It was simple, Camille. This world had become intolerable and there was a chance I could hurt you, so I made a decision, and this decision unburdened my heart. Early October, a Saturday evening. I went to bed as soon as Madame was asleep. I didn’t undress, but lit a candle and lay beside you, you asleep and fidgeting in your berceau. You sighed and sucked your lips with the memory of my breast, and your breathing was a messy gargle of stops and starts. I curled on to my side and watched the flicker of candlelight on the wall. I lay there, awake, until the candle burned to nothing, and then for quite a while longer. Twice you woke, and both times I fed you until you slept again. I was your mother still, this last night. When I was ready, I got out of bed and put on my boots and coat. I kissed you, very quickly, on your soft mouth. As I passed Madame’s bedroom, I stood at her door, partially open, and listened to the rhythms of her sleep.

A letter. Left on the dining table. Madame had to believe I was never coming back, and that I could not be found. I wrote what was true, that I was not made of the mothering stuff but that she was, and that you deserved at least that much. And I wrote what was not true, that I was going to try and make a life somewhere else. I signed the letter with all my love and gratitude.

Paris. Deepest, coldest night. I consumed the air like wine, and walked at a brisk pace towards the river. All my senses buzzed. Extinguished gas lamps glowed with the ghosts of remembered light. I thought I could hear laughter and music and the rumble of the underground train tunnel that was being constructed for the World’s Fair. Empty hooks in the butcher’s window. Horseless carriages lined up in courtyards. The locksmith locked up tight. All the things of life but not the lives to animate them. This. Time of night. Was a clandestine peek into a world known only to rats and bakers and bargemen. Cut-throats and prostitutes. I half expected to be confronted, and anticipated a murderer’s hands at my throat, but also felt queerly untouchable. Here was a new day. And it was unspoiled, still wrapped in smooth brown paper. What a freedom it was, to know you were about to die.

My toes and fingers were numb by the time I reached the Pont Alexandre III. The river at the bank here was shallow, and I would have to climb a good way into the bridge to reach deep water. It was a job untying my bootlaces with dull fingers. In the end I had to prise my feet loose, but then placed my boots neatly, toes pointed to the river, and upon them lay my coat that I had folded as prudently as an apology. All this time, there was the call of the stone woman perched on the Pont des Invalides, warped and distorted by the wind.