Established in Montmartre near the foot of the hill, the Atelier Cormon was located in a spacious workroom with large exposed wooden beams, unpainted walls, and immense glass windows, lamps, and reflectors suspended from rafters to provide the desired lighting. High shelves stacked with white plaster casts of nymphs, Caesars, gods, and goddesses lined the unpainted walls, and there was a centrally situated dais for models. A sharply distinctive, but not unpleasant odor of linseed oil and turpentine permeated the atmosphere; several students seated themselves at easels surrounding the dais, concentrating their attention on a dark, young woman posing nude, in a semi-reclining position. Marcia immediately recognized her as Virginie’s friend, Delphine Lacroix.

Arthur held Marcia’s arm as she scanned the premises, searching for the maître. But Cormon was not there; he only attended once a week to provide friendly critiques, suggestions for improvement, and encouragement where it was due. She saw Émile Bernard and waved to catch his eye. A young man working next to Bernard spotted her first. Recognizing the noted American artist, he leaned over and nudged his friend.

“Hey, Émile, you see that woman standing near the entrance, next to the gentleman? I believe she’s waving at you. That’s Mademoiselle Brownlow, isn’t it? Her landscape won a Silver Medal at the Fair.”

Bernard put down his brush and looked up. Surprised, he replied to Marcia’s friendly greeting with a curt nod. Then he got up from his chair and picked his way gingerly around the sketching and painting students.

Marcia greeted Émile with a handshake and introduced him to Arthur. “Good-day, Monsieur Bernard; I don’t believe you know my friend, Arthur Wolcott?”

Bernard shook Arthur’s hand and greeted him: “I’m honored, Monsieur Wolcott. I’ve read and enjoyed many of your novels and stories.”

Arthur smiled warmly. “Thank you, Monsieur. That’s very kind of you. And Miss Brownlow has recommended your work to me on several occasions.” That was a courteous deception. Marcia had said little to Arthur about Bernard, and what she had said was indifferent at best. But the polite deceit ran both ways; Émile had read little of Arthur’s writing.

Bernard turned to Marcia with a curious look in his eye: “What brings you to the Atelier, Mademoiselle?”

“I was looking for Virginie Ménard, but I see she’s not here. I’d like her to model for me, privately. Do you know how I might get in touch with her?”

Bernard’s mildly questioning expression transformed into a bewildered stare. “You haven’t heard, Mademoiselle? No one’s seen Virginie for days. Now the police are going round asking questions of everyone who knew her. They suspect foul play. But perhaps you haven’t read the newspapers about the unidentified woman’s body found on the Rue Tourlaque?”

Marcia said nothing. Her eyes registered shock; she fixed her gaze on Émile, but did not see him. Instead, she had a vision of Virginie’s corpse laid out on a slab in the Morgue. Arthur immediately sensed something was wrong. He put his arms around Marcia to prevent her from collapsing, and spoke to Bernard in a hoarse, urgent whisper: “Please Monsieur, would you kindly fetch a chair for Mademoiselle?”

Bernard ran to the nearest empty seat and returned shortly. Arthur thanked him, and helped Marcia into the chair. By now, almost all the students had abandoned their work to observe the drama; Delphine broke her pose, twisting her head round to see what the fuss was about.

“May I get you a restorative, Mademoiselle? I’m sure someone has a flask of brandy.”

Marcia shook her head. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Émile. I’m all right; I apologize for disrupting the class. Your news came as quite a shock. You see, Virginie had inspired me to conceive something new, something different in my art. I was hoping—” She caught herself mid-sentence and paused a moment before continuing: “But of course, my art means nothing now. It’s Virginie I’m worried about.”

Bernard took her frail hand and smiled sympathetically. “Please don’t reproach yourself. She has affected us that way. I too had a glimmer of hope for something new, but now. . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “But now, I’m at a loss. There’s nothing we can do for her. It’s in God’s hands—God and the Sûreté.”

Marcia stared out the window as the cab rolled along the boulevard. Her painter’s eye acquired an impression of a city under a grayish-blue sky; cloud-diffused light glanced off slate roofs, gray stone walls, and shaded windows; russet leaves rustled gently in a mild breeze, purple shadows danced on the pavement. As she took in the scene visually she listened to an accompaniment, the steady, rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rumbling wheels. She swayed with the incessant rocking of the carriage, which had a calming, almost hypnotic effect.

Arthur sat across from her, worried that the day’s events and revelations had been too much of a strain; they’d taken a toll. He would normally attempt an amusing quip, but he doubted whether anything he could say would cheer her up. Finally, he ventured a hopeful comment if only to break the uneasy silence:

“It’s sad news about the girl. But perhaps she’ll show up.”

Marcia turned away from the window and regarded him wistfully. “Do you remember our early days in Florence when we used to discuss problems of perception, the difference between appearances and reality?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes, I recall some of our metaphysical chit-chat. I was playing the Socratic schoolmaster; I could be awfully pretentious in those days.”

“No Arthur, it wasn’t pretense. You’ve always been perceptive, well-read, and worldly-wise; I’ve benefitted from all you’ve taught me. We live in a world of illusions; little or nothing is certain. We presume probable truths are certainties, until someone clearly rebuts our presumption. As for our will and freedom to choose, in most cases it seems our choice is limited to those falsehoods we wish to believe. I’ve always preferred beautiful lies to ugly ones. Perhaps I also prefer a beautiful lie to an ugly truth.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my life and career. At some point I made a crucial decision. Putting up all my talent and skill as collateral, I borrowed beauty from nature and invested her precious treasure in my art. For a time, I reaped a rich reward. But the market for beauty—at least my stock of beauty—has dropped of late. Now all my capital’s spent; my credit’s blown. Virginie Ménard appeared like a rich new resource to draw upon, a life-saving bank of beauty. But she’s gone, most likely the victim of a brutal crime. The damnable thing for me is that, deep down, I mourn my own loss from her absence more than I care for her suffering and death. I’m guilty in a moral sense; I’m little better than her murderer.”

Arthur stared at her for a moment. Then, his voice choked with emotion, he replied, “No, my dear. You’re tired and you’ve had a shock. I believe you loved the girl, as you loved Betsy and Aggie Fitzroy. I think I know you as well as anyone. You’ve given far more to the world through your art, than you ever took in return.”

Arthur crossed over to the opposite seat and put his arm around her. Marcia laid her head on his shoulder and wept.

Achille puffed nervously on a small cigar as he waited in a cab outside Toulouse-Lautrec’s apartment. The two detectives were stationed on either side of the street, ready in case he tried to make a run for it. Not that Achille expected a son of the Count of Toulouse to bolt like a common criminal; it was simply a routine precaution.