Sir Henry smiled. “Of course; the City of Paris would be splendid.”

“As for the trip from New York to Colorado,” Betsy continued enthusiastically, “I know the President of the railroad quite well. I can wire him and have my private Pullman hooked up to a special train, ready for us upon arrival.” She paused a moment. “And of course, I would appreciate your continued medical attendance until we have reached our destination. That is, of course, if you can spare the additional time away from your practice.”

Prior to going on holiday, Sir Henry had referred his patients to an old school chum who was quite good when it came to splitting fees. Therefore, he was not worried about his practice, even if he had to leave it in his friend’s capable hands for another month or two, or longer. Moreover, the journey would give him time to get better acquainted with the handsome American heiress. He figured that even with the best of care, Marcia could not last much more than a year. Betsy would need consoling, and Sir Henry was quite the willing bachelor. And he was not overly concerned about the true nature of Betsy and Marcia’s relationship. He believed he understood women and, in his opinion, Betsy could be quite happy with the right man, that is to say a man like Sir Henry Collingwood.

“My dear Miss Endicott, I shall wire one of my colleagues and make appropriate arrangements for my practice. You needn’t worry in that regard. If you and Miss Brownlow are agreeable, I shall most certainly accompany you to Colorado.”

Marcia Brownlow appeared doll-like as she sat, her back supported by two plump down pillows, in the midst of an immense Louis XV canopied bed. Betsy reclined on the bedcovers beside her friend. She clutched one cold bony hand between her warm, soft palms as if by that operation Betsy could reinvigorate her dying companion.

When Marcia hemorrhaged and collapsed on the floor, her last thought had been: This is the end—so be it. But upon regaining consciousness, a strong will to live had given her strength to crawl to the settee and struggle to get back on her feet. She was thirty-nine, older than her mother had been when she died of typhoid. The last time Marcia looked in the mirror she saw her dead mother staring back at her—gaunt, pale, and exhausted from her battle with death.

Her dry, un-rouged lips smiled wanly, her green eyes gazed searchingly at Betsy. Marcia sighed as she wondered: Why persist in this farce? But she would not succumb to despair; as long as she lived and had the use of her eyes and hands, she would draw and paint. And she had discovered a new source of inspiration, Virginie Ménard. She would try to explain her fascination with Virginie to Betsy, but before making the effort she again sighed deeply.

Taking the sigh as a sign of discomfort, Betsy asked with a worried frown, “Are you all right, dear? Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m quite well, I assure you. Frankly, I’m getting cabin fever lying in this catafalque of a bed day and night. This afternoon, I’m going to insist that Sir Henry let me get up and walk about.”

This was what Betsy wanted to hear. “I shall insist upon it too! If the weather permits, I’ll hire an open carriage and take you for a ride through the Bois de Boulogne.”

Marcia smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be splendid.” She paused a moment to collect her thoughts before pursuing a touchy subject. “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, these last couple of days. There’s something I must explain to you; I want you to understand—”

Betsy apprehended her meaning, and interrupted: “Let’s not discuss anything unpleasant, dear. It’s unnecessary; I understand perfectly.”

Betsy understood nothing, and her moods shifted unpredictably between passivity and aggression. At times, she would confront danger or adversity with an almost inhuman composure. At others, she used wealth to avoid unpleasantness, purchasing a first class cabin ticket on the next luxury steamer bound for somewhere else.

Marcia thought she knew all Betsy’s moods; she would plead for comprehension and hope for the best. “Please dear, what I have to say is important. It’s the truth, and it’s not what you think. I’m going to tell you everything about Virginie Ménard.”

Betsy dropped Marcia’s hand. “No, no, no! I don’t want to hear it!” She put her hands over her ears like a petulant child.

Marcia put her arms around Betsy and held her until the tension subsided. “Darling,” she whispered, “believe me, I don’t want any more lies on my conscience. Not now; it’s too late for lies.”

Betsy retrieved a lace handkerchief, wiped her tears and blew her nose gently. “All right, Marcia, I’ll listen. I apologize; I’ve promised the doctor not to do anything to upset you.”

Satisfied that Betsy had pulled herself together, Marcia began her “confession” with the past as prelude. Years earlier, Marcia had impersonated a man to achieve success in the male-dominated art world. Calculating and opportunistic, she had entered into the deception on the theory that it was a small price to pay for recognition, patronage, and lucrative commissions. Betsy was one of the wealthy women she had deceived.

Betsy listened patiently, but she could not help interrupting: “Please Marcia, why dredge up the past? It’s too painful.”

“Life is painful, dear. You’ve been kind, generous, and forgiving but those lies I told you still weigh on my conscience. I’m now confronted with the horrible realization that my art, my life’s work, has been a lie. Since childhood, I’ve tried to see beauty in nature, to capture beauty’s essence and transform it into art. And my paintings have been popular and sold well because I painted the world as people wanted to see it, not as it really was. But can beauty exist without truth? I’ve asked myself that question over the years, without having reached a conclusion.

“When I first saw Virginie, her beauty ignited the flame of my artistic passion, a flame, I might add, that had been guttering of late. I wanted to paint more than the beauty I saw; I needed to get under her skin, to penetrate her very essence. I desired the most intimate knowledge of her, to discover her secret so that truth and beauty could be merged into one ineffable image on canvas. That’s why, after sketching Virginie at the Atelier I invited her to a nearby boîte for drinks and conversation. Despite our different life experiences, we seemed like kindred spirits, sharing our innermost secrets. She opened up to me, revealing a world I could have hardly imagined. She had suffered a cruel childhood and was haunted by a memory of her aunt and uncle slaughtering Virginie’s pet pig, Buttercup.”

Betsy listened sympathetically to a story of physical and mental abuse, until she interrupted: “Please dear, that story is too awful to relate. And what in heaven’s name has it to do with art?”

“That story has inspired me. But there’s more. Virginie told me about a revenge fantasy. It gave her strength to endure her aunt’s beatings. The fantasy took place in the slaughterhouse where the Mercier’s had slaughtered Virginie’s pet. Madame Mercier came out of the chute, naked, covered with filth, crawling on all fours and grunting like a swine. Buttercup followed, walking upright with a prod in her human-like hand. Prodding Madame’s rump, the anthropomorphized pig growled in Virginie’s voice, ‘Move your arse you ugly sow, before I flay it raw!’

“Virginie waited by the gate, mallet in hand. When Madame entered the shed she glanced up in terror as the girl gleefully poleaxed her squealing aunt. Then, assisted by Buttercup, Virginie hoisted, stuck, boiled, singed, scraped, butchered, and dressed Madame Mercier, grinding what was left into feed for her porcine friends. Pretty little Buttercup always got the most generous portion.”