and haughty, without looking at him any more than if he were not there.
Last evening, however, we exchanged the following brief remarks:
"Célestine!"
"Monsieur desires something?"
"Célestine, you are unkind to me; why are you unkind to me?"
"Why, Monsieur knows very well that I am a loose creature!" . . .
"Oh! come!"
"A dirty thing!" . . .
"Oh! come, come!"
"And possibly diseased."
"Oh! heavens! Célestine! Come, Célestine, listen to me!"
"Bah!"
Oh! I have enough of him. It no longer amuses me to upset his head and his heart by my coquetries.
In fact, nothing amuses me here. And the worst of it is that nothing bores me, either. Is it the air of this dirty country, the silence of the fields, the heavy, coarse food that I eat? A feeling of torpor is taking possession of me,—a feeling, moreover, which is not without charm. At any rate, it dulls my sensibility, deadens my dreams, and helps me to endure Madame's insolence and scolding. Thanks to it also, I feel a
