ed, and who seemed to take pride in suffering, as it were,
almost broke down when she had to leave the apartment, where she had
dreamed of enjoying a little happiness in her corner, looking on at the
happiness of others: her last tears mounted to her eyes.

She did not go too far away, so that she might be at hand to nurse her
brother if he were ill, and to see him and meet him sometimes. But there
was a great void in her heart and in her life. She had begun to visit
her kinsfolk since her father's death: she drew nearer to them; she
allowed the relatives whom the Restoration had placed in a lofty and
powerful position to come to her, and sought out those whom the new
order of things left in obscurity and poverty. But she returned to her
dear _chick_ first of all, and to another distant cousin, also married,
who had become the _chick's_ sister-in-law. Her relations with her
kinsfolk soon assumed remarkable regularity. Mademoiselle de Varandeuil
never went into society, to an evening party, or to the play. It
required Mademoiselle Rachel's brilliant success to persuade her to step
inside a theatre; she ventured there but twice. She never accepted an
invitation to a large dinner-party. But there were two or three houses
where, as at the _chick's_, she would invite herself to dine,
unexpectedly, when there were no guests. "My love," she would say
without ceremony, "are you and your husband doing nothing this evening?
Then I will stay and eat some of your ragout." At eight o'clock
regularly she rose to go, and when the husband took his hat to escort
her home, she would knock it out of his hands with a: "Nonsense! an old
nanny-goat like me! Why, I frighten men in the street!" And then ten
days or a fortnight would pass, during which they would not see her. But
if anything went wrong, if there was a death or sickness in the house,
Mademoiselle de Varandeuil always heard of it at once, no one knew how;
she would come, in spite of everything--the weather or the hour--would
give a loud ring at the bell in her own way--they finally called it
_cousin's ring_--and a moment later, relieved of her umbrella, which
never left her, and of her pattens, her hat tossed upon a chair, she was
at the service of those who needed her. She listened, talked, restored
their courage with an indescribable martial accent, with language as
energetic as a soldier might use to console a wounded comrade, and
stimulating as a cordial. If it was a child tha