“—I must confess that we had a fine dinner, which is to say we corrupted ourselves with consummate propriety.”

“And am I expected to reproach you, monsieur?” replied the abbé mildly. “On the contrary, my belief is that abstaining from pleasure is a very great sin.”

The noble laughed. “How now, sir! Coming from a man of the cloth, this is a novel discourse!”

Discreetly seeking out Foudris from the corner of his vision, Zephyrin confirmed that the boy was still where he had last seen him. His classmate had wordlessly threaded through the assemblage to rejoin his guardian; Mlle. Huron had not yet acknowledged his presence, still following the exchange between the large-framed cleric and his interlocutor. In the meantime the adventurer had wandered off with his admirers in tow and Merlinus had absconded; Zephyrin had the option of tracking down either but chose to bide his time in the hopes of making contact with Foudris.

“…I was considerably enlightened by a man of letters who has the great fortune of being regularly admitted to this salon.” At this statement by the abbé a certain viscount’s foxlike features recurred to Zephyrin. “His argument ran as follows: ‘Monsieur, you wax lyrical about the aridities of the spiritual life and the interior beauty which blooms as a consequence of persevering in the midst of hardship and overcoming arduous trials. But it should overjoy you to know that the same valleys and exultations are not unknown to us men of the world; for there are times when even the staunchest hedonist wearies of the pleasures generously laid out by Nature in all their variety, and even begins to entertain the thought of becoming a bigot, entombing himself in a cell in the forsaken wastes of the East for relief from indulgence and license.’”

“‘The pursuit of pleasure is a war. The throbbing headache of the alcoholic; the yawning abyss down which the voluptuary stares after his mistress’s departure; the suffocating blue clouds of smoke in the gentlemen’s club, the incessantly repeating snatch of song or verse that staled long ago in the tormented mind—there is a time in the life of the pleasure-seeker—nay, there is a night as dark as it is unrelenting—when he sinks beneath the weight of the bounty given him—if he be not vigilant, possibly even unto death. Wherefore a manful struggle is enjoined upon the libertine; he must fight, he must throw himself with all the more earnestness into pleasures which no longer afford him any delight.’”

“‘Thus, by dint of manful efforts and perseverance in times of adversity, by the exercise of the virtue of patience, it will eventually happen that he sees dawn a new day, whose pleasures regain their savor and which no longer afflict his spirit as they gratify his senses. Our hedonist finds himself restored to his former state of happiness, yet it was won only by an arduous combat, and well does he know this, and render up thanks to Nature for having endowed him with the spiritual and moral attributes with which to triumph.’”

“Well said,” declared a noble who had been listening with crossed arms. “And the day one hears such a sermon proclaimed from the pulpit, is the day the Church will regain her lost credibility!”

“My lord is generous in granting that it ever possessed any to be lost,” said the cleric, smiling faintly as he waited for the round of chuckles to subside. “Remember you the name ‘Giasennoa’; it will soon be at the heart of a significant commotion.” Enjoying the speculation he saw his cryptic comment engender, he paused for a moment again before continuing smoothly, “My esteemable hostess and honorable lords will perhaps be gratified to know that an unseen but very real moral renewal is currently taking place in the hierarchy; no longer are the unfairly reviled authors of yesterday held in the same disrepute. I allude of course to that great lover of the human race, our beloved and greatly lamented Térouan d’Arime.”

Zephyrin restrained a movement of impatience. Térouan d’Arime, Térouan d’Arime. How weary he was of hearing that name. Ever on men’s lips in this era, one could almost be fooled into thinking the sum and totality of literature could be reduced to the man’s corpus. It was one thing to read of the impact the writer had had on society, and quite another to live through it. Still he listened, seeing that the attention of the courtesan and a large portion of the assemblage remained fixed on the priest.

“Most of you will know the passage I am about to cite; it is a favorite:

“‘The partisans of prudery have made themselves guilty of an absurdity as splendid as it is grotesque in imputing sin to man’s natural state. For if it be a sin to look upon the flesh of another, then what greater sinner can we imagine other than the Goddess, All-Seeing by reason of her intimate union with the Omniscient Essence? No aspect of any man’s physiognomy passes the notice of this voyeuse par excellence; and, as we are commanded to ‘imitate her in all things,’ it seems therefore that the surest route to paradise consists not in keeping custody of the eyes but rather in giving them free reign, knowing for a certainty that no mortal’s roving eye can hope to lay eyes upon as much flesh as is available to a salacious divinity with a peephole looking out from eternity.’”

As murmurs of appreciation rippled through the room, Zephyrin had in mind less the polemicist’s argumentation than the mental image of what would have befallen him had he addressed a similar reproach to his adoptive mother. He had no difficulty imagining the speed with which her outstretched hand would have flown to redden his cheek, nor the soundness of the thrashing that would have later been administered by the ordinarily gentle Judoc.

Unpersuasive to Zephyrin in his first life, Térouan d’Arime’s line of attack now seemed utterly devoid of merit in light of the circumstances of his rebirth and the services rendered to him by Mari Calon. Zephyrin vividly remembered the uncomplaining devotion of the peasant woman as she changed his swaddling clothes and tended to his every need, and even without considering his existence-changing encounter with the Goddess herself, imputing less than wholesome motives to maternal solicitude now inspired in him sentiments of disgust that he had great difficulty concealing.

More appreciative of the rhetorical volley were the crowded onlookers, with the possible exception of the marshal, seeming distinctly unimpressed as he stroked the scimitar-like tips of his mustache. His ambivalence was not shared by the man next to him, a noble with a physique like a balloon wine glass who suddenly addressed Foudris in a kindly manner. “A man unmatched in his brilliance. Do you not agree, young d’Érazh? You who wrote some fine verses in a similar vein!”

Foudris visibly blanched as from one instant to the next he went from an unnoticed late arrival to the focal point of attention. “No, I…” He swallowed hard, unable to deny the accuracy of the man’s recollection.

“It’s been several months since your last offering, I believe. Surely you must have another composition to regale us with!” urged the noble smilingly.

The boy’s narrow chest rose and fell rapidly as he drew ragged breaths, his damp hair falling over his eyes as he studied the salon’s carpet. Foudris gritted his teeth; his knuckles whitened by his sides; and then, something seemed to slacken within him. He raised his head once more.

Ah. There it is.

Perhaps it was the shadows cast by the rows upon rows of wall-mounted candles; perhaps it was the sideways angle offered by his position near the clavichord; whatever the reason, the face that Zephyrin beheld bore little resemblance to that of a child. It was now old, older somehow than even the most debilitated, hollow-cheeked guest in the parlor, the skin jaundiced in the unsteady light and the eyes… the eyes were terribly, inexpressibly haunted.

Then Zephyrin blinked, and whether caused by a trick of the light or figment of his imagination the illusion dissipated, returning to Foudris his youth. With it came an expression often seen in preceding weeks: the indentations in his cheeks deepened and worm-pink lips pulled back into a sneer, as if a deft pair of hands was manipulating the strings to a mechanism; then the invisible hands jerked, and with the flames of fourscore candles dancing merrily in his deadened gaze, Foudris’s jaw unhinged to utter the desired assent and torrent of imprecations.

And he assuredly would have, had not Zephyrin grabbed him by the arm. Conscious of the odd looks of the adults upon them both and Mlle. Huron’s expression of surprised displeasure, Zephyrin unceremoniously dragged the weakly resisting boy to the drawing room’s entrance and down the hall, his actions hardly thought through yet animated by a secret fire.