from I know not where," remarked the cook, in a tone of bitter reproach.
Whereupon Joseph, with a toss of his head, curtly added:
"Sure."
And he began to read the "Libre Parole" again. Marianne rose heavily, and took the kettle from the fire. We talked no more.
Then I thought of my last place, of Monsieur Jean, the valet, so distinguished with his black side-whiskers and his white skin, for which he cared as if he were a woman. Ah! he was such a handsome fellow. Monsieur Jean, so gay, so nice, so delicate, so artful, when at night he read aloud to us from the "Fin de Siècle" or told us salacious and touching stories, or familiarized us with the contents of Monsieur's letters. Things have changed to-day. How did I ever come to get stranded here, among such people, and far from everything that I like?
I almost want to cry.
And I am writing these lines in my chamber, a dirty little chamber, at the top of the house, open to all winds, to the winter's cold, to the summer's burning heat. No other furniture than a paltry iron bed and a paltry white-wood wardrobe which does not close and where I have not room enough to arrange my things. No other light than a tallow
