When, four years after arriving in Paris, I first met Charles, we were both at the height of our powers. I was leading a life of ease as the mistress of Gaspard Tournachon, who later came to be known simply as Nadar, doubly famous as a photographer and hot air balloon enthusiast. He was among the most turbulent and magnetic men I’d ever known and thoroughly incapable of containing himself to just one woman. Other than this elegant flaw, he was unfailingly charming and respectful. He had, in a few short months, already begun to tire of me. In readiness, I was looking out for my next benefactor.

I was engaged in a drama troupe at a theater by the Porte Saint-Antoine, going by the stage name Berthe, in honor of my poor mother, who had never recovered from our emigration and had died of loneliness. I was playing a slave girl in a farce designed to amuse and be forgotten as soon as the curtain fell. Afterward, Gaspard came to see me backstage, with Charles trailing in his wake like a raincloud. The three of us went to a tavern on Rue des Lampes. I said little, half listening to the conversation of the men. I noticed Charles was trying to find a way to impress me. He had a high forehead, a weak chin, and eyes like two drops of coffee. What little handsomeness he had was spoiled somewhat by his woundedness, which betrayed itself in his eyes and lips. His face flickered with all kinds of grimaces and his gait was jerky. He spent lavishly on clothes of the finest quality: polished boots, black trousers, a blue workman’s blouse that was the fashion at the time, bright, unstarched linen, a red cravat, rose-colored gloves, and a long scarlet boa in chenille, the kind working-class women like to wear. He refused to wear hats, which all men wore as a matter of course, and instead wore his dark hair long, with a faint mustache under his nose and a wisp of beard. To be beautiful and shocking at once was his aim, the aim of every dandy, and Charles was among the finest, most shocking dandies in Paris.

I noticed that he was looking at me with a fascination bordering on the uncouth. Eventually, after he and Gaspard had spoken for a time, he asked me where I was from.

“There’s no point asking,” said Gaspard, “she won’t tell you. She never reveals anything about herself.”

“A woman of intrigue,” said Charles, a smile curling on his lips. The beam of his gaze narrowed on me. I felt it in my stomach. “But you’re not from around here, are you? I can hear it in your accent.”

“No,” I conceded, “I’m not from around here.”