“In the office just over the hill, there.”
I went in the direction pointed out, and came upon a small office before which an aged European sat motionless in a rocking-chair. About him were scattered many kinds of statues, broken and whole.
“Are you the superintendent, sir?” I asked in French.
The aged Frenchman frowned, but answered not a word. I repeated the question in a louder voice.
“Va t’en!” shrieked the old man, grasping a heavy cane that leaned against his chair, and shaking it feebly at me. “Go away! You’re a beggar. I know you are.”
I told him I had mistaken him for the superintendent. The aged Frenchman watched me with the half-closed eyes of a cat, clinging to his stick.
“Why do you want to see the superintendent?” he demanded.
“To work, if he has any. If not, to see the temple.”
“You will not ask him for money?”
“Certainly not.”