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evenings at theatres and balls, after a frosty kiss
of good-night on her husband’s cheek. The more
I saw of the Count the more I liked him, he was
the most perfect type of a French aristocrat of
the old regime I had ever seen. The real reason
why I liked him was no doubt because I felt sorry
for him. It had not dawned upon me in those
days that the only people I really liked were
those I felt sorry for. I suppose that was why I
did not like the Countess the first time I saw her
again after our last meeting under the lime tree
in the park of the Château Rameaux when the
moon was full and the owl saved me from liking
her too much. No, I did not like her at all as I
sat watching her by the side of the Abbé, across
the dining-room table, laughing merrily at the
silly jokes of Vicomte Maurice, some of them
about myself, I gathered from his insolent
side-glances. Neither of them said a single word to
me. The only sign of recognition I had received
from the Countess was an absent-minded
handshake before dinner. The Vicomte had ignored
my presence altogether. The Countess was as
beautiful as ever but she was not the same woman.
She looked in splendid health and spirits, the
yearning expression in her large eyes was no
more there. I saw at the first glance that there
had been full moon in the park of Monte Carlo
and no warning owls in the lime trees. The
Vicomte Maurice looked exceedingly pleased with
himself, there was an unmistakable air of the
conquering hero in his whole bearing which was
particularly irritating.
“Ça y est,” said I to the Abbé as we sat down
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