Bleulance’s family were part of France’s nouveau riche who had cashed in after the French Revolution with trade and land deals. They aped their ancient predecessors of the French elite in habitation and dress, but underneath a gentrified façade they were the modern thrusters, the accumulators of massive wealth, never flaunted with flash cars in public, yet instead on show in the form of ‘tasteful’ art: Rodins, Matisses; or exquisite, rare porcelain, each piece worth much more than any Lamborghini.

The diverting look was deceptive. When Bleulance did lock eyes it was with force. It registered ‘You would never be here to mess with me, would you?’ while still maintaining a hint of charm, albeit a keep-your-distance non-embrace.

Cavalier turned and moved close to a portrait of Bleulance.

‘A very good likeness,’ Cavalier said, folding his arms and stroking his chin.

‘I thought I looked awful and old when I first saw it,’ Bleulance said. ‘But I’m told that as I grow into the look with age, I might well appreciate it.’

Cavalier nodded and smiled.

‘Of course, it’s a Freud,’ Bleulance said.

‘Lucian or Sigmund?’ Cavalier asked, poker-faced.

Bleulance was about to respond, but checked himself when he noticed Cavalier’s expression change to a grin.

James announced that lunch was served, swivelled around and disappeared. Bleulance led Cavalier to a four-metre diameter circular table covered with a white, embroidered cloth. It was weighed down with silverware, candles, odd assortments of cigar and cigarette boxes, and a staggered book pile. Cavalier examined the spines of a couple, all French editions. He picked up one titled Celeste.

‘Ah, the biography of Céleste Vénard,’ Cavalier said, opening the book and flicking through pages. ‘She married a count from this region, I recall.’

‘The Count de Chabrillan,’ a surprised Bleulance said. ‘Have you read it?’

‘Excellent book,’ Cavalier replied with a nod. ‘She out-sold her mentor and lover Alexander Dumas Senior with a number-one seller, in about 1858: Les Voleurs D’or.’

Bleulance’s eyebrows went up as if impressed. He noticed Cavalier glancing up at a massive white chandelier.

‘That’s a Giacometti,’ Bleulance noted, unable to rid himself of patronising his ‘English’ guest. It was his way of stamping his superior knowledge of all expensive artefacts.

Cavalier balanced on tiptoe for a better look.

‘Not Alberto, must be Diego,’ he said.

Bleulance was surprised again.

‘Yes, it’s Diego. You like his work?’

‘No,’ Cavalier said, with a frown, ‘too ornate for my tastes. Besides, I’d worry it might fall on the table. So heavy!’

‘All the chandeliers in my house are by him,’ Bleulance said, a tad miffed by Cavalier’s remark.

‘I prefer Alberto,’ Cavalier said, turning and nodding to a reclining dog statuette. ‘More integrity.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Bleulance said, a short spasm of enthusiasm seizing him, ‘I just adore Alberto’s work. A genius!’