WHEN I RETURNED TO the apartment that evening, I half expected Madeleine to have returned somehow, to be lounging on my bed, wearing one of my shirts, smoking a Salomé. Instead, its emptiness struck me like a blow to the stomach. I thought I could detect a faint aroma of sandalwood, and I sniffed various things—the pillow, the sheets, a towel—in search of a more tangible sense of her presence. I wanted to tell her that she had been right, that the auction had gone exactly as she had foretold, that I had done what she had instructed me to do, that I ought not to have doubted her. But I could only speak to the Madeleine in my mind. That imaginary Madeleine was very much alive—I found myself talking aloud to her, continuing our long conversations—but there would be no touching her, caressing her, holding her. I had a feeling that, this time, she wouldn’t be back. At least she had left me a keepsake to remember her by.

I stroked the cold, metallic contours of the derringer as if they were Madeleine’s own flesh. I knew exactly why she’d left it behind. We’d talked about it. She was asking me to do something on her behalf, something unconscionable. She wanted me to commit a crime—to murder someone, to be precise. And not just anyone; she had asked me to murder Coco Chanel. There was no point asking why, it was all part of her paranoia—otherwise known as the tale of the albatross. Of course, there was no question of my doing it. Even had I wanted to, where would I find bullets for a derringer?

A letter had arrived by pneumatic tube and been slipped under my door. It was from Fritz, who had spent several nights camping on a platform at the Gare de Lyon in the hope of securing a seat on a southbound train. He’d bought two tickets for a train leaving the following morning, and the second ticket was mine if I wanted it. But there was never any question of taking up the invitation. I was too deeply involved in this affair with Madeleine and the manuscript.

I spent a sleepless night, haunted by memories, and dawn came as a relief.