I blinked at him. He was younger than I had thought, and had dropped his faint air of haughtiness. Perhaps Parisian waiters were trained to be kind to weeping women in their cafes.
‘Maybe … a cognac?’ He glanced at the letter and smiled, with something resembling understanding.
‘No,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Thank you. I’ve … I’ve got things to do.’
I paid the bill, and tucked the letter carefully into my pocket.
And stepping out from behind the table, I straightened my bag on my shoulder and set off down the street towards the parfumerie and the whole of Paris beyond.