At the end of ten minutes, the Countess and Olivier found themselves separated from the others. He wished to find them immediately, but, leaning upon him, the Countess said: “Are we not very well off as it is? Let them go, since it is quite natural that we should lose sight of them; we will meet them again in the buffet at four o'clock.” “That is true,” he replied. But he was absorbed by the idea that the Marquis was accompanying Annette and continuing his attempts to please her by his fatuous and affected gallantry. “You love me always, then?” murmured the Countess. “Yes, certainly,” he replied, with a preoccupied air, trying to catch a glimpse of the Marquis's gray hat over the heads of the crowd. Feeling that he was abstracted, and wishing to lead him back to her own train of thought, the Countess continued: “If you only knew how I adore your picture of this year! It is certainly your _chef-d'oeuvre_.” He smiled, suddenly, forgetting the young people in remembering his anxiety of the morning. “Do you really think so?” he asked. “Yes, I prefer it above all others.” With artful wheedling, she crowned him anew, having known well for a long time that nothing has a stronger effect on an artist than tender and continuous flattery. Captivated, reanimated, cheered by her sweet words, he began again to chat gaily, seeing and hearing only her in that tumultuous throng. By way of expressing his thanks, he murmured in her ear: “I have a mad desire to embrace you!” A warm wave of emotion swept over her, and, raising her shining eyes to his, she repeated her question: “You love me always, then?” He replied, with the intonation she wished to hear, and which she had not heard before: “Yes, I love you, my dear Any.” “Come often to see me in the evenings,” she said. “Now that I have my daughter I shall not go out very much.” Since she had recognized in him this unexpected reawakening of tenderness, her heart was stirred with great happiness. In view of Olivier's silvery hair, and the calming touch of time, she had not suspected that he was fascinated by another woman, but she was terribly afraid that, from pure dread of loneliness, he might marry. This fear, which was of long standing, increased constantly, and set her wits to contriving plans whereby she might have him near her as much as possible, and to see that he should not pass long evenings alone in the chill silence of his empty rooms. Not being always able to hold and keep him, she would suggest amusements for him, sent him to the theater, forced him to go into society, being better pleased to know that he was mingling with many other women than alone in his gloomy house. She resumed, answering his secret thought: “Ah, if I could only have you always with me, how I should spoil you! Promise me to come often, since I hardly go out at all now.” “I promise it.” At that moment a voice murmured “Mamma!” in her ear.