They remained a long while thus, talking in the open window, mingled with the spirit of evening, very near each other, nearer than they ever had been, in this hour of tenderness, this twilight of love, like that of the day.
A servant entered, announcing:
“Madame la Comtesse is served.”
“Have you called my daughter?” the Countess asked.
“Mademoiselle is in the dining-room.”
All three sat down at the table. The shutters were closed, and two large candelabra with six candles each illumined Annette's face and seemed to powder her hair with gold dust. Bertin, smiling, looked at her continually.
“Heavens, now pretty she is in black!” he said.
And he turned toward the Countess while admiring the daughter, as if to thank the mother for having given him this pleasure.
When they returned to the drawing-room the moon had risen above the trees in the park. Their somber mass appeared like a great island, and the country round about like a sea hidden under the light mist that floated over the plains.
“Oh, mamma, let us take a walk,” said Annette.