephew she had hardly spoken, lashed by vague and superstitious fears; then she went to bed and lay there long, her eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking of him!
A very long time had passed when she thought she heard the bell of her apartment ring. She started, sat up and listened. A second time the vibrating tinkle broke the stillness of the night.
She leaped out of bed, and with all her strength pressed the electric button that summoned her maid. Then, candle in hand, she ran to the vestibule.
Through the door she asked: "Who is there?"
"It is a letter," an unknown voice replied.
"A letter! From whom?"
"From a physician."
"What physician?"
"I do not know; it is about some accident."
Hesitating no more, she opened the door, and found herself facing a cab-driver in an oilskin cap. He held a paper in his hand, which he presented to her. She read: "Very urgent--Monsieur le Comte de Guilleroy."
The writing was unknown.
"Enter, my good man," said she; "sit down, and wait for me."
When she reached her husband's door her heart was beating so violently that she could not call him. She pounded on the wood with her metal candlestick. The Count was asleep and did not hear.
Then, impatient, nervous, she kicked the door, and heard a sleepy voice asking: "Who is there? What time is it?"
"It is I," she called. "I have an urgent letter for you, brought by a cabman. There has been some accident."
"Wait! I am getting up. I'll be there," he stammered from behind his bed-curtains.
In another minute he appeared in his dressing-gown. At the same time two servants came running, aroused by the ringing of the bell. They were alarmed and bewildered, having seen a stranger sitting on a chair in the dining-room.
The Count had taken the letter and was turning it over in his fingers, murmuring: "What is that? I cannot imagine."
"Well, read it, then!" said the Countess, in a fever.
He tore off the envelope, unfolded the paper, uttered an exclamation of amazement, then looked at his wife with frightened eyes.
"My God! what is it?" said she.
He stammered, hardly able to speak, so great was his emotion: "Oh, a great misfortune--a great misfortune! Bertin has fallen under a carriage!"
"Dead?" she cried.
"No, no!" said he; "read for yourself."
She snatched from his hand the letter he held out and read:
"MONSIEUR: A great misfortune has just happened. Your friend, the eminent artist, M. Olivier Bertin, has been run over by an omnibus, the wheel of which passed over his body. I cannot as yet say anything decisive as to the probable result of this accident, which may not be serious, although it may have an immediate and fatal result. M. Bertin begs you earnestly and entreats Madame la Comtesse de Guilleroy to come to him at once. I hope, Monsieur, that Madame la Comtesse and yourself will grant the desire of our friend in common, who before daylight may have ceased to live.