THE ACCENT


It was a large, upholstered house, with long white terraces shaded by
vines, from which one could see the sea. Large pines stretched a dark
dome over the sacked facade, and there was a look of neglect, of want
and wretchedness about it all, such as irreparable losses, departures to
other countries, and death leave behind them.

The interior wore a strange look, with half unpacked boxes serving for
wardrobes, piles of band boxes, and for seats there was an array of
worm-eaten armchairs, into which bits of velvet and silk, which had been
cut from old dresses, had been festooned anyhow, and along the walls
there were rows of rusty nails which made one think of old portraits and
of pictures full of associations, which had one by one been bought for a
low price by some second-hand furniture broker.

The rooms were in disorder and furnished no matter how, while velvets
were hanging from the ceilings and in the corners, and seemed to show
that as the servants were no longer paid except by hopes, they no longer
did more than give them an accidental, careless touch with the broom
occasionally. The drawing-room, which was extremely large, was full of
useless knick-knacks, rubbish which is put up for sale at stalls at
watering places, daubs, they could not be called paintings of portraits
and of flowers, and an old piano with yellow keys.

Such is the home where she, who had been called the handsome Madame de
Maurillac, was spending her monotonous existence, like some unfortunate
doll which inconstant, childish hands have thrown into a corner in a