The Corbelles, whose convictions always followed established opinions, marveled in their turn with a little less exuberant ardor.
The Countess's heart seemed to contract, little by little, as if all these exclamations of astonishment had hurt it. Without speaking, she looked at her daughter standing by the image of herself, and a sudden feeling of weakness came over her. She longed to cry out: “Say no more! I know very well that she resembles me!”
Until the end of the evening she remained in a melancholy mood, having lost once more the confidence she had felt the day before.
Bertin was chatting with her when the Marquis de Farandal was announced. As soon as the painter saw him enter and approach the hostess he rose and glided behind her armchair, murmuring: “This is delightful! There comes that great animal now.” Then, making a detour of the apartment, he reached the door and departed.
After receiving the salutations of the newcomer, the Countess looked around to find Olivier, to resume with him the talk in which she had been interested. Not seeing him, she asked:
“What, has the great man gone?”
“I believe so, my dear,” her husband answered; “I just saw him going away in the English fashion.”
She was surprised, reflected a few moments, and then began to talk to the Marquis.
Her intimate friends, however, discreetly took their leave early, for, so soon after her affliction, she had only half-opened her door, as it were.
When she found herself again lying on her bed, all the griefs that had assailed her in the country reappeared. They took a more distinct form; she felt them more keenly. She realized that she was growing old!