Gore lies in his cab­in, reflect­ing on his dete­ri­o­rat­ing con­di­tion. He recalls Stanley’s com­ment about “Debil­i­ty,” a ref­er­ence to the scurvy affect­ing the crew, leav­ing them melan­cholic and phys­i­cal­ly weak­ened. The imagery of despair is vivid—men lament­ing for home, deal­ing with joint pain, and suf­fer­ing from loose teeth. Gore feels the poignant ache of mem­o­ries asso­ci­at­ed with the word “Moth­er” as old wounds resur­face.

As he stretch­es his fin­gers, he remem­bers a past injury from a gun acci­dent while with Cap­tain Stokes in Aus­tralia. The inci­dent unfolds in his mind: while prepar­ing to shoot a bird dur­ing an expe­di­tion up a riv­er, a thun­der­ous report shakes him back. His rec­ol­lec­tion fades at that moment, leav­ing him lying in the boat with Stokes look­ing pale and shak­en. The moment was marked by dark humor—Gore’s awk­ward remark of hav­ing “killed the bird” prompts laugh­ter from Stokes, a sign of cama­raderie now missed.

Long­ing fills Gore as he thinks of Aus­tralia, yearn­ing for the warmth and vital­i­ty of the land. He miss­es the fresh­ness of explo­ration, even the triv­ial mis­ad­ven­tures of mishaps with local berries. How­ev­er, the harsh, bar­ren land­scape he cur­rent­ly inhab­its leaves him detached. Though he pon­ders his fam­i­ly back in New South Wales, he avoids dwelling on it, pre­fer­ring not to pro­voke mem­o­ries of his body, which he feels has become over­ly skele­tal.

Gore con­sid­ers his phys­i­cal state; he’s notably thin­ner, and his body has trans­formed into some­thing almost alien to him. Still, he knows he has great skills as a hunter. Tomor­row, he plans to go out again, hop­ing to secure bet­ter game. He recalls a pre­vi­ous suc­cess­ful hunt at twen­ty-six with Robert McClure, under­scor­ing the lone­li­ness he feels for absent friends and com­pan­ions who have fad­ed from his life, leav­ing him to grap­ple with the soli­tude of his cur­rent exis­tence. Despite his phys­i­cal suf­fer­ing, he finds strength in his remark­able aim, tak­ing solace in the act of killing, which con­firms his sense of being loved.

In a dim­ly lit Lon­don book­store on a cold Feb­ru­ary evening in 2016, with snow fore­cast­ed, the nar­ra­tive unfolds around a woman dis­creet­ly observ­ing the bustling activ­i­ty as the store pre­pares to close. This inti­mate set­ting serves as the back­drop for a ten­der explo­ration of mem­o­ry, iden­ti­ty, and the indeli­ble mark of sto­ries on our lives. Among the shelves, a con­ver­sa­tion between teenage clerks about a mys­te­ri­ous new book, “The Invis­i­ble Life of Addie LaRue,” catch­es her atten­tion, espe­cial­ly when an old­er man requests a copy, pro­nounc­ing the title with an uncan­ny famil­iar­i­ty.

The woman, deeply con­nect­ed to the book, reflects on its contents—a sto­ry with­out a declared author but unmis­tak­ably hers, detailed in a nar­ra­tive that inter­twines her life with Hen­ry Strauss. The book becomes a tan­gi­ble rep­re­sen­ta­tion of her exis­tence, its ded­i­ca­tion, “I remem­ber you,” evok­ing a flood of mem­o­ries with Hen­ry. These rec­ol­lec­tions high­light moments of pro­found con­nec­tion, from their first encounter to final good­byes, each scene paint­ing a pic­ture of a rela­tion­ship that tran­scends time and the con­fines of an ordi­nary life.

As she immers­es her­self in the book, reliv­ing her past win­ters in Paris, the sud­den pres­ence of Luc, a fig­ure from her past, intro­duces a com­plex lay­er of love, pos­ses­sion, and the eter­nal strug­gle for auton­o­my. Luc’s appear­ance, marked by a pos­ses­sive inti­ma­cy, con­trasts the lib­er­at­ing nar­ra­tive she finds in her book. His claim­ing of her, jux­ta­posed against the inde­pen­dence her sto­ry rep­re­sents, under­scores the cen­tral con­flict: the search for self amidst the con­straints of rela­tion­ships that define and some­times con­fine us.

