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attics whose extremity forms an angle with the floor, and
knocks you on the head every instant. The poor occupant
can reach the end of his chamber as he can the end of his
destiny, only by bending over more and more.
She had no longer a bed; a rag which she called her
coverlet, a mattress on the floor, and a seatless chair still
remained. A little rosebush which she had, had dried up,
forgotten, in one corner. In the other corner was a butter-
pot to hold water, which froze in winter, and in which the
various levels of the water remained long marked by these
circles of ice. She had lost her shame; she lost her coquetry.
A final sign. She went out, with dirty caps. Whether from
lack of time or from indifference, she no longer mended
her linen. As the heels wore out, she dragged her stockings
down into her shoes. This was evident from the perpendic-
ular wrinkles. She patched her bodice, which was old and
worn out, with scraps of calico which tore at the slightest
movement. The people to whom she was indebted made
‘scenes’ and gave her no peace. She found them in the street,
she found them again on her staircase. She passed many a
night weeping and thinking. Her eyes were very bright, and
she felt a steady pain in her shoulder towards the top of the
left shoulder-blade. She coughed a great deal. She deeply
hated Father Madeleine, but made no complaint. She sewed
seventeen hours a day; but a contractor for the work of pris-
ons, who made the prisoners work at a discount, suddenly
made prices fall, which reduced the daily earnings of work-
ing-women to nine sous. Seventeen hours of toil, and nine
sous a day! Her creditors were more pitiless than ever. The