her into the
streets as others would have done.

"Why, there you are again in the middle of the room!" suddenly exclaimed
the fat woman, who each time that she went hither and thither found
it necessary to avoid the other's chair. "How funny it is that you can
never put yourself in a corner! Auguste will be coming in for his four
o'clock snack in a moment, and he won't be at all pleased if he doesn't
find his cheese and his glass of wine on the table."

Without replying, Euphrasie nervously staggered to her feet, and with
the greatest trouble dragged her chair towards the table. Then she sat
down again limp and very weary.

Just as Madame Joseph was bringing the cheese, Benard, whose workshop
was near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovial
fellow, and began to jest with his sister-in-law while showing great
politeness towards Mathieu, whom he thanked for taking interest in his
unhappy wife's condition. "_Mon Dieu_, monsieur," said he, "it isn't her
fault; it is all due to those rascally doctors at the hospital. For a
year or so one might have thought her cured, but you see what has now
become of her. Ah! it ought not to be allowed! You are no doubt aware
that they treated Cecile just the same. And there was another, too,
a baroness, whom you must know. She called here the other day to see
Euphrasie, and, upon my word, I didn't recognize her. She used to be
such a fine woman, and now she looks a hundred years old. Yes, yes, I
say that the doctors ought to be sent to prison."

He was about to sit down to table when he stumbled against Euphrasie's
chair. She sat watching him with an anxious, semi-stupefied expression.
"There you are, in my way as usual!" said he; "one is always tumbling up
against you. Come, make a little room, do."

He did not seem to be a very terrible customer, but at the sound of
his voice she began to tremble, full of childish fear, as if she were
threatened with a thrashing. And this time she found strength enough to
drag her chair as far as a dark closet, the door of which was open. She
there sought refuge, ensconcing herself in the gloom, amid which one
could vaguely espy her shrunken, wrinkled face, which suggested that of
some very old great-grandmother, who was taking years and years to die.

Mathieu's heart contracted as he observed that senile terror,
that shivering obedience on the part of a woman whose harsh, dry,
aggressively quarrelsome disposition he so well rem