which was not above ten feet square, and lighted by an attic window.  All the furniture consisted of an old straw mattress, laid upon the ground, with the straw peeping out from a rent in its ticking; a small earthenware pitcher, with the spout broken, and containing a little water, stood by the side of this couch.  Dressed in rags, Mother Bunch was seated on the side of the mattress, with her elbows on her knees, and her face concealed in her thin, white hands.  When Cephyse entered the room, the adopted sister of Agricola raised her head; her pale, mild face seemed thinner than ever, hollow with suffering, grief, misery; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on her sister with an expression of mournful tenderness.

“I have what we want, sister,” said Cephyse, in a low, deep voice; “in this basket there is wherewith to finish our misery.”

Then, showing to Mother Bunch the articles she had just placed on the floor, she added:  “For the first time in my life, I have been a thief.  It made me ashamed and frightened; I was never intended for that or worse.  It is a pity.” added she, with a sardonic smile.

After a moment’s silence, the hunchback said to her sister, in a heart rending tone:  “Cephyse—­my dear Cephyse—­are you quite determined to die?”

“How should I hesitate?” answered Cephyse, in a firm voice.  “Come, sister, let us once more make our reckoning.  If even I could forget my shame, and Jacques’ contempt in his last moments, what would remain to me?  Two courses only:  first, to be honest, and work for my living.  But you know that, in spite of the best will in the world, work will often fail, as it has failed for the last few days, and, even when I got it, I would have to live on four to five francs a week.  Live? that is to say, die by inches.  I know that already, and I prefer dying at once.  The other course would be to live a life of infamy—­and that I will not do.  Frankly, sister, between frightful misery, infamy, or death, can the choice be doubtful?  Answer me!”

Then, without giving Mother Bunch time to speak, Cephyse added, in an abrupt tone:  “Besides, what is the good of discussing it?  I have made up my mind, and nothing shall prevent my purpose, since all that you, dear sister, could obtain from me, was a delay of a few days, to see if the cholera would not save us the trouble.  To please you I consented; the cholera has come, killed every one else in the house, but left us.  You see, it is better to do one’s own business,” added she, again smiling bitterly.  Then she resumed:  “Besides, dear sister, you also wish to finish with life.”

“It is true, Cephyse,” answered the sempstress, who seemed very much depressed; “but alone—­one has only to answer for one’s self—­and to die with you,” added she, shuddering, “appears like being an accomplice in your death.”

“Do you wish, then, to make an end of it, I in one place, you in another?—­that would be agreeable!” said Cephyse, displaying in that terrible moment the sort of bitter and despairing irony which is more frequent than may be imagined in the midst of mortal anguish.