“A fine one,” Bertin replied.  “There is a remarkable Bonnat, two excellent things by Carolus Duran, an admirable Puvis de Chavannes, a very new and astonishing Roll, an exquisite Gervex, and many others, by Beraud, Cazin, Duez—­in short, a heap of good things.”

“And you?” said the Countess.

“Oh, they compliment me, but I am not satisfied.”

“You never are satisfied.”

“Yes, sometimes.  But to-day I really feel that I am right.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

“Let us go to see it.”

When they arrived before Bertin’s picture—­two little peasant-girls taking a bath in a brook—­they found a group admiring it.  The Countess was delighted, and whispered:  “It is simply a delicious bit—­a jewel!  You never have done anything better.”

Bertin pressed close to her, loving her and thanking her for every word that calmed his suffering and healed his aching heart.  Through his mind ran arguments to convince him that she was right, that she must judge accurately with the intelligent observation of an experienced Parisian.  He forgot, so desirous was he to reassure himself, that for at least twelve years he had justly reproached her for too much admiring the dainty trifles, the elegant nothings, the sentimentalities and nameless trivialities of the passing fancy of the day, and never art, art alone, art detached from the popular ideas, tendencies, and prejudices.

“Let us go on,” said he, drawing them away from his picture.  He led them for a long time from gallery to gallery, showing them notable canvases and explaining their subjects, happy to be with them.

“What time is it?” the Countess asked suddenly.

“Half after twelve.”

“Oh, let us hasten to luncheon then.  The Duchess must be waiting for us at Ledoyen’s, where she charged me to bring you, in case we should not meet her in the galleries.”

The restaurant, in the midst of a little island of trees and shrubs, seemed like an overflowing hive.  A confused hum of voices, calls, the rattling of plates and glasses came from the open windows and large doors.  The tables, set close together and filled with people eating, extended in long rows right and left of a narrow passage, up and down which ran the distracted waiters, holding along their arms dishes filled with meats, fish, or fruit.

Under the circular gallery there was such a throng of men and women as to suggest a living pate.  Everyone there laughed, called out, drank and ate, enlivened by the wines and inundated by one of those waves of joy that sweep over Paris, on certain days, with the sunshine.

An attendant showed the Countess, Annette, and Bertin upstairs into a reserved room, where the Duchess awaited them.  As they entered, the painter observed, beside his aunt, the Marquis de Farandal, attentive and smiling, and extending his hand to receive the parasols and wraps of the Countess and her daughter.  He felt again so much displeasure that he suddenly desired to say rude and irritating things.