The quatorzième enters late. The others have been

waiting. And are grateful:

So pleased to see you, my dear, to round us out, you look

so hale and hearty, just like the one who could not

join us tonight, I swear I did not hear him cough at all

when I saw him last. Shall we begin? With apéritifs,

cream of artichoke soup, wine from the Northern Rhône,

turban of sole fillets with salmon with sorrel

sauce, an eight-year-old Médoc, opinions on matters

of state, comments on the filth of the city, a ragout of lamb

with baby carrots, haricots verts, salad of endives,

a perfect Pont L'Eveque, a nice Burgundy, derision

of the priesthood, a delicate chèvre, talk of the Balkans,

cigars. Choice of liqueurs. His back to the street, the quatorzième

dissects today's scandals, ever so wittily,

he compliments the bright fevered cheeks across the table.

In the flickering light, he does not mention

how frequently he is called of late, how many

guests who have supped at tables such as these

are gone. He lets his companions drink deeply of him,

pretends that he could save them.