“I should like so much to pass a whole day with you,” Bertin continued. He felt himself tormented obscurely by an inexpressible necessity for close intimacy. He had believed, only a short time ago, that the departure of those who had been present would suffice to realize the desire that had possessed him since morning; and now that he was alone with his mistress, now that he felt on his brow the touch of her hands, and, against his cheek, through the folds of her skirt, the warmth of her body, he felt the same agitation reawakened, the same longing for a love hitherto unknown and ever fleeing him. He now fancied that, away from that house--perhaps in the woods where they would be absolutely alone--this deep yearning of his heart would be calmed and satisfied. “What a boy you are!” said the Countess. “Why, we see each other almost every day.” He begged her to devise a plan whereby she might breakfast with him, in some suburb of Paris, as she had already done four or five times. The Countess was astonished at his caprice, so difficult to realize now that her daughter had returned. She assured him that she would try to do it as soon as her husband should go to Ronces; but that it would be impossible before the varnishing-day reception, which would take place the following Saturday. “And until then when shall I see you?” he asked. “To-morrow evening at the Corbelles'. Come over here Thursday, at three o'clock, if you are free; and I believe that we are to dine together with the Duchess on Friday.” “Yes, exactly.” He arose. “Good-by!” “Good-by, my friend.” He remained standing, unable to decide to go, for he had said almost nothing of all that he had come to say, and his mind was still full of unsaid things, his heart still swelled with vague desires which he could not express. “Good-bye!” he repeated, taking her hands. “Good-by, my friend!” “I love you!” She gave him one of those smiles with which a woman shows a man, in a single instant, all that she has given him. With a throbbing heart he repeated for the third time, “Good-by!” and departed. CHAPTER IV A DOUBLE JEALOUSY One would have said that all the carriages in Paris were making a pilgrimage to the Palais de l'Industrie that day. As early as nine o'clock in the morning they began to drive, by way of all streets, avenues, and bridges, toward that hall of the fine arts where all artistic Paris invites all fashionable Paris to be present at the pretended varnishing of three thousand four hundred pictures. A long procession of visitors pressed through the doors, and, disdaining the exhibition of sculpture, hastened upstairs to the picture gallery. Even while mounting the steps they raised their eyes to the canvases displayed on the walls of the staircase, where they hang the special category of decorative painters who have sent canvases of unusual proportions or works that the committee dare not refuse.