“What caused them?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Surely something happened around that time. They couldn’t have just started by themselves, caused by nothing in particular. Were you sick? Did you have an accident? Maybe you were in the war?”

“No, it was before that. Only I can’t remember.”

“Think back carefully.”

“I’m trying, but I can’t…”

“Can I ask you a question that may seem a little strange?” she asked. I nodded. “Have you ever been hypnotized? Has anyone ever asked you to look them in their eyes? Not just a passing glance, but to really look, for several minutes?”

“Never.”

“Are you sure? No hypnotist, no magician, no woman you loved who asked you to look them in the eyes? Even just for fun? Try to remember.”

“Not that I can recall—although…” At that moment, a memory returned to me for the first time in many years. “When I was a young man, I visited Paris for two weeks in the summer of 1913, when Paris still dazzled. I had an encounter that seemed nothing more than an amusing anecdote, one of those stories that young people like to tell when they return home from their travels as a sign of the worldliness they have acquired. Paris back then was still a walled city. Cars were a curiosity. Horses and trolleys ruled the streets, and a pedestrian could still walk down the middle of a boulevard without being run over. I thought everything about the city was enchanting. I liked to browse the bouquinistes’ stalls and then find a café somewhere in the Latin Quarter where I could read and observe the passing crowd.