The Countess de Mascaret came down just as her husband, who was coming
home, appeared in the carriage entrance. He stopped for a few moments to
look at his wife and grew rather pale. She was very beautiful, graceful
and distinguished looking, with her long oval face, her complexion like
gilt ivory, her large gray eyes and her black hair; and she got into her
carriage without looking at him, without even seeming to have noticed
him, with such a particularly high-bred air, that the furious jealousy
by which he had been devoured for so long, again gnawed at his heart. He
went up to her and said: "You are going for a drive?" She merely replied
disdainfully: "You see I am!" "In the Bois de Boulogne?" "Most
probably." "May I come with you?" "The carriage belongs to you."

Without being surprised at the tone of voice in which she answered him,
he got in and sat down by his wife's side, and said: "Bois de Boulonge."
The footman jumped up by the coachman's side, and the horses as usual
pawed the ground and shook their heads until they were in the street.
Husband and wife sat side by side, without speaking. He was thinking how
to begin a conversation, but she maintained such an obstinately hard
look, that he did not venture to make the attempt. At last, however, he
cunningly, accidentally as it were, touched the Countess's gloved hand
with his own, but she drew her arm away with a movement which was so
expressive of disgust, that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his
usual authoritative and despotic character, and he said: "Gabrielle!"
"What do you want?" "I think you are looking adorable."

She did not reply, but remained lying back in the carriage, looking like
an irritated queen. By that time they were driving up the _Champs
Elysées_, towards the _Arc de Triomphe_. That immense monument, at the
end of the long avenue, raised its colossal arch against the red sky,