The morning was a sealed envelope. Madame Armance Lenot had touched her dry, white lips to it one last time, and the light had gone from it, as it goes a moment for those who shut out a love letter by closing their eyes, only for her, her eyes wide open, it was forever.

Of late I had gotten less and less talkative and would sit for hours on a park bench, staring. But afterwards, when asked what I had seen, I didn’t know. They took me to the mountains, all in vain, and after a series of disheartening proposals packed me off to the Low Countries.