I went into the bathroom, and there was my sister Hortense taking, reasonably enough, a bath. Still, the vaysay was also in this room and I wished desperately to use it. She looked rosy and well, though languid, and her clean brown eyes knifed me as she grabbed a towel to cover her breasts.

‘Ridiculous,’ I said. ‘You’re my sister, I believe.’

‘You should knock.’

‘You should lock the door. Anyway, this pudeur of yours is a lot of nonsense. D’ailleurs, je veux pisser.’

‘I’m getting out now. There’s no more hot water. Go on, go.’ It was an old-fashioned bath with lion paws. The plumbing, in the French manner, tried to hide its inefficiency with boastful noise. I saw myself in the washstand mirror, the writer at thirty-three, with the same eyes as Hortense, our mother’s eyes, though mine closer set and overwatchful, the brow creased a little in the pain of control of a brimming bladder, the strawy hair sleek with Clovis brilliantine, the guardsman moustache. ‘Go, I said.’

‘May I do this? My back will be turned to you.’ I pounded my stream, saying loudly: ‘I want to know what happened last night. And this morning. I want to know who dumped you on my doorstep in that shameful condition.’

‘Hurry up. This water’s freezing.’

‘Get out of it then, idiot. Wrap yourself in a towel. I don’t want to see your nudity. I’ve no incestuous designs.’