The best domestics have an almost magical ability to divine their master’s wishes, and Giacomo returned moments after I’d finished my coffee to guide me to an adjoining room with a bath. He helped me bathe, shaved me, and, once I had dried myself, dressed me in clothes of the finest quality: the kind of suit one might have tailored at Staub or d’Humann, a shirt and cravat from Boivin, a tie-pin from Janinch, and a cane from Verdier, with a solid silver handle in the shape of a duck’s head. Once, as a young dandy, I would have been proud to wear such finery. Now, in my syphilitic autumn, I felt like a doll dressed for some maudlin carnival.

Thus, seated before the fireplace in my costume, I meditated upon this turn of events for some time before Giacomo reappeared to announce that dinner was served. He eased me into a chair on wheels and pushed me down a long, sparkling hallway to a dining room where, at opposite ends of a long table, two places were set. “Madame Édmonde begs the pardon of monsieur,” Giacomo said dryly. “She has been unexpectedly detained and will join monsieur as soon as possible. In the meantime, she begs that you begin dining without delay.”

I ate, as if I had not eaten in days, all kinds of roasted meats, cheeses and jams, toffees and tarts, washed down with fine wine, coffee, and brandy. The dining room was decorated even more garishly than my bedroom—ribbons of gilding on the walls, the ceiling divided into lozenge panels, intricate parquet floor, a marble fireplace, and more camellias in every corner. The windows looked out onto the same courtyard I’d observed from my bedroom, and the walls were almost covered over with fine paintings depicting various maritime and colonial scenes.

Finally, as I smoked a cigar, Giacomo announced the arrival of Madame Édmonde. He opened the doors at the end of the room and the slender shape of a young woman wearing a sumptuous black dress appeared. Pinned to the crown of thick braids that adorned her head was a veil of dark tulle that masked her face. I tried to stand but a shot of pain in my ankle cut my gallantry short. She approached the table hesitantly, almost shyly. There was a subtle, feline grace about her movements, set to the rustle of the velvet of her dress. She approached until she stood directly before me. “Please, monsieur, remain seated,” she said. Her voice was hushed, as if coming from a much greater distance than where she stood. “I am given to understand you are pained, and at any rate, I do not stand for excessive formality.”