Olivier, in the midst of a group of celebrated brother painters, members of the Institute and of the jury, exchanged opinions with them. He was oppressed by a certain uneasiness, a dissatisfaction with his own exhibited work, of the success of which he was very doubtful, in spite of the warm congratulations he had received.
Suddenly he sprang forward; the Duchesse de Mortemain had appeared at the main entrance.
“Hasn't the Countess arrived yet?” she inquired of Bertin.
“I have not seen her.”
“And Monsieur de Musadieu?”
“I have not seen him either.”
“He promised me to be here at ten o'clock, at the top of the stairs, to show me around the principal galleries.”
“Will you permit me to take his place, Duchess?”
“No, no. Your friends need you. We shall see each other again very soon, for I shall expect you to lunch with us.”
Musadieu hastened toward them. He had been detained for some minutes in the hall of sculpture, and excused himself, breathless already.