“You lost her so early: of what malady did she die?” “No one knows.” The tone of the reply was so full of pain that I involuntarily coupled his enigma with that of the portrait. Just then I discovered the small Italian picture which the steward had mentioned, and hastened to ask for a better light upon it. It was an Annunciation, somewhat dark in tone, but surprisingly delicate, and easily to be attributed to the school of da Vinci. The subject was treated in the manner of that Ufizzi Annunciation in Florence in which people have found the special mark and stamp of the master’s style. The angel has just delivered his message: he has spoken, and now he bends the knee before the future mother of God. How touching she is in her surprise, her modesty and embarrassment! She crosses her hands upon her breast, as if to hold in check a heart that would leap from its resting place. She cannot refuse so high an honour, yet she feels herself unworthy; she is happy; and yielding under the burden of divine love she offers to God her readiness to endure the suffering that is to come. I stood long before this picture, deeply moved by it: it was so perfect, so full of grace. Then a resemblance began to force itself upon me. The countenance of Mme. Cernay incontestably recalled that emotion, that modest embarrassment. She might have posed long ago for that portrait of the Virgin. There was the same tender grace, the same elongation of the throat, the same slimness and even the same light in the startled eyes. I remarked the fact aloud. “My son-in-law bought this canvas because of the resemblance of which you speak,” said M. Mairieux. “It is striking.” “No doubt.” And the steward turned his head towards his trees, as if under the influence of a sadness which he would fain hide from me, and which it was not for me to fathom. By a refined delicacy, and as if anticipating probable comments, he took pains as we descended the stairs to dwell upon the generosity of his son-in-law, which I might have questioned on seeing that he himself retained his subordinate functions. “We do not live in the chateau, my wife and I, though M. Cernay has begged us to do so. Why should we change our way of life? In this great building I should not feel at ease as in our lodge: we should need too large a household. And he won’t let me render the accounts of the estate to him; he pretends that the revenues are so small and hard to collect. He gave me my horse Zeno, which is of Farbeo pedigree, strong and sturdy as I like a horse to be. Did you not see him as I came in from my ride?” “You had come in before my arrival.” “Would you like to see him in his box?” Condescendingly I accompanied him to the stable and admired the hind quarters of an ill-tempered brown beast which seemed more than willing to kick me. His owner calmed him with cajoling words, as a personage accustomed to flattery.