Thus reasoning with myself, almost in spite of myself, and listening to Julie, I arrived at my aunt's house. A gloomy place it looked on that bitter cold morning, sunk in the grimmest kind of silence, that of the country in winter. The dog, a big black-and-white Newfoundland, whom I had named Don Juan, whereat my aunt had been scandalised, jumped upon me when I got out of the old coupé; but I pushed him away almost roughly, so sore was my heart at the thought of what I was about to see in my aunt's room, whither I proceeded at once. When I entered, the maid-servant, who was seated at the bed's foot, stopped me with a gesture at the threshold; my aunt was sleeping. I stole softly over the carpet to an easy-chair beside the fire, and looked at the invalid from that distance. She lay, with her face turned towards the wall, in the middle of the old bed with four carved posts, which had belonged to my grandmother. The curtains, of thick red stuff brocaded with black velvet, half hid her from my sight. I watched her sleeping; now listening to her short breathing, and again looking about the room, which was as familiar to me as the salon below stairs, where I had written my letter of congratulation to my stepfather on his marriage. Those red curtains were of an old-fashioned shade, which harmornised with the antiquated shape of the furniture, the faded paper of the screen before the window, the white ground of the carpet, the discoloured reps with which the chairs were covered; in short, with all the waifs from the wreck of our family life, that had been piously preserved by the dear old maid. She was so exact and orderly; her black-mittened hands were so skilful in pouncing upon any dust overlooked by Jean, who combined the functions of gardener and house-servant, that these old worn things, owing to the deep shining brown of the bedstead, the chairs, and the brass-handled chest of drawers, lent a homely aspect to the room such as the primitive painters loved to give to their pictures of the Nativity. The contrast between my apartment--the typical fashionable young man's rooms--and this peaceful retreat was striking indeed. I had passed from the one to the other too suddenly not to feel that contrast, and also the mute reproach that was conveyed to me by the sick room, with its atmosphere tainted by a medicinal odour instead of the fresh scent of lavender which I had always recognised there. How bitterly I reproached myself in that half hour, during which I listened to her breathing as she slept, and meditated upon her lonely life. What resolutions I formed! I would come here for long weeks together, when she should be better--for I would not admit that she was in danger of death--and I eagerly awaited the moment of her awakening, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her how much I loved her. All of a sudden she heaved a deep sigh, and I saw her raise the free arm and move it up and down several times with a gesture that had something of despair in it.