he remained in a melancholy mood, having
lost once more the confidence she had felt the day before.

Bertin was chatting with her when the Marquis de Farandal was announced.
As soon as the painter saw him enter and approach the hostess he rose
and glided behind her armchair, murmuring: "This is delightful! There
comes that great animal now." Then, making a detour of the apartment, he
reached the door and departed.

After receiving the salutations of the newcomer, the Countess looked
around to find Olivier, to resume with him the talk in which she had
been interested. Not seeing him, she asked:

"What, has the great man gone?"

"I believe so, my dear," her husband answered; "I just saw him going
away in the English fashion."

She was surprised, reflected a few moments, and then began to talk to
the Marquis.

Her intimate friends, however, discreetly took their leave early, for,
so soon after her affliction, she had only half-opened her door, as it
were.

When she found herself again lying on her bed, all the griefs that had
assailed her in the country reappeared. They took a more distinct form;
she felt them more keenly. She realized that she was growing old!

That evening, for the first time, she had understood that, in her own
drawing-room, where until now she alone had been admired, complimented,
flattered, loved, another, her daughter, was taking her place. She had
comprehended this suddenly, when feeling that everyone's homage was paid
to Annette. In that kingdom, the house of a pretty woman, where she will
permit no one to overshadow her, where she eliminated with discreet and
unceasing care all disadvantageous comparisons, where she allows the
entrance of her equals only to attempt to make them her vassals, she saw
plainly that her daughter was about to become the sovereign. How strange
had been that contraction of her heart when all eyes were turned upon
Annette as Bertin held her by the hand standing before the portrait!
She herself felt as if she had suddenly disappeared, dispossessed,
dethroned. Everyone looked at Annette; no one had a glance for her any
more! She was so accustomed to hear compliments and flattery, whenever
her portrait was admired, she was so sure of eulogistic phrases, which
she had little regarded but which pleased her nevertheless, that
this desertion of herself, this unexpected defection, this admiration
intended wholly for her daughter, had moved, astonished, and hurt her
more