Furs, for instance, came to true life on her: when she donned her sporty lynx, the packs of hounds started to bark in Rambouillet, the huntsmen blasted a view-halloo; when she wore her autumnal chinchilla, the leaves of Fontainebleau turned golden yellow; in her sable, she dashed about like a troika team. Certainly I helped Madame with her toilette. I loved this tributary rite of dressing, I loved my adoring lady’s maid service (who else was supposed to do it? The cook went shopping, the chambermaid went to take a few of Madame’s things to the cleaners). With transfigured eyes, I hold out Madame’s lingerie (lemon-yellow frothinesses, with umbra darkening behind them). I gather up hastily scattered brassieres and laddered stockings, tuck them away out of Madame’s sight. I help her into her petticoat (taking great care with the lacquered pagoda of her hair); Madame is impatient—you understand, we stayed in bed too long. As usual, Madame has precise appointments to keep; her time is money, on which I live, with the help of which I will complete my book, write a masterpiece. So we do not tarry over breakfast; I’ll munch a slice of ham from the icebox later on, drink the tea she has left standing. I quickly fill her handbag—compact, lipstick, checkbook, purse, driver’s license, address book, house keys, cigarette case (Fabergé), lighter (Dunhill), a small shopping list (on which I have quickly and secretly scribbled “Je t’adore!”)—Madame is practically out of the house, I run after her, helping her into the ocelot (it’ll bite me any second), I race ahead into the hallway to buzz the elevator, a kiss—“À tout à l’heure, mon ange!”—the scissor gate moves past her Three Magi Moor’s face, closing across it like a coarse-meshed veil, then she sinks to my feet, sinks to the floor, is swallowed up; I peer into the shaft, which deepens before me, then breathing a sigh of relief I return to the apartment (it looks as though a robbery-homicide has taken place), I’m still in my bathrobe, still unshaven, from the bathroom window I can see into the courtyard, where the small fiery-red Morris reverses in an arc and then moves forward again, swings in to the porte cochère, and she looks up to me, waves from the car window, très jeune, très dynamique—ah, ce que je l’aime! (she’ll soon be thirty-four, looks twenty-nine, if not younger). Filled with happiness as never before in my inconstant existence I get down to my day’s work—that is, I get myself in shape for it, the important thing is to keep in the mood. If I wish to write a topical book, I must do so with sovereign composure, ironic distance, lucid insight. The dark passion of the hunger artist is antiquated. Nowadays, great literature is a business for sophisticated people, and Gaia’s sublime sense of art, her connoisseur’s flair, the clarity of her French mind challenge me to peak performance—to which her exotic exterior offers a wonderfully piquant contradiction, for which I dress contrapuntally, choosing the attire of Major Thompson: dark-gray, double-breasted flannel suit with discreet chalk stripes, a tough Horse Guard sit to the necktie, the feather-light hat from Lock Britishly balanced on the eyebrows, the cornflower in the lapel, an umbrella rolled needle-sharp (Rumpelstiltzkin in the dandy: oh, how good that no one can tell I’m carrying a Bibliothèque nationale card in my pocket!).