She came over and threw her arms around him. The barrel of the gun was hot and he yelled, and she set it aside. "Oh Jonathan, I am so sorry, so sorry." She cradled his head against her shoulder. "Please, you must forgive me, it is all right now, I promise you."

Gradually his trembling stopped, and she looked at him. "Did they hurt you?"

He shook his head, no.

"Good. I did not think so. Idiots! Friends of Jimmy, they think they make a joke, to scare you. And me I am sure. But you are not hurt?"

He shook his head again. He coughed. "Perhaps," he said, finding his voice at last. "Perhaps I should be going."

"Oh, no," she said. "No, no, you cannot do this to me."

"I don't feel"

"Absolutely no," she said. She pushed closer to him, so her body was touching his. "You must stay a while."

"Should we call the police?"

"Mais non. The police will do nothing. A quarrel of lovers. In France we do not do this, call the police."

"But they broke in amp;"

"They are gone now," she said, whispering in his ear. He felt her breath. "There is only us, now. Only us, Jonathan." Her dark body slid down his chest.

It was after midnight when he was finally dressed and standing at the window, looking out at Notre Dame. The streets were still crowded.

"Why will you not stay?" she said, pouting prettily. "I want you to stay. Don't you want to please me?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go. I don't feel very well."

"I will make you feel better."

He shook his head. In truth, he really did not feel well. He was experiencing waves of dizziness, and his legs felt oddly weak. His hands were trembling as he gripped the balcony.