“You too, Papa,” she replied.

Arthur Wolcott occupied a marble-topped table on the sidewalk fronting a popular café on the fashionable Boulevard des Italiens. He experienced the clear, fresh autumn afternoon, his coffee and cigarette, his desultory reading of a newspaper article reporting President Carnot’s latest remarks on the Exposition’s success, the rumbling of cabs and omnibuses, the bustle and chatter of well-dressed boulevardiers, the sparrows flitting among the shedding branches, russet leaves floating in a mild breeze, a large, high-soaring red, white, and blue balloon advertising the Fair, the countless congenial impressions summing up a pleasant afternoon in the city. But whenever his mind tried to anchor itself in a sheltering harbor, a place of agreeable repose, it soon broke from its mooring and drifted back into a rough sea of consternation and doubt.

Earlier, he had called upon Marcia to invite her out for some refreshment, thinking such an outing would be a sovereign remedy for what ailed her, but she had taken to her bed. Following the shocking news of Virginie Ménard’s apparent abduction and murder, Marcia had suffered a mild relapse, not from her consumption but rather from what Sir Henry diagnosed as “female hysteria.” The doctor had prescribed a sedative and obtained the services of a nurse. Having thus quieted his patient and provided for her care, he had no qualms about spending the day at Chatou with Betsy Endicott.

The Exposition is an unprecedented success, presaging a new century of progress and enlightenment. He read that line for the fifth time, and then lost it amid his recurring concerns about Marcia’s mental and physical decline, Betsy’s seeming indifference, and Sir Henry’s increasing detachment from, and questionable treatment of, his patient. He doesn’t give a damn about Marcia; it’s Betsy he’s after, and she seems infatuated with him.

Arthur put down his paper, stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, and habitually lit another. We’ve all bought our one-way ticket to the slaughterhouse. Arthur had written that line in a play, and then judiciously scratched it out as too dismal and disturbing for his audience. But eliding such comments on the human condition from his work did not keep them from repeatedly nettling his conscience.

“Well this is certainly a chance meeting. Good afternoon, Arthur.”

He looked up with a start into the veiled face of the onetime Venus of Belgravia. Lady Agatha Fitzroy smiled slyly at her old friend’s wide-eyed look of astonishment at her sudden appearance.

“My goodness, Arthur, do I look as bad as all that? You stare at me as though I were one of the ghosts in that deliciously wicked story of yours.”

He rose from the table, tipped his hat, and made a slight bow. “Pardon me, Lady Agatha, I was preoccupied and you came up so—so unexpectedly. Of course, you’re looking splendid, as always, and I’m both delighted and surprised to see you.”

She laughed at his formal flattery, laughter that he had once compared to that of a tinkling silver bell, demanding one’s attention in a manner that was both charming and intrusive. “Why are you so stiff? I’m the same Aggie you’ve known these past ten years and more. Now, will you permit me to join you, or should I just plop down and impose myself like a fellow American?”

“Oh, please do be seated, Aggie. I’ll call the waiter. I’d like another coffee and an aperitif. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, Arthur; that would be delightful.” Aggie sat across from him and lifted her veil. Venus had certainly withered, but she had not yet quite decomposed. Lady Agatha looked like a tastefully wrapped mummy of a type Arthur often encountered in society, a once-beautiful woman now well past her prime who tried to conceal her wrinkles, warts, and age spots beneath a layer of paint, powder, and rouge. Typically, such relics had been belles coming out early in the reign of Queen Victoria and at the court of Louis Philippe. But those beauties of yesteryear were in their sixties; Aggie was barely thirty-nine. Years of casual promiscuity, drinking, and opium smoking had taken their toll.

Arthur offered her a cigarette. She accepted and leaned forward as he struck a match. He noticed the slight tremor in her gloved hand as she held his to steady the light.

Arthur called the waiter and their drinks were brought presently. The aperitifs had a tongue-loosening effect. After exchanging a few pleasantries Arthur asked, “So what brings you to Paris?”

Aggie downed her drink and requested another before answering: “I won’t beat about the bush with an old friend. Frankly, I’m strapped for cash and selling artwork to raise capital. I’ve had some very good offers in London, but for certain pieces I might get a better price in Paris. And I have one item of particular interest to Betsy Endicott, my famous Mark Brownlow portrait. Someone—you’ll forgive me if I don’t reveal the name—has already offered me a thousand guineas.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted at the sum. “By Jove, a thousand you say? That’s quite a handsome offer, even for a modern masterpiece.”

The waiter interrupted with their drinks. Aggie took a sip and then fiddled with the liqueur, rolling the stem between her fingers, sloshing the drink, and spreading a green film on the inside of the glass. After a moment: “I expect Betsy would pay more than a thousand guineas, quite a bit more in fact. I know she and Marcia have a suite at the Grand Hotel, and you’re staying there as well. I’m afraid that’s a bit beyond my means these days. I was going to announce myself by leaving a card at the front desk, but I wonder if you’d do me a favor by sounding them out first?”

Aggie’s frank disclosure of her financial difficulties coupled with her expectations of significant gain from the sale of her portrait to Betsy raised Arthur’s suspicions. To his knowledge, only five people besides himself knew of the Mark Brownlow deception—Marcia, Betsy, Daisy Brewster, Princess Albertini, and Lady Agatha. Was Aggie’s situation so desperate that she might attempt blackmail? Such things were not unknown in society when creditors came banging at one’s door. The revelation that for more than two years Marcia had lived and painted as a man would be harmful to all concerned, including Arthur, who had acted as “Mark”’s agent and had promoted the young artist’s works aggressively among his many social contacts and friends.

Arthur tried to disguise his apprehension behind a smile. He was privy to some information that might extricate him from his dilemma. Betsy would pay a premium for Marcia’s work if she knew some of the money would be used for Marcia’s care. Arthur immediately conceived of a scheme that would benefit Marcia and at the same time help Aggie without her being tempted to resort to criminal tactics. “I’ll of course be glad to ‘sound them out.’ We’re old friends, after all. And I believe Betsy would indeed pay a fine price for your portrait, assuming you kept your demands within reason. By the way, did you know Betsy and Marcia were parting company?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Has Marcia’s illness anything to do with it?”

“Her illness—and other things. At any rate, she’s currently under the care of a noted physician, Sir Henry Collingwood. I believe you’re acquainted with the gentleman?”

Lady Agatha’s eyes narrowed, revealing a network of wrinkles through white face powder like the crazing on an old pottery glaze. “You needn’t be coy, Arthur. We’re not in a London drawing room. My former relationship with Sir Henry is quite well known.”

“Ah yes, but now it seems Sir Henry has turned his attention to Betsy, and that is one of the ‘other things’ I mentioned as the cause for separation.”