e subscription price being four hundred francs a year; and
the _Feuille libre_, a thin volume between blue covers, in which appear
the more recent poets, called "_les enerves_."

Between the windows stood the Countess's writing-desk, a coquettish
piece of furniture of the last century, on which she wrote replies to
those hurried questions handed to her during her receptions. A few books
were on that, also, familiar books, index to the heart and mind of a
woman: Musset, Manon Lescaut, Werther; and, to show that she was not a
stranger to the complicated sensations and mysteries of psychology,
_Les Fleurs du Mal_, _Le Rouge et le Noir_, _La Femme au XVIII Siecle_,
_Adolphe_.

Beside the books lay a charming hand-mirror, a masterpiece of the
silversmith's art, the glass being turned down upon a square of
embroidered velvet, in order to allow one to admire the curious gold and
silver workmanship on the back. Bertin took it up and looked at his
own reflection. For some years he had been growing terribly old
in appearance, and although he thought that his face showed more
originality than when he was younger, the sight of his heavy cheeks and
increasing wrinkles saddened him.

A door opened behind him.

"Good morning, Monsieur Bertin," said Annette.

"Good morning, little one; are you well?"

"Very well; and you?"

"What, are you not saying 'thou' to me, then, after all?"

"No, indeed! It would really embarrass me."

"Nonsense!"

"Yes, it would. You make me feel timid."

"And why, pray?"

"Because--because you are neither young enough nor old enough--"

The painter laughed.

"After such a reason as that I will insist no more."

She blushed suddenly, up to the white brow, where the waves of hair
began to ripple, and resumed, with an air of slight confusion:

"Mamma told me to say to you that she will be down immediately, and to
ask you whether you will go to the Bois de Boulogne with us."

"Yes, certainly. You are alone?"

"No; with the Duchesse de Mortemain."

"Very well; I will go."

"Then will you allow me to go and put on my hat?"

"Yes, go, my child."

As Annette left the room the Countess entered, veiled, ready to set
forth. She extended her hands cordially.

"We never see you any more. What are you doing?" she inquired.

"I did not wish to trouble you just at this time," said Bertin.

In the tone with which she spoke the word "Olivier!" she expressed all
her reproaches and all her attachm