In spite of a certain professional curiosity, and the flattering illusion that nothing human was alien to him, Julius up till now had rarely strayed far from the habits of his class and hardly ever had dealings with anyone outside his milieu. It was more a case of lacking the opportunity than lacking inclination. On the point of going out the next morning, he realised that he was not wearing exactly the right clothes for such a visit either. His overcoat, starched shirt front and Cronstadt hat all conveyed an unavoidable impression of decency, restraint and distinction … Although perhaps it was best, after all, that his dress should not encourage familiarity in the young man too soon. Words, he thought, conversation, that was the most suitable way to gain his trust. As he set off in the direction of Impasse Claude-Bernard, Julius mulled over the safest way to introduce himself and the kind of pretexts he might use to pursue his interrogation.

How could Count Juste-Agénor de Baraglioul be involved in the life of this Lafcadio person? The question buzzed around Julius’s head, refusing to leave him alone. But he was not going to start speculating about his father’s life just at the moment when he had finished writing it. He wanted to know only what his father eventually decided to tell him. In the last few years the count had become taciturn, but he had never been secretive. As Julius walked through the Luxembourg Gardens he was caught in a sudden shower.

Outside number 12, Impasse Claude-Bernard a hansom cab was stopped, in which Julius, as he passed, glimpsed the figure of a woman wearing an over-large hat and over-loud makeup.

His heart was beating fast as he gave Lafcadio Wluiki’s name to the porter of the boarding house. The novelist felt as though he were about to plunge into an adventure. Then, as he climbed the stairs, the place’s dreary appearance and minimal decoration repelled him, and his curiosity, finding nothing to stimulate it, flagged and was replaced by disgust.

On the fourth floor an uncarpeted hallway, lit only by the stairwell, turned sharp right a few steps from the landing. All along the hallway there were closed doors on both sides, but the last door was ajar. A thin shaft of daylight came through the opening. Julius knocked but there was no answer. Timidly he pushed the door open a little wider. There was no one in the room. He went back downstairs.

‘If he’s not there, he won’t be long,’ the porter said.

It was pouring with rain. In the lobby, opposite the stairs, was a door that opened into a waiting room. Julius was about to go in, but its rank smell and desperate appearance so repelled him that he decided he could just as easily let himself into the room upstairs and wait there for the young man to arrive. He went back upstairs.

As he turned the corner of the hallway for the second time a woman emerged from the room before the last one. Julius bumped into her and apologised.

‘You’re looking for …?’

‘Doesn’t Monsieur Wluiki live here?’

‘He’s gone out.’

‘Hah!’ Julius said, in a tone of such sharp irritation that the woman asked him, ‘Is your business with him urgent?’

Julius, who had only armed himself to confront an unknown Lafcadio, was disconcerted. But he saw that this was an excellent opportunity: this woman might know a good deal about the young man if he could persuade her to talk …

‘There’s something I wanted to ask him about.’

‘And who is it asking?’

Does she think I’m from the police? Julius wondered.

‘I am Count Julius de Baraglioul,’ he said in a mildly pompous voice, raising his hat an inch.

‘Oh! Count … I do beg your pardon for not having … It’s so dark in this hallway! Please be so kind as to go in.’ She pushed open the end door. ‘Lafcadio’s bound to be … He’s only gone as far as the … Oh! Allow me!’

And as Julius was about to enter, she dashed past him into the room, making for a pair of ladies’ knickers that were hanging indiscreetly over a chair and which, not managing to conceal them, she nevertheless attempted to make less obvious.

‘Such a mess in here …’

‘Never mind, don’t worry! I’m quite used to it,’ Julius said breezily.

Carola Venitequa was a plump young woman, or to put it another way was slightly overweight but had a nice figure and a healthy complexion, and average good looks that were neither vulgar nor unattractive. She had gentle eyes, like an animal’s, and her voice was sweet and bleating. She was ready to go out: a small soft felt hat perched on her head and she wore a man’s collar and white cuffs with her short jacket, which was decorated with a sailor’s bow.

‘Have you known Monsieur Wluiki for long?’

‘Perhaps I could ask him about the thing you wanted to know?’ she said without answering.

‘It’s … I really just wanted to know whether he was very busy at present.’

‘It depends on the day.’

‘Because if he had a bit of free time, I was thinking of asking him … to take on a small job of work for me.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘Well, that’s exactly it … I wanted first of all to learn a bit more about the kind of things he gets involved in.’

The question lacked guile, but Carola did not look like a woman who required subtlety. Meanwhile Count de Baraglioul had regained his assurance. He was now sitting on the chair from which Carola had spirited away the knickers, and she, standing close to him as she leant against the table, had just started to speak. Suddenly there was a loud noise in the hallway. The door opened with a crash, and the woman Julius had glimpsed in the cab downstairs appeared.

‘I was sure,’ she said, ‘as soon as I saw him go upstairs …’

Carola replied immediately, moving away from Julius, ‘Don’t be silly, it’s nothing like that, dearest … we were just chatting. My friend, Bertha Grand-Marnier, the Count de … oh, I’m so sorry, here I am forgetting your name already!’

‘It’s not important,’ Julius said stiffly, shaking the gloved hand that Bertha had offered.

‘Now introduce me too,’ Carola said.

‘Listen, poppet, they’ve been waiting for us for an hour already,’ Mademoiselle Grand-Marnier twittered, after introducing her friend. ‘If you want to chat with Monsieur, bring him along. I’ve got a cab waiting.’

‘But it’s not me he came to see.’

‘Then come on! Won’t you dine with us tonight?’

‘I’m afraid—’

‘Forgive me, Monsieur,’ Carola said, blushing and anxious to take her friend away as soon as possible. ‘Lafcadio will be back any minute now.’

The two women went out, leaving the door open. The hallway’s bare boards made every sound audible. You could not see anyone coming from the stairwell because of the passage’s right-angle turn, but you could hear them coming.

‘Well, perhaps the room will tell me more than the woman. Let’s hope so,’ Julius said to himself. Calmly he started to inspect it.

Unfortunately, almost nothing in the nondescript lodgings offered itself up to his untrained curiosity. There were no bookshelves and no pictures on the walls. On the mantelpiece was a copy of Moll Flanders in English in a nasty edition that was only cut two-thirds of the way through, and a copy of the Novelle of Anton Francesco Grazzini, alias Il Lasca, in Italian. The books intrigued Julius. Next to them, behind a bottle of spirits of peppermint, stood a photograph that disturbed him as much, if not more so. On a sandy beach a woman who was no longer very young but oddly beautiful was leaning on the arm of an emphatically English-looking man, slim and elegant in a lightweight suit. At their feet, on an upturned canoe, sat a strong-looking boy of about fifteen with thick, fair, tousled hair and a cheeky, mocking look. He was stark naked.

Julius picked up the photograph and moved over to the window to read in the bottom right-hand corner the faded words ‘Duino, July 1886’, which left him none the wiser, even though he remembered that Duino was a village on the Austrian shore of the Adriatic. Nodding, his lips pursed with disapproval, he put the photograph back. Under the mantelpiece in the cold hearth were stacked a packet of oat flour, a bag of lentils and another one of rice. Further along the wall a chessboard leant against it. Nothing in the room suggested to Julius the kind of studies or activities in which the young man might spend his time.

Lafcadio had apparently just had breakfast. In a small saucepan balanced on a spirit stove on the table there was one of those hollow, perforated metal eggs for making tea used by tourists who like to travel light, and there were crumbs around a cup that had been drunk from. Julius walked over to the table. It had a drawer, and the drawer had a key …

I should not like what comes next to give a mistaken impression of Julius’s character. He was one of the least indiscreet men imaginable: he respected the outer shell that everyone chooses to cloak their inner life in, and he held everyday decency in high regard. But being under his father’s orders, he felt bound to set aside his scruples. He waited for a moment longer, listening intently, and then, hearing nothing – against his will, against his principles, but with a delicate sense of carrying out a duty – he pulled open the drawer, whose key had not been turned.

There was a Russia-leather notebook in the drawer. Julius picked it up and opened it. On the first page he read these words, in the same handwriting as on the photograph:

and underneath, with almost no space between, in a faintly childish script that was neat, straight and regular:

The rest of the first page was blank.

On the third page, dated 29 August, was written:

And the next day:

Julius realised that all he was looking at was a record of some swimming training. The list of days soon petered out, however, and following on from a blank page he read:

Then a few more places and dates were jotted down, and this last entry:

Julius turned over several more blank pages, then the notebook seemed to start again. As if to give it a new title, these words were written at the top of the page in larger and more careful letters:

At the discovery of moral ideas Julius’s interest was  aroused: this was meat and drink to him.

But the next page disappointed him: the notebook reverted to a new set of accounts, although they were of a different sort. He read, without any more indication of places or dates:

Julius, reading hurriedly, interpreted ‘punta’ as being a unit of currency and decided that the list was merely a fussy, puerile calculation of merits and rewards. He turned the page and read:

And there the writing stopped.

Julius shrugged, pursed his lips, nodded and replaced the notebook in the drawer. He took out his watch, stood, walked to the window and looked out. It had stopped raining. He walked to the corner of the room where he had leant his umbrella against the wall as he came in. At that moment he saw, leaning against the doorframe, half in shadow, a handsome fair-haired young man who was watching him with a smile on his face.