“Oh, how lovely they are!” exclaimed Annette; “who can have sent them?”
“Olivier Bertin, no doubt,” replied her mother.
She had been thinking of him since his departure. He had seemed so gloomy, so tragic, she understood so clearly his hopeless sorrow, she felt so keenly the counter-stroke of that grief, she loved him so much, so entirely, so tenderly, that her heart was weighed down by sad presentiments.
In the three bouquets were found three of the painter's cards. He had written on them in pencil, respectively, the names of the Countess, the Duchess, and Annette.
“Is he ill, your friend Bertin?” the Duchess inquired. “I thought he looked rather bad last night.”
“Yes, I am a little anxious about him, although he does not complain,” Madame de Guilleroy answered.
“Oh, he is growing old, like all the rest of us,” her husband interposed. “He is growing old quite fast, indeed. I believe, however, that bachelors usually go to pieces suddenly. Their breaking-up comes more abruptly than ours. He really is very much changed.”
“Ah, yes!” sighed the Countess.
Farandal suddenly stopped his whispering to Annette to say: “The Figaro has a very disagreeable article about him this morning.”
Any attack, any criticism or allusion unfavorable to her friend's talent always threw the Countess into a passion.