Children

We reclined in a lounge room with curling sofas and three legged tables that were tall and thin, and gold framed oil paintings so old they looked black.

Soft vertical shadows cut through the room, so that I glimpsed fragments of things - the arabesque of an armchair, a piece of the pattern on the floor rug, the shaded eyes of a bust peering from a pool of darkness.

The play of sombre light draped the face of Mme Epoussetez, vague ghostly eyes, a sharp nose, expressionless thin lips - a mask of abstracted severity.

The mask regarded me with a detached unconscious blankness

The small mouth opened: "Erlmehrag Akbah."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"I just coughed."

"Oh"

"It's Monsieur Epoussetez's cigars, my dear. They consist of the dessicated pages of ancient medieval bibles stuffed with batwings. At least, that's how they smell."

"Speaking of batwings, I am sure I just saw a kind of rodent with wings that looked rather like a small version of Monsieur Epoussetez."

"Who knows what that man gets up to. Its simply dreadful."

At this point a tall narrow door swung open with an echoey creak. Two small girls in night gowns with blood red ribbons and bows walked slowly in. They were carrying large rusty knives.

"Go back to bed children," intoned Mme Epoussetez. She smiled at me apologetically. "They're not used to guests," she explained. "Go back and I'll send you some cake," she offered them.

"What kind?" asked one. She had a voice like water being sucked down a small plug-hole in a very large bathtub.

"Pink." said Mme Epoussetez

"Yuk!"

The brats retreated. I thought I saw another miniature Monsieur Epoussetez whirling after them, like a pet.

From the Journal of Michel Boîte de Pandoras - At the apartment of Mme Epoussetez: Part 7