Visiting-cards six francs A pair of gloves five francs A tie five francs (how shall I get anything decent at that price?) A pair of shoes thirty-five francs (I shan’t use them long.) Left over nineteen francs for emergencies. (Lafcadio had a horror of owing anything to anyone and always paid ready money.) He went to a wardrobe and pulled out a suit made of soft dark tweed, perfectly cut and still fresh. “Unfortunately,” he said to himself, “I’ve grown since....” His thoughts went back to that dazzling time, not so long ago, when he used to dance gaily off with the Marquis de Gesvres (the last of his uncles) to the tailor’s, the hatter’s, the shirtmaker’s. Ill-fitting clothes were as shocking to Lafcadio as lying to a Calvinist. “The most urgent first. My uncle de Gesvres used always to say you could judge a man by his foot-wear.” And out of respect for the shoes he was going to try on, he began by changing his socks. V Comte Juste-Agénor de Baraglioul had not left the luxurious apartment which he occupied in the Place Malesherbes, for the last five years. It was there that he set about preparing for death; this was his care as he wandered pensively among the rare objects with which his great salons were crowded, or oftener still as he sat shut up in his bedroom, seeking to ease the pain of his aching arms and shoulders with hot cloths and soothing compresses. An enormous madeira-coloured silk handkerchief was wrapped round his fine head like a turban, one end of which fell loose and hung down upon his lace collar and upon his thick brown knitted waistcoat, over which his beard flowed like a silvery waterfall. His feet, shod in soft white leather slippers, rested on a hot water bottle. Beside him, and heated by a spirit lamp, was a bath of hot sand into which he plunged first one and then the other of his pale emaciated hands. A grey shawl was spread over his knees. Incontestably he was like Julius; but he was still more like a portrait by Titian; and Julius’s features were only a vapid replica of his father’s, just as Julius’s novel was a bowdlerised and namby-pamby version of his life. Juste-Agénor was drinking a cup of tisane and listening to a homily from his confessor, Father April, whom he had fallen into the habit of frequently consulting; at this moment there was a knock at the door and the faithful Hector, who for the last twenty years had acted as the Count’s valet and nurse, and on occasion as his confidential adviser, brought in a small envelope on a lacquered salver. “The gentleman hopes that M. le Comte will be good enough to see him.” Juste-Agénor put down his cup, tore open the envelope and took out Lafcadio’s card. He crumpled it nervously in his hand. “Tell him....” Then, controlling himself with an effort: “A gentleman?... a young man, you mean? What kind of person is he, Hector?” “M. le Comte may very well receive him.”