“Oh, I like to be here much better than in the country!” “And I,” Bertin replied, “should like it much better to be there than here.” “Nonsense!” “Heavens, yes! I find Paris tainted this summer.” “Oh, well, my dear fellow, it is always Paris, after all.” The Deputy seemed to be enjoying his day, one of those rare days of effervescence and gaiety in which grave men do foolish things. He looked at two cocottes dining at a neighboring table with three thin young men, superlatively correct, and he slyly questioned Olivier about all the well-known girls, whose names were heard every day. Then he murmured in a tone of deep regret: “You were lucky to have remained a bachelor. You can do and see many things.” But the painter did not agree with him, and, as a man will do when haunted by a persistent idea, he took Guilleroy into his confidence on the subject of his sadness and isolation. When he had said everything, had recited to the end of his litany of melancholy, and, urged by the longing to relieve his heart, had confessed naively how much he would have enjoyed the love and companionship of a woman installed in his home, the Count, in his turn, admitted that marriage had its advantages. Recovering his parliamentary eloquence in order to sing the praises of his domestic happiness, he eulogized the Countess in the highest terms, to which Olivier listened gravely with frequent nods of approval. Happy to hear her spoken of, but jealous of that intimate happiness which Guilleroy praised as a matter of duty, the painter finally murmured, with sincere conviction: “Yes, indeed, you were the lucky one!” The Deputy, flattered, assented to this; then he resumed: “I should like very much to see her return; indeed, I am a little anxious about her just now. Wait--since you are bored in Paris, you might go to Roncieres and bring her back. She will listen to you, for you are her best friend; while a husband--you know----” Delighted, Olivier replied: “I ask nothing better. But do you think it would not annoy her to see me arriving in that abrupt way?” “No, not at all. Go, by all means, my dear fellow.” “Well, then, I will. I will leave to-morrow by the one o'clock train. Shall I send her a telegram?” “No, I will attend to that. I will telegraph, so that you will find a carriage at the station.” As they had finished dinner, they strolled again up the Boulevard, but in half an hour the Count suddenly left the painter, under the pretext of an urgent affair that he had quite forgotten. CHAPTER II SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN