Bertin, as a matter of discretion, followed his example. The two men passed through both drawing-rooms together, followed by the Countess, who talked to the painter all the while. She detained him at the threshold of the ante-chamber to make some trifling explanation, while Musadieu, assisted by a footman, put on his topcoat. As Madame de Guilleroy continued to talk to Bertin, the Inspector of Fine Arts, having waited some seconds before the front door, held open by another servant, decided to depart himself rather than stand there facing the footman any longer. The door was closed softly behind him, and the Countess said to the artist in a perfectly easy tone: “Why do you go so soon? It is not yet midnight. Stay a little longer.” They reentered the smaller drawing-room together and seated themselves. “My God! how that animal set my teeth on edge!” said Bertin. “Why, pray?” “He took you away from me a little.” “Oh, not very much.” “Perhaps not, but he irritated me.” “Are you jealous?” “It is not being jealous to find a man a bore.” He had taken his accustomed armchair, and seated close beside her now he smoothed the folds of her robe with his fingers as he told her of the warm breath of tenderness that had passed through his heart that day. The Countess listened, surprised, charmed, and gently laid her hand on his white locks, which she caressed tenderly, as if to thank him. “I should like so much to live always near you!” he sighed. He was thinking of her husband, who had retired to rest, asleep, no doubt, in some neighboring chamber, and he continued: “It is undoubtedly true that marriage is the only thing that really unites two lives.” “My poor friend!” she murmured, full of pity for him and also for herself. He had laid his cheek against the Countess's knees, and he looked up at her with a tenderness touched with sadness, less ardently than a short time before, when he had been separated from her by her daughter, her husband, and Musadieu. “Heavens! how white your hair has grown!” said the Countess with a smile, running her fingers lightly over Olivier's head. “Your last black hairs have disappeared.” “Alas! I know it. Everything goes so soon!” She was concerned lest she had made him sad. “Oh, but your hair turned gray very early, you know,” she said. “I have always known you with pepper-and-salt locks.” “Yes, that is true.” In order to dispel altogether the slight cloud of regret she had evoked, she leaned over him and, taking his head between her hands, kissed him slowly and tenderly on the forehead, with long kisses that seemed as if they never would end. Then they gazed into each other's eyes, seeking therein the reflection of their mutual fondness.