of Madame. Impossible to work. I have had
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
ennui of being alone, at meals, with Marianne. I
really need somebody to talk to.
As a rule, as soon as it comes night, Marianne, 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. Nevertheless, 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 feela 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?"
