Rougeot
Moved by a sort of premonition — one entirely vindicated by what would happen — I arranged for C.T. not to stay and made a “backup meeting” with P. at the Rougeot restaurant near Montparnasse.
At Rougeot, I find P. with F. I am furious.
P. says to me only:
“Indeed, Rougeot really is quite good.”