She almost dragged me off toward the Right Bank. I saw no reason not to let her come with me. Frankly I was in sore need of some good company.

“Is Montmartre really as wicked and sinful as they make out?” she asked. “Naked girls and opium?”

I had to laugh. “I haven’t encountered any naked girls or opium yet, but it does seem to be quite primitive. And lots of artists.”

“Oh, yes. Artists. I met some artists who wanted to paint me when I was walking in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I was sorely tempted to say yes, but then I thought if Peter happened upon a naked portrait of me, there would be trouble.”

“There certainly would.” The talk about artists had reminded me of her connection. “I don’t suppose you had a chance to visit Reynold Bryce, did you?”

“Before he died, you mean? Wasn’t that awful?”

“Ah, so you heard about it?”

She nodded, biting her lip like a small child. “It was an awful shock. It really upset me. I kept thinking that I’d seen him alive only a day before. I went to see him the day I arrived. I thought he might take me out to dinner, actually.”

We had reached the Métro station. “Oh, the underground railway. I’ve been dying to take a ride on a subway train. How exciting.” And she ran ahead of me down the steps. A train came thundering in and this time I knew where to stand for the second-class coach.

“So you were telling me about Mr. Bryce,” I said as we took seats on a wooden bench and the train began to move. “You saw him the day before he died. Was he surprised to see you?”

“Surprised, yes. Pleased, no.” She paused, bumping against me as the train went around a bend in the track. “He looked as if he was seeing a ghost to start with. Then I told him who I was and he said, ‘Of course you are.’ Then he told me he was in the middle of painting and didn’t have time to see me that day and I should come back when he’d finished.

“I said that my fiancé would be arriving in a few days and I didn’t know what his plans were for us.

“‘Fiancé? Good God, has it been that long?’ he said. Then a voice called out from another room and if my French was correct it told him to hurry up because she was getting cold. He looked quite embarrassed. ‘You see. Now is not a good time,’ he said, and led me back to the front door.” She turned to me with a bleak face. “And then he was dead.”

“Yes, it’s sad, isn’t it? They say it was a young Jew, angry about Bryce’s outspoken anti-Semitism.”