IV
'Tell me, aunt,' the child Pierre had early said to her, long before the portrait became his—'tell me, aunt, how this chair-portrait, as you call it, was painted;—who painted it?—whose chair was this?—have you the chair now?—I don't see it in your room here;—what is papa looking at so strangely?—I should like to know now, what papa was thinking of, then. Do, now, dear aunt, tell me all about this picture, so that when it is mine, as you promise me, I shall know its whole history.'
'Sit down, then, and be very still and attentive, my dear child,' said aunt Dorothea; while she a little averted her head, and tremulously and inaccurately sought her pocket, till little Pierre cried—'Why, aunt, the story of the picture is not in any little book, is it, that you are going to take out and read to me?'
'My handkerchief, my child.'
'Why, aunt, here it is, at your elbow; here, on the table; here, aunt; take it, do.—Oh, don't tell me anything about the picture, now; I won't hear it.'
'Be still, my darling Pierre,' said his aunt, taking the handkerchief, 'draw the curtain a little, dearest; the light hurts my eyes. Now, go into the closet, and bring me my dark shawl;—take your time.—There; thank you, Pierre; now sit down again, and I will begin.—The picture was painted long ago, my child; you were not born then.'
'Not born?' cried little Pierre.
'Not born,' said his aunt.
'Well, go on, aunt; but don't tell me again that once upon a time I was not little Pierre at all, and yet my father was alive. Go on, aunt,—do, do!'
'Why, how nervous you are getting, my child;—be patient; I am very old, Pierre; and old people never like to be hurried.'
