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wife, the charming Jeanne, were really very nice to me. About my age, the consul was an intelligent, elegant man, well versed in Chinese culture. They'd been in the country for eighteen years and had lived in cities with names as exotic as Tchong-king, Tcheng-tou, and Yunnan. He and Jeanne tried their best to console me when, in tears, I explained what I'd learned from Rémy's lawyer that morning. Their relationship with my husband had always been cordial, they said. Since their arrival in Shanghai, in 1917, they'd seen him on numerous occasions at consulate celebrations for French national holidays and Christmases. Jeanne had laughed a great deal with Rémy, given his talent for telling a joke or making a witty remark at just the right moment. Yes, of course they knew about his financial problems. Shanghai wasn't very big, and nothing remained secret for long. Rémy's situation—and his was not the only one—was often a topic of conversation among his many friends. He had gone to great lengths to maintain his social circle and was always willing to help anyone in need. Hundreds of people had attended his funeral, the Wildens said, and the entire French colony was very sorry to hear of his death, especially because of the manner in which it occurred.
    “Have you been given the details?” Jeanne inquired with a certain amount of worry in her voice.
    “I was hoping to hear them from you.”
    The consul and his wife were so refined that they never once mentioned Rémy's state on the night of the tragedy. They didn't mention the word “opium”; they simply narrated the facts in the kindest possible way. It seems that ten thugs from the miserable Pootung area—located on the other side of the river, across from the Bund—slipped into the French Concession. When they saw Rémy's Chinese-style house, they likely thought it would be easier to break in to and move about without waking the occupants, who should have been sound asleep at that time of night, around three in the morning. All of this was in the Concession police report, which the consul was willing to copy for me if I so desired. Unfortunately, Rémy was still awake in his office. He may have been studying one of the Chinese objets d'art he was so fond of, because various pieces from his collection were scattered all over the floor. Rémy must have bravely stood up to them, because the office was left looking like a battlefield. Awakened by the noise, his servants came armed with sticks and knives, but the thieves ran in all directions, leaving Rémy dead on the floor. The housekeeper, Mrs. Zhong, swore that nothing had been taken, that nothing in her master's house was missing. Rémy had managed to defend his home and property after all.
    “What would you like to do with Rémy's remains, Mme De Poulain?” Consul Wilden suddenly asked, though not without tact. “Would you like to take them to France, or do you wish to leave them here in Shanghai?”
    I looked at him rather disconcerted. Until that very morning, I had intended to bury Rémy in Lyon, in his family's vault, but by then I wasn't so sure. Transportation would cost a fortune, and this was no time for idle expenses, so perhaps it would be best to leave him where he was.
    “Rémy's plot in the Concession cemetery is owned by the French government, madame,” M. Wilden clarified with gesture of remorse. “You would have to purchase it.”
    “I'm not in a position to do so, as you can imagine,” I stated, taking a drink of the coffee that had been served after lunch. “My financial situation has me bound hand and foot. Perhaps you might be able to help me, Mr. Consul General. Can you think of any way out of this predicament? What do you suggest I do?”
    Auguste Wilden and his wife glanced surreptitiously at one another.
    “The consulate could give you the burial plot,” he commented, “but it would have to be justified as a gesture from our country to the prestigious De Poulain