is own
composition: 'Oh, you pretty cat; oh, you ugly cat; oh, you pretty, ugly
cat,' and so on, _ad infinitum_, ever in the same lugubrious manner.

Claude, who was made fidgety by the buzzing noise, did not at first
understand what was upsetting him. But after a time the child's
harassing phrase fell clearly upon his ear.

'Haven't you done worrying us with your cat?' he shouted furiously.

'Hold your tongue, Jacques, when your father is talking!' repeated
Christine.

Upon my word, I do believe he is becoming an idiot. Just look at his
head, if it isn't like an idiot's. It's dreadful. Just say; what do you
mean by your pretty and ugly cat?'

The little fellow, turning pale and wagging his big head, looked stupid,
and replied: 'Don't know.'

Then, as his father and mother gazed at each other with a discouraged
air, he rested his cheek on the open picture-book, and remained like
that, neither stirring nor speaking, but with his eyes wide open.

It was getting late; Christine wanted to put him to bed, but Claude had
already resumed his explanations. He now told her that, the very next
morning, he should go and make a sketch on the spot, just in order to
fix his ideas. And, as he rattled on, he began to talk of buying a small
camp easel, a thing upon which he had set his heart for months. He kept
harping on the subject, and spoke of money matters till she at last
became embarrassed, and ended by telling him of everything--the last
copper she had spent that morning, and the silk dress she had pledged
in order to dine that evening. Thereupon he became very remorseful
and affectionate; he kissed her and asked her forgiveness for having
complained about the dinner. She would excuse him, surely; he would have
killed father and mother, as he kept on repeating, when that confounded
painting got hold of him. As for the pawn-shop, it made him laugh; he
defied misery.

'I tell you that we are all right,' he exclaimed. 'That picture means
success.'

She kept silent, thinking about her meeting of the morning, which she
wished to hide from him; but without apparent cause or transition, in
the kind of torpor that had come over her, the words she would have kept
back rose invincibly to her lips.

'Madame Vanzade is dead,' she said.

He looked surprised. Ah! really? How did she, Christine, know it?

'I met the old man-servant. Oh, he's a gentleman by now, looking very
sprightly, in spite of his seventy years. I did not kno