Only for a day, only for a visit to collect the paintings he left to dry at the Café de la Gare, but that was all I needed: only to see him, only to hear his voice again. A letter arrived Saturday morning to tell me he would take the train Sunday, and that we should meet at the café around eleven.“You’re in particularly high spirits,” Félix observed that night over drinks. When I told him the news, unable to contain my excitement, his tight-lipped reply was “I see.” I scolded myself—I should have let him think his visit made me cheerful.Félix had been visiting for three weeks now, thrice weekly, as regular as the post, early in the evening before the salon got crowded and my sheets got rumpled. Never on Sundays. His fine manners and presents would turn any girl’s head, and they made me the talk of the house. “You spoil me,” I’d reproach him as I unwrapped a bracelet or tasseled bottle of eau de cologne. “It’s my privilege to spoil you,” he’d reply.But even as I enjoyed his company, our arrangement filled me with guilt.
