Left alone in the care of a senile uncle, the boy Julien had stumbled upon a different direction for flight—literature. He had come into his estate at fifteen. At eighteen he had chosen America. France was too familiar. Its ancient roads, the dark corners of Paris, the very air he breathed haunted and frightened him. Now, after twelve years, he had matured into a nervously brilliant man, engagingly cynical, egoistic as a child and subtle-minded as a Jesuit. Among his friends he was regarded with deference. His name, his manner, his genius combined with his wealth attired him in an unassailable superiority. They found him, however, neither arrogant nor perverse, despite the startling and often horrible plots and ideas which came from his pen. None, not even his few intimates, had ever intruded upon his secret, had ever glimpsed behind the charming and stenciled smile of Prince Julien, the “Borgian” ghosts that pantomimed in his soul. The offending door closed, De Medici returned to his chair. He yearned to turn on the lights of the room. With the cheerful glare of the electric bulbs the dim terrors assailing him would vanish. But, as always, he treated himself to this discipline—a refusal to humor the senseless fears of his nerves. He folded his hands and smiled, regretting his action in closing the door. A step in the corridor leading to the room lifted the tension under which he sat. Victor Ballau at last. Yet he waited, apprehensive, as the step approached, as the door slowly opened. With the familiar figure of his friend standing in the far glow of the fire, however, De Medici’s nervousness vanished. He stood up to greet his host. There was no longer hint of fears about him. His narrow eyes smiled. His teeth glittered in the wide mouth as he laughed. “Toasting myself like a martyr at your fireplace, Victor,” he said. The two men shook hands. Ballau was a man of fifty-five, gentle-spoken, restrained of manner and, in his very bearing, a connoisseur of life. His hair was gray. He was tall and stood erect. “You made quite a picture by the fireplace, Julien,” he said. “Gad, you get to look more and more medieval. Florence come in yet?” “No, thank Heaven.” “Hm.” Ballau looked at his friend. “Shall I turn on some lights?” “Nicer this way,” De Medici answered. “I’m in a soft and romantic mood.” Ballau sat down. The two lighted cigarettes. De Medici puffed calmly. “You see,” he said, smiling at his host, “it’s the first chance I’ve had of getting you alone in a week. You’re an elusive parent.” Ballau nodded. “What’s happened?” “Love,” murmured De Medici. “A corroding and devouring passion.” Ballau studied his cigarette. “It’s hard to believe you’re serious, Julien,” he said. “Florence?” “An observant father. I congratulate you, Victor.” “Well, what do you want of me?” “And modest. The parent ideal! Your consent, of course.”