Pascal, a beloved toddler nicknamed the 'Tadpole', is himself entranced by both stories of a frog named Armand and by a real life version who squats on a lily pad in the shady pond of a country estate.
Pascal loves the frog pond, it 'was cool, it was warm, it was a place of midnight in the warmest part of the day', a place to stir young senses and the imagination.
Then one fateful day Pascal imagines that he has swallowed the frog, also called Armand, which then resides within his stomach and becomes a part of him which 'caused me such pain yet was also the miraculous extension of my pride and power'.
What follows is either an offbeat fable or the memoir of a madman, a tale which seems to come from a 'childish time out of time', a bizarre Oedipusian story of awakening sexual jealousy.
Like a Nabokovian narrator, Pascal glories in his uniqueness, rails against the 'stranglehold of convention' in others, addresses the reader with rhetorical entreaties, is precise in his recollections one minute, lax the next; a deluded man, yet committed in his delusions.
This delicious sentence, when Pascal discovers that the Dr. who treats him, and for whom he has been cooking meals, has actually been mocking his supposed affliction, is right out of a Nabokov novel:
'And to think that that evening, still swollen with surprise and pride, I treated him to a pheasant pie with truffles!'
An enjoyable oddity.