pension, but eking it
out by fan-painting, in order that she might bring up her daughter as a
lady. She had, however, now been dead for fifteen months, and had left
her child penniless and unprotected, without a friend, save the Superior
of the Sisters of the Visitation, who had kept her with them. Christine
had come straight to Paris from the convent, the Superior having
succeeded in procuring her a situation as reader and companion to her
old friend, Madame Vanzade, who was almost blind.

At these additional particulars, Claude sat absolutely speechless. That
convent, that well-bred orphan, that adventure, all taking so romantic
a turn, made him relapse into embarrassment again, into all his former
awkwardness of gesture and speech. He had left off drawing, and sat
looking, with downcast eyes, at his sketch.

'Is Clermont pretty?' he asked, at last.

'Not very; it's a gloomy town. Besides, I don't know; I scarcely ever
went out.'

She was resting on her elbow, and continued, as if talking to herself in
a very low voice, still tremulous from the thought of her bereavement.

'Mamma, who wasn't strong, killed herself with work. She spoilt me;
nothing was too good for me. I had all sorts of masters, but I did not
get on very well; first, because I fell ill, then because I paid no
attention. I was always laughing and skipping about like a featherbrain.
I didn't care for music, piano playing gave me a cramp in my arms. The
only thing I cared about at all was painting.'

He raised his head and interrupted her. 'You can paint?'

'Oh, no; I know nothing, nothing at all. Mamma, who was very talented,
made me do a little water-colour, and I sometimes helped her with the
backgrounds of her fans. She painted some lovely ones.'

In spite of herself, she then glanced at the startling sketches with
which the walls seemed ablaze, and her limpid eyes assumed an uneasy
expression at the sight of that rough, brutal style of painting. From
where she lay she obtained a topsy-turvy view of the study of herself
which the painter had begun, and her consternation at the violent tones
she noticed, the rough crayon strokes, with which the shadows were
dashed off, prevented her from asking to look at it more closely.
Besides, she was growing very uncomfortable in that bed, where she lay
broiling; she fidgetted with the idea of going off and putting an end to
all these things which, ever since the night before, had seemed to her
so much