Prologue
My guest had just returned from an evening stroll and was sitting beside me in my study.
The daylight was fading.
Outside the window, a faded lake, sharply edged by hilly banks,stretched into the distance.
My youngest son had just said goodnight to us, and we talked about our respective children and childhood memories.
"Since I had children, many of my childhood habits and pastimes have come back to me. In fact, for the past year I've started collecting butterflies again. Would you like me to show them to you?" I said.
He asked to see them, so I went to retrieve the lightweight cardboard boxes that contained my collection.
It wasn't until I opened the first box that I realized it was already completely dark, so I picked up a lamp and struck a match.
In an instant, the view outside was plunged into darkness, and the window was filled with the opaque blue of night.
My butterfly sparkled brilliantly in the bright lamplight from inside its box.
We leaned over it, admiring its beautiful shape and rich, brilliant color, and said its name.
"This is Catocala xarippe, its scientific name is Catocala fulminea. It's very rare around here," I said.
My friend carefully removed one of the butterflies, still attached to the pin, from the box and looked at the underside of its wings.
"It's strange, nothing stirs childhood memories more strongly than seeing a butterfly. I was an avid collector as a little boy," he said.
He then stuck the butterfly back in its place, closed the box, and said, "That's enough."
He spoke quickly, as if the memory were unpleasant.
A moment later, when I put the box away and returned, he smiled and asked me for a cigarette.
"I don't want you to take offense," he said.
"I never got to see your collection closely, but of course I collected when I was a child, too. But unfortunately, I've tainted those memories. It's embarrassing to even tell you this, but let me tell you something."
He lit a cigarette on the lamp chimney and placed the green cap on the lamp.
Our faces were then immersed in the pleasant dim light.
He sat on the edge of the open window, his figure nearly indistinguishable from the darkness outside.
I smoked a cigar.
Outside, frogs croaked shrilly in the distance, filling the darkness.
During that time, my friend told me the following story:
