She
and Margaret followed the sacristan. Ashe lingered behind in a passage
of the church, surreptitiously reading an Italian newspaper. He had the
ordinary cultivated pleasure in pictures; but this ardor which Kitty was
throwing into her pursuit of Tintoret--the Wagner of painting--left him
cold. He did not attempt to keep up with her.
Two ladies were already in the cloister chapel, with a gentleman. As
Kitty and her friend entered, these persons had just finished their
inspection of the damaged but most beautiful "Pieta" which hangs over
the altar, and their faces were towards the entrance.
"Maman!" cried Kitty, in amazement.
The lady addressed started, put up a gold-rimmed eye-glass, exclaimed,
and hurried forward.
Kitty and she embraced, amid a torrent of laughter and interjections
from the elder lady, and then Kitty, whose pale cheeks had put on
scarlet, turned to Margaret French.
"Margaret!--my mother, Madame d'Estrees."
Miss French, who found herself greeted with effusion by the strange
lady, saw before her a woman of fifty, marvellously preserved. Madame
d'Estrees had grown stout; so much time had claimed; but the elegant
gray dress with its floating chiffon and lace skilfully concealed the
fact; and for the rest, complexion, eyes, lips were still defiant of the
years.
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