the bath.  Beyond this wine, and occasionally a cup of soup, she took nothing, had no wish to take anything.  She grew perfectly accustomed to these extraordinary habits of life, to this merging of night and day into one monotonous and endless repetition of the same rite amid the same circumstances on exactly the same spot.  Then followed a period during which she objected to being constantly wakened up for this annoying immersion.  And she fought against it even in her dreams.  Long days seemed to pass when she could not be sure whether she had been put into the bath or not, when all external phenomena were disconcertingly interwoven with matters which she knew to be merely fanciful.  And then she was overwhelmed by the hopeless gravity of her state.  She felt that her state was desperate.  She felt that she was dying.  Her unhappiness was extreme, not because she was dying, but because the veils of sense were so puzzling, so exasperating, and because her exhausted body was so vitiated, in every fibre, by disease.  She was perfectly aware that she was going to die.  She cried aloud for a pair of scissors.  She wanted to cut off her hair, and to send part of it to Constance and part of it to her mother, in separate packages.  She insisted upon separate packages.  Nobody would give her a pair of scissors.  She implored, meekly, haughtily, furiously, but nobody would satisfy her.  It seemed to her shocking that all her hair should go with her into her coffin while Constance and her mother had nothing by which to remember her, no tangible souvenir of her beauty.  Then she fought for the scissors.  She clutched at some one—­always through those baffling veils—­who was putting her into the bath by the bedside, and fought frantically.  It appeared to her that this some one was the rather stout woman who had supped at Sylvain’s with the quarrelsome Englishman, four years ago.  She could not rid herself of this singular conceit, though she knew it to be absurd. ...

A long time afterwards—­it seemed like a century—­she did actually and unmistakably see the woman sitting by her bed, and the woman was crying.

“Why are you crying?” Sophia asked wonderingly.

And the other, younger, woman, who was standing at the foot of the bed, replied: 

“You do well to ask!  It is you who have hurt her, in your delirium, when you so madly demanded the scissors.”

The stout woman smiled with the tears on her cheeks; but Sophia wept, from remorse.  The stout woman looked old, worn, and untidy.  The other one was much younger.  Sophia did not trouble to inquire from them who they were.

That little conversation formed a brief interlude in the delirium, which overtook her again and distorted everything.  She forgot, however, that she was destined to die.

One day her brain cleared.  She could be sure that she had gone to sleep in the morning and not wakened till the evening.  Hence she had not been put into the bath.