Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XV. John
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Mamsell Agata was invisible. Rosalie produced
an excellent pot-au-feu for dinner and a milk
pudding which I shared with John—all
Frenchwomen of her class are good cooks. After a
couple of extra glasses of wine to cool my nerves
I went to knock at Mamsell Agata’s room still
trembling with rage. I did not knock. It
suddenly dawned upon me that it would cost me my
night’s sleep if I had a row with her now, and
sleep was what I needed more than ever. Much
better postpone the interview till to-morrow
morning.
While I was having my breakfast I came to the
conclusion that the proper thing would be to give
her notice in writing. I sat down to write her a
thundering letter but hardly had I begun when
Rosalie brought me a note in the small sharp
handwriting of Mamsell Agata saying that no
decent person could remain a day longer in my
house, that she was leaving for good this same
afternoon and that she never wanted to see me
again—the very words I had hoped to say to her
in my letter.
The invisible presence of Mamsell Agata still
haunting the house I went down to Le Printemps
to get a cot for John and a rocking-horse as a
reward for what I owed him. The cook came
back the next day happy and content. Rosalie
was beaming with joy, even John seemed pleased
with his new surroundings when I went to have a
look at him in the evening in his snug little bed.
I myself felt happy as a schoolboy on his holidays.
But as to holidays there wasn’t much of them.
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