Belphégor had happily adopted his evening visitor. He ate up his duck-flavoured cat food, then settled unhesitatingly on Laurent’s lap, immobilising him on the sofa. It’s an honour that cats bestow on you, as he was all too aware, his daughter’s cat Putin never having deigned to sit on anyone – the most you could hope for was an intense stare that was vaguely reminiscent of his namesake in the Kremlin.
