“How do you find out these things?”

“Do you think the King’s agents don’t investigate foreigners who come here to stir up trouble?”

“Instead of investigating, why don’t they just keep them out?”

“Oh!”

The exclamation of surprise told Calvin that he had just been spotted. Even though some control was returning, he decided that keeping his eyes closed and lying very still was the better part of valor. Besides, with his face covered by leaves, he would not be recognizable later; if he moved, they might see his face.

“My laws, this boardinghouse should be closed down. It brings entirely the wrong element into a respectable part of town.”

“Look. He has fouled his trousers.”

“This is intolerable. I’m going to have to complain to the magistrate.”

“How can you?”

“How can I not?”

“But your testimony before the court—how could you possibly describe this wretched man’s condition, while remaining a lady?”

“Dear me.”

“No, we simply did not see him.”

“Oh!”

The second exclamation told Calvin that they had found Honoré de Balzac. It was comforting to know he was not alone in his humiliation.

“Worse and worse.”

“Clearly he is no gentleman. But to be out-of-doors without trousers at all!”

“Can you... can you see his ...”

Calvin felt that this had gone far enough. Without opening his eyes, he spoke in a thick Spanish accent, imitating the slavers he had heard on the docks. “Señoritas, this tiny White man is nothing compared to the naked Black men in my warehouse on the Spanish dock!”

Shrieking softly, the ladies bustled away. Calvin lay there shaking with silent laughter.

Honoré’s voice emerged from the bushes not far away. “Shame on you. A writer of novels has a brilliant chance to hear the way women really talk to each other, and you scare them away.”

Calvin didn’t care. Honoré could pretend to be a writer, but Calvin didn’t believe he would ever write anything. “How did you lose your pants?”

“I took them off when I got up to void my bladder, and then I couldn’t find them.”

“Were we drunk last night?”

“I hope so,” said Honoré. “It is the only honorable way I can think of for us to end up sleeping together under a hedge.”

By now they had both rolled out from under the bushes. Squinting, Honoré was staggering here and there, searching for his trousers. He paused to look Calvin up and down. “I may be a little bit nude, but at least I did not wet my trousers.”

Calvin found them, hanging on the hedge, wet and stained. Calvin pointed and laughed. “You took them off and then you peed on them!”

Honoré looked at his trousers mournfully. “It was dark.”

Holding his dirty laundry in front of him, Honoré followed Calvin toward the house. As they passed the kitchen shed, they caught a glare from the tiny old Black woman who supervised the cooking. But that was as much of a rebuke as they would ever hear from a slave. They went in through the ground floor, where Honoré handed his wet trousers to the laundress. “I’ll need these tonight before dinner,” he said.