As for the woman standing in front of Baudelaire’s grave, she was, for now at least, still a stranger. But it wasn’t the first time I’d seen her. The first time had been the previous winter, soon after my return from the camp, when she’d been wrapped up in a great double-breasted coat. The second time had been only weeks before, when the linden trees were budding. And now on this third occasion, standing motionless in exactly the same place, in exactly the same pose, at exactly the same time of day, puffs of blue-gray smoke drifting away in the golden light. Everything about her suggested a tightly wound, fiercely protected stillness. Deep within herself, she seemed unaware of the existence of anything except the grave before her—oblivious to passersby, oblivious to the twittering of birds and rumble of distant traffic, oblivious even to what loomed overhead, a steep bank of violet clouds crowned by an aureole of sunlight.

I passed near enough to detect a faint scent of sandalwood and continued up the incline without stopping. Other than the two of us, the cemetery was empty. There were no funeral processions, no bereaved family members paying their respects, no sightseers or pilgrims in search of resident illuminati, not even a gardener tending to the plants. The emptiness brought out the secret heartbreak that lurked in every direction. Love is fleeting, regret is eternal, read the inscription on one of the tombstones. Midway between the grave and the rear gate, I turned to see if she was still there. She hadn’t moved. When I reached the gate, I took another look over my shoulder. She was gone. I stopped and, after a flicker of hesitation, turned back, determined to follow her.

In between gravestones, I caught a glimpse of hibiscus: she dashed toward the center of the cemetery, down the Avenue Transversale. We must have made a strange sight, she slinking between gravestones, I trotting along the parallel path by the cemetery’s back wall further up the hill, stooping behind a crypt every now and then to peer through the marble forest between us. But the cemetery was otherwise deserted, and there were no witnesses to this curious dance.