But what was this? The boy was passive? He was weak all through; there was no hidden flaw … he reeked of goodness! Nothing within but honesty, truth and innocence, blinding in their banality. There could be no possible excitement here, no achievement, no destruction, for he was but an empty shell and when crushed would leave only dust behind. There could be no victory. A shell is not a soul, a puddle is not a lake, a stick not a tree, a fly not an eagle and Wolf Hagel is not l’Aiglon!

As the car came softly to a halt beside the great stone archway of the Colombe, an applause of white doves clattering up before it, sunlight spilled through the heavy plane-trees of the square in which people played boule, red dust drifted through the wandering crowd, two small boys in newspaper hats fought a laughing duel: with bamboo canes. And, quite suddenly, Grottorosso smiled.

At his long table under the fig-trees he surveyed his guests with cool detachment. The pleasant atmosphere about them, the wine, his sudden change of mood from cold rage to sparkling humour, the laughter and gentle murmur of easy conversation and excellence of the food, had relaxed them into almost normal Italian conviviality.

Only Wolf Hagel, at the far end of the table, listening intently to a furiously gesticulating, laughing, Lilli Scarlatti, stayed gravely contained.

How fine he looks, thought Grottorosso slicing through his jambon de Parme and melon; such a splendid head, the smooth brow, clear skin, perfectly set eyes, firm chin, sculpted mouth, strong throat, the golden head haloed by the sun. The perfect l’Aiglon façade. A beautiful facade indeed. But there is no one at home when you knock, she had said. Bitch of hell! For me to have made such an error! A tremor of anger, slight as the whispered ripple from a distant earthquake, forced him to grip the handle of his knife so tightly that his knuckles shone like silver shillings through the bronze skin. And then, quite suddenly, it passed; he smiled, set the knife carefully across the edge of his plate, thrust his fork into a small cube of melon and raised it to his lips.

If a building is empty and there is nothing of interest within, then one might turn one’s eyes to the façade instead, and this one has a great deal of architectural interest. One must look closely; why seek only the hidden flaws? A flaw is not necessarily concealed. I wonder, he thought, slipping the melon into his mouth, why I didn’t think of that before?

Chapter Six