I’d barely managed to close the drawer with the bottle of disinfectant in it before something else happened, perhaps just what I’d been fearing and anticipating in the back of my mind. I heard the bustle of footsteps behind me, and the thud of that muffled stride: I saw the door open, and mother and son tumbling out, this time with the intelligence and accord that had already struck me when I’d observed the little boy next to his mother. They formed a single being. The little one must have been perfectly trained to make such an exit. I noticed, in a flash, that a silver vase that used to stand on a piece of furniture was missing. I’d thought about it all the while, mixed up with all my other thoughts. I moved towards the door and heard it close, violently. I stepped outside.

The two of them were already on the stairs. I caught up to them on the landing of the first floor; they were incredibly fast. I found them among the shadows. This time the boy was perfectly silent. I plunged my hands towards them and felt two lips graze me. Now I saw that feminine face – above me, since she was taller – with a new expression, smiling and frighteningly secure. During that temptation, I wavered, once again envisioning vast spaces that gave on to to the prison of urban life: dangerous streets, dark stairwells, secret rooms guarded by some old woman, hoary and slow, with the voice of a ready accomplice. But at the same time, under those alluring eyes that fixed me like an asp, I was unable to look away. And as I felt, under my grip, two arms that had surrendered but remained strong, the doors to the apartments on the landing opened. Still holding her (and later I was told that my position was somewhat strange), I said:

‘She’s a thief.’

The face above me clouded over. And then I saw another expression take possession of it, blooming once more like a distinct, stagnant shape on the surface of a suddenly agitated lake. Various voices were heard: ‘Ah, you finally caught her!’ ‘Search her. She must have my purse, my lipstick, too. I can spot the lipstick right away, I bought it in Zurich.’ ‘Ah, it’s her!’ She was passed from one person to another. With her pilgrim’s gait I saw her on the street, growing distant, in the grips of the porter and an officer.

I’d forgotten, in the hubbub, about my silver vase. When I was summoned by the judge, who gave the stolen item back to me, I told him I didn’t want any harm to come to the woman. But I was told they’d been looking for her for a long time, and they thanked me for having brought her to justice. ‘Anyway,’ they added, ‘you can’t call a woman a thief without wanting to harm her.’ She followed me, with her dangerous eyes, as I went out, watching me all the way up to the door. She understood men. She knew how vain we were. She didn’t quit her act, even under those circumstances. As for me, I hope I never see her again. Men, as everyone knows, are tempted by mystery and deceit, riddles to solve and explain. But what mystery? Someone might say: we’re talking about a thief. True, but why does such a beautiful woman become a thief? To stay honest?