This chap­ter mas­ter­ful­ly weaves a nar­ra­tive that blurs the lines between past and present, fic­tion and real­i­ty, explor­ing the pow­er of mem­o­ry and the endur­ing impact of our sto­ries. The con­trast between Addie’s poignant, reflec­tive dis­cov­er­ies through the book and her con­fronta­tion with Luc encap­su­lates a time­less strug­gle for iden­ti­ty, acknowl­edg­ment, and the desire to be seen and remem­bered on one’s own terms.

Chica­go, Illi­nois, July 29, 1928, finds Addie rev­el­ing in the lib­er­ty and secre­cy of a speakeasy, a hid­den bar flour­ish­ing in defi­ance of Pro­hi­bi­tion. Embraced by the dim light of a stained-glass angel, Addie los­es her­self in the fer­vor of jazz and dance, a free­dom punc­tu­at­ed by the soli­tary weight of a wood­en ring, a tan­gi­ble reminder of a pact, worn close on a sil­ver cord. This ring is her anchor, a relent­less pres­ence, and a sym­bol of a four­teen-year-long defi­ance against yield­ing to its temp­ta­tion and call­ing back its giver—the mys­te­ri­ous Luc.

Torn between a desire for sur­ren­der and a stub­born resolve to resist, Addie mus­es over her long-stand­ing bat­tle with Luc, a dance of wills span­ning over a decade. Her con­tem­pla­tion coin­cides with a pecu­liar encounter at the bar, where a dis­tinc­tive drink, a Cham­pagne glass adorned with a can­died rose petal, bridges the gap between her soli­tude and the pres­ence of Luc him­self. He, with eyes framed in foliage, hints at a delib­er­ate con­ver­gence, a mag­net­ic draw that she begins to acknowl­edge.

As she set­tles into the vel­vet embrace of the booth oppo­site Luc, their ban­ter reveals a com­plex rela­tion­ship of wits and long­ing. Despite Luc’s indi­rect claim on the speakeasy, sug­gest­ing a strate­gic play to lure her in, Addie insists her pres­ence is mere coin­ci­dence, not a capit­u­la­tion to her desires or their shared his­to­ry. How­ev­er, Luc’s insight into Addie’s heart con­tra­dicts her defi­ance, sug­gest­ing an inti­ma­cy and under­stand­ing beyond her admis­sion.

Their exchange, lay­ered with seduc­tion and resis­tance, unearths the essence of their bond. Addie, despite Luc’s asser­tion, clings to her human­i­ty, even as he out­lines the ways in which she tran­scends it—unable to live, love, or belong like those around her. Luc’s close­ness, both phys­i­cal­ly and emo­tion­al­ly, not only high­lights their deep con­nec­tion but also under­scores Addie’s strug­gle to main­tain her iden­ti­ty amid the super­nat­ur­al nature of their rela­tion­ship.

In this chap­ter, the allure of the for­bid­den, the dance between pow­er and sur­ren­der, and the nuances of an eter­nal strug­gle are woven into the fab­ric of a Pro­hi­bi­tion-era Chica­go night. Addie’s defi­ance against the inevitable and her pur­suit of auton­o­my with­in the shad­ows of her choic­es encap­su­late a moment of intro­spec­tion and con­fronta­tion in a life unmoored from time.

In the cap­ti­vat­ing scene set in Fécamp, France, on July 29, 1778, Addie finds her­self spell­bound by the vast­ness of the sea. Unlike any­thing she’s expe­ri­enced through maps, the sea’s enor­mi­ty and the end­less hori­zon spark a new­found fas­ci­na­tion with­in her. This marks a sig­nif­i­cant expan­sion of her world, far beyond the con­fines of her small vil­lage upbring­ing in France. As she spends her days by the pier, absorbed in thought and obser­va­tion, ten­sions from Paris — fueled by food short­ages and wors­en­ing con­di­tions — seem a world away, yet the temp­ta­tion to escape into the unknown is per­sis­tent­ly cur­tailed by an unex­plained reluc­tance.

One stormy day, while read­ing Shake­speare’s “The Tem­pest” on the beach, Addie encoun­ters Luc, a mys­te­ri­ous and some­what sin­is­ter fig­ure from her past. Despite their com­pli­cat­ed his­to­ry, marked by moments of both con­fronta­tion and an uneasy truce, Luc’s pres­ence is both intrigu­ing and unset­tling. He reveals his influ­ence on his­to­ry, imply­ing a con­nec­tion to Shake­speare him­self, which Addie finds hard to believe. As a storm approach­es, Luc invites Addie to seek shel­ter, lead­ing her to a church, a place one might last expect some­one of Luc’s enig­mat­ic nature to enter. Inside, the church’s sanc­ti­ty con­trasts stark­ly with the brew­ing storm out­side, serv­ing as a back­drop for a con­ver­sa­tion about belief, faith, and the nature of exis­tence.

