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?'