The two men met and stood pressed against a bookshelf, whispering earnestly.

Jacinto and I went into the billiard room, whose walls were lined with old Cordoban leather and where smoking was allowed. The great Dornan – that Neoplatonist poet and mystic and subtle master of all the metres – was sitting slumped among the cushions on a divan, one foot resting on his fat thigh, like an Indian god, two buttons of his waistcoat undone, and his pendulous double chin concealing his collar, as he puffed majestically on a vast cigar. Seated near him was an old man I had never seen before at No. 202, a slender figure, with white ringlets pushed back behind his ears; his face was heavily powdered, and he sported a small, very black, very curled moustache; he had clearly just finished telling some salty anecdote, for Joban, that theatre critic supreme, was standing beside him, roaring with laughter, his bald head scarlet with pleasure, and a red-haired young man (a descendant of Coligny), with a profile like a parakeet, was flapping his short arms about like wings and squawking: ‘Delicious! Divine!’ Only the idealistic poet, in his plump majesty, remained utterly impassive. However, as we approached, that same master of the metre, having first blown out a great cloud of smoke and greeted me with a slow lifting of his eyelids, began in a rich, metallic-sounding voice:

‘Oh I know a better story than that, infinitely better. You all know Madame Noredal, don’t you? Well, Madame Noredal has the most enormous buttocks …’

Alas, Todelle rushed into the room at that moment, loudly calling for Jacinto. The ladies wanted to hear an aria by Patti on the Phonograph! My friend shrugged and said irritably:

‘An aria by Patti … oh, I don’t know. The rolls are all in a mess. Besides, the Phonograph doesn’t work very well. No, what am I saying? It doesn’t work at all. I’ve got three of them and not one of them works.’

‘Not to worry!’ exclaimed Todelle gaily. ‘I’ll sing “Pauvre fille” instead. It’s better suited to a supper party anyway. Oh, la pauv’, pauv’, pauv’ …’

And with that, he linked arms with me and dragged me and my rustic shyness into the faded pink salon, where, like goddesses in one of Olympus’ choicest circles, Madame d’Oriol, Madame Verghane and the Princess de Carman were waiting, resplendent, along with another very fair-haired woman, who wore large diamonds in her long hair, and had such bare shoulders, such bare arms and such a bare bosom, that her white dress edged with pale gold seemed more like a chemise about to slip off. Impressed, I grabbed Todelle and growled softly: ‘Who’s that?’ But the jolly man had already scurried over to join Madame d’Oriol, with whom the Duke de Marizac – with easy, superior familiarity – was enjoying a joke, along with a young man whose soft downy beard was the colour of maize, and who was rocking back and forth on his heels, like an ear of wheat in the wind. I was left stranded by the piano, slowly rubbing my hands, trying to quell my embarrassment; then Madame Verghane got up from the sofa where she had been talking to an old man (who wore the Grand-Croix de St André pinned to his chest) and advanced, nay, glided towards me across the carpet, a small, brilliant figure, dragging behind her the long dark-green velvet train of her dress. So tiny was her waist, between the fecund roundness of her hips and the vastness of her bare, mother-of-pearl bosom, that I feared she might break in two as she slowly swayed towards me. Her famous, furiously black hair, parted in the middle and combed smoothly down on either side, entirely covered her ears; and on a large gold circlet glittered a diamond-studded star, as if on the brow of a Botticelli angel. Doubtless knowing my position of authority in No. 202, she threw me a smile – like a beneficent bolt of lightning – that made her liquid eyes still more liquid. She murmured:

‘The Grand Duke is still coming, isn’t he?’

‘Of course, Madame, he’s coming for the fish.’

‘For the fish?’

And at precisely that moment, the Rákóczy March burst forth in the antechamber with a triumphant roll on the drum and much furious scraping on the violins. It was he! In the Library, our majordomo boomed out:

‘His Highness, the Grand Duke Casimiro!’

Madame de Verghane uttered a brief, excited sigh and pushed out her chest, as if to provide the Grand Duke with a better view of her marble magnificence. And the editor of Le Boulevard, the old fellow wearing the Grand-Croix, and Efraim almost pushed me out of the way as they charged the door in their eagerness to see the Royal Personage.

The Grand Duke entered, preceded by Jacinto. He cut an imposing figure, slightly balding and with a neat, pointed, greying beard. For a moment, he hesitated, rocking slowly back and forth on his small feet, which were shod in flat shoes almost entirely concealed by his very wide trousers. Then, leisurely and smiling, he went over to shake hands with the ladies who had sunk into their velvets and silks as they performed a low curtsey. Then, clapping Jacinto jovially on the shoulder, he asked:

‘And how’s that fish coming along? You did use the recipe I sent you, didn’t you?’

Jacinto murmured a reassuring reply.

‘Just as well, just as well!’ exclaimed the Grand Duke in his loud commanding voice.