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 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 out-buildings, 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!