ontinuous fashion, jealous of all that absorbed
the time, the looks, the attention, the gaiety, the astonishment or
affection of Annette, for all that took a little of her away from him.
He had been jealous of all that she did without him, of all that he did
not know, of her going about, her reading, of everything that seemed to
please her, jealous even of a heroic officer wounded in Africa, of whom
Paris talked for a week, of the author of a much praised romance, of
a young unknown poet she never had seen, but whose verses Musadieu
had recited; in short, of all men that anyone praised before her, even
carelessly, for when one loves a woman one cannot tolerate without
anguish that she should even think of another with an appearance of
interest. In one's heart is felt the imperious need of being for her the
only being in the world. One wishes her to see, to know, to appreciate
no one else. So soon as she shows an indication of turning to look at or
recognize some person, one throws himself before her, and if one cannot
turn aside or absorb her interest he suffers to the bottom of his heart.

Olivier suffered thus in the presence of this singer, who seemed to
scatter and to gather love in that opera-house, and he felt vexed with
everyone because of the tenor's triumph, with the women whom he saw
applauding him from their boxes, with the men, those idiots who were
giving a sort of apotheosis to that coxcomb!

An artist! They called him a artist, a great artist! And he had
successes, this paid actor, interpreter of another's thought, such as
no creator had ever known! Ah, that was like the justice and the
intelligence of the fashionable world, those ignorant and pretentious
amateurs for whom the masters of human art work until death. He looked
at them, applauding, shouting, going into ecstasies; and the ancient
hostility that had always seethed at the bottom of his proud heart of
a parvenu became a furious anger against those imbeciles, all-powerful
only by right of birth and wealth.

Until the end of the performance he remained silent, a prey to thought;
then when the storm of enthusiasm had at last subsided he offered his
arm to the Duchess, while the Marquis took Annette's. They descended the
grand stairway again, in the midst of a stream of men and women, in a
sort of slow and magnificent cascade of bare shoulders, sumptuous gowns,
and black coats. Then the Duchess, the young girl, her father, and the
Marquis entered