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- XIII. Mamsell Agata
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XIII
MAMSELL AGATA
The old grandfather clock in the hall struck
half past seven as I entered Avenue de
Villiers silently as a ghost. It was the hour
when punctually to the minute Mamsell Agata
started to rub the patina off my old refectory
table in the dining-room, there was a fair chance
to reach in safety my bedroom, my only harbour
of refuge. The rest of the house was all in the
hands of Mamsell Agata. Silent and restless as a
mongoose she used to move about from room to
room the whole day, a dust towel in her hand, in
search of something to scrub or a torn letter to
pick up from the floor. I stopped annihilated as
I opened the door of my consulting room.
Mamsell Agata stood bending over the writing table
examining my morning mail. She lifted her
head, her white eyes stared in grim silence at my
torn, blood stained clothes, for once her lipless
mouth did not find immediately the right
unpleasant word.
“Good Heavens, where has he been?” she
hissed at last. She always used to call me “he”
when she was angry, alas! she seldom called me
anything else.
“I have had a street accident,” said I. I had
long ago taken to lying to Mamsell Agata in
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Project Runeberg, Sun Dec 10 16:55:41 2023
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