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, as the day declined, she put out the lamp and went to bed, with the object of sustaining and displaying her chagrin. When I came in she was in the act of peeling invisible potatoes; there are potatoes scattered over the floor, everywhere. My feet kick them and send them rolling heavily among odds and ends of utensils and a soft deposit of garments that are lying about. As soon as I am there my aunt overflows with noisy tears. Not daring to speak again, I sit down in my usual corner. Over the bed I can make out a pointed shape, like a mounted picture, silhouetted against the curtains, which slightly blacken the window. It is as though the quilt were lifted from underneath by a stick, for my Aunt Josephine is leanness itself. Gradually she raises her voice and begins to lament. "You've no feelings, no--you're heartless,--that dreadful word you said to me,--you said, 'You and your jawing!' Ah! people don't know what I have to put up with--ill-natured--cart-horse!" In silence I hear the tear-streaming words that fall and founder in the dark room from that obscure blot on the pillow which is her face. I stand up. I sit down again. I risk saying, "Come now, come; that's all done with." She cries: "Done with? Ah! it will never be done with!" With the sheet that night is begriming she muzzles herself, and hides her face. She shakes her head to left and to right, violently, so as to wipe her eyes and signify dissent at the same time.