“And what is that, pray tell?”

She sat in perfect stillness. Somehow I felt her eyes fixed on me, even though they were hidden behind her veil. “Monsieur, listen carefully to what I have to tell you. All the stories Jeanne Duval told you are true—every last one. They were not fantasies. They were not hallucinations. They were not inventions, fabrications, or lies. She was no lunatic, hysteric, or Scheherazade. She was not a ghost or a ghoul. She was a teller of the truth. And you would do well to heed it.” With the utmost grace and dignity, Madame Édmonde stood and, bidding me a good night, walked off toward the doorway.

I was, at first, lost for words, but I managed to blurt out one final question before she disappeared. “How is it that you know of this—of Jeanne, of me, of what occurred between us?”

My host stopped at the threshold of the room, still turned away from me, and replied, “I shouldn’t have to explain. You already know.”

And then she was gone, leaving me to return to my apartment with the help of Giacomo. For all the laudanum I swallowed, I could not sleep that night, but was plunged into a labyrinth of memories that, since my departure from Paris, I’d done my best to forget. Now, they returned with such force that I feared they might consume me altogether.

The following morning, I was woken by a nightmare. I rang for Giacomo, who once again assisted me to rise from bed, bathe, and dress. He pushed me in my chair on wheels to a deserted drawing room and poured me a cup of tea. This room was furnished in mahogany and velvet, and as exuberantly decorated as the dining room of the previous evening. Outside, yesterday’s snow was beginning to melt in the late winter sunshine. I sat in my armchair, sipping my tea, excited by the prospect of seeing Madame Édmonde.

When she arrived several minutes later, she was, once again, veiled. Her dress was as dark and sumptuous as the previous evening’s. As we bade each other good morning, she sat on an armchair beside mine, still moving with that satin grace I’d noticed before. Giacomo poured her a cup of tea. I noted how her veil was a source of power, for it made it impossible to discern precisely where her gaze was aimed. My desire to observe my host was due not to morbid curiosity but to the fervid meditations of the previous, sleepless night. With that veil, such observation was impossible.

It was only when Giacomo had retired from the room that she resumed the conversation. “Are you feeling better, Monsieur Baudelaire?”

“Decidedly not. I barely slept and can hardly move without the assistance of your manservant.”

“What, pray, was the cause of your insomnia? Is the bed not to your liking?”