Never had he liked Guilleroy as during those twenty-four hours of waiting. When he saw him enter, he rushed toward him, with hands extended, exclaiming: “Ah, dear friend! how happy I am to see you!” The other also seemed very glad, delighted above all things to return to Paris, for life was not gay in Normandy during the three weeks he had passed there. The two men sat down on a little two-seated sofa in a corner of the studio, under a canopy of Oriental stuffs, and again shook hands with mutual sympathy. “And the Countess?” asked Bertin, “how is she?” “Not very well. She has been very much affected, and is recovering too slowly. I must confess that I am a little anxious about her.” “But why does she not return?” “I know nothing about it. It was impossible for me to induce her to return here.” “What does she do all day?” “Oh, heavens! She weeps, and thinks of her mother. That is not good for her. I should like very much to have her decide to have a change of air, to leave the place where that happened, you understand?” “And Annette?” “Oh, she is a blooming flower.” Olivier smiled with joy. “Was she very much grieved?” he asked again. “Yes, very much, very much, but you know that the grief of eighteen years does not last long.” After a silence Guilleroy resumed: “Where shall we dine, my dear fellow? I need to be cheered up, to hear some noise and see some movement.” “Well, at this season, it seems to me that the Cafe des Ambassadeurs is the right place.” So they set out, arm in arm, toward the Champs-Elysees. Guilleroy, filled with the gaiety of Parisians when they return, to whom the city, after every absence, seems rejuvenated and full of possible surprises, questioned the painter about a thousand details of what people had been doing and saying; and Olivier, after indifferent replies which betrayed all the boredom of his solitude, spoke of Roncieres, tried to capture from this man, in order to gather round him that almost tangible something left with us by persons with whom we have recently been associated, that subtle emanation of being one carries away when leaving them, which remains with us a few hours and evaporates amid new surroundings. The heavy sky of a summer evening hung over the city and over the great avenue where, under the trees, the gay refrains of open-air concerts were beginning to sound. The two men, seated on the balcony of the Cafe des Ambassadeurs, looked down upon the still empty benches and chairs of the inclosure up to the little stage, where the singers, in the mingled light of electric globes and fading day, displayed their striking costumes and their rosy complexions. Odors of frying, of sauces, of hot food, floated in the slight breezes from the chestnut-trees, and when a woman passed, seeing her reserved chair, followed by a man in a black coat, she diffused on her way the fresh perfume of her dress and her person. Guilleroy, who was radiant, murmured: