Count Juste-Agénor de Baraglioul had not stepped outside his luxurious apartment in Place Malesherbes for five years. It was there that he had decided to prepare for death, wandering reflectively through its rooms stuffed with his collections or, more often, confined to his bedroom and submitting his aching shoulders and arms to the palliative benefits of hot towels and tranquillising compresses. An enormous caramel-coloured scarf enveloped his fine head in the style of a turban, one end of which hung down to the lace of his collar and the thick Havana-wool knitted waistcoat over which his luxuriant silver beard tumbled. His feet, tucked into Turkish slippers of white leather, lay on a hot-water bottle. One at a time he dug his pale, cold hands into a bath of hot sand that was kept burning by a spirit lamp underneath it. A grey shawl covered his knees. He certainly resembled Julius, but looked more like a portrait by Titian, and Julius’s features were only a pale imitation of his father’s, in the same way that the account he had given in The Air on the Heights was merely an expurgated version of his father’s life, watered down to insignificance.

Juste-Agénor de Baraglioul was drinking herbal tea and listening to a homily from Father Avril – his confessor, whom he had fallen into the habit of consulting frequently – when there was a knock at the door and his faithful Hector, who for twenty years had fulfilled the roles of footman, live-in carer and occasional adviser, brought in on a lacquered tray a small sealed envelope.

‘The gentleman hopes that Monsieur le comte may be willing to see him.’

Juste-Agénor put down his cup, tore open the envelope and took out Lafcadio’s card. He crumpled it agitatedly in his hand.

‘Say that …’ Then, controlling himself, he went on, ‘A gentleman? You mean a young man? Exactly what kind of young man is he?’

‘Someone Monsieur le comte may certainly receive.’

‘My dear abbé,’ the count said, turning to Father Avril, ‘forgive me for having to ask you to interrupt our conversation for now, but make sure you come back tomorrow. No doubt I shall have a good deal to tell you then, and you will not go away disappointed.’

He kept his hand to his forehead as Father Avril withdrew by the drawing-room door, and then, finally raising his head, said, ‘Show him in.’

Lafcadio entered the room with masculine assurance, his head held high. He stood in front of the old man and bowed deeply. Because he had promised himself that he would not open his mouth before he had counted to twelve, it was the count who spoke first.

‘To begin with, Monsieur, there is no Lafcadio de Baraglioul,’ the count said, ripping the card in half, ‘and please be so good as to warn Monsieur Lafcadio Wluiki, since he is one of your friends, that if he persists in playing games with these visiting cards – if he does not tear them all up as I am doing with this one’ – he shredded it into tiny scraps that he dropped into his empty cup – ‘I shall immediately inform the police and have him arrested as a common fraud. Do I make myself clear? … Now, come into the light so that I may see you.’

‘Lafcadio Wluiki is your servant in everything, Monsieur.’ Lafcadio’s voice had taken on a deferential tone and shook a little. ‘Forgive him for having chosen this means of introducing himself to you. Not one dishonest intention ever entered his head. He would very much like to convince you that he deserves … at least your good opinion.’

‘You’re a strong-looking boy. But those clothes don’t suit you,’ the count went on, determined not to hear him.

‘So I wasn’t mistaken?’ Lafcadio said, venturing a smile and indulgently submitting to his examination.

‘Thank God he takes after his mother!’ the old man murmured.

Lafcadio bided his time, then, staring fixedly at the count and almost in a growl, said, ‘Without speaking too obviously, is it entirely forbidden for me also to take after—’

‘I was talking about your looks. Whether you only take after your mother or not, God will unfortunately not grant me the time to know.’

As he finished speaking, the grey shawl slipped off his knees onto the floor.

Lafcadio darted forward and as he crouched down felt the old man’s hand gently on his shoulder.

‘Lafcadio Wluiki,’ Juste-Agénor went on, after Lafcadio had straightened up, ‘my time is short. I shan’t beat about the bush, it would be too tiring. I accept that you’re not stupid, and I am glad to see that you’re not ugly. Your ploy to see me was risky and shows a certain bravura which is not unbecoming. My first impression was of presumptuousness, but your voice and manner set my mind at rest. I have asked my son Julius to fill in the background for me, but I find that it doesn’t greatly interest me, and matters less to me than having seen you. Now, Lafcadio, listen to me: no birth certificate, no other document exists that proves who you are. I have taken care not to leave you any possibility of recourse. No, don’t bother to assure me of your feelings for me, it’s pointless. And don’t interrupt me. Your silence up till today is a guarantee that your mother kept her promise not to tell you about me. That’s good. So in line with the commitment I made to her, you will discover the extent of my gratitude. Via my son Julius, as my intermediary, and legal difficulties notwithstanding, I will make over to you that part of my legacy that I told your mother I would apportion to you. That is to say, I shall favour Julius over my other child, the Countess Guy de Saint-Prix, by as much as the law allows me, and exactly the amount that, through him, I should like you to have. It will, I think, amount to … let’s say 40,000 francs a year. I must see my notary this afternoon and go through the figures with him … Sit down if it’s easier for you to hear me that way.’ (Lafcadio had just put a hand out to the table to support himself.) ‘Julius can contest any of this. The law is on his side. I’m counting on his honesty to do no such thing. Likewise I count on you never to bother Julius’s family, in the same way that your mother never bothered mine. For Julius and his family, only Lafcadio Wluiki exists. I don’t wish you to wear mourning for me. My boy, the family is a great and closed institution. You’ll never be anything but a bastard.’

