Athos’ nobility may run deep, but one would not know it by his choice of drinking establishments. Here, as in Paris, he favors tucked-away places that leave most of their customers in shadow and don’t encourage observation. And he has learned that the better appointed bars tend to look askance at the customer who orders before a certain time.

And so he is here, in a darkened tavern not far from his flat, in a bar whose name was once done up in lights that have blinked out, one by one. He’s drinking wine when the boy appears beside him, and automatically checks his pockets to assure himself his purse has not gone missing. Finding a child like this in a Paris watering hole would not be strange, but Athos has come to understand that here, children are not welcome in places like this.

He eyes the boy suspiciously and answers in French. “A good what?"