“On the contrary, ready for nothing,” replied Lafcadio, looking at Julius gravely. “In spite of all I have told you, I see that you _don’t_ know me. Nothing hinders me so effectually as want. I have never yet been tempted but by the things that could be of no service to me.” “Paradoxes, for instance. And is that what you call nourishing?” “It depends on the stomach. You choose to give the name of paradox to what yours refuses. As for me, I should let myself die of hunger if I had nothing before me but such a hash of bare bones as the logic you feed your characters on.” “Allow me....” “The hero of your last book, at any rate. Is it true that it’s a portrait of your father? The pains you take to keep him always and everywhere consistent with you and with himself--faithful to his duties and his principles--to your theories, that is--you can imagine how it strikes a person like me!... Monsieur de Baraglioul, you may take my word for it--I am a creature of inconsequence. And look, how much I have been talking! when only yesterday I considered myself the most silent, the most secretive, the most retired of beings. But it was a good thing that we should become acquainted without delay--there will be no need to go over the ground again. To-morrow--this evening I shall withdraw again into my privacy.” The novelist, completely thrown off his centre by these remarks, made an effort to recover himself. “In the first place you may rest assured that there is no such thing as inconsequence--in psychology any more than in physics,” he began. “You are a being in process of formation and....” Repeated knocks at the door interrupted him. But as no one appeared, it was Julius who left the room. A confused noise of voices reached Lafcadio through the open door. Then there was a long silence. Lafcadio, after waiting for ten minutes, was preparing to go, when a servant in livery came in to him: “Monsieur le Comte says that he won’t ask you to wait any longer, Sir. He has just had bad news of his father and hopes you will kindly excuse him.” From the tone in which this was said, Lafcadio guessed that the old Count was dead. He mastered his emotion. “Courage!” said he to himself as he returned homewards. “The moment has come. _It is time to launch the ship._[C] From whatever quarter the wind blows now it will be the right one. Since I cannot live really near the old man, I might as well prepare to leave him altogether.” As he passed by the hotel porter’s lodge, he gave him the small box which he had been carrying about with him ever since the day before. “Please give this parcel to Mlle. Venitequa when she comes in this evening, and kindly prepare my bill.” An hour later his box was packed and he sent for a cab. He went off without leaving an address. His solicitor’s was enough. BOOK III: AMÉDÉE FLEURISSOIRE I