Nothing had happened in Montparnasse. If he was sober maybe this news would have come as a relief but now it was more of a curiosity. Griffith could have told him that from the outset, but had withheld it. It was pointless to ask why; Griffith wouldn't know, or wouldn't admit if he did. The uncertainty had caused Don Juan no small amount of anxiety before. Had that been Griffith's intention in leaving the allusion to Montparnasse vague and ominous? Was it his intention now to offer this breadcrumb in order to put him at ease, to disarm him? Don Juan did feel at ease, but that had more to do with Griffith's hand on his head and the slow pulse of poison in his veins than it did with anything that had happened years ago between them.

"If you got into my head like this, do you think that I would feel it?" he asked idly. His thoughts had tripped from Montparnasse to the occasion over dinner where Griffith had forced his way in to Don Juan's thoughts — iterations on a theme, perhaps, past invasions. He wasn't sure he would notice if he had company in his thoughts at the moment... but he also doubted Griffith was in much of a position to attempt it. "Not," he said with a lazy flippancy, "That I've any more secrets."

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