y morning at the same time; looked out of the window at the
weather, and then went down-stairs, and sat before the fire in the
hall. Here she would think of the happy years of Paul's childhood,
when he had worked in the salad-bed, kneeling side by side in the soft
ground with Aunt Lison, the two women rivals in their effort to amuse
the child, and seeing who could root up the young plants most
skilfully.

[Footnote 12: From the last chapter of "A Life." Translated for this
collection by Eric Arthur Bell.]

So musing, her lips would murmur, "Poulet, Poulet! my little
Poulet"--as if she were speaking to him; and, her reverie broken as
she spoke, she would try during whole hours to write in the air the
letters which formed the boy's name. She would trace them slowly
before the fire, imagining that she really saw them; then believing
that her eyes had deceived her, she would rewrite the capital P
again, her arm trembling with fatigue, forcing herself to trace the
name to the end; then when she had finished it she would begin over
again. At last she could not write it any more. She would muddle
everything--form other words, and exhaust herself almost to idiocy.

Ever since her childhood just one habit had clung to her--that of
jumping up out of bed the moment she had drunk her morning coffee. She
was inordinately fond of that way of breakfasting, and the privation
would have been felt more than anything else. Each morning she would
await Rosalie's arrival with extraordinary impatience; and as soon as
the cup was put upon the table at her side, she would sit up and empty
it almost greedily, and then, throwing off her robe, she would begin
to dress herself at once.

She thought she was directly pursued by obstinate misfortune against
which she became as fatalistic as an Oriental: the habit of seeing her
dreams fade away and destroy her hopes made her afraid to undertake
anything; and she waited whole days to accomplish the most simple
affair, convinced that she would always take the wrong way to do it,
and that it would turn out badly. She repeated continually, "I have
never had any luck in my life." Then Rosalie would cry, "Supposing you
had had to work for your bread--and were obliged to get up every
morning at six o'clock and prepare for your day's doings? There are
lots of people who are obliged to do that; and when such people become
too old, they die of poverty."

She had checked certain memorable days in her life,