Julian’s head is now throbbing unbearably. He thinks its origin is in the occipital lobes. His migraine often comes on in times of tension. At its worst he has a kind of stomach upset and his vision becomes blurred, and then there is the almost unbearable pain. His father was made of sterner stuff. Actually, his father lacked imagination, and this probably protected him. He didn’t believe in risk and because of that the bank was slipping behind when Julian took over. But maybe a certain narrow vision is what is required to be a success in any field, a set of clearly defined and unalterable views on everything and a bland insensitivity to the opinions of others. Autistic people are usually obsessed with ritualistic behaviour and he has often wondered if his father, with his obsessively polished shoes and his hatred of small changes, isn’t more than a little autistic. Now his little rituals probably sustain him; he looks at his pictures, he takes breakfast either in the orangerie or on the terrace, he chooses for himself a buttonhole, which Estelle snips and carries like an eager bridesmaid, he eats the same two or three dishes day by day and he dictates his incoherent letters, which he believes are sustaining his son.

Julian is driven to an apartment in the old town, somewhere under the ducal castle, and Gilles Dax delivers him to a waiting housekeeper who offers to make him tea or coffee or to produce a light meal. It’s 2 a.m. and he longs to go to bed.

‘No,’ he says in French, ‘if I need anything in the night I can help myself. Just some still water by the bed, please.’