Denis has almost finished his glass of white wine.
Henriette is half way through hers.
By now they have discovered the following things about one another.
He: She is not his Dear Sophie.
She: He lies.
At least she thinks that he lies. He claims to have written 553 letters to this Sophie.
How can you remember the exact number? asks Henriette.
I numbered them, says Denis Diderot.
You numbered them? says Henriette. Why?
So she could keep them in order, says Denis.
And did she? asks Henriette.
It seems she lost a few, says Denis. Or someone did somewhere.
How do you know? asks Henriette.
They are only 187 extant, says Denis. I should have kept copies.
What about her letters? asks Henriette.
Nowhere to be found, says Denis.
But YOU must have lost them, says Henriette.
You are a perspicacious person, says Denis.
It doesn't take much to spot carelessness in another, says Henriette.
True, says Denis.
Were they love letters? asks Henriette.
We covered everything, says Denis. Free will, the importance of heredity in determining human behaviour, mathematics, optimism, gambling, mortality, inoculation against smallpox...
So, not love letters, says Henriette.
That too, says Denis. But I was married to another.
His eyes mist over. She was très jolie, as well as clever, his dear Sophie.
Henriette thinks this may explain why he lost Sophie's letters
How come you're going to Dubai? asks Henriette.
Passing through, says Denis. On my way to Adelaide to help my friend Gaius uncover a mystery.
What mystery? asks Henriette.
Then she wishes she hadn't asked. Now he will go on about the mystery. He won't ask her where she is going. But she doesn't care really. He is kind of old, close up, and he looked better in a bike helmet. You didn't see his receding hair line. He only caught her attention because of that time he wore the chicken mask. Then you couldn't see his face either. But that's unfair,. His face is quite nice...
He, meanwhile, is explaining the algal bloom, about which he knows very little.
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