This dia­logue delves into Addie’s skep­ti­cism about faith and the divine, con­trast­ing her inabil­i­ty to con­nect with God to her tan­gi­ble inter­ac­tions with Luc, whom she now per­ceives as dev­il­ish. Luc provoca­tive­ly sug­gests that divin­i­ty is a mat­ter of per­spec­tive and pow­er, show­cas­ing his abil­i­ty to manip­u­late real­i­ty as proof of his own god-like sta­tus. The con­ver­sa­tion turns to the nature of souls, with Luc mak­ing a com­pelling, if unset­tling, argu­ment about the worth and treat­ment of souls, using a small glow­ing mar­ble as a metaphor. This inter­ac­tion leaves Addie reflec­tive and cau­tious, ques­tion­ing the true nature of free­dom, pow­er, and the unseen forces that shape her exis­tence.

Their inter­ac­tion in the church, marked by Luc’s provo­ca­tions and Addie’s intro­spec­tions, encap­su­lates their com­plex rela­tion­ship, high­light­ing themes of pow­er, free­dom, and the search for mean­ing in a world where bound­aries between the human and the divine are blurred.

In a chap­ter set in New York City on March 17, 2014, we are plunged into a pro­found dis­cus­sion between Hen­ry Strauss and Ade­line “Addie” LaRue. Hen­ry is grap­pling with the type of silence suf­fus­ing the room—a silence bur­dened by the weight of his recent con­fes­sions to Addie. It’s a silence he seeks to break, dri­ven by the ten­sion fol­low­ing his acknowl­edg­ment of Addie’s immor­tal­i­ty and his own cursed exis­tence.

Hen­ry, in a bid to alle­vi­ate the crush­ing silence, recounts the jour­ney from the cor­ner shop to his apart­ment, a jour­ney punc­tu­at­ed by his con­tin­u­ous mono­logue, aimed at avert­ing his gaze from Addie’s. Once inside, the truth he has divulged hangs between them, pal­pa­ble and dense. Mean­while, out­side, the world moves on unaf­fect­ed­ly, high­light­ing the chasm between their inti­mate rev­e­la­tion and the obliv­i­ous­ness of the day out­side.

Addie, seat­ed, chin in hand, breaks the silence in response to Hen­ry’s plea, reveal­ing her ini­tial dis­be­lief at being remem­bered, mis­tak­ing it for a trap or an acci­dent. She express­es aston­ish­ment at how Luc, the enti­ty behind her curse, mis­tak­en­ly allowed their paths to inter­sect, thus enabling Hen­ry to remem­ber her—a feat unmatched in three cen­turies of her exis­tence.

As they delve deep­er, it becomes clear that their respec­tive bar­gains with Luc inter­twine yet don’t can­cel each oth­er out. Addie clar­i­fies that her long­ing isn’t for Hen­ry per se but for the recog­ni­tion and mem­o­ry he rep­re­sents. This rev­e­la­tion, that her true desire is sim­ply to be remem­bered, brings them clos­er, ini­ti­at­ing a moment of shared vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and con­nec­tion.

Hen­ry’s attempts to light­en the mood, express­ing increduli­ty at Addie’s age and jok­ing about her youth­ful appear­ance, segue into a request for her to share her expe­ri­ences span­ning over three cen­turies. This request frames the enor­mi­ty of Addie’s exis­tence against the back­drop of his­tor­i­cal progress and per­son­al bat­tles, invit­ing the read­er to pon­der the depths of indi­vid­ual expe­ri­ence amidst the flow of time.

Chap­ter III begins with Hen­ry ques­tion­ing Addie’s unex­pect­ed skill at pin­ball dur­ing a live­ly evening out. Addie, hav­ing nev­er played the game before, aston­ish­es her­self and Hen­ry with her high score, a vic­to­ry marred only by a curi­ous glitch with the machine that won’t accept her name cor­rect­ly, leav­ing only the let­ters “ADI” to glow on the screen. This moment, sim­ple yet sig­nif­i­cant, marks a rare occa­sion where Addie leaves a tan­gi­ble trace of her exis­tence.

