Certainly, the marriage was decided upon; no doubt the date was settled. He guessed the reason for his friend's haste in having it finished soon; he understood that in the shortest time possible she would give her daughter to Farandal. He could not help it. He could neither prevent, nor modify, nor delay this frightful thing. Since he must bear it, would it not be better for him to try to master his soul, to hide his suffering, to appear content, and no longer allow himself to be carried away by his rage, as he had done? Yes, he would invite the Marquis, and so allay the Countess's suspicions, and keep for himself a friendly door in the new establishment. As soon as he had breakfasted, he went down to the Opera to engage one of the boxes hidden by the curtain. It was promised to him. Then he hastened to the Guilleroys'. The Countess appeared almost immediately, apparently still a little moved by their tender interview of the day before. “How kind of you to come again to-day!” said she. “I am bringing you something,” he faltered. “What is it?” “A stage-box at the Opera for the single performance of Helsson and Montrose.” “Oh, my friend, what a pity! And my mourning?” “Your mourning has lasted for almost four months.” “I assure you that I cannot.” “And Annette? Remember that she may never have such an opportunity again.” “With whom could she go?” “With her father and the Duchess, whom I am about to invite. I intend also to offer a seat to the Marquis.” She gazed deep into his eyes, and a wild desire to kiss him rose to her lips. Hardly believing her ears, she repeated: “To the Marquis?” “Why, yes.” She consented at once to this arrangement. He continued, in an indifferent tone: “Have you fixed the date of their marriage?” “Oh, yes, almost. We have reasons for hastening it very much, especially as it was decided upon before my mother's death. You remember that?” “Yes, perfectly. And when will it take place?” “About the beginning of January. I ask your pardon for not having told you of it sooner.” Annette entered. He felt his heart leap within him as if on springs, and all the tenderness that drew him toward her suddenly became bitter, arousing in his heart that strange, passionate animosity into which love changes when lashed by jealousy. “I have brought you something,” he said. “So we have decided to say 'you'?” she replied. He assumed a paternal tone. “Listen, my child, I know all about the event that is soon to occur. I assure you that then it will be indispensable. Better say 'you' now than later.” She shrugged her shoulders with an air of discontent, while the Countess remained silent, looking afar off, her thoughts preoccupied. “Well, what have you brought me?” inquired Annette. He told her about the performance, and the invitations he intended to give. She was delighted, and, throwing her arms around his neck with the manner of a little girl, she kissed him on both cheeks.