A CHAMBERMAID'S DIARY.
candle that smokes and runs down into a brass candlestick. It is pitiful. If I wish to continue to write this diary, or even to read the novels that I have brought, or to tell my fortune with the cards, I shall have to buy wax candles with my own money, for, as for Madame's wax candles,—nit! as Monsieur Jean would say,—they are under lock and key.
To-morrow I will try to get a little settled. Over my bed I will nail my little gilt crucifix, and on the mantel I will place my painted porcelain virgin, together with my little boxes, my bric-à-brac, and the photographs of Monsieur Jean, so as to penetrate this hole with a ray of privacy and joy.
Marianne's room is next to mine. A thin partition separates us, and you can hear everything that goes on. I thought that Joseph, who sleeps in the outbuildings, might visit Marianne to-night. But no. For a long time Marianne turned about in her room, coughing, hawking, dragging chairs, moving a heap of things. Now she is snoring. It is doubtless in the day-time that they have their clandestine meetings.
A dog barks, far away, in the country. It is nearly two o'clock, and my light is going out. I, too, am obliged to go to bed. But I feel that I shall not sleep.
Ah! how old I shall grow in this hovel! Yes, indeed!