The night pro­gress­es with the two div­ing deep­er into the city’s nightlife, shar­ing a spon­ta­neous and adven­tur­ous spir­it. Addie, resource­ful and unbound by con­ven­tion­al moral con­straints, secures funds through a sub­tle theft, sug­gest­ing a life led on the fringes. Their jour­ney leads them to the Nite­hawk Cin­e­ma, a place Addie cher­ish­es among the many she’s expe­ri­enced in her exten­sive, implied immor­tal exis­tence. Here, they engage in a typ­i­cal date activ­i­ty, watch­ing “North by North­west”, which Hen­ry claims nev­er to have seen. The cin­e­ma expe­ri­ence is marred by an odd ten­sion; Hen­ry seems dis­turbed, his dis­com­fort grow­ing until he abrupt­ly leaves the the­ater.

Out­side, Hen­ry reveals his exis­ten­tial anx­i­ety, a pro­found fear of time slip­ping away unful­filled, a sen­ti­ment Addie seems to under­stand deeply. This moment, pos­si­bly hint­ing at her own com­plex his­to­ry with time, sug­gests her immor­tal­i­ty. The chap­ter delves into themes of con­nec­tion, mem­o­ry, and the human strug­gle against the inex­orable flow of time. Hen­ry’s sud­den vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and Addie’s empa­thet­ic response hint at deep­er lay­ers of their char­ac­ters, ones that tran­scends a sim­ple tale of a mag­i­cal night out. It ends on a note of shared, if dis­parate, longing—for moments that stick, for time that doesn’t race by, and for a grip on life that feels ever elu­sive.

Paris, enveloped in summer’s oppres­sive heat, teems with life and dis­par­i­ty. In this bustling, yet uneven­ly divid­ed city of 1714, Ade­line LaRue finds her­self. Dream­ing of the refined Paris that would come to be under Haussman’s ren­o­va­tion, she nav­i­gates the stark con­trasts of wealthy grandeur and squalid pover­ty. Addie, with just four cop­per sols to her name, seeks shel­ter for the night, a task prov­ing both demean­ing and dif­fi­cult. From one lodg­ing house to anoth­er, she faces rejection—too poor, too female, too alone—until an old­er woman begrudg­ing­ly offers her a small, grimy room for three sols, with­out receipt.

That night, the crux of Addie’s predica­ment becomes clear; despite pay­ment and promis­es, she wakes to dis­be­lief and anger from the house matron who does­n’t remem­ber her. Cast out with nowhere to go, she finds her­self own­ing noth­ing more than a bro­ken wood­en bird and the ever-present cloak of invis­i­bil­i­ty that her deal with the dark­ness has cloaked her in. Paris, with its vibrant life and mer­ci­less indif­fer­ence, becomes a relent­less maze.

She attempts to find sus­te­nance and pur­pose in the relent­less cycle of day and night, learn­ing the hard truths of sur­vival through cun­ning and theft. A clum­sy theft attempt leaves her with a scrap of bread for her last coin, an expen­sive reminder of her vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. Addie grap­ples with the harsh real­i­ty of her exis­tence, the phys­i­cal pangs of hunger bat­tling with the resilience of her spir­it.

Seek­ing solace or per­haps penance, she turns to a church, only to be turned away, a tes­ta­ment to her invis­i­bil­i­ty even in places of sanc­tu­ary. Her des­per­a­tion dri­ves her to the docks, where the grim real­i­ty of her sit­u­a­tion leads to a har­row­ing encounter that costs her last shard of inno­cence for a few cold coins; a trans­ac­tion of flesh that marks her low­est point.

The nar­ra­tive then delves into Addie’s pro­found iso­la­tion and adapt­abil­i­ty, her strug­gles to find joy in small thefts and fleet­ing vic­to­ries amid the back­drop of a city both cru­el and mag­nif­i­cent. Her jour­ney is a relent­less bout with despair, a test of her endurance against the back­drop of Paris’s unfor­giv­ing win­ters and the indif­fer­ence of its inhab­i­tants.

Yet, as Addie carves out a sem­blance of exis­tence in this harsh land­scape, there’s a resilience that emerges, a refusal to be con­sumed by the dark­ness she bar­gained with. Her inter­ac­tion with Paris evolves into a dance of sur­vival and defi­ance, mark­ing the begin­ning of cen­turies-long adap­ta­tion and exis­tence, under­scored by an unyield­ing deter­mi­na­tion to make her mark, to be seen in a world that con­tin­u­ous­ly over­looks her.

Through detailed recount­ing of Addie’s experiences—her ini­tial awe of Paris, fol­lowed by the stark real­i­ty of its streets, and her even­tu­al adap­ta­tion to its rhythm—the chap­ter paints a vivid tableau of life in the ear­ly 18th cen­tu­ry. From the sweep­ing changes soon to trans­form Paris to the deeply per­son­al strug­gle of one woman’s attempt to carve out a life in its shad­ows, the nar­ra­tive weaves a sto­ry of resilience, loss, and the endur­ing pur­suit of exis­tence on one’s own terms.

