"I am a painter," continued Müller; "and I have sketched all the
windings of the Seine from Neuilly to St. Germains. My friend here is
English--he is a student of medicine, and speaks excellent French."

"What is the gentleman saying, _mon enfant_?" asked the old lady,
somewhat anxiously.

"Monsieur says that the river is very pretty about Courbevoie, _ma
tante_," replied Mademoiselle Marie, raising her voice.

"Ah! ah! and what else?"

"Monsieur is a painter."

"A painter? Ah, dear me! it's an unhealthy occupation. My poor brother
Pierre might have been alive to this day if he had taken to any other
line of business! You must take great care of your lungs, young man. You
look delicate."

Müller laughed, shook his head, and declared at the top of his voice
that he had never had a day's illness in his life.

Here the pretty niece again interposed.

"Ah, Monsieur," she said, "my aunt does not understand....My--my uncle
Pierre was a house-painter."

"A very respectable occupation, Mademoiselle," replied Müller, politely.
"For my own part, I would sooner paint the insides of some houses than
the outsides of some people."