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silkworm eggs, and even if he had found some he had only a couple of months to get across the world before they would hatch, on the way, becoming a mass of useless larvae. So he stayed there until something surprising and irrational happened: suddenly, out of nowhere, a boy appeared. Dressed in rags, he walked slowly, staring at the stranger with fear in his eyes. Hervé Joncour didn’t move. The boy took a few more steps and stopped. They stood looking at each other, a few feet apart. Then the boy took something from under the rags and, trembling with fear, approached Hervé Joncour and held it out to him. A glove. Hervé Joncour saw again the edge of a lake, and an orange robe abandoned on the ground, and the small waves that pushed the water on to the shore, as if sent there from afar. He took the glove and smiled at the boy.
    ‘It’s me, the Frenchman … the silk man, the Frenchman, do you understand? … It’s me.’
    The boy stopped trembling.
    ‘French …’
    His eyes were bright, but he laughed. He began to speak, quickly, almost shouting, and running, making a sign to Hervé Joncour to follow him. He disappeared on a path into the woods, in the direction of the mountains.
    Hervé Joncour didn’t move. He turned the glove over and over in his hands, as if it were the only thing left to him of a vanished world. He knew that by now it was too late. And that he had no choice.
    He rose. Slowly he approached his horse. He got in the saddle. Then he did a strange thing. He pressed his heels into the animal’s belly. And set off. Towards the forest, behind the boy, beyond the end of the world.

45.
    T HEY travelled for days, northward, in the mountains. Hervé Joncour didn’t know where they were going: but he let the boy guide him, without attempting to ask. They came across two villages. The people hid in their houses. The women ran away. The boy vastly amused himself by shouting at them incomprehensibly. He was no more than fourteen. He was constantly blowing on a small reed instrument, from which he drew forth the songs of all the birds in the world. He appeared to be doing the most wonderful thing in his life.
    On the fifth day they reached the top of a hill. The boy indicated a point on the road in front of them, which descended to a valley. Hervé Joncour took the telescope and what he saw was a kind of procession: armed men, women and children, carts, animals. An entire village: on the road. Hervé Joncour saw Hara Kei, on horseback, dressed in black. Behind him, enclosed on all four sides by bright-coloured fabrics, was a litter, swaying.

46.
    T HE boy got off the horse, said something, and ran away. Before disappearing among the trees he turned and stood there for a moment, searching for a gesture to indicate that it had been a wonderful journey.
    ‘It’s been a wonderful journey,’ Hervé Joncour called out to him.
    All day, at a distance, Hervé Joncour followed the caravan. When he saw it stop for the night, he continued along the road until two armed men came up to him and took his horse and his bags and led him to a tent. He waited for a long time, then Hara Kei arrived. He made no sign of greeting. He didn’t even sit down.
    ‘How did you get here, Frenchman?’
    Hervé Joncour didn’t answer.
    ‘I asked who brought you here.’
    Silence.
    ‘There is nothing for you here. There is only war. And it’s not your war. Go away.’
    Hervé Joncour took out a small leather purse, opened it, and emptied it on the ground. Scales of gold.
    ‘War is an expensive game. You need me. I need you.’
    Hara Kei didn’t even look at the gold on the ground. He turned and left.

48.
    W HEN he woke, he saw that the village was about to set off again. The tents were gone. The litter was still there, open. The people climbed on to the carts, silently. He got up and looked around for a long time, but only eyes of an Oriental shape met his, and were immediately lowered. He saw armed men and children who didn’t