Up on the hill, the little church of São Joaquim would be glowing white, bare and innocent.

One of the women muttered:

‘That’s not Gilberte!’

And one of the men said:

‘That’s a cornet, isn’t it?’

‘Now they’re applauding.’

‘No, it’s Paulin!’

The Grand Duke uttered another ferocious ‘Sh!’ In the courtyard of my house in Guiães, the dogs were barking. From beyond the river, João Saranda’s dogs answered. Now I was walking down a narrow lane, beneath the trees, with my staff on my shoulder. And there among the silk curtains, I sensed in the fine, soft air the smell of pine logs crackling in hearths, the warmth from the sheep-pens that penetrated even the high surrounding hedges, and the sleepy whisper of the streams.

I awoke to a shout that came neither from the sheep-pens nor from the shadows. It was the Grand Duke who had leapt to his feet with a furious shrug of the shoulders.

‘I can’t hear a thing! Nothing but squeaks and buzzes! What a bore! But what a song, eh?

‘Oh les casquettes,

‘Oh les casqu-e-e-ttes!’

Everyone lay down their wires, proclaiming Gilberte to be simply divine. And the good majordomo, opening wide the two leaves of the door, announced:

‘Monseigneur est servi!’

At the table, whose splendid orchids drew loud praise from His Highness, I sat between the ethereal poet Dornan and the young man with the blond fuzz of beard, the one who swayed like an ear of wheat in the wind. After unfolding his napkin and arranging it on his ample lap, Dornan disentangled a large lorgnette from his watch chain in order to study the menu, which met with his full approval. He leaned towards me with his fat apostle’s face and muttered:

‘If this is Jacinto’s 1834 port, it must be authentic, don’t you think?’

I assured the Master of the Metres that the port had indeed been aged in Dom Galeão’s cellars. By way of preparation, the poet carefully brushed aside the long, thick hairs of the moustache that covered his large mouth. A cold consommé with truffles was served. And the maize-coloured young man, looking up and down the table with his gentle, blue eyes, murmured, half-regretful, half-amused:

‘What a shame! All that’s lacking are a general and a bishop!’

And he was right! The Ruling Classes were all there, eating Jacinto’s truffles. Opposite us, Madame d’Oriol gave a laugh as melodious as bird-song. The Grand Duke had noticed among the forest of orchids surrounding his plate one particularly sinister and ugly one, resembling a green scorpion with lustrous wings, fat and tumescent with venom; very delicately he handed this monstrous flower to Madame d’Oriol, who, warbling with laughter, solemnly placed it in her décolletage. Next to that soft flesh – like fine cream – the ‘scorpion’ had grown still greener and its wings trembled. All eyes lit up, fixed on that lovely bosom, to which the misshapen, poisonous-looking flower only gave an added piquancy. Madame d’Oriol glowed, triumphant. The better to accommodate the flower, she adjusted the neckline of her dress, thus revealing further beauties and showing the way to all those male eyes, which, aflame with curiosity, were slowly undressing her. Jacinto’s frowning face stared down at his empty plate. And the lyric poet of Mystic Twilight, stroked his beard and snarled scornfully:

‘She’s a beautiful woman right enough; scrawny hips, though, and no bottom at all, I bet!’

Meanwhile, the young man with the downy beard had returned to his theme. It was such a shame not to have a general with his sword there and a bishop with his crosier!

‘But for what purpose, sir?’

The young man made a delicate gesture that made all his rings sparkle.

‘Why, for a dynamite bomb. Here we have a splendid bouquet of the flowers of Civilisation, including a Grand Duke. Imagine the effect if someone lobbed a bomb through the door! What a fine end to a fin-de-siècle supper!’

And when I merely stared at him in amazement, he, taking sips of his Chateau d’Yquem, declared that the one genuine, truly refined pleasure would be to destroy Civilisation. Neither science nor the arts, neither love nor money could bring such real, intense pleasure to our satiated souls. Any pleasure that could be had from creating had long since been exhausted. Now all that remained was the divine pleasure of destroying!

He uttered several more such enormities, his pale eyes twinkling. However, I was no longer listening to this genteel pedant, for something else was troubling me.