"Well, what are you expecting?" Elizabeth let her arms fall. "I am not making any further plans. One day I hope, another, I rebel--or I lose hold of myself. I have not yet chosen my path." "Dear little girl, there is only one for us. I see it quite clearly now. And I have turned you away from it." "Oh, it's not you, Mother. But there is another course, that of a new life without any links with the past. I do not wish it. It is of no use to women like us." "Well?" "There must be a third." "Which?" "I am looking for it." Elizabeth passed the winter in alternate states of energy and weakness. Her weakness was still the strength of other beings who were dependent upon her. Did she not have to amuse her father, to comfort her mother, to keep in check Marie Louise's rich and exuberant nature, and to develop that of Philippe, less active? All these cares occupied her, filled her days and prevented her from feeling her loneliness too much, but they did not satisfy, and sometimes crushed her. At night she went to bed in despair, giving herself up to sorrow more completely than ever to love, and on awakening, she again found that despair. A visit to Mme. Derize, who welcomed her affectionately, gave her valuable, practical advice and made her turn to God, restored her patience for a while. The old lady had found a way of speaking to her favorably of Albert: it was of Albert as a child that she told her all sorts of forgotten episodes, so as to give her a memory of him less bitter than that she had. Tormented one afternoon, as she was walking with Marie Louise, who constantly demanded stories, Elizabeth tried to repeat one of those childish tales, and was soon drawn, almost in spite of herself, to speak to the children of their father. One day, as she was crossing the Place de la Constitution with her little girl, she suggested taking her into the museum: "What is a museum?" "You will see pictures which represent figures or landscapes." "Oh, yes, let's go in." In the first room, Marie Louise stood right in front of the dazzling portrait of Mlle. de Barral, whom Largillière has depicted laughing, in a magnificent red dress, as conspicuous as a sign post. "Look at this beautiful lady, Mamma."