“Yes, come, sir painter! I assure you that as for myself I cannot do without you.”
His next words escaped him so quickly that he could nether check them as he spoke nor soften their tone:
“Bah! You do well enough without me, just as everyone else does!”
A little surprised at his tone, she exclaimed: “Come, now! Here he is beginning again to leave off his 'tu' to me!”
His lips were curled in one of those smiles that reveal the suffering of a soul, and he said with a slight bow: “It will be necessary for me to accustom myself to it one day or another.”
“Why, pray?”
“Because you will marry, and your husband, whoever he may be, would have the right to find that word rather out of place coming from me.”
“It will be time enough then to think about that,” the Countess hastened to say. “But I trust that Annette will not marry a man so susceptible as to object to such familiarity from so old a friend.”
“Come, come!” cried the Count; “let us go. We shall be late.”
Those who were to accompany him, having risen, went out after him, after the usual handshakes and kisses which the Duchess, the Countess, and her daughter exchanged at every meeting as at every parting.