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objected.
    Her aunt agreed that she probably wasn’t, but said one must avoid giving scandal.
    ‘So it’s the scandalmongers who are vulnerable?’
    ‘Of course.’
***
    ‘Tell me about your monsignor,’ asked Maupassant. ‘That is a burn-scar on his cheek, isn’t it? He’s been through fire! Like the demon in one of my stories whose victim becomes so terrified that he is driven to trap him in his own house then burn it down. Naturally the demon escapes. Why do you look worried? I’m talking about a
story
.’ The patient’s tone was ostentatiously sane. A teasing gleam flickered across his features. ‘You don’t
burn
a demon, but the victim had lost his head.’ He cocked his own head sideways. ‘Perhaps you’ve read it?’
    ‘
The Horla
? I just did. I was thinking of it just now.’
    ‘I thought you might have. It was in this morning’s
Figaro
. I wrote it at a time when I could still control my demons.’ Smiling. This
was
a joke. ‘Perhaps your monsignor too is a demon and that’s why he didn’t burn, or only in one spot? You don’t know what to think, do you? You think I’m odd. What about him? Is he odder than I am?’
    ‘Who knows? He’s certainly more secretive. I’ve learned more about you in an hour than he let out in two years.’
    ‘So you are unable to tell me his story.’
    ‘Afraid so.’
    ‘Tell me something else then. Something to blot out what is in my head. What is the worst thing in yours, Gould?’ The patient’s smile had an airiness which might once have been second nature. Was he mimicking it now? Adam suspected that he was. Suave and amused, it might have been his drawing room smile. Quick and overly responsive, it conjured up alcoves and secrets. ‘Others’ troubles bring relief.’ Briefly the smile slipped, revealing that Maupassant was in the grip of some sort of pain. An intimate, inner one, Adam surmised, in some private part of himself. The slippage, though, was suspect for, after all, this man had been a notorious charmer. Maybe what had softened women was that they had sensed that pain? Maybe he had learned to let them? Well, he wasn’t in control of it now. As he sat, his hands kept moving from hip to knee like trapped crabs: back and forth, hip, knee, hip, as though measuring the length of his thighs. His knees too jigged. You could feel the vibration. ‘The whole reading public knows my stories,’ he told Adam. ‘Tell me one of yours. Something private. Tell me about, oh, I don’t know ... your mother.’
    ‘My mother died when I was twelve. She wasn’t yet thirty.’
    ‘I’m sorry. Illness, was it? Or an accident?’
    ‘It may have been suicide. Actually, it must have been.’
    ‘Ah, I’ve been intrusive! Sorry! I really am. Oh lord! You mustn’t think of it, Gould. Think of ... Look, I’ll tell you a thing about
my
mother which I hate to tell. I’ve written about it, but that’s different. Putting things in a story makes them seem like – well, a story. They become easier to forget. Talking is harder, but here goes. When I was ten I saw my father beat her savagely. I saw him grab hold of her neck with one hand and hit her face with the other. With all his strength. Again and again! He seemed to have gone mad. Her hat fell off. Her hair fell around her. She raised her arms to defend herself, but couldn’t. And neither, to be sure, could I. There I was, ten or maybe less, maybe nine years old, watching my sweet, clever, elegant Mama be assaulted by
my father
. It made no sense. It was as if the world were coming to an end and normal expectancies had collapsed, but there we still were! What could I do? To whom could I turn? I screamed, but he paid no attention. I rushed out and hid in the garden. I spent the whole night there in a kind of agony. The next day – this was somehow worse and more baffling than the scene itself – they behaved
just as they always did
.’ The patient was panting. Saliva dripped from his chin. He didn’t wipe