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dream of our absolute indifference.”
    What awakened him was the whistled melody of the madrigal of the clear fountain. He opened his eyes to the shattered windshield of the Citroën and imagined himself a prisoner in a crystal spiderweb before he verified the pain in his leg and his head, before he put his hand to his brow and felt his fingers sticky with blood, before he again felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.
    He remembers that when he again awakened he was lying on a canopied bed. Automatically, his hand went to his aching head.
    â€œDon’t worry, M. le Comte,” said the French Heredia, beside him. “You have been well looked after, I can swear to that. I found you as I returned from the hospital. Why did you do such a foolish thing? So many mishaps in a single evening. My son André and your young friend helped me bring you here. The doctor came, you were slightly delirious. He gave you a tetanus injection, just to be sure. Your wounds are only superficial, nothing is broken. Your bad leg is a bit worse for wear, and the doctor put a patch on your head. He wants you to stay in bed for a few days. It’s the shock more than anything, you know. And at your age you can’t be too careful.”
    Branly waved away any concerns about his person and inquired about Etienne.
    Heredia laughed disagreeably. “Noble to the end, eh? Your vassal is doing well, and is grateful for your concern. He spent the night in the hospital, and will be released today. He wanted to come by here, but I told him no, that you needed to rest. You’re not really up to par, so here I am to carry out your orders. You just say the word.”
    As he tells me today, my friend was convinced that Heredia was again anticipating an unyielding silence, a reaction against the ever-increasing impertinence of the person in whose hands he was now virtually captive, and who intended to put to the test the limits of Branly’s innate courtesy, challenging him to maintain his civility from a sickbed, especially now that he was dependent on the services of the man with the pale eyes, straight nose, and white mane of hair, who was caring for him in this bedchamber redolent—like the entire residence, and not just the foyer as he had first thought—of leather. The canopy of his bed was leather, as well as the chairs of this shadowy chamber closed in by heavy velvet curtains that made it impossible to tell whether it was night or day.
    Yet, he told himself, it would be immature to refuse this disagreeable man the perverse pleasure of serving his guest, simply because, in serving him, the Frenchman would find further proof of Branly’s feudalism, and a view of a world—which might actually be a relief for Heredia, as it was more Heredia’s desire than Branly’s—populated with serfs.
    Unaided, my friend pulled himself to a sitting position against the leather-covered headboard of the castored bed, but he asked Heredia to arrange the pillows to make a more comfortable support for his arms. Then he asked if he might make a telephone call. He had begun to devise a policy of sorts for dealing with his unexpected and unsought host: he was beginning to realize that nothing would be more disconcerting than the continuing evidence of his courtesy, more than a counterpoint to the Frenchman’s crudeness, a cool civility Heredia would find difficult to distinguish from aloof politeness, as in a rosary of identically colored baroque pearls gradations in size may not be readily apparent to the naked eye.
    Heredia hesitated a moment, staring at my friend with curiosity. He folded his arms across his dirty white quilted silk dressing gown and finally informed Branly that there were no extensions upstairs, the only telephone being on the first floor. He would help Branly down the stairs, if that’s what he wanted; however, he had noticed that the Count had been limping even before the accident. He