He was not, as it turned out, entirely unmourned by strangers. As they stood at the 
graveside, the cold cutting into them, Solal sidled up to Lewis and nudged him.
  "What?'
  'Over there. Under the tree.' Solal nodded beyond the praying priest.
  The stranger was standing at a distance, almost hidden by the marble mausoleums. A 
heavy black scarf was wrapped across his face, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over 
his brow, but his bulk was unmistakable. Catherine had seen him too. She was shaking as 
she stood, wrapped round by Lewis's embrace, not just with cold, but with fear. It was as 
though the creature was some morbid angel, come to hover a while, and enjoy the grief. It 
was grotesque, and eerie, that this thing should come to see Phillipe consigned to the 
frozen earth. 'What did it feel? Anguish? Guilt?
  Yes, did it feel guilt?
  It knew it had been seen, and it turned its back, shambling away. Without a word to 
Lewis, Jacques Solal slipped away from the grave in pursuit. In a short while both the 
stranger and his pursuer were erased by the snow.
  Back at the Quai de Bourbon Catherine and Lewis said nothing of the incident. A kind of 
barrier had appeared between them, forbidding contact on any level but the most trivial. 
There was no purpose in analysis, and none in regrets. Phillipe was dead. The past, their 
past together, was dead. This final chapter in their joint lives soured utterly 
everything that preceded it, so that no shared memory could be enjoyed without the 
pleasure being spoilt. Phillipe had died horribly, devouring his own flesh and blood, 
perhaps driven mad by a knowledge he possessed of his own guilt and depravity. No 
innocence, no history of joy could remain unstained by that fact. Silently they mourned 
the loss, not only of Phillipe, but of their own past. Lewis understood now Phillipe's 
reluctance to live when there was such loss in the world.
  Solal rang. Breathless after his chase, but elated, he spoke in whispers to Lewis, 
clearly enjoying the excitement.
  'I'm at the Gare du Nord, and I've found out where our friend lives. I've found him, 
Lewis!'
  'Excellent. I'll come straight away. I'll meet you on the steps of the Gare du Nord. 
I'll take a cab: ten minutes.'
  'It's in the basement of number sixteen, Rue des Fleurs. I'll see you there -,
  'Don't go in, Jacques. Wait for me. Don't -'The telephone clicked and Solal was gone. 
Lewis reached for his coat.
  'Who was that?'
  She asked, but she didn't want to know. Lewis shrugged on his overcoat and said: 
'Nobody at all. Don't worry. I won't be long.'
  'Take your scarf,' she said, not glancing over her shoulder.
  'Yes. Thank you.'
  'You'll catch a chill.'
  He left her gazing over the night-clad Seine, watching the ice-floes dance together on 
the black water.
  
  When he arrived at the house on the Rue des Fleurs, Solal was not to be seen, but fresh 
footprints in the powdery snow led to the front door of number sixteen and then, foiled, 
went around the back of the house. Lewis followed them. As he stepped into the yard 
behind the house, through a rotted gate that had been crudely forced by Solal, he 
realized he had come without a weapon. Best to go back, perhaps, find a crowbar, a knife; 
something. Even as he was debating with himself, the back door opened, and the stranger 
appeared, dressed in his now familiar overcoat. Lewis flattened himself against the wall 
of the yard, where the shadows were deepest, certain that he would be seen. But the beast 
was about other business. He stood in the doorway with his face fully exposed, and for 
the first time, in the reflected moonlight off the snow, Lewis could see the creature's 
physiognomy plainly. Its face was freshly shaved; and the scent of cologne was strong, 
even in the open air. Its skin was pink as a peach, though nicked in one or two places by 
a careless blade. Lewis thought of the open-razor it had apparently threatened Catherine 
with. Was that what its business had been in Phillipe's room, the purloining of a good 
razor? It was pulling its leather gloves on over its wide, shaved hands, making small 
coughing noises in its throat that sounded almost like grunts of satisfaction. Lewis had 
the impression that it was preparing itself for the outside world; and the sight was 
touching as much as intimidating. All this thing wanted was to be human. It was aspiring, 
in its way, to the model Phillipe had given it, had nurtured in it. Now, deprived of its 
mentor, confused and unhappy, it was attempting to face the world as it had been taught 
to do. There was no way back for it. Its days of innocence had gone: it could never be an 
unambitious beast again. Trapped in its new persona, it had no choice but to continue in 
the life its master had awoken its taste for. Without glancing in Lewis' direction, it 
gently closed the door behind it and crossed the yard, its walk transforming in those few 
steps from a simian roll to the mincing waddle that it used to simulate humanity.
  Then it was gone.
  Lewis waited a moment in the shadows, breathing shallowly. Every bone in his body ached 
with cold now, and his feet were numb. The beast showed no sign of returning; so he 
ventured out of his hiding place and tried the door. It was not locked. As he stepped 
inside a stench struck him: the sickly sweet smell of rotten fruit mingled with the 
cloying cologne: the zoo and the boudoir.
  He edged down a flight of slimy stone steps, and along a short, tiled corridor towards 
a door. It too was unlocked; and the bare bulb inside illuminated a bizarre scene.
  On the floor, a large, somewhat thread-bare Persian carpet; sparse furnishings; a bed, 
roughly covered with blankets and stained hessian; a wardrobe, bulging with oversize 
clothes; discarded fruit in abundance, some trod-den into the floor; a bucket, filled 
with straw and stinking of droppings. On the wall, a large crucifix. On the mantelpiece a 
photograph of Catherine, Lewis and Phillipe together in a sunlit past, smiling. At the 
sink, the creature's shaving kit. Soap, brush, razor. Fresh suds. On the dresser a pile 
of money, left in careless abundance beside a pile of hypodermics and a collection of 
small bottles. It was warm in the beast's garret; perhaps the furnace for the house 
roared in an adjacent cellar. Solal was not there.
  Suddenly, a noise.
  Lewis turned to the door, expecting the ape to be filling it, teeth bared, eyes 
demonic. But he had lost all orientation; the noise was not from the door but from the 
wardrobe. Behind the pile of clothes there was a movement.
  'Solal'
  Jacques Solal half fell out of the wardrobe, and sprawled across the Persian carpet. 
His face was disfigured by one foul wound, so that it was all but impossible to find any 
part of his features that was still Jacques.
  The creature had taken hold of his lip and pulled his muscle off his bone, as though 
removing a balaclava.
  
  His exposed teeth chattered away in nervous response to oncoming death; his limbs 
jangled and shook. But Jacques was already gone. These shudders and jerks were not signs 
of thought or personality, just the din of passing. Lewis knelt at Solal's side; his