And at sight of this middle-class bareness and coldness Pierre ended by remembering a room where he had slept in childhood--a room at Versailles, at the abode of his grandmother, who had kept a little grocer's shop there in the days of Louis Philippe.

However, he became interested in an old painting which hung in the bed-room, on the wall facing the bed, amidst some childish and valueless engravings.

But partially discernible in the waning light, this painting represented a woman seated on some projecting stone-work, on the threshold of a great stern building, whence she seemed to have been driven forth.

The folding doors of bronze had for ever closed behind her, yet she remained there in a mere drapery of white linen; whilst scattered articles of clothing, thrown forth chance-wise with a violent hand, lay upon the massive granite steps.

Her feet were bare, her arms were bare, and her hands, distorted by bitter agony, were pressed to her face--a face which one saw not, veiled as it was by the tawny gold of her rippling, streaming hair.