Lafcadio had not sat down, despite his father’s invitation when he had seen him caught off balance. Having overcome his dizziness, he was now leaning on the edge of the table that held the cup and the lamp. His posture remained deeply respectful.

‘Now tell me: you saw my son Julius this morning. He told you—’

‘He didn’t actually tell me anything. I guessed.’

‘The clumsy … No, I don’t mean you! … Are you to see him again?’

‘He has asked me to be his secretary.’

‘Have you accepted?’

‘Do you want me not to?’

‘… No. But I think it would be better that you do not … acknowledge one another.’

‘I thought so too. But without exactly acknowledging him, I’d like to know him a bit better.’

‘I don’t suppose, however, that you have any intention of staying in such a junior role for long?’

‘As long as it takes to get on my feet, no more.’

‘And afterwards, what do you intend to do, now that you will be a man of fortune?’

‘Monsieur, you’re looking at someone who hardly had enough to eat yesterday. Give me a chance to get used to my appetite!’

Just then Hector knocked at the door.

‘It’s Monsieur le vicomte asking for you, Monsieur. Shall I show him in?’

The old man’s brow furrowed. He did not say anything for a moment, but as Lafcadio discreetly prepared to take his leave the count exclaimed, so violently that the young man’s heart went out to him, ‘Don’t go!’

Turning to Hector, the count added, ‘It’s too bad! But I made it perfectly clear to him that he shouldn’t try to see me … Tell him I’m busy, tell him … I’ll write to him.’

Hector bowed and left the room.

The old count kept his eyes closed for a few moments. He seemed to be asleep, but through his beard his lips could be seen moving. Eventually he opened his eyes, held out his hand to Lafcadio and, in a voice that was completely changed, softened and as if broken, said, ‘Hold my hand, my boy. Now you must leave me.’

‘I have a confession I must make,’ Lafcadio said hesitantly. ‘In order to make myself presentable to you I have exhausted the last of my funds. If you don’t help me, I’m not sure how I’ll be able to eat this evening and I have no idea how I’ll eat tomorrow … unless your son, Monsieur le vicomte …’

‘Have this for now,’ the old man said, opening a drawer and giving him 500 francs. ‘Well, why are you still standing there?’

‘I would also like to ask you … whether I may hope to see you again?’

‘Indeed! I’ll admit that that would not be without pleasure. But the reverend persons who look after my salvation keep me in a mood in which my pleasure comes second. If you’re seeking my blessing, you shall have it at once’ – and the old man opened his arms to embrace Lafcadio. But the boy, instead of throwing himself into the count’s arms, knelt in front of him and rested his head on his knees, sobbing, overwhelmed by tenderness at the old man’s affection and feeling his heart, with all its fierce resolves, melt.

‘My boy, my boy,’ the count stammered, ‘I left it too late with you.’

When Lafcadio stood up his face was streaming with tears.

As he was about to leave he put the banknote in his pocket – he had not taken it immediately – and felt for the visiting cards. He held them out to the count.

‘Here, this is the whole packet.’

‘I trust you. You can tear them up yourself. Goodbye!’

‘He would have been the best uncle of all,’ Lafcadio murmured to himself as he retraced his steps to the Quartier Latin, ‘with something extra special too,’ he added, feeling a trace of melancholy. ‘Tough luck!’ He pulled out the visiting cards, opened the packet, and tore them in half in one go.

‘I’ve never trusted drains,’ he muttered, dropping ‘Lafcadio’ in one grating and waiting until he had passed two more before he dropped ‘de Baraglioul’.

‘Whatever! Baraglioul or Wluiki, it’s time to erase the past and everything in it.’

On Boulevard Saint-Michel there was a jeweller’s shop, where Carola kept him waiting every day. The day before yesterday it had been an unusual pair of cufflinks that had caught her eye in its showy window. They were made – joined together by a gold clasp and cut from an unfamiliar kind of quartz, a sort of smoky agate that was completely opaque although it looked transparent – to represent four cat’s heads in a circular setting. Because Carola wore the masculine style of short jackets that we call tailored, as I have already said, with men’s cuffs, and because she had whimsical taste, she had immediately coveted the cufflinks.

They were less amusing than odd. Lafcadio thought them horrible, and it would have annoyed him to see his mistress wearing them. But since he was leaving her … Going into the shop, he bought them for 120 francs.

‘A piece of writing paper, if you’d be so kind.’ Leaning on the counter, he wrote on the piece of paper the jeweller had given him:

He folded the paper and slipped it into the box the jeweller was packing the cufflinks in.

‘No hurry,’ he said to himself, on the point of handing the box to the porter at his lodgings. ‘Let’s spend one last night under this roof, and be satisfied this evening with not answering the door to Mademoiselle Carola.’