Dangerous to Know by TASHA ALEXANDER Page A

celebration.” She then opened the bottle and poured glasses for Cécile, herself, and me, leaving the other glasses empty. “You’ll get none until you’re done with this ridiculous haggling,” she said.
    I accepted a glass from her. “I wish you years of happiness,” I said. We toasted, then left the men to a discussion of whether or not Manet, whose use of black deviated from the technique of the other Impressionists, should be included in Sebastian’s forbidden group. Making our way through a bright yellow dining room, we stepped into the kitchen whose walls were lined with stunning blue and white Limoges tiles. Copper pans shone, hanging from their racks, and tall windows thrust open over the garden, a sweet, floral fragrance wafting in through them. Alice gave a series of instructions to the servants, then grabbed a platter laden with cheeses—Camembert and Neufchatel amongst others, along with a crusty baguette—and stepped through a door back outside.
    â€œYou have found heaven here, I think,” Cécile said, taking a seat at a rough but welcoming table in a pleasantly shaded grove. The day could not have been more beautiful, a handful of puffy clouds dotting the cerulean sky. “Although I do not think I myself could be so far from Paris.”
    â€œNot you, Cécile,” Alice said, breaking off a piece of the bread and cutting into the soft cheese. “But my dear Claude is miserable when he’s not here. I do hope you can stay with us a few days, at least. There’s so much on which we need to catch up.”
    â€œIf I can convince Kallista and her dashing husband to remove poor Monsieur Capet without me, I could be persuaded,” she said.
    â€œThat could be arranged.” I grinned. “I can’t thank you enough, Alice, for being so generous in your forgiveness of him.”
    â€œIt is nothing,” Alice said, waving her hand. “The painting is returned—and purchased—and all can be forgot. But I am interested in this friend of yours. He reminds me very much of a gentleman my husband painted years ago. Monsieur…. Vasseur, I believe was his name.”
    â€œVasseur?” I asked, springing to attention.
    â€œIt’s his eyes,” Alice said, smiling at the serving girl who’d followed us outside with the rest of the champagne and was now refilling our glasses. “I’ve never seen any that color. Is it possible your intrepid acquaintance goes by more than one name? Perhaps to disguise his nefarious activities?”
    â€œSurely Monet would have recognized him?” Cécile asked.
    â€œNot necessarily,” Alice said. “The portrait was done ages ago. Even before we’d come to Giverny. But we can ask him.”
    When the men joined us sometime later, I raised the issue at once.
    â€œHim?” Monet was incredulous. “Absolutely not.”
    â€œYou’re quite sure?” I asked.
    â€œMy dear girl,” Sebastian said. “I do think I’d remember having my portrait painted. Although now you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. What do you say, Monet?”
    The artist’s reply was something akin to a growl, and I let the subject go. I had no reason to doubt Monet’s sincerity (or his memory), but Sebastian’s credentials were more than dubious. I wanted to talk to him privately, but was not to have the chance. Before we’d all retired for the night, he’d disappeared, slipping into the darkness, leaving no explanation, only a too-flowery note thanking Monet for the excellent wine and continuing to debate Manet’s inclusion in the Impressionist movement.

9
    My mood had lightened considerably by the time we left Giverny. It is difficult to be morose or to wallow when in the company of such friends, and their loving cheer was just the remedy for the ills I’d suffered since Constantinople. Fortified and feeling more like myself than I