w in the sloping roof, makes the air as
stifling as in a hothouse, and where there is so little room that the
doctor has to put his hat on the bed. We struggled to the last to keep
her, but finally we had to make up our minds to let her go away. She was
unwilling to go to Maison Dubois, where we proposed to take her; it
seems that twenty-five years ago, when she first came to us, she went
there to see the nurse in charge of Edmond, who died there, and so that
particular hospital represents to her the place where people die. I am
waiting for Simon who is to bring her a permit to go to Lariboisiere.
She passed almost a good night. She is all ready, in high spirits, in
fact. We have covered everything up from her as well as we could. She
longs to be gone. She is in a great hurry. She feels that she is going
to get well there. At two o'clock Simon arrives: "Here it is, all
right." She refuses to have a litter: "I should think I was dead!" she
says. She is dressed. As soon as she leaves her bed, all the signs of
life to be seen upon her face disappear. It is as if the earth had risen
under her skin. She comes down into our apartments. Sitting in the
dining-room, with a trembling hand, the knuckles of which knock against
one another, she draws her stockings on over a pair of legs like
broomsticks, consumptive legs. Then, for a long moment, she looks about
at the familiar objects with dying eyes that seem desirous to take away
with them the memory of the places they are leaving--and the door of the
apartment closes upon her with a noise as of farewell. She reaches the
foot of the stairs, where she rests for an instant on a chair. The
concierge, in a bantering tone, assures her that she will be well in six
weeks. She bows and says "yes," an inaudible "yes." The cab drives up to
the door. She rests her hand on the concierge's wife. I hold her
against the pillow she has behind her back. With wide open, vacant eyes
she vaguely watches the houses pass, but she does not speak. At the door
of the hospital she tries to alight without assistance. "Can you walk so
far?" the concierge asks. She makes an affirmative gesture and walks on.
Really I cannot imagine where she procured the strength to walk as she
does. Here we are at last in the great hall, a high, cold, bare, clean
place with a litter standing, all ready for use, in the centre. I seat
her in a straw armchair by a door with a glazed wicket. A young man
opens the wicket, asks my n