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shrill voice



of Madame. Impossible to â– work. I have had â– with Madame a very violent scene, in consequence of which I really thought that I should be obliged to go. And I ask myself what I am going to do during these six days, -without Joseph. I dread the eimui of being alone, at meals, with Marianne. I really need somebody to talk to.

As a rule, as soon as it comes night, Mari- anne, under the influence of drink, falls into a state of complete stupefaction. Her brain becomes torpid; her tongue becomes thick; her lips hang and shine like the worn brink of an old well ; and she is sad, sad to the point of weeping. I can get nothing out of her but little plaints, little cries, something like the puling of a child. Neverthe- less, last night, less drunk than usual, she confided to me, amid never-ending groans, that she is afraid she is in trouble. "Well, that caps the climax! My first impulse is to laugh. But soon I feel a keen sorrow, — something like the cutting of a lash in the pit of my stomach. Suppose it were through Joseph? I remember that, on the day of my arrival here, I at once suspected them. But since then nothing has happened to justify this stupid suspicion. On the contrary. No, no, it is im- possible. It cannot be. I ask:

"You are sure, Marianne? "

"Sure? No," she says; "I am only afraid."

"And through whom? "