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Sundays when she sat all by herself in a pew
in the Swedish church Boulevard Ornano,
praying to the God of Wrath. The pew was
always empty, nobody dared to sit near her, my
friend the Swedish chaplain told me that the
first time he put the bread in her mouth during
the Holy Communion she glared at him so
savagely that he was afraid she might bite off
his finger.
Rosalie had lost all her former cheerfulness,
she looked thin and wretched, spoke of going to
live with her married sister in Touraine. Of
course it was easier for me, who was away the
whole day. As soon as I returned home all the
strength seemed to go out of my body, and a
deadly grey weariness to fall over my thoughts
like dust. Since I had discovered that Mamsell
Agata was a sleep-walker, my nights had become
still more agitated and restless, I often thought
I smelt her even in my bedroom. At last I
opened my heart to Flygare, the Swedish
chaplain, who was a frequent visitor to my house and
had, I think, a vague suspicion of the terrible
truth.
“Why don’t you send her away,” said the
chaplain one day, “you cannot go on like this, really
I am beginning to believe that you are afraid of
her. If you haven’t the courage to send her
away, I will do it for you.”
I offered him a thousand francs for his church
fund if he could send her away.
“I shall give notice to Mamsell Agata to-night,
don’t worry, come to the sacristy to-morrow after
service and you will have good news.”
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