Now he was offended, and, growing still more excited, he began once more to plead his loyalty, just as he argued all alone in the street. She waited until he had finished his defense; then, without anger, but without being shaken in her conviction, though frightfully pale, she murmured: “Olivier, I know very well all that you have just said to me, and I think as you do. But I am sure that I do not deceive myself. Listen, reflect, understand. My daughter resembles me too much, she is too much what I was once when you began to love me, that you should not begin to love her, too.” “Then,” he exclaimed, “you dare to throw in my face such a thing as that on this simple supposition and ridiculous reasoning: 'He loves me; my daughter resembles me; therefore he will love her'!” But seeing the Countess's face changing more and more, he continued in a softer tone: “Now, my dear Any, it is precisely because I do find you once more in her that this young girl pleases me so much. It is you, you alone, that I love when I look at her.” “Yes, and it is just that from which I begin to suffer, and which makes me so anxious. You are not yet aware of what you feel, but by and by you will no longer be able to deceive yourself regarding it.” “Any, I assure you that you are mad.” “Do you wish proofs?” “Yes.” “You had not come to Roncieres for three years, in spite of my desire to have you come. But you rushed down there when it was proposed that you should come to fetch us.” “Oh, indeed! You reproach me for not leaving you alone down there, knowing that you were ill, after your mother's death!” “So be it! I do not insist. But look: the desire to see Annette again is so imperious with you that you could not pass this day without asking me to take her to your studio, under the pretext of posing her.” “And do you not suppose it was you I wished to see?” “At this moment you are arguing against yourself, trying to convince yourself--but you do not deceive me. Listen again: Why did you leave abruptly, the night before last, when the Marquis de Farandal entered? Do you know why?” He hesitated, very much surprised, disturbed, disarmed by this observation. Then he said slowly: “But--I hardly know--I was tired, and then, to be candid, that imbecile makes me nervous.” “Since when?” “Always.” “Pardon me, I have heard you sing his praises. You liked him once. Be quite sincere, Olivier.” He reflected a few moments; then, choosing his words, he said: “Yes, it is possible that the great love I have for you makes me love so much everything that belongs to you as to modify my opinion of that bore, whom I might meet occasionally with indifference, but whom I should not like to see in your house almost every day.”