“Arthur,” she said with impatience, “the man’s my doctor. What’s more, he’s been playing up to Betsy; I think she’s sweet on him. If you know something about him, please tell me. I promise I won’t be shocked. Just pretend you’re speaking man to man with your old chum Mark.”

“All right, since you put it that way, here’s what I know. Sir Henry specializes in treating female problems, most particularly cases of hysteria. His treatments are—of a very intimate nature.”

“Treatments of a very intimate nature, you say? For a famous author, your description lacks information.”

“Very well, Marcia, since you require me to spell it out, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard on good authority. Sir Henry treats hysteria by massaging and manipulating the—uh, female parts. He also provides the ladies with vibrating—uh, implements that they may use in the privacy of their homes. Finally, he prescribes strong sedatives to help them through their, uh, uh. . . .”

Marcia interrupted to spare him further embarrassment. “That’s enough, thank you, Arthur. I get the picture. No wonder he’s so popular. Anyway, I’m a woman and familiar with what you call female problems. And I assure you Sir Henry has used none of these techniques on me. It would surely be a stretch to think them helpful to a consumptive, though Lord knows but some desperate woman in my condition might submit to such treatment if she were convinced it would do her good. I just hope Betsy doesn’t—” Marcia stopped short. She coughed lightly into her serviette, and took a sip of tea.

Arthur tried to reassure her. “Betsy’s always been sensible; I doubt she’d—but you did say she’s sweet on him?”

Marcia nodded. “I’ve lived with Betsy for almost eleven years; she’s not always so sensible, especially when she drinks, as you well know. I’m worried, Arthur.”

Arthur reached over the table and held her thin, cold hand. “Don’t worry, dear, you must think of your health. Betsy can take care of herself.” He gazed at her fondly before proceeding: “I’ve purchased a fine Georgian manor near Rye in East Sussex. It’s a lovely place, not far from the sea. There’s a perfect English garden; you should see it when the roses are in bloom. I could have a studio fixed up for you, just like in the old days. There’s plenty of room. I entertain frequently, and you’d like the society: English, Americans, Europeans, writers, artists, theater people, intellectuals, and a sprinkling of swells, a jolly crew on all occasions. And our old friend Sargent’s in London. He’s doing quite well since he left Paris following the Madame X portrait scandal. What do you say?”

Marcia looked down at their intertwined hands. “It sounds lovely, Arthur, but—” She paused for a moment, eyeing him sadly. “Would you want to burden yourself with a sick woman?”

“Stuff and nonsense! We’ll have you up and about in no time. What you need is work, my girl; a new project, a painting for the ages, something to equal or surpass the best of the Mark Brownlow oeuvre.”

She stared at him with tear-moistened eyes. “I do have an idea, Arthur. Let me show you.” She got up and walked to the coffee table with more vigor than she had shown in days. After fetching her sketchbook, she returned to the tea table. Marcia opened the book to her drawing of Virginie and handed it to Arthur. “Tell me what you think.”

Arthur examined the pastel sketch. “It’s beautiful, Marcia. But then, you always had a knack for portraiture. Who is she?”

“A model I met at Cormon’s Atelier. I want to use her for a painting with strong social commentary, something along the lines of Luke Fildes.”

Arthur had his doubts about the project, but he did not let that dampen his enthusiasm. “I think that’s a splendid concept, and you can bring it to fruition in Rye as well as anywhere else. You might also receive Fildes’s blessing; we’re still on quite good terms and he might be flattered by your emulation.”

“Oh Arthur, I think it might work. But how would I break it to Betsy?”

Ever the pragmatist, he asked, “How are you fixed financially?”

“I have a few thousand in a San Francisco bank, and Van Gogh thinks I can get another thousand—that’s dollars, not francs—for my Silver Medal landscape. And Goupil will represent my new work in their gallery, too.”

Arthur smiled. “That’s more than enough, and of course you’ll be staying with me rent free and meals gratis. And I’m good friends with an excellent doctor who lives nearby.” He approached Marcia, took her hand, and gave sensible advice as gently as possible. “If what you say about Betsy and Sir Henry is true, perhaps a break is best for all concerned.”

Marcia stared at him for a moment. Then: “I’m inclined to agree, Arthur; but it’s much easier said than done.”

“Papa’s home! Papa’s home!” The little girl broke free from her nanny and scampered in a flurry of curls, ribbons, and lace through the front hall to Achille. He swept her into his arms, kissed her rosebud mouth, and hugged and squeezed her until she giggled. “I miss you, Papa. Why are you never here?”

Achille stroked her silky golden hair. “I’m sorry, little one. Papa’s very busy keeping Paris safe from wicked people.”

“Wicked people? Do you mean the Germans, the Jews, and the Freemasons?”

Achille stared over the child’s shoulder at Adele; she looked away and fussed with some frills on her dress. Jeanne had obviously been listening to her grandmother. He looked back at his daughter and smiled. “No, my angel, I mean the wicked people who break the laws of the Republic.”

Confused, Jeanne pouted and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Achille put her down and handed her back to the nanny. He waited until they were out of earshot before speaking to Adele:

“I wish your mother wouldn’t fill the child’s head with reactionary rubbish.”

Adele pouted like her little girl. “I’m sorry, Achille. I can’t correct Mama.”

His patience wearing thin, he replied harshly: “Well, perhaps it’s time someone did. I won’t have my four-year-old daughter’s mind polluted with extremist propaganda.”

Adele’s face reddened; she was on the verge of tears. “You finally come home at a decent hour, and the first thing you do is criticize mother and pick a quarrel over nothing. You didn’t even notice my new dress. It’s your favorite color; or at least you used to say it was your favorite.”

Achille calmed himself. He took a moment to admire the green silk gown trimmed with lace ruches. His voice softened. “It’s very pretty; the fabric matches your emerald eyes, it brings out their luster.” He walked to her, put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m tired. I just wish your mother would be more careful about expressing such controversial views around Jeanne.”

Adele had the pleased look of a wife who had won yet another minor skirmish with her husband. “Well, since you liked my dress and apologized nicely I’ll permit you to kiss me.”

He kissed her lips and held her tightly until he heard a familiar rustle of silk, creaking of stays, and smelled the sharp odor of camphor transfused with sweet overtones of attar of roses. Madame Berthier entered the hallway. A dumpy woman in her fifties with a vestige of prettiness around her hazel eyes and full red lips, Madame looked like a Gallic Queen Victoria dressed in old-fashioned black bombazine crinoline and white widow’s cap. “Good evening, Achille. It was most kind of Chief Inspector Féraud to permit you an evening with your family.”

“Good evening, Madame.” Achille walked to his mother-in-law, bent down, and kissed her proffered cheek. “I have the pleasure of dining en famille this evening, but I’m afraid I must retire to my study immediately after dinner. I must finish my report for tomorrow morning.”