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other day, M. Julliard.”
    “Very well, madame.”
    Once outside, I had to lean against the wall to keep my legs from buckling. The rickshaw coolie stopped dozing in the seat the moment he saw me and slipped out to take hold of the poles, ready to go, but I couldn't walk, couldn't cross the few feet between us. I was frightened, completely distraught. It felt as if the earth were sinking beneath my feet; my entire life was on shaky ground. I was about to lose everything. I could stay with friends for a while or find a cheap rooming house in Montparnasse, support myself from the sale of my paintings and with my job at the Académie, but I wouldn't be able to afford another house. I covered my eyes and began to silently cry. The thought of losing that beautiful, three-bedroom house, where strong light streamed in from the southeast and contributed to the purity of line and color in my paintings, caused me enormous distress and unbearable fear. Everything Rémy had given me in life he had taken from me in death. I was back where I'd been twenty years earlier, before I'd ever met him.
    I finally came undone amid endless sobs on the way home. Nothing was going to be easy over the next few weeks, and going back to Paris had become another nightmare. In addition, I suddenly realized there was a problem I hadn't even considered: Accustomed to being on my own, to only ever thinking about myself, I'd forgotten that I was now responsible for my niece. She would have to follow me wherever I went until she came of age; I would have to support her while she was under my care. It felt as if life were out to get me, had decided to bury me in the mud, stomping on me with an iron boot. How could all these problems arise at once? Who had put this curse on me? Wasn't dealing with financial ruin enough?
    I got back to the house in time to change my clothes and head out again. I had to evade Mrs. Zhong and Fernanda, both of whom popped up in my path like shadows. Despite my best efforts, I think my niece realized that something was wrong. I locked myself in Rémy's room and, after washing my face with cold water, changed into a green muslin dress and matching picture hat more appropriate for afternoon. I'd have given anything not to go out, to crawl into bed and stay there forever, let the world fall apart, but touching up my makeup and lipstick did more for me than escaping reality ever could. The consul general of France was expecting me for lunch, and maybe, just maybe, M. Wilden would be able to help. A consul always has power, information, and the resources to face awkward situations abroad. I was a French widow in a real predicament in China; perhaps he would be able to think of something.
    M. Favez arrived behind the wheel of his marvelous Voisin convertible at twelve-thirty sharp.
    “You don't look well, Mme De Poulain,” he commented worriedly as he helped me into the car. “Are you all right?”
    “I didn't sleep well, monsieur. I found my husband's Chinese bed terribly uncomfortable.”
    The attaché let out a happy chuckle.
    “There's nothing like a soft European bed, is there, madame?”
    Actually, there was nothing like a lot of money in the bank so as not to worry about the gambling, opium, and brothel debts of a good-for-nothing like Rémy. I began to deeply resent that merrymaking scoundrel I'd always found so amusing. He was an utter idiot, a brainless imbecile incapable of self-control. I wasn't the least bit surprised his brother had removed him from the business; Rémy would surely have bankrupted the company through mismanagement and embezzlement. There is a fine line between having fun, even excessive fun, and causing irreparable damage to your life, your work, and your family: Rémy couldn't see that line. Whatever his body wanted came first, second, and even third. Alcohol? Alcohol. Women? Women. Gambling? Gambling. Opium? Opium. The man indulged in it all to excess, until he'd collapse, exhausted.
    M. Wilden and his