In the sum­mer of 1698, in the quaint vil­lage of Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe, France, young Ade­line embarks on a notable jour­ney away from the only world she’s ever known. At the spir­it­ed age of sev­en, full of hope and won­der, she accom­pa­nies her father—a skilled woodworker—to mar­ket in the city of Le Mans. This trip marks her first depar­ture from Vil­lon, stir­ring in her a mix­ture of excite­ment and appre­hen­sion. Her father, typ­i­cal­ly a man of few words, con­fined to his work­shop and his craft, reveals a dif­fer­ent side of him­self along the way. He fills their jour­ney with sto­ries that cap­ti­vate Ade­line’s imag­i­na­tion, sto­ries of grandeur and fan­ta­sy that she wish­es she could immor­tal­ize in writ­ing.

The coun­try­side unrolls around them, offer­ing Ade­line a glimpse into a world that mir­rors her own yet promis­es the allure of the unfa­mil­iar. As they approach Le Mans, the sight of the city’s impos­ing walls and the bustling mar­ket­place expands her per­cep­tion of real­i­ty. Ade­line is over­whelmed by the new sights, sounds, and swarms of strangers, expe­ri­enc­ing an awak­en­ing to the vast­ness and vari­ety of the world beyond her vil­lage.

Her father, engag­ing with the mar­ket­place crowd, carves wood with prac­ticed hands, craft­ing fig­ures that seem to emerge nat­u­ral­ly from the mate­r­i­al. Among these cre­ations, Ade­line’s most cher­ished possession—a wood­en ring her father made for her at birth—stands as a sym­bol of her father’s love and the hope­ful promise of her own poten­tial.

This chap­ter not only cap­tures a piv­otal day in young Ade­line’s life but also sets a tone of dis­cov­ery and the deep bond between father and daugh­ter. It jux­ta­pos­es the com­fort of home with the thrilling unknown of the wider world, using the back­drop of 17th-cen­tu­ry France to explore themes of growth, curios­i­ty, and the time­less beau­ty of arti­sanal craft.

Chap­ter III of “The Crime of Sylvestre Bon­nard” unfolds with Sylvestre recall­ing an odd dream where fairy-like fig­ures accost him, before shift­ing back to his real­i­ty as a schol­ar. Ignor­ing his house­keep­er’s poten­tial fret­ting, Bon­nard choos­es to share his intrigu­ing vision with Madame de Gabry, who delight­ful­ly acknowl­edges the dream’s charm, sug­gest­ing a hid­den genius with­in him, espe­cial­ly dur­ing his sleep. This inter­ac­tion reveals a warm, gen­tle cama­raderie between Bon­nard and Madame de Gabry, accen­tu­at­ed by his grat­i­tude towards her encour­ag­ing words.

As days progress, Bon­nard immers­es him­self in cat­a­loging the Lusance library man­u­scripts. Learn­ing of the finan­cial woes shad­ow­ing Mon­sieur Hon­ore de Gabry’s estate prompts him to seek a pub­lish­er’s coun­sel for auc­tion­ing the library—evidence of Bon­nard’s naiveté in busi­ness mat­ters. His interlude—visiting church­es, engag­ing with local cler­gy, and enjoy­ing the sim­ple life—suggests a peace­ful, reflec­tive peri­od in his research jour­ney.

Upon return­ing to Lusance, Bon­nard is struck by an aston­ish­ing sight: a stat­uette that strik­ing­ly resem­bles the fairy from his dream, sit­ting on a pier-table. The sight con­fus­es him until Madame de Gabry intro­duces him to Jeanne, a young orphaned girl with evi­dent tal­ent in wax mod­el­ing who craft­ed the stat­ue based on Bonnard’s dream nar­ra­tive. Jeanne’s shy, yet evi­dent­ly deep, con­nec­tion to Bonnard’s sto­ry and Madame de Gabry’s sub­se­quent query about the poten­tial of Jeanne’s craft to sup­port her finan­cial­ly, high­lights themes of cre­ativ­i­ty, men­tor­ship, and the search for one’s place in the world. The chap­ter ten­der­ly touch­es on human con­nec­tions and the impact of nur­tur­ing tal­ent with­in the younger gen­er­a­tion, amid Bon­nard’s con­tin­u­ing schol­ar­ly pur­suits and per­son­al reflec­tions.