ot been
wholly captured. He had adored one woman! Another woman was born of her,
almost her counterpart. He could not prevent himself from bestowing on
the latter a little tender remnant of the passionate attachment he had
had for the former. There was no harm nor danger in that. Only his eyes
and his memory allowed themselves to be deluded by this appearance of
resurrection; but his instinct never had been affected, for never had he
felt the least stirring of desire for the young girl.

However, the Countess had reproached him with being jealous of the
Marquis! Was it true? Again he examined his conscience severely, and
decided that as a matter of fact he was indeed a little jealous. What
was there astonishing in that, after all? Are we not always being
jealous of men who pay court to no matter what woman? Does not one
experience in the street, at a restaurant, or a theater, a little
feeling of enmity toward the gentleman who is passing or who enters
with a lovely girl on his arm? Every possessor of a woman is a rival,
a triumphant male, a conqueror envied by all the other males. And then,
without considering these physiological reasons, if it was natural that
he should have for Annette a sympathy a little excessive because of his
love for her mother, was it not natural also that he should feel in his
heart a little masculine hatred of the future husband? He could conquer
this unworthy feeling without much trouble.

But in the depths of his heart he still felt a sort of bitter discontent
with himself and with the Countess. Would not their daily intercourse
be made disagreeable by the suspicion that he would be aware of in
her? Should he not be compelled to watch with tiresome and scrupulous
attention all that he said and did, his very looks, his slightest
approach toward the young girl? for all that he might do or say would
appear suspicious to the mother. He reached his home in a gloomy mood
and began to smoke cigarettes, with the vehemence of an irritated man
who uses ten matches to light his tobacco. He tried in vain to work. His
hand, his eye, and his brain seemed to have lost the knack of painting,
as if they had forgotten it, or never had known and practised the art.
He had taken up to finish a little sketch on canvas--a street corner, at
which a blind man stood singing--and he looked at it with unconquerable
indifference, with such a lack of power to continue it that he sat down
before it, palette in hand, and