“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you come into some money?”

Ah, money. I hadn’t considered that either. “Yes—my mother. She sent me some money recently. I will be traveling by train to Rotterdam, and from there to the Indies.”

“Well, you must come to dinner before you leave, say goodbye to the family.”

“Yes, with pleasure.”

Auguste stood again. “I suppose I should be on my way.” He cleared his throat. “Come for dinner tomorrow night.”

“I shall, my friend, thank you.” I was very sorry to see him go.

Left once more to my own devices, I hauled myself to my feet, took the papers out of the drawer, and set to work again, writing in my bed, surrounded by papers and empty bottles, which was how I woke the following morning, to knocking at my door and the landlady’s voice calling my name. “A letter has arrived for you,” she said as she came in with a platter containing coffee, bread, and an envelope. She began to fuss about the mess, but I sent her away. The letter was from Édmonde, and, as before, it showed signs of having been opened before delivery. I contemplated giving Madame Lepage a few choice words demanding my privacy be respected before remembering my arrears and deciding against it. When she had left, I tore the envelope open.

Dear Monsieur Baudelaire,

Please forgive the delay in sending you this letter. I have been undertaking the mission we discussed. Until today, my efforts had come to nought, but I can finally declare that I have made the acquaintance of a suitable candidate. I will meet you tomorrow afternoon at the railway station in Namur. The train leaves Brussels at a quarter past ten o’clock.

I did not go to Auguste’s for dinner that night. Instead, I sent a note explaining I was feeling a little unwell and would visit the following evening. But I did not keep that rendezvous either. Rather, the following day, under a cool gray northern sky, I left the Grand Miroir with no luggage other than a satchel containing this story, a pen, a small bottle of ink, several bottles of laudanum, and a little money. I hailed a buggy and told the driver to take me to the railway station.

The Church of Saint-Loup, where I was to meet my next body, is a sinister and elegant marvel, with an interior embroidered with black and pink and silver. Having met me at the station—standing on the platform like a funereal hourglass—Édmonde brought me to the church, telling me nothing of the person I was about to meet other than she was a young woman who had been fully informed of what was about to happen.