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Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a

long time that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at

someone, now working herself up to tears with the imaginary words

of her pauvre mere rebuking her for her fall.

The little princess grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly

made. She could not lie either on her face or on her side. Every

position was awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed

her now more than ever because Anatole's presence had vividly

recalled to her the time when she was not like that and when

everything was light and gay. She sat in an armchair in her

dressing jacket and nightcap and Katie, sleepy and disheveled,

beat and turned the heavy feather bed for the third time,

muttering to herself.

"I told you it was all lumps and holes!" the little princess

repeated. "I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it's not my

fault!" and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry.