“Ah,” she repeated and I couldn’t tell whether she believed this story or not. It didn’t really matter. I hadn’t identified the village or given her any name she could pursue. I carried Liam up the stairs, set him down with his toys, and started work. The weather had improved and the sun shining though those French windows had made the apartment warm and muggy. I opened the windows and stood on the balcony for a moment, taking in the scene one last time. As I dragged trunks from a closet, I could see that my task was going to be a daunting one. Packing up my own clothes only took minutes. Dismantling Liam’s crib was not hard. But Sid and Gus had a multitude of clothes, books, Gus’s paintings and art supplies, as well as paintings they had bought from other artists and other souvenirs they had acquired. There were some good pieces of Limoges china plus a delightful small sculpture of a ballerina, several mirrors, a camera, and a coffee set, all of which required careful wrapping and packing. I found tissue paper in one of the drawers and set to work.

I was interested to see that the paintings they had bought were all rather more modern than my taste—blue faces, flying cats. There was one of a young girl with enormous dark eyes, peering into a dark empty room that I thought was well-done, but strangely disturbing and was glad it wouldn’t hang on my wall. I stacked them one by one, then finally packed the painting Gus had been working on. Luckily the paint had now dried. It really wasn’t great art, I thought as it went into a crate. I could see why Reynold Bryce hadn’t wanted to include her work and it had nothing to do with her companion being Jewish. I picked up the postcard that Reynold Bryce had written two days before he died. “Absolutely not,” it said. The definitive answer when Gus had begged him to reconsider his rejection of her work. I dropped the postcard on top of the paintings and shut the crate.

I was hot and perspiring and ready for a cup of tea when the carter came at five. I held Liam safely out of the way as trunks and cases were carried downstairs. Madame Hetreau appeared to have a good snoop and made sure that I hadn’t packed anything belonging to her. I noticed her nod of satisfaction when she saw that an armchair and a lot of cooking equipment were being left behind.

“You will give the ladies my regards,” she reiterated as the carter helped me up to the seat on the wagon. I said I would and thanked her for letting us stay, which was ridiculous, but at least it meant we parted on good terms. “Bonne chance, good luck,” she called after me.