J. S. MACHAR
XXIX.
Again I went to the street of the Tigers.
A defence-corps man in front of me, a defence-corps man behind me. But they did not know their way about the streets of the Josefstadt, and so I took over the command. To the right,—straight along,—to the left. They felt the comic aspect of their mission, and explained that they were from the opposite part of the city, from Simmering. Here they had never been in their lives before.
It was a fine day, it was warm,—but I should rather have remained in my gloomy cell. Everything here was so strange to me, everything was so objectionable,—only there was I at home. Why were they dragging me out, what was this excursion for? Some visitor under Frank's supervision, a visitor who would again unwittingly show me how I was sinking,—what for? I knew that myself, I felt it, why then display me to the people? and give him, Frank, an opportunity of gloating over my sick appearance?
We had arrived. On the third storey they handed me over to Frank.
Frank, correct, spruce, clean-shaven, informed me dryly that there was a visitor for me: he took out his watch,—in ten minutes they would be there.
And he immersed himself in some document or other.
His secretary clattered with a typewriter. In the room there was a buzzing of flies: through the open window the noisy breath of the city entered.
A knock,—Madam M. L. entered. In her hand she again carried roses.
204
