f someone had told me when I was thirty
that a time would come when I should be sad without cause, uneasy,
discontented with everything, I should not have believed it. That proves
that my heart also has grown old."

The Countess replied with an air of profound certainty:

"Oh, as for me, my heart is still young. It never has changed. Yes, it
has grown younger, perhaps. Once it was twenty; now it is only sixteen!"

They remained a long while thus, talking in the open window, mingled
with the spirit of evening, very near each other, nearer than they ever
had been, in this hour of tenderness, this twilight of love, like that
of the day.

A servant entered, announcing:

"Madame la Comtesse is served."

"Have you called my daughter?" the Countess asked.

"Mademoiselle is in the dining-room."

All three sat down at the table. The shutters were closed, and two large
candelabra with six candles each illumined Annette's face and seemed
to powder her hair with gold dust. Bertin, smiling, looked at her
continually.

"Heavens, now pretty she is in black!" he said.

And he turned toward the Countess while admiring the daughter, as if to
thank the mother for having given him this pleasure.

When they returned to the drawing-room the moon had risen above the
trees in the park. Their somber mass appeared like a great island, and
the country round about like a sea hidden under the light mist that
floated over the plains.

"Oh, mamma, let us take a walk," said Annette.

The Countess consented.

"I will take Julio."

"Very well, if you wish."

They set out. The young girl walked in front, amusing herself with the
dog. When they crossed the lawn they heard the breathing of the cows,
which, awake and scenting their enemy, raised their heads to look.
Under the trees, farther away, the moon was pouring among the branches
a shower of fine rays that fell to earth, seeming to wet the leaves that
were spread out on the path in little patches of yellow light. Annette
and Julio ran along, each seeming to have on this serene night, the same
joyful and unburdened hearts, the gaiety of which expressed itself in
graceful gambols.

In the little openings, where the wave of moonlight descended as into
a well, the young girl looked like a spirit, and the painter called her
back, marveling at this dark vision with its clear and brilliant face.
Then when she darted away again, he took the Countess's hand and pressed
it, often seeking