“Oh, they compliment me, but I am not satisfied.”
“You never are satisfied.”
“Yes, sometimes. But to-day I really feel that I am right.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
“Let us go to see it.”
When they arrived before Bertin's picture—two little peasant-girls taking a bath in a brook—they found a group admiring it. The Countess was delighted, and whispered: “It is simply a delicious bit—a jewel! You never have done anything better.”
Bertin pressed close to her, loving her and thanking her for every word that calmed his suffering and healed his aching heart. Through his mind ran arguments to convince him that she was right, that she must judge accurately with the intelligent observation of an experienced Parisian. He forgot, so desirous was he to reassure himself, that for at least twelve years he had justly reproached her for too much admiring the dainty trifles, the elegant nothings, the sentimentalities and nameless trivialities of the passing fancy of the day, and never art, art alone, art detached from the popular ideas, tendencies, and prejudices.
“Let us go on,” said he, drawing them away from his picture. He led them for a long time from gallery to gallery, showing them notable canvases and explaining their subjects, happy to be with them.
“What time is it?” the Countess asked suddenly.