Pierre Olsdorf loved his wife; but with his serious character, and the temperament of a man born in northern latitudes, he knew nothing of trouble and fierce passions. It seemed, too, that it was well he was not otherwise, for Lise was still the woman General Podoi had described her as—gentle, amiable, free from inquietude and jealousy. Her husband was for her, above all, a friend. Neither her heart nor her passions seemed to require more from him. So that all was for the best, and the Countess Barineff, justly proud of her work, was feeling the satisfaction its contemplation gave her when one day the good fellow Podoi reminded her of the promise she had made to accept his name after her daughter's marriage.
"Do you, then, still think of making me your wife?" asked Lise's mother.
"More than ever," replied the general, in a feeling voice. "Come, now, have not I, too, worked for your daughter's happiness, and do not I deserve a reward? What is the only one I covet? Reflect, my dear Madeleine; I have loved you for fifteen years."
"True; and that has aged us both, eh?"
"You are still young and beautiful. As for me, you will give me back my youth."
The general had spoken those words with so dandified an air that the countess could not help smiling in offering him her hand.
"You give it me?" exclaimed Podoi, seizing the hand and covering it with kisses.
"I can not do otherwise," said Madeleine. "Will not people laugh at us a little, though? I shall soon be a grandmother."
"Well, well, we will begin by having grandchildren, that is all."
And the general straightened himself proudly, while the ex-actress tried to summon a faint blush at this freedom of speech in her old lover.