People like us? What can he possibly mean? The two men are chalk and cheese. Russians? Writers? Expatriates in Paris? Spies?

‘Suvorin has told me everything about you. He said you could speak all the local languages and had practically gone native. I half expected you to be carried in on a palanquin. And the word from Saint Petersburg is that your intelligence from India was breathtaking. Let’s have champagne. I hear too you have quite a palate.’

Nicolas shrugs. ‘I don’t know about that. I used to dabble in the wine business.’

‘You clever molodets. My cellar is full of absolute filth because as soon as the wine merchants hear me speak French they assume, quite rightly, that I’m an ignoramus. Tell me something, is the outlook for French wine really as bleak as all that?’

Rachkovsky asks a hundred questions, but Nicolas senses that he already knows the answer to every single one. He orders a stupendous meal, even by Parisian standards: oysters, foie gras with jelly of Sauternes, sea bass in a pastry crust, and for the main course a Bresse chicken. It comes to the table in the pig’s bladder it’s been poached in. Rachkovsky catches his eye as the waiter carves the wings off expertly and ladles morels and cream over them. ‘Non-kosher, I’m afraid,’ he says slyly. And Nicolas gets it: people like us. He means ex-Jews, men like them, living large in Paris. ‘I still have a sentimental attachment to Judaism,’ Rachkovsky adds, ‘but the dietary laws make no sense whatsoever. I mean, no rabbit, but grasshoppers?’

‘What’s your mission in Paris?’ asks Nicolas, who’s never been afraid of a direct question.

Rachkovsky goes suddenly serious and leans in close. ‘My mission, young man, is nothing less than to get the whole place annexed to Russia!’

‘Really?’

‘No – of course not. But imagine! Oh, you can keep your ghastly Perms, and Volgograds, your Irkutsks, and Petropavlovsks.’ He says the names of the provincial cities as though they’re unpleasant tropical illnesses. ‘Imagine if Paris, beautiful Paris, were a Russian city. This, my friend, is civilisation.’ Rachkovsky sighs like a lovelorn puppet in the Guignol and raises his glass. ‘My mission, as I see it, is to stay in this city as long as possible. So we should drink to the revolutionaries who’ve given me a raison d’être.’

The wine glasses touch. Rachkovsky’s green eyes hold Nicolas’s gaze and then close with a slow feline blink. It’s an enigmatic look, presumably intended to be some kind of salute, but which might equally express sleepiness, contempt or ecstasy. Nicolas has no idea why he’s he been invited here.

Rachkovsky, veteran of many similar sieges, knows just how to pursue Nicolas. At this first meal, he lets the demonstration of largesse speak for itself and merely suggests that Nicolas pay him a visit when he can find the time.