"I do not remember," said the old lady. "Have you one, Anne?"
"Not yet," responded Anne-Hilarion. "Grandpapa has promised me one when I shall be seven."
"Your Grandpapa is very good to you, I think," commented Mlle. Angèle.
"Yes, indeed," agreed the child. "Papa says that he spoils me."
"I expect he does," said Mme. de Chaulnes, smiling at him over the top of her tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.
A little silence fell. The two old ladies knitted on; the grey cat stretched herself. There hung over the mantelpiece a head of the late Louis XVI., an engraving of no particular merit, having the similitude of a bust, and Mlle. Angèle, looking up, found their visitor studying that full, petulant profile.
"You know who that is, of course, mon petit? The King—the late King, whose head they cut off."
Anne-Hilarion nodded. "M. le Chevalier has a picture of the Queen too, on a snuff-box. He showed it to me one day."
Mlle. Angèle rose and took something from the mantelpiece. It was a miniature of a little boy in general appearance not unlike Anne himself, but fairer, with falling curls and a deep ruffle. "Do you know who that is, child?" she asked, in a voice gone suddenly sad.
Anne did know.