When Madame Édmonde joined me outside moments later, I was leaning against the wall of the coffee house, deeply troubled. Once more she took me by the arm and we began walking back in the direction of the railway station. “What is the matter, Charles? Are you displeased with the fruit of my labors?”

“The man is a simpleton, there’s no question about it. The thought of a life in that body is unbearable. But there are other considerations: if we were to cross, his soul would die in the misery of my body and, as contemptible as he is, I cannot consent to that, especially if it were to happen without his knowing it. It would feel too much like theft. I would rather undertake no crossing at all, and die and be done with it.”

We entered the station’s waiting room and Édmonde helped ease me onto a seat. “Charles, you stipulated a man, and not just any man, but a healthy, educated man. Can you conceive how difficult it is to persuade such a person to take seriously the idea that a crossing might be possible? And even if it were done, to then convince him to give his body away, especially for one that is ill and frail? There is not a man in all of Europe who would agree to such a thing.” Even from behind her veil, I could sense Édmonde’s ire radiating from her. “If you are now insisting that you will only cross with someone knowingly, you have made my task almost impossible. For who will believe such a story? It took you more than twenty years to believe me.”

“I cannot agree to it.”

“Very well,” Édmonde sighed, “I will find someone who wishes for death. But Charles, I beseech you, the streets abound with young women in despair, women whose circumstances are so straitened that to them death seems preferable to life. Think on it.”

We parted in disagreement.