When they were leaving the table, the Count, who had a passion for
billiards, offered to play a game with Bertin, and the two ladies
accompanied them to the billiard-room, where the coffee was served.

The men were still playing when the Duchess was announced, and they
all returned to the drawing-room. Madame de Corbelle and her husband
presented themselves at the same time, their voices full of tears. For
some minutes it seemed, from the doleful tones, that everyone was about
to weep; but little by little, after a few tender words and inquiries,
another current of thought set in; the voices took on a more cheerful
tone, and everyone began to talk naturally, as if the shadow of the
misfortune that had saddened them had suddenly been dissipated.

Then Bertin rose, took Annette by the hand, led her under the portrait
of her mother, in the ray of light from the reflector, and said:

"Isn't this stupefying?"

The Duchess was so greatly surprised that she seemed dazed; she repeated
many times: "Heavens! is it possible? Heavens! is it possible? It is
like someone raised from the dead. To think that I did not see that when
I came in! Oh, my little Any, I find you again, I, who knew you so well
then in your first mourning as a woman--no, in your second, for you had
already lost your father. Oh, that Annette, in black like that--why, it
is her mother come back to earth! What a miracle! Without that portrait
we never should have perceived it. Your daughter resembles you very
much, but she resembles that portrait much more."

Musadieu now appeared, having heard of Madame de Guilleroy's return,
as he wished to be one of the first to offer her the "homage of his
sorrowful sympathy."

He interrupted his first speech on perceiving the young girl standing
against the frame, illumined by the same ray of light, appearing like
the living sister of the painting.

"Ah, that is certainly one of the most astonishing things I ever have
seen," he exclaimed.

The Corbelles, whose convictions always followed established opinions,
marveled in their turn with a little less exuberant ardor.

The Countess's heart seemed to contract, little by little, as if all
these exclamations of astonishment had hurt it. Without speaking, she
looked at her daughter standing by the image of herself, and a sudden
feeling of weakness came over her. She longed to cry out: "Say no more!
I know very well that she resembles me!"

Until the end of the evening s