He dug his hand into the pocket of his overcoat, which he had not taken off, and pulled out a couple of roasted chestnuts, which he threw to me.

I said nothing. I took and ate them, and was very contented.

“Well,” he whispered after a while. “How do you know about⁠—him?”

I did not hesitate to tell him.

“I was lonely and perplexed,” I related. “I called to mind a friend of former years who, I think, knows a great deal. I had painted something, a bird coming out of a terrestrial globe. I sent this to him. After a time, when I had begun to lose hope of a reply, a piece of paper fell into my hands. On it was written: ‘The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever will be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The name of the god is Abraxas.’ ”

He answered nothing. We peeled our chestnuts and ate them, and drank our wine.