ft even of that kind;
and yet it was a long time before I gave up visiting and revisiting all
the corners of all possible receptacles for something that she might have
left behind on purpose. It was like the mania of those disordered minds
who spend their days hunting for a treasure. I hoped for a forgotten
hairpin, for some tiny piece of ribbon. Sometimes at night I reflected
that such hopes were altogether insensate; but I remember once getting up
at two in the morning to search for a little cardboard box in the
bathroom, into which, I remembered, I had not looked before. Of course
it was empty; and, anyway, Rita could not possibly have known of its
existence. I got back to bed shivering violently, though the night was
warm, and with a distinct impression that this thing would end by making
me mad. It was no longer a question of "this sort of thing" killing me.
The moral atmosphere of this torture was different. It would make me
mad. And at that thought great shudders ran down my prone body, because,
once, I had visited a famous lunatic asylum where they had shown me a
poor wretch who was mad, apparently, because he thought he had been
abominably fooled by a woman. They told me that his grievance was quite
imaginary. He was a young man with a thin fair beard, huddled up on the
edge of his bed, hugging himself forlornly; and his incessant and
lamentable wailing filled the long bare corridor, striking a chill into
one's heart long before one came to the door of his cell.

And there was no one from whom I could hear, to whom I could speak, with
whom I could evoke the image of Rita. Of course I could utter that word
of four letters to Therese; but Therese for some reason took it into her
head to avoid all topics connected with her sister. I felt as if I could
pull out great handfuls of her hair hidden modestly under the black
handkerchief of which the ends were sometimes tied under her chin. But,
really, I could not have given her any intelligible excuse for that
outrage. Moreover, she was very busy from the very top to the very
bottom of the house, which she persisted in running alone because she
couldn't make up her mind to part with a few francs every month to a
servant. It seemed to me that I was no longer such a favourite with her
as I used to be. That, strange to say, was exasperating, too. It was as
if some idea, some fruitful notion had killed in her all the softer and
more humane emotions. She we