of complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid
using the words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there
was, for the first time, a passionate accent of revolt, the
revindication of a being recovering possession of and asserting
itself.

For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an
exact and faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on
another sheet a whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers,
extravagant and superb. She had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a
need of breaking away in wild fancies in the midst of the most precise
of reproductions. She satisfied it at once, falling always into this
extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy that it never
repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping tears
of sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form,
even, spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds.
To-day, on a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black
crayon, it was a rain of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft
petals; while, in a corner, an unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled,
was opening.

"Another to nail there!" resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, on
which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. "But what
may that represent, I ask you?"

She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to
contemplate her work.

"I know nothing about it; it is beautiful."