Rising on her elbow, she pointed to the dilapidated armchair in which the Monk had passed the night.
"He is not there?... He has not gone to denounce me, has he?"
"No, no, my child. You could not find a more honest soul than that old madman."
Athenaïs asked in what the old fellow's madness consisted; and when Brotteaux informed her it was religion, she gravely reproached him for speaking so, declaring that men without faith were worse than the beasts that perish and that for her part she often prayed to God, hoping He would forgive her her sins and receive her in His blessed mercy.
Then, noticing that Brotteaux held a book in his hand, she thought it was a book of the Mass and said:
"There you see, you too, you say your prayers! God will reward you for what you have done for me."
Brotteaux having told her that it was not a Mass-book, and that it had been written before ever the Mass had been invented in the world, she opined it was an Interpretation of Dreams, and asked if it did not contain an explanation of an extraordinary dream she had had. She could not read and these were the only two sorts of books she had heard tell of.
Brotteaux informed her that this book was only by way of explaining the dream of life. Finding this a hard saying, the pretty child did not try to understand it and dipped the end of her nose in the earthenware crock that replaced the silver basins Brotteaux had once been accustomed to use. Next, she arranged her hair before her host's shaving-glass with scrupulous care and gravity. Her white arms raised above her head, she let fall an observation from time to time with long intervals between:
"You, you were rich once."
"What makes you think that?"