These meetings would be agreed upon beforehand, and always seemed perfectly natural to M. de Guilleroy.
Twice a week at least the painter dined at the Countess's house, with a few friends; on Monday nights he visited her in her box at the Opera; then they would agree upon a meeting at such or such a house, to which chance led them at the same hour. He knew the evenings that she did not go out, and would call then to have a cup of tea with her, feeling himself very much at home even near the folds of her robe, so tenderly and so surely settled in that ripe affection, so fixed in the habit of finding her somewhere, of passing some time by her side, or exchanging a few words with her and of mingling a few thoughts, that he felt, although the glow of his passion had long since faded, an incessant need of seeing her.
The desire for family life, for a full and animated household, for the family table, for those evenings when one talks without fatigue with old friends, that desire for contact, for familiarity, for human intercourse, which dwells dormant in every human heart, and which every old bachelor carries from door to door to his friends, where he installs something of himself, added a strain of egoism to his sentiments of affection. In that house, where he was loved and spoiled, where he found everything, he could still rest and nurse his solitude.
For three days he had not seen his friends, who must be very much occupied by the return of the daughter of the house; and he was already feeling bored, and even a little offended because they had not sent for him sooner, but not wishing, as a matter of discretion, to be the first to make an approach.
The Countess's letter aroused him like the stroke of a whip. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. He decided to go immediately to her house, that he might find her before she went out.
The valet appeared, summoned by the sound of Olivier's bell.
"What sort of weather is it, Joseph?"
"Very fine, Monsieur."
"Warm?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"White waistcoat, blue jacket, gray hat."
He always dressed with elegance, but although his tailor turned him out in correct styles, the very way in which he wore his clothes, his manner of walking, his comfortable proportions encased in a white waistcoat, his high gray felt hat, tilted a little toward the back of his head, seemed to reveal at once that he was both an artist and a bachelor.
When he reached the Countess's house, he was told that she was dressing for a drive in the Bois. He was a little vexed at this, and waited.
According to his habit, he began to pace to and fro in the drawing-room, going from one seat to another, or from the windows to the wall, in the large drawing-room darkened by the curtains. On the light tables with gilded feet, trifles of various kinds, useless, pretty, and costly, lay scattered about in studied disorder. There were little antique boxes of chased gold, miniature snuff-boxes, ivory statuettes, objects in dull silver, quite modern, of an exaggerated severity, in which English taste appeared: a diminutive kitchen stove, and upon it a cat drinking from a pan, a cigarette-case simulating a loaf of bread, a coffee-pot to hold matches, and in a casket a complete set of doll's jewelry--necklaces, bracelets, rings, brooches, ear-rings set with diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, a microscopic fantasy that seemed to have been executed by Lilliputian jewelers.
From time to time he touched some object, given by himself on some anniversary; he lifted it, handled it, examining it with dreamy indifference, then put it back in its place.
In one corner some books that were luxuriously bound but seldom opened lay within easy reach on a round table with a single leg for a foundation, which stood before a little curved sofa. The _Revue des Deux Mondes_ lay there also, somewhat worn, with turned-down pages, as if it had been read and re-read many times; other publications lay near it, some of them uncut: the _Arts modernes_, which is bought only because of its cost, the subscription price being four hundred francs a year; and the _Feuille libre_, a thin volume between blue covers, in which appear the more recent poets, called "_les enerves_."
Between the windows stood the Countess's writing-desk, a coquettish piece of furniture of the last century, on which she wrote replies to those hurried questions handed to her during her receptions. A few books were on that, also, familiar books, index to the heart and mind of a woman: Musset, Manon Lescaut, Werther; and, to show that she was not a stranger to the complicated sensations and mysteries of psychology, _Les Fleurs du Mal_, _Le Rouge et le Noir_, _La Femme au XVIII Siecle_, _Adolphe_.
Beside the books lay a charming hand-mirror, a masterpiece of the silversmith's art, the glass being turned down upon a square of embroidered velvet, in order to allow one to admire the curious gold and silver workmanship on the back. Bertin took it up and looked at his own reflection. For some years he had been growing terribly old in appearance, and although he thought that his face showed more originality than when he was younger, the sight of his heavy cheeks and increasing wrinkles saddened him.
A door opened behind him.
"Good morning, Monsieur Bertin," said Annette.
"Good morning, little one; are you well?"
"Very well; and you?"
"What, are you not saying 'thou' to me, then, after all?"
"No, indeed! It would really embarrass me."
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, it would. You make me feel timid."
"And why, pray?"
"Because--because you are neither young enough nor old enough--"
The painter laughed.
"After such a reason as that I will insist no more."
She blushed suddenly, up to the white brow, where the waves of hair began to ripple, and resumed, with an air of slight confusion:
"Mamma told me to say to you that she will be down immediately, and to ask you whether you will go to the Bois de Boulogne with us."
"Yes, certainly. You are alone?"
"No; with the Duchesse de Mortemain."
"Very well; I will go."
"Then will you allow me to go and put on my hat?"
"Yes, go, my child."
As Annette left the room the Countess entered, veiled, ready to set forth. She extended her hands cordially.
"We never see you any more. What are you doing?" she inquired.
"I did not wish to trouble you just at this time," said Bertin.
In the tone with which she spoke the word "Olivier!" she expressed all her reproaches and all her attachment.
"You are the best woman in the world," he said, touched by the tender intonation of his name.
This little love-quarrel being finished and settled, the Countess resumed her light, society tone.
"We shall pick up the Duchess at her hotel and then make a tour of the Bois. We must show all that sort of thing to Nanette, you know."
The landau awaited them under the porte-cochere.
Bertin seated himself facing the two ladies, and the carriage departed, the pawing of the horses making a resonant sound against the over-arching roof of the porte-cochere.
Along the grand boulevard descending toward the Madeleine all the gaiety of the springtime seemed to have fallen upon the tide of humanity.
The soft air and the sunshine lent to the men a festive air, to the women a suggestion of love; the bakers' boys deposited their baskets on the benches to run and play with their brethren, the street urchins; the dogs appeared in a great hurry to go somewhere; the canaries hanging in the boxes of the concierges trilled loudly; only the ancient cab-horses kept their usual sedate pace.
"Oh, what a beautiful day! How good it is to live!" murmured the Countess.
The painter contemplated both mother and daughter in the dazzling light.