Deciding to leave Alexandra and Therese in each other’s company for a while, since this will benefit me, I believe, in the long term, I dress myself and go downstairs into the public salon. There are a few gentlemen here, chatting in quiet voices, and one or two of Frau Schmetterling’s girls, looking like any young ladies one might meet at a provincial ball. Frau Schmetterling, as usual, has retired to her kitchen. The whores are acting as hostesses. I ask for a glass of champagne and take a seat near the far window, casually watching a card game between two upright middle-aged gentlemen and two women whom I know as Inez and Clara. Inez claims to be Spanish (though she speaks German without an accent) and dresses accordingly. Clara wears a costume suggesting that she is an English countrywoman. Her speciality is with the crop and the tawse. The men are probably rich professional people. Both have grey beards and one wears a monocle while the other has pince-nez. All four are absorbed in their bridge at present. I make an effort to read the evening newspaper, but in spirit I am still upstairs with Alexandra and Therese. I have decided that I will dine here. Frau Schmetterling always provides an excellent light supper for those who require it. My earlier concern has vanished for the time being. I enjoy a cigar. The salon is furnished comfortably, in restrained good taste, reminiscent of the better class of Parisian hotel. Next to it is a billiard room and I am about to rise to go into it when the double doors of the salon open and the Princess Poliakoff comes in on the arm of a nervous young man whom I assume to be her latest gigolo. I get to my feet and bow. She recognises me and seems relieved to see me. I kiss her hand. She is as usual wearing a mannish black costume with a ruffle of lace at her breast. Her thin face is bright with severe paint and by the size of her pupils I would say she is drugged. She draws her young man forward. ‘Ricky, this is my eldest son, Dimitri. We are on tour, to finish his education.’ I shake hands with Dimitri. He has a pleasant, awkward smile. ‘We shall be leaving for Trieste tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I am so glad you are here. You are just the man Dimitri should talk to.’ I am amused. ‘Why so, my dear Princess?’ I ask. ‘It is obvious, surely! You are a man of the world.’ She speaks sardonically and yet it is a compliment. ‘I am at your service, m’sieu,’ I say to her son, and bow again. We are speaking French. The Princess Poliakoff is a notorious Lesbian. She has for some time had the reputation of frequenting the Rat Mort and La Souris in Montmartre where she gathered about her a group of female admirers, chiefly actresses and opera singers, who would vie subtly with one another to be her choice of the evening. I am glad to see her, for she is a familiar face, but I have no great liking for her. Her beauty is of that neurasthenic, slender kind; her skin seems almost transparent and the rouge only heightens its pallor. She has a long, thin nose and large, wide lips, high cheek bones, exceptionally large, languid hands, and she wears nothing but black or, in winter months sometimes, a tawny wolfskin cap, cloak and gloves. She is rumoured to have had affairs with half the famous female stage-performers and painters in Paris and I heard that when she appeared in public with Louise Abbema at L’Opera, embracing and kissing, her father upon receiving the news at his Russian estate shot himself and has never properly recovered from the head wound which left him with only one ear and one eye. She is now about forty. She still retains that look of boredom which to many makes her so fascinating and apparently remote. It was her boredom, she claims, which led her to experiment with almost every vice and it was vice, she says, which led her ineffably back to boredom. To which, she usually adds, she is now completely reconciled. ‘You must explain the secret of your success with women, Ricky,’ she says. ‘There is no secret, Dimitri,’ I tell her son. ‘All one needs is a relish for sexual pleasure and a certain amount of time to dedicate to its pursuit. After a year or two one becomes known as a rake and women’s curiosity does the rest.’ Princess Poliakoff laughs. ‘You are such a terrible cynic, Ricky. What would your eminent brother think of you?’ I shrug. ‘The von Beks have one black sheep in every other generation,’ I say. ‘It is a tradition. My brother is content because he believes that family customs should be firmly maintained. I have an agreeable nature and the assigned role happens to suit me very well.’ Princess Poliakoff lights a small cheroot for herself. ‘And what are you doing here now? I had heard that you have taken up with schoolgirls. Or was it schoolboys?’ I am a little alarmed at this. It means that very soon my liaison with Alexandra will be discovered. ‘Negroes,’ I tell her, hoping to divert her from the truth. ‘What?’ she says, ‘Really?’ She can be extremely gullible. ‘They are wonderful,’ I tell her. ‘I should have thought that in Paris… She sighs. ‘It is their size. I am absolutely terrified, dear Ricky, of large organs.’ The girl comes with a tray of champagne. I hand them each a glass. Her son is smiling like a puppet at a fair. ‘They are not always monstrous,’ I say. ‘And this schoolboy?’ she continues relentlessly. ‘He is black, then?’