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But lately another thought kept presenting itself. I’d begun to wonder if my enjoyment of the independent life was more complex than just a matter of selfishness. Perhaps, this line of reasoning went, I was simply a person who, because of age and inclination, had changed her idea of what constituted a satisfying life.

Naohiro and I spent the rest of the day walking. To the busy, trendy Marais district, where the scent of baking bread and spiced meat from kosher delicatessens followed us down the street. To a unique Art Deco synagogue designed by Hector Guimard, the man responsible for the sinuous Métro entrances. To a locksmith museum that featured iron chastity belts and Roman door knockers. To a pawnshop, where we witnessed a sad auction of wedding rings and engraved silver baby bracelets and heart-shaped necklaces complete with pictures of once-loved faces. And finally to the oldest and most beautiful square in Paris: the place des Vosges.

“It is one of my favorite places,” Naohiro said, as we strolled beneath the sheltering arcades that line the square’s pale, salmon-colored brick mansions. “The first time I came, many years ago, as a student, I was thinking of studying architecture.” He laughed. “Instead I went to business school and learned how to build corporate structures.”

Beneath the laughter, however, I detected a note of regret. I asked if this was so.

“I do not believe in regret,” he said, somewhat curtly. “Regret is an illusion. It depends on what might have been. And that is a waste of time.”

The sharpness of his reply surprised me. It also annoyed me. Surely he must remember that earlier in the day, when I’d expressed to him some regrets about my sons, he had responded in a sympathetic way. Was his pronouncement that regret “is a waste of time” a subtle rebuke directed at me? A tiny surge of doubt crackled through my thoughts about Naohiro. Had I misread him? Or was it simply the first sign of reality intruding into our idyllic relationship?

We lingered in the place des Vosges late into the afternoon, sitting in the park, wandering in and out of its shops, stopping to peek into the inner courtyards whenever someone entered or exited through the large wooden doors hiding them from view. We spent a long time gazing in the window of a classy real estate office, studying the photographs of exquisite apartments for sale.

“Which do you like best?” Naohiro asked.

“That one,” I said, pointing to the picture of a spacious, beautifully decorated living room with high ceilings, honey-colored parquet floors, and extraordinary floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city of Paris. It cost in the millions of francs.

“What about you?” I asked, turning to look at him.

“It also is my favorite.” He paused, then in a wry voice asked, “Shall we buy it and live happily ever after?”

“Yes, let’s,” I said, trying to match his wry tone. “But we’ll have to get rid of all those tacky Oriental rugs. Maybe replace them with tatami mats.”

He laughed. Then without warning he took my face in his hands and gently brushed back my hair. He repeated the delicate movement several times, his hands fluttering like doves about my head. Dizzy, I leaned against him; his body was surprisingly strong and muscular. He leaned back. For several minutes we stood like that, under the arcade of the place des Vosges.

For the second time that day I felt something shift between us. But whatever it was, now I liked it.

When we left the Métro at the rue du Bac, the sun was already moving west, past the Eiffel Tower. We had just passed Deyrolle—an incredible museum of a shop where earlier we’d spent a long time studying hundreds of pansylike butterflies so exquisite that even Nabokov would have been ecstatic—when Naohiro stopped. “Look at that,” he said, pointing. “What is it?”

Immediately I saw what Naohiro had spotted: the green carpet lining the sidewalks at the corner where the rue du Bac and the rue de l’Université meet. I had forgotten to tell him about my discovery that morning of the mysterious Les cinq jours de