“What’s the matter?”

“You have to go without me,” she said. “I can’t leave Paris.”

“But I can’t leave without you.”

“For you to remain would be suicide. But I must stay.”

I remembered the singer’s words at the nightclub. “Does this have something to do with…?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“With Chanel? Of course. I must stay close to her. I am responsible for her, in a way. I have to follow her, watch her. I have to make sure she doesn’t do any more harm.”

“You’ve done everything you can.”

“And it hasn’t been enough. I have to finish what I started. It’s my duty. To make up for breaking the Law. She’s … my twin, my destiny.”

“I can’t leave you behind.”

“You must. You must get away. You must write down everything you know about crossing—everything I’ve told you, everything you’ve lived through yourself, and the manuscript too, you must include that. Make a book, a book about the crossing, a book that will remind you of who you are when you have forgotten. Once you’ve done that, you must make a crossing yourself. Then, when the war is over, when Paris is free once more, come find me. I’ll be waiting.”

She who had been so close to me only moments ago was now unreachably far away. Perhaps sensing my despair, Madeleine closed her eyes, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me repeatedly on my lips, my cheeks, my neck. “Promise me you’ll write it all down. Promise me you won’t forget.”

“I promise,” I said, in between kisses that tasted of sandalwood. I remembered something I’d been meaning to tell her. “There’s something you ought to know about Chanel—she knows your name.”

“How do you know?”

“She let it slip when we spoke.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Of course not.”

“What about your name?”

“As far as she knows, my name is Arthur Koestler.”

“Who’s that?”

“My old neighbor.” Madeleine nodded. I looked at her, drinking in her face, her mouth, her eyes. “When will I see you again?”

“If not in this life, then in the next.” We kissed one last, lingering time, until the shriek of a locomotive whistle shattered our union. She pulled back and her eyes were brimming over with tears. “You must go,” she said, as I took a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped her eyes dry.

“Where will I find you?”

“In the cemetery, darling. I’ll be visiting Baudelaire’s grave every day, waiting for you.”

The locomotive shrieked again. I looked around. The platform was deserted other than a conductor waving at us to hurry. We ran to the furthest platform, the only stragglers, and reached it just as the train shuddered to life and began to creep forward. I stepped onto the railing with my black suitcase in hand and the leather satchel slung over my shoulder and turned to wave goodbye. She stood perfectly still, with her hands clasped in front of her. I waved until she was no more than a smudge of black and red in the distance, and then, reluctantly, I turned to go inside.