ave
not read it. On what page?"

The Marquis informed him: "The first page, at the top, with the title,
'Modern Painting.'"

And the deputy ceased to be astonished. "Oh, exactly! I did not read it
because it was about painting."

Everyone smiled, knowing that apart from politics and agriculture M. de
Guilleroy was interested in very few things.

The conversation turned upon other subjects until they entered the
drawing-room to take coffee. The Countess was not listening and hardly
answered, being pursued by anxiety as to what Olivier might be doing.
Where was he? Where had he dined? Where had he taken his hopeless heart
at that moment? She now felt a burning regret at having let him go, not
to have kept him; and she fancied him roving the streets, so sad and
lonely, fleeing under his burden of woe.

Up to the time of the departure of the Duchess and her nephew she had
hardly spoken, lashed by vague and superstitious fears; then she went to
bed and lay there long, her eyes wide open in the darkness, thinking of
him!

A very long time had passed when she thought she heard the bell of her
apartment ring. She started, sat up and listened. A second time the
vibrating tinkle broke the stillness of the night.

She leaped out of bed, and with all her strength pressed the electric
button that summoned her maid. Then, candle in hand, she ran to the
vestibule.

Through the door she asked: "Who is there?"

"It is a letter," an unknown voice replied.

"A letter! From whom?"

"From a physician."

"What physician?"

"I do not know; it is about some accident."

Hesitating no more, she opened the door, and found herself facing a
cab-driver in an oilskin cap. He held a paper in his hand, which
he presented to her. She read: "Very urgent--Monsieur le Comte de
Guilleroy."

The writing was unknown.

"Enter, my good man," said she; "sit down, and wait for me."

When she reached her husband's door her heart was beating so violently
that she could not call him. She pounded on the wood with her metal
candlestick. The Count was asleep and did not hear.

Then, impatient, nervous, she kicked the door, and heard a sleepy voice
asking: "Who is there? What time is it?"

"It is I," she called. "I have an urgent letter for you, brought by a
cabman. There has been some accident."

"Wait! I am getting up. I'll be there," he stammered from behind his
bed-curtains.

In another minute he appeared in his dressing-gown. At the sa