Markevitch comes; I treat him to luncheon at Rumpelmayer's, then walk alone for at least an hour, during which hour I see no one, but suddenly remember that, instead of dreaming of Gioia as on the preceding nights, I was dreaming of the Duke of Hamilton — he was standing before me, I could not speak, and finally, after great effort, I managed to say: Monseigneur — but so distinctly that if my aunt had been at home she would certainly have heard me. And that was all.

Then I saw Terffidua (Audiffret reversed) in his coupé; as our carriages crossed, he put his nose to the window — scarcely, or rather even before he could no longer see me, I smiled, I hardly know why, drawing back into the depths of the landau. During dinner Alexandre recounts all manner of anecdotes relating to the lawsuit. He has almost reassured me. The Babanine name, since Georges left five years ago, has recovered its former luster; the lawsuit makes little noise and, now that we have the interrogatories, will soon be settled — there are ninety-nine chances in a hundred of winning. From what I have heard and understood, this is the truth. After all, if Alexandre manages all our property and does not entirely forget himself in the process, there is no great harm in that; every estate manager would do as much, and it is better that nothing should leave the family.