"What is it, Etienne?" she said. "You've been so morose all day. Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
"No, it's nothing. It's just—" I let the impulse take possession of my speech. "Joanna, there's something I should tell you. About my mother, and my father—"
"Ahem," Francois said.
He turned to the doorway, and our glances followed his.
"Oh, Etienne!" Joanna cried, in a voice ringing with delight.
It was my father, the cat, watching us with his gray, gold-flecked eyes. He approached the dining table, regarding Joanna with timidity and caution.
"It's the cat in the painting!" Joanna said. "You didn't tell me he was here, Etienne. He's beautiful!"
"Joanna, this is—"
"Dauphin! I would have known him anywhere. Here, Dauphin! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!"
Slowly, my father approached her outstretched hand, and allowed her to scratch the thick fur on the back of his neck.