“I promise,” I said, in between kisses that tasted of sandalwood. I remembered something I’d been meaning to tell her. “There’s something you ought to know about Chanel—she knows your name.”

“How do you know?”

“She let it slip when we spoke.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Of course not.”

“What about your name?”

“As far as she knows, my name is Arthur Koestler.”

“Who’s that?”

“My old neighbor.” Madeleine nodded. I looked at her, drinking in her face, her mouth, her eyes. “When will I see you again?”

“If not in this life, then in the next.” We kissed one last, lingering time, until the shriek of a locomotive whistle shattered our union. She pulled back and her eyes were brimming over with tears. “You must go,” she said, as I took a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped her eyes dry.

“Where will I find you?”

“In the cemetery, darling. I’ll be visiting Baudelaire’s grave every day, waiting for you.”

The locomotive shrieked again. I looked around. The platform was deserted other than a conductor waving at us to hurry. We ran to the furthest platform, the only stragglers, and reached it just as the train shuddered to life and began to creep forward. I stepped onto the railing with my black suitcase in hand and the leather satchel slung over my shoulder and turned to wave goodbye. She stood perfectly still, with her hands clasped in front of her. I waved until she was no more than a smudge of black and red in the distance, and then, reluctantly, I turned to go inside.

The train was only half full. Most of the passengers were well-dressed men—government officials, I suspected, railways administrators, perhaps, maybe some diplomats from countries hostile to the Germans, no doubt a sprinkling of spies among them, and a few of their wives, all making a last-minute exit on the last train to leave a free Paris. I did not speak to anyone for fear of betraying my accent. As the train made its way through the southern suburbs, the dusty window was streaked with thick, oily orange raindrops.

Go here.

The Hotel Room