with faded red serge. Nothing else. The ante-
room is lighted only by a narrow strip of glass set
in the upper part of the partition which separates
the room from the cmployment-bureau, and running
its entire length. A bad light, a light more
gloomy than darkness, comes through this glass,
coating objects and faces with something less than
a twilight glimmer.
We came there every morning and every afternoon, heaps of us,—cooks and chambermaids, gardeners and valets, coachmen and butlers,—and we spent our time in telling each other of our misfortunes, in running down the masters, and in wishing for extraordinary, fairy-like, liberating places. Some brought books and newspapers, which they read passionately; others wrote letters. Now gay, now sad, our buzzing conversations were often interrupted by the sudden irruption of Mme. Paulhat-Durand, like a gust of wind.
"Be silent, young women," she cried. "It is impossible to hear ourselves in the salon."
Or else she called in a curt, shrill voice:
"Mademoiselle Jeanne!"
Mile. Jeanne rose, arranged her hair a little, followed the madame into the bureau, from which she returned a few moments later, with a grimace of disdain upon her lips. Her recommendations had not been found sufficient. What did they require then? The Monthyon prize? A maiden’s diploma?
