It was as follows: h(t) = Xitb.

"The first equation," he said, "expresses the quantity of housing (in logs) as a linear function of the attributes X of housing unit i."

Blah-blah, I thought. What this means I do not know, except it has a nasty smell of freemasonry-the strange symbols, the mathematics, their use in the service of a prophecy.

"You could predict the price-Xit-of a Manhattan lot in any given year."

A farmer spouting calculus. That is what it is like with Americans. The moment you think you understand a man's character, then you are a foreign fool.

Ph(t) = -dt bT = o

"It is Greek to me," I joked.

"Ah, but it is Greek," he said, the autodidact.

"But no matter what the equation, it makes no sense to lend money to a debtor who will almost certainly default."

"Ah," said he, "spoken like a banker. Spoken like my good friends who are busy lending money to each other, but your painter will pay me back for a year, for two years, for three years. I will do very well. The moment she defaults why it is back to

Ph(t) = -dt bT = o

"The land is worth a fortune. I have a house on Sixteenth Street and then I make money again."

At which he thumped on the roof once more and we traveled for half a mile, after which he thumped again. We had arrived in a muddy track with a tall thin house beside it, all alone, with its arms and elbows pressed hard against its clapboard sides. From this structure a family was carrying tables and beds and mattresses and loading them on a cart, an operation that had clearly been in progress for some time. The harried man of the house kneeled to pick up a stone which he then hurled, his face contorted with a horrid rage, shattering the front window of the vacated cottage.

"Get your head down," said Peek quietly.

I assumed myself a potential object of attack, but then I understood the banker wished to fetch the musket, which-together with an axe-was affixed to the carriage behind my head. In a moment he had set the charge and dropped the ball.

"Watch," he whispered, and put his barrel out the window.

He fired.

I heard a whinny, a curse, and the cart took off down the road.

"Owning New York property," said the banker, replacing the musket on its shelf, "is a science."

So I understood this house was his property and he had foreclosed.

Thus we descended to inspect the site and, while defending his right to resume his own property, I was shocked by Peek's animal spirits. Only then did I understand that his excitement was not caused by the eviction-which had, in any case, already taken place-but the plump pigeon he had shot from the carriage window. And even this I did not understand correctly, for the source of his most un-Protestant pleasure was that he had dropped the pigeon close by the horse and the horse had shied and bolted, thus removing his debtors from the site of their loan. And with this achievement he was as happy as a child. He held the pigeon high for me to see.

"Not bad," cried he.

I thought, A little house for Marianne. It was a considerable idea that had escaped the attention of the Revolution.

SEVERAL DAYS THEREAFTER I returned to my boardinghouse to find Master Perroquet waiting on the stoop. "Sir," said the former prisoner, rising slowly to his feet. "I have decided to remain in your service until you are safely settled."

"Indeed," I said, thinking it impossible I had heard correctly.

"I have informed the Marquis de Tilbot."

It appeared that this strange hard creature was now dismissing me. "That is damned civil of you," I said.

The green eyes remained steady and unblinking, but could that subterranean expression be a smile?

"I thought so," he said.

"Very well," I said, thinking I will not be dismissed by a servant, "you must let me consider your offer."

"While your lordship is considering," he mimicked my way of speaking, "perhaps he would enjoy signing some papers at the bank."

"But I hesitate to intrude on your time," I told the rogue, how I wished him still in jail. "When might you be free?"

"Why," cried he, all beaming good-nature, "at once, immediately."

What could I do but laugh? He laughed along with me, and perhaps his intention was benevolent for all I knew. It was still a mystery minutes later when the impossible villain and I were seated as equals at the Bank of New York. Here he produced a sheet of arithmetic which explained what he had earned by day and week, indicating Tilbot's customary tip. Was I being served or robbed, I did not know, or even care. I paid him. He signed. I drew an order for Mr. Peek, to repay him all his loan. This too Parrot and Olivier signed together. Who could have imagined such an extraordinary world? I waited for him to declare that he had ordered some change in the financial instruments, but not a word, and how could I possibly ask him. I watched him saunter down Broadway intent on what further fraud I did not know, but I knew I would never see the crook again.

Yet the following day he was back at my stoop.

"You continue in my service yet?" I inquired not kindly.

Mr. Peek, he announced, had invited me to visit him at Peek Farm for luncheon on the following day, a Saturday. "When will we be starting, sir?" he asked.

We? I stared at his brand-new frock coat and gray waistcoat. Then I saw the invitation contained the directive that I bring my servant and his wife. Peek would send a carriage for us all. My heart sank at the sheer awfulness of it-Olivier de Garmont delivering a woman like a common pimp. Quite clearly Peek had plans for her.

So I was completely prepared, on the morrow, to find the buxom Mistress Parrot aboard but I was not at all happy to learn that we must also be accompanied by her mother, who would chew raw garlic and parsley while giving her harsh commentary on the passing scene.

"Broadway, puh!" she cried, as we passed Canal Street. She declared it no better than a cart track in Aubagne.

I could hardly blame the Americans for the coarseness of a French peasant, and yet all this malodorous egalite depressed me awfully. She wished to converse with me, and I could not stop her. Could monsieur not see where a drunken coachman had argued the best way to get around a bog? Or cross that stream? And that disputed track-it set off as a detour, then wandered down the hill like a soldier who has lost his wits. He was drunk, monsieur, sozzled, there he is, off into the glen. Mathilde, regardez the wilderness, the fol Americain has built a house.

"Please, madame, I would prefer that you did not hit my knee."

And then she was in a huff. It was too grotesque for words, and I certainly had no idea that this would be the most significant day of my life. It was October, and the trees were aflame with passion and all I could think was that the air was filled with molds and fungi that would precipitate a crise.

It was not hot enough to make my nose bleed, but it was a very rough journey to Peek's farm which was located at what may have become by now-if the New York Commissioners' Street Plan has any real authority-land bordered by East Forty-eighth on the south and East Fifty-sixth Street on the north. Emerging in bad temper from the wilderness, I found a silky driveway, a wooded ravine, a mature orchard, a clear narrow rocky stream running through native grasses. We rattled across a dam wall, came upon a rise from which we enjoyed the grand prospect across the East River to Blackwell's Island. Were my spirits lifted? Not at all. Along the shores of a little cove grew a number of pretty trees in low situations, quite green, very still, and through the leaves the white sand of a beach. I viewed them sourly. When, in a moment, I beheld the Peek mansion I was pleased only because its size reduced the old woman to stunned silence.