She was so lost in this examination of her fading beauty that she did not hear the door open, and was startled when her maid, standing behind her, said:
“Madame has forgotten to take her tea.”
The Countess turned, confused, surprised, ashamed, and the servant, guessing her thoughts continued:
“Madame has wept too much; there is nothing worse to spoil the skin. One's blood turns to water.”
And as the Countess added sadly: “There is age also,” the maid exclaimed: “Oh, but Madame has not reached that time yet! With a few days of rest not a trace will be left. But Madame must go to walk, and take great care not to weep.”
As soon as she was dressed the Countess descended to the park, and for the first time since her mother's death she visited the little orchard where long ago she had liked to cultivate and gather flowers; then she went to the river and strolled beside the stream until the hour for breakfast.
She sat down at the table opposite her husband, and beside her daughter, and remarked, that she might know what they thought: “I feel better today. I must be less pale.”
“Oh, you still look very ill,” said the Count.
Her heart contracted and she felt like weeping, for she had fallen into the habit of it.
Until evening, and the next day, and all the following days, whether she thought of her mother or of herself, every moment she felt her throat swelling with sobs and her eyes filling with tears, but to prevent them from overflowing and furrowing her cheeks she repressed them, and by a superhuman effort of will turned her thoughts in other directions, mastered them, ruled them, separated them from her sorrow, forced herself to feel consoled, tried to amuse herself and to think of sad things no more, in order to regain the hue of health.