simple tastes he had forced upon her. The father,
thunderstruck and bewildered by this revolt, yielded and dismissed the
servant; but he retained a dastardly sort of rancor against his daughter
on account of the sacrifice she had extorted from him. His spleen
betrayed itself in sharp, aggressive words, ironical thanks and bitter
smiles. Sempronie's only revenge was to attend to his wants more
thoroughly, more gently, more patiently than ever. Her devotion was
destined to be subjected to one final test; the old man had a stroke of
apoplexy which left him with one whole side of his body stiff and dead,
lame in one leg, and asleep so far as his intelligence was concerned,
although keenly conscious of his misfortune and of his dependence upon
his daughter. Thereupon, all the evil that lay dormant in the depths of
his nature was aroused and let loose. His selfishness amounted to
ferocity. Under the torment of his suffering and his weakness, he became
a sort of malevolent madman. Mademoiselle de Varandeuil devoted her days
and her nights to the invalid, who seemed to hate her for her
attentions, to be humiliated by her care as if it implied generosity and
forgiveness, to suffer torments at seeing always by his side,
indefatigable and kindly, that image of duty. But what a life it was!
She had to contend against the miserable man's incurable _ennui_, to be
always ready to bear him company, to lead him about and support him all
day long. She must play cards with him when he was at home, and not let
him win or lose too much. She must combat his wishes, his gormandizing
tendencies, take dishes away from him, and, in connection with
everything that he wanted, endure complaints, reproaches, insults,
tears, mad despair, and the outbursts of childish anger in which
helpless old men indulge. And this lasted ten years! ten years, during
which Mademoiselle de Varandeuil had no other recreation, no other
consolation than to pour out all the tenderness and warmth of a maternal
affection upon one of her two young friends, recently married,--her
_chick_, as she called her. It was Mademoiselle de Varandeuil's delight
to go and pass a short time every fortnight in that happy household. She
would kiss the pretty child, already in its cradle and asleep for the
night when she arrived; she would dine at racing speed; at dessert she
would send for a carriage and would hasten away like a tardy schoolboy.
But in the last years of her father's life she