made a mistake, she began the
word over and over again, forcing herself to write the whole name
though her arm trembled with fatigue. At last she would become so
nervous that she mixed up the letters, and formed other words, and had
to give it up.

She had all the manias and fancies which beset those who lead a solitary
life, and it irritated her to the last degree to see the slightest
change in the arrangement of the furniture. Rosalie often made her go
out with her along the road, but after twenty minutes or so Jeanne would
say: "I cannot walk any further, Rosalie," and would sit down by the
roadside. Soon movement of any kind became distasteful to her, and she
stayed in bed as late as she could. Ever since a child she had always
been in the habit of jumping out of bed as soon as she had drunk her
_cafe au lait_. She was particularly fond of her morning coffee, and she
would have missed it more than anything. She always waited for Rosalie
to bring it with an impatience that had a touch of sensuality in it, and
as soon as the cup was placed on the bedside table she sat up, and
emptied it, somewhat greedily. Then she at once drew back the bedclothes
and began to dress. But gradually she fell into the habit of dreaming
for a few moments after she had placed the empty cup back in the saucer,
and from that she soon began to lie down again, and at last she stayed
in bed every day until Rosalie came back in a temper and dressed her
almost by force.

She had no longer the slightest will of her own. Whenever her servant
asked her advice, or put any question to her, or wanted to know her
opinion, she always answered: "Do as you like, Rosalie." So firmly did
she believe herself pursued by a persistent ill luck that she became as
great a fatalist as an Oriental, and she was so accustomed to seeing
her dreams unfulfilled, and her hopes disappointed, that she did not
dare undertake anything fresh, and hesitated for days before she
commenced the simplest task, so persuaded was she that whatever she
touched would be sure to go wrong.

"I don't think anyone could have had more misfortune than I have had all
my life," she was always saying.

"How would it be if you had to work for your bread, and if you were
obliged to get up every morning at six o'clock to go and do a hard day's
work?" Rosalie would exclaim. "That's what a great many people have to
do, and then when they get too old to work, they die of want."

"But my son has f