The following day, when the time of their meeting approached, she went out. She couldn’t sit still. My sister had always been incapable of choosing. She was also incapable of breaking off the relationship. She didn’t ask herself whether she loved Marc Hermann. She was yielding little by little—I see that now, and something in me understood her—to the novel-like element he imported into her life. And natural curiosity also played a part. She was saying to herself, vaguely, I’m going to see. I’m going to know.

It was one of those peaceful cul-de-sacs, perpendicular to wide avenues, that are called villas in Paris. The low stone building, very ordinary-looking, stood on the left; on the right, the short, narrow, paved alley was bounded by the garden wall of a big house whose roof was all she could see. The hour wasn’t very late, but standard time was still in force, and when she reached her destination, darkness shrouded the far end of the villa. My sister intuited rather than saw some trees, surely old veterans that had been part of the “royal domain” before its margins were divided into lots and gradually bitten off by the town. From its origins, the entire neighborhood retained something silent, old-fashioned, neglected, but also vaguely aristocratic. There was no plaque on the building indicating a company with Hermann’s name. Or, to be more exact, there was only one plaque, affixed to the main entrance. It read: DR. ZHANG—MANUAL MANIPULATION, ACUPUNCTURE, and, at the bottom of the metal plate, SECOND FLOOR.

Claire Marie pressed the button that opened the door; she entered an unremarkable lobby and saw the metal bars of an elevator gate and a wooden staircase without a runner. She stopped and listened, unable to decide whether to call the elevator or climb the stairs or leave. She didn’t turn on the timer that controlled the light.

More minutes passed, becoming a block of time, maybe a quarter of an hour; my sister’s will weakened. The longer she stayed down there, the later she was; Marc Hermann must be growing impatient already, interpreting her failure to appear as definitive, walking up and down in his rooms, nervous and disappointed. She pictured the expressionless face she’d seen when the police had pulled them over. She was surprised that there was no plaque, no sign for clients announcing the name of the company. Was he there? The place was so silent! Before entering the building, she’d carefully noted another odd fact, namely that there was no light coming from any of the windows on the third floor (the one indicated on the card). Did his office face the back?

The silence was so complete that Claire Marie could hear the ticking of her watch, which was telling her, Make up your mind, time is passing. (She wondered: Is the watch beating faster than my heart?)

A light came on in the frosted glass of the entrance door—a dim, pale-yellow rectangle, like neon. She waited a few seconds, giving herself time to settle down, and then she stepped back outside and walked, hesitantly, to the corner of the building, at the end of the cul-de-sac. Looking up, she could see that the light was being projected from the second floor; probably from the window of the acupuncturist’s office. Dr. Zhang was seeing a patient. In the dusty room overlooking the cul-de-sac, there must have been a guy lying on his back with various needles skillfully thrust into his knees and his thorax.

At the thought of the dusty little office, with diagrams pinned to the wall, cross-sectional images of the human body showing the points that transmit nerve impulses, my sister felt something give way in her.

Seized by panic, she ran toward the side alley, followed it in the direction of the Versailles city center, and walked for a long time, taking streets at random, suddenly feeling liberated, certain that it was all over.

AND HIGH TIME IT WAS. For when she went to pick up Mélanie that evening, the child’s hand grew tense in hers.

“Papa asked me if you were picking me up after school.”

“And what did you answer him?”

“I said you were coming less often,” the little girl declared. “I said you were late a lot; I don’t see you very much anymore.”

They took a few steps together.

“What did your father say?” my sister said, resuming the conversation without looking at the girl.

“Nothing,” the little one said, staring straight in front of her. Then she sulkily corrected herself: “I don’t remember.”

Around eight o’clock that evening, Christian had just turned on the television when the telephone in the entryway rang. Claire Marie froze.

“You’re not going to answer it?” Christian asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said without moving. “I’ll get it right away.” Then, in a toneless voice: “It’s stopped. Surely a wrong number.”

She went over to the window, raised the curtain, and stood against the glass.

“Did you see something?” Christian asked. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been standing at the window constantly of late. Are you waiting for someone?”

He stood up, raised the curtain in his turn, observed the street.

“Is it the burglary that’s frightening you? It shouldn’t. If we remember to lock the doors, that’ll be enough. You’re not running any risk.”