ed so--I don't know why--to get home, at this
moment of arrival I slow down. Every evening I have the same small and
dull disillusion.

I go into the room which serves us as kitchen and dining-room, where my
aunt is lying. This room is buried in almost complete darkness.

"Good evening, Mame."

A sigh, and then a sob arise from the bed crammed against the pale
celestial squares of the window.

Then I remember that there was a scene between my old aunt and me after
our early morning coffee. Thus it is two or three times a week. This
time it was about a dirty window-pane, and on this particular morning,
exasperated by the continuous gush of her reproaches, I flung an
offensive word, and banged the door as I went off to work. So Mame has
had to weep all the day. She has fostered and ruminated her spleen,
and sniffed up her tears, even while busy with household duties. Then,
as the day declined, she put out the lamp and went to bed, with the
object of sustaining and displaying her chagrin.

When I came in she was in the act of peeling invisible potatoes; there
are potatoes scattered over the floor, everywhere. My feet kick them
and send them rolling heavily among odds and ends of utensils and a
soft deposit of garments that are lying about. As soon as I am there
my aunt overflows with noisy tears.

Not daring to speak again, I sit down in my usual corner.

Over the bed I can make out a pointed shape, like a mounted picture,
silhouetted against the curtains, which slightly blacken the window.
It is as though the quilt were lifted from underneath by a stick, for
my Aunt Josephine is leanness itself.

Gradually she raises her voice and begins to lament. "You've no
feelings, no--you're heartless,--that dreadful word you said to
me,--you said, 'You and your jawing!' Ah! people don't know what I
have to put up with--ill-natured--cart-horse!"

In silence I hear the tear-streaming words that fall and founder in the
dark room from that obscure blot on the pillow which is her face.

I stand up. I sit down again. I risk saying, "Come now, come; that's
all done with."

She cries: "Done with? Ah! it will never be done with!"

With the sheet that night is begriming she muzzles herself, and hides
her face. She shakes her head to left and to right, violently, so as
to wipe her eyes and signify dissent at the same time.

"Never! A word like that you said to me breaks the heart forever. But
I must get up and