ack attire, while
the mother had for a long time lost that radiance of hair and complexion
that had dazzled and entranced the painter when they met for the first
time.

Then the Countess and Olivier entered the drawing-room. He seemed in
high spirits.

"Ah, what a good plan it was to come here!" he said. "But it was your
husband's idea that I should come, you know. He charged me to take you
back with me. And I--do you know what I propose? You have no idea, have
you? Well, I propose, on the contrary, to remain here! Paris is odious
in this heat, while the country is delicious. Heavens! how sweet it is
here!"

The dews of evening impregnated the park with freshness, the soft breeze
made the trees tremble, and the earth exhaled imperceptible vapors
which threw a light, transparent veil over the horizon. The three cows,
standing with drooping heads, cropped the grass with avidity, and four
peacocks, with a loud rustling of wings, flew up into their accustomed
perch in a cedar-tree under the windows of the castle. The barking of
dogs in the distance came to the ear, and in the quiet air of the close
of day the calls of human voices were heard, in phrases shouted across
the fields, from one meadow to another, and in those short, guttural
cries used in driving animals.

The painter, with bared head and shining eyes, breathed deeply, and, as
he met the Countess's look, he said:

"This is happiness!"

"It never lasts," she answered, approaching nearer.

"Let us take it when it comes," said he.

"You never used to like the country until now," the Countess replied,
smiling.

"I like it to-day because I find you here. I do not know how to live any
more where you are not. When one is young, he may be in love though far
away, through letters, thoughts, or dreams, perhaps because he feels
that life is all before him, perhaps too because passion is stronger
than pure affection; at my age, on the contrary, love has become like
the habit of an invalid; it is a binding up of the soul, which flies now
with only one wing, and mounts less frequently into the ideal. The heart
knows no more ecstasy, only selfish wants. And then I know quite well
that I have no time to lose to enjoy what remains for me."

"Oh, old!" she remonstrated, taking his hand tenderly.

"Yes, yes, I am old," he repeated. "Everything shows it, my hair, my
changing character, the coming sadness. Alas! that is something I never
have known till now--sadness. I