The man put down his charcoal and looked up with an irritated scowl, an expletive forming on his lips. However, upon seeing Marcia Brownlow, his frown turned to a shrewd smile; the expletive remained unuttered. Placing his powerful, hairy hands on the table, he rose a few inches, made a slight bow and greeted the intruders in impeccably accented, aristocratic English. “My dear Miss Brownlow, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this honor?”

There might have been a hint of sarcasm or condescension in his overly formal greeting, but Marcia chose to shrug it off. “My friend and I saw some of your work at Monsieur Joyant’s gallery. We were intrigued by one of your portraits.” Marcia caught herself; she had failed to introduce Betsy. “Pardon me, Monsieur, I was so pleased to see you I forgot to introduce my friend. Miss Betsy Endicott, may I present Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec, a young artist of considerable promise.”

Betsy smiled diffidently and extended her hand. Toulouse-Lautrec grabbed the digits, gave them a friendly American shake, and let go. Then he turned to a passing waiter, snapped his fingers and shouted, “César, two chairs, another bottle, and glasses for the ladies, please.” The waiter rushed off to fill the order and the artist grinned at Marcia and Betsy. “You’ll do me the honor of being my guests, won’t you?”

Betsy hesitated, but Marcia was quick to reply. “Yes, of course we will.”

While waiting for the chairs, Marcia realized that they were blocking Lautrec’s view. “Pardon us, Monsieur,” she said, pulling Betsy back toward a railing separating the low mezzanine from the main floor.

Lautrec smiled appreciatively and continued sketching until the waiter brought the chairs and a fresh bottle of cognac. Once they were seated, the attentive waiter filled their glasses before scurrying off to see to his other thirsty customers. Lautrec produced a gold monogrammed cigarette case and offered the women a smoke. Betsy declined but Marcia took a cigarette, leaning over the table as Lautrec struck a match and gave her a light. Betsy frowned, but remained silent. She could deny her friend nothing, and Marcia seemed so far gone in her illness that insisting upon abstinence would have been cruel, not to mention futile.

The quadrille ended to raucous applause and shouts of “Bravo!” The floor cleared and the orchestra took a break. Lautrec and Marcia maintained a stream of art-related conversation while Betsy mostly listened and observed. At one point, the subject changed to automobiles.

“We saw the Daimler exhibit at the fair, and I sketched the motor car,” said Marcia with an enthusiastic gleam in her eye. “The automobile powered by an internal combustion engine has great potential. Of course, it’s in its infancy, like the railroad locomotive seventy years ago.” She turned to Betsy and sighed wistfully. “I’d so love to ride in an automobile before I die.”

Betsy looked down, touched her friend’s hand and pursed her lips. She tried to speak, but could only choke back a sob.

Lautrec observed the women closely and guessed at the intimacy of their relationship. He was touched, for an instant, but wished to change the subject to his paintings. Joyant had told him Marcia’s companion was a wealthy American collector of new art; Lautrec figured that with a damp, cold winter coming on and Marcia’s consumption, the women would not remain too long in Paris.

“My cousin Dr. Tapié admires the automobile. I should not be surprised if some day he turns up driving down the Champs Elysee in one of those things, ha, ha.” He drained his glass before addressing Marcia on a subject closer to his heart. “By the way, I recall you mentioning one of my paintings at Joyant’s gallery. Could you please tell me to which one you were referring?”

“Of course, Monsieur, it was the portrait of a very beautiful young woman. She was blonde with blue eyes and seemed to gaze at the viewer with the most wistful smile. Please excuse me for making an observation that might seem impertinent; for want of another word, the portrait’s prettiness and charm distinguishes it from your other work.” Marcia smiled enigmatically at Lautrec while awaiting his reply.

Lautrec stared back at Marcia with a bewildered look, as though he did not know how to respond. His English was very good, but perhaps due to a subtle nuance of expression he had misunderstood her? At any rate, he sensed that this prize-winning American woman artist had insulted him. But he regarded this discussion as the beginning of a negotiation, and he was not going to strangle the newborn deal in its cradle with speculations as to her meaning regarding this particular painting’s “prettiness.” In short, if Marcia’s rich patroness wanted to buy his pretty picture to please her dying lover he would be more than happy to oblige, provided of course that the price was right.

“Ah, Miss Brownlow, you have seen my portrait of Virginie Ménard. She is a lovely girl, is she not?”

“Indeed she is, Monsieur. I’ve sketched her myself at the Atelier Cormon.”

Marcia’s revelation surprised her companions, Betsy more so than Lautrec. “Marcia,” she said with a hint of exasperation, “you never said anything to me about this young woman.”

“Betsy dear, must I tell you everything? At any rate, I did tell you that Cormon invited me to his Atelier. And it just so happened that the young woman we admired in Monsieur’s painting was modeling there that day.”

“Did we admire the young woman? As I recall, it was the painting that intrigued us, not the model.”

Lautrec found this incipient lover’s quarrel amusing and somewhat arousing as well. So much so that he was tempted to provoke it further. Nevertheless, he prudently tried to steer the conversation back to business. “Mademoiselle Ménard is much sought after—as a model, that is. And she dances divinely. You shall see her tonight, in the Can-Can.”

“I can’t wait,” Betsy muttered peevishly.

Marcia glanced at her friend. “Cheer up, darling. What you need is a drink.” Then to Lautrec: “Let’s have another bottle, Monsieur. This round’s on us.”

A blaring cornet fanfare announced the Can-Can. A troop of pretty young women dressed in spotless white shirtwaists and long, flowing skirts of diverse bright colors—blue, green, red, yellow, and pink—trotted onto the dance floor in high-heeled shoes. Forming a line, they raised their skirts and white lace-trimmed petticoats above their waists and began their rhythmic high-kicking dance to the cheers, whistles, and applause of the adoring crowd.

To Lautrec’s unerring eye and calculating brain the dancers were a problem in geometry and physics; fluid energy, flashing color, transforming forms and shapes in motion. He worked like a fiend to render them on paper the way the very latest in fast photographic lenses and shutters would capture the moment for posterity. And the focal point of his composition was the lovely, wild-eyed, and uninhibited maenad of Montmartre, the incomparably exquisite Virginie Ménard.

Marcia saw Virginie with her artist’s eye, as Lautrec did, and she longed for her sketchbook and pastels. Ill as she was, Marcia could drink almost anyone under the table and she had kept pace with the insatiable Lautrec. Betsy, on the other hand, was fuddled. Her head was swimming and, as her bleary gray eyes tried to focus on Virginie, she saw two ineffably beautiful girls moving in concert like Siamese twins. Betsy rubbed her eyes, blinked, and turned her attention to Marcia. She noticed how her companion fixed upon the dancer as if at that moment nothing else existed. That sobering realization wounded Betsy like a knife stabbing her in the heart.

A pair of angry gray eyes glared at Virginie and those eyes were now clear and cold as ice. She’s been playing around behind my back. The beautiful dancer rekindled memories of Marcia’s past indiscretions.