innocent of envious demands, turning again to his botching, as his
father and grandfather botched.

I have mounted the steps and pushed our door; the gray door, whose only
relief is the key. The door goes in grumblingly, and makes way for me
into the dark passage, which was formerly paved, though now the traffic
of soles has kneaded it with earth, and changed it into a footpath. My
forehead strikes the lamp, which is hooked on the wall; it is out,
oozing oil, and it stinks. One never sees that lamp, and always bangs
it.

And though I had hurried so--I don't know why--to get home, at this
moment of arrival I slow down. Every evening I have the same small and
dull disillusion.

I go into the room which serves us as kitchen and dining-room, where my
aunt is lying. This room is buried in almost complete darkness.

"Good evening, Mame."

A sigh, and then a sob arise from the bed crammed against the pale
celestial squares of the window.

Then I remember that there was a scene between my old aunt and me after
our early morning coffee. Thus it is two or three times a week. This
time it was about a dirty window-pane, and on this particular morning,
exasperated by the continuous gush of her reproaches, I flung an
offensive word, and banged the door as I went off to work. So Mame has
had to weep all the day. She has fostered and ruminated her spleen,
and sniffed up her tears, even while busy with household duties. Then,