There was a mild envy that he'd already seen the Louvre when she'd been wanting to go since she heard of its opening, but knowing that the art was going to end up where it belonged for display in the museum, she didn't really mind that Michel would be holding onto it in the meantime. His place seemed safe, and she could tell that it at least would be well looked after. "That last one is my favourite," she whispered after he leaned the stack of paintings back against the wall. "I used to stare at it for hours, wishing I could be there." Admitting such didn't make her feel too vulnerable, not really thinking he cared.
"You don't have to imply that I'm unsightly," she laughed, unhurt by the statement. "I know I'm not as beautiful as my mother," she shrugged, maybe the woman was more radiant in her memories and in paint than in reality, but it had been many years since she passed that Mabelle could no longer remember. "But there's so many more worthy and interesting subjects to paint than me. It's absurd. Thank you for burning them."
She paused, reconsidering that last thought. "Actually, I can only conclude you did it as revenge against me, so it'd be impolite to thank you, wouldn't it? Well, I guess it'd help to say I am mildly disappointed. I think you gave it a good effort," she patted him on the back comfortingly. "If I knew how to express that level of grief, I would."