M. Robert stands in the open doorway of the dining-room. A starched white napkin gleams on the dark sleeve of his left arm.

Around him, Schloss Herisau is bathed in silence.

He stands, surveying the room. His eyes move slowly over the enormous table with its pure white tablecloth on which are laid the soup plates and the side plates, the wine and water glasses, the gleaming cutlery, the carafes of water, the baskets of flowers and of fruit.

Clearing his throat quietly, M. Robert advances. He moves slowly round the table, adjusting a side plate here, straightening a fork there, until he is satisfied that all is as it should be. Then he returns to his place in the doorway. Beyond the castle, the grounds too are bathed in silence. And, beyond the grounds, the infinite Silesian forest.

M. Robert waits, stiff and upright, the white napkin gleaming on the dark sleeve of his left arm, surveying the table. Then he turns and leaves the room, drawing the heavy doors shut behind him. His footsteps echo faintly down the interminable carpeted corridors. He turns corners. He opens doors and shuts them again behind him. He moves always at an even pace, along the corridors of Schloss Herisau.

Now he sits on his bed and removes his shoes. Then he stands at the mirror and takes off first his tie and then his jacket, undoes his braces and lets his trousers fall at his ...