I’d wanted to arrive early. It was the custom, before an auction, for the items listed in the catalog to be displayed for inspection. There was only one item of interest to me, but as I didn’t wish to draw attention to myself, I feigned interest in several others. I flicked through a first edition of Mallarmé and pretended to study some Daumier lithographs before turning my attention to the object of my real desire, the red leather-bound notebook lying open on a bed of blue velvet: The Education of a Monster, Ch. Baudelaire. I had to put on a pair of white cotton gloves to handle it. The manuscript had been bound in peau de chagrin, with gold-leaf embossing on the spine and cover. Inside, the yellowing pages were filled with the distinctive curlicue of the poet’s own handwriting. I read the first few lines and my heart began to palpitate with that excitement known only to collectors when they are within reach of a rare, once-in-a-lifetime prize: As I write these words, it occurs to me that I have never known a tale to be so beyond belief (these two words were underlined) as that which I am about to relate to you, dear girl. Exactly as Madeleine had remembered—word for word. I read on. Yet nothing I have written has ever been so true. Paradox, all is paradox. I skipped ahead a few pages and found the dinner party scene, exactly as described. So Madeleine had not been imagining things. She was intimately familiar with the manuscript. I continued turning the pages, reviewing the chapter headings—“A Disgraceful Episode,” “A Touching Reunion,” and so on, just as she had described. Just then, chimes began to echo throughout the building as dozens of clocks waiting to be auctioned in adjoining rooms rang the hour all at once.