I don’t intend to recreate the agonies I suffered that morning. Suffice it to say I didn’t leave the apartment for my usual morning walk, and in the throes of anguish I lost all sense of time. I had to hurry to the Hôtel Drouot on the other side of the river, carrying 873 francs in notes and coins—the sum total of my funds—which jangled ostentatiously in my trouser pockets, taking the Métro instead of walking, as I preferred to do, because round-ups were easier to avoid above ground than under it. The second-class compartment was lightly sprinkled with passengers, as if it were a Sunday rather than a Monday.

Stepping through the arched corner entrance of the Hôtel Drouot, I entered a hushed, red-carpeted, high-ceilinged world that whispered promises of aesthetic pleasures. I’d attended many auctions here, always as a spectator. Each time I visited this elegant bazaar of all that is precious and exquisite, I felt a familiar heady rush. Room 10 was located up the stairs. There were barely a dozen people in the large room, including the auctioneer, Bignon, and his assistants, waiting glumly for the clock on the wall to strike two o’clock so the auction could begin. Bignon stood on his podium wielding his gavel like a judge, dressed in a fine dark suit, thinly disguising his contempt at the dismal turnout: a few middle-aged onlookers, peppering the empty seats alone or in small clusters.