“As you can see, I am very much still alive and here,” I said. “I’m afraid I only have tilleul to offer you.” When she saw the difficulty with which I heaved myself from my mattress, Mademoiselle Adélaïde offered to boil the water and prepare the infusion. As she busied herself, I asked Mademoiselle Édmonde why it was they had come. She explained they were readers of Charles Baudelaire, and they wished to meet his muse, the woman who had inspired his greatest poems. Such was their fondness for Charles, in fact, that they had founded a society devoted to his work, which naturally enough they had called the Baudelaire Society. They had written to Charles care of his publisher in Brussels, she said, expressing their admiration for his poems, but they had received no reply. So they had begun making inquiries among his friends—Courbet, Manet, Champfleury, Madame Sabatier, and so on—in an attempt to find me. They had even engaged the services of a private detective for the purpose.

Mademoiselle Édmonde’s discourse ended as Mademoiselle Adélaïde approached with her pot of infusion and three cups. I was embarrassed—I did not possess two cups that looked the same, nor saucers on which to place them. But, judging by the smiles on the faces of the young ladies, my cups were of little interest. They beheld me as if I were on display in a museum, saying nothing, waiting for me to respond. I took several small sips from my infusion. “So,” I finally said, “Charles has readers?”

“Yes,” replied Mademoiselle Édmonde from behind her veil, “although we are more than readers—we are devotees, acolytes, disciples. Though small in number, our devotion has no limits. We are determined to ensure that his work shines forever. We think Monsieur Baudelaire is a great genius.”

“Greater than Hugo?”

“Without a doubt.”

“So Charles was right.” I reached forward stiffly for a lump of sugar.

“Let me help you,” said Mademoiselle Édmonde, taking my cup, dropping sugar into it, and stirring.

“What do you desire of me?” I asked.

The two young women looked at each other momentarily and smiled. “Only to meet you and to learn about you,” replied Mademoiselle Édmonde. “Nothing of you is known, other than what is in the poems.”

“That is already too much.”

“Please,” said Mademoiselle Adélaïde, giving me a doleful look with her wide green eyes, “we have gone to great lengths to find you. Tell us about yourself. Tell us your story. We will not betray your confidence. We may even be able to provide assistance, make your remaining days more comfortable.”