She shrugged. “I’ve never seen her and I’m here regularly.”

Another brilliant thought struck me. “What about a model called Pauline? Used to pose for Reynold Bryce?”

“Pauline?” She looked amused. “Pose for him? That’s an interesting way of putting it.” She leaned toward me blowing stale cigarette breath in my face. “You don’t want to paint her, my dear. Too much temperament. Besides, she’s already chatting with Monsieur Degas over there.”

“She’s here?” I looked around until I spotted Degas’s tall, lean form. Then I saw the girl he was talking to. “That’s Pauline?”

“That’s right. Pauline Hubert. Used to be Bryce’s mistress.”

I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, staring at her. She was beautiful, with ash-blonde hair piled high on her head, perfect bone structure, and an air of patrician purity about her. And she was young. In her early twenties at the most. So what sort of joke had been shared when that man at the Steins’ declared she was too old?

I hesitated then made my way toward her. I wasn’t at all sure what I was going to say. Degas saw me first. “Ah, it’s the young lady from America. Bonjour, madame. What brings you to our model market? Curiosity? Don’t be embarrassed. There are many tourists who are curious about us. They think this must be a den of vice, but it is simply a way for artists to find the body they wish to paint. I’m trying to persuade Pauline here that I would like to paint her in her bathtub. So far she resists.” And he gave me a wicked smile.

“Pauline?” I pretended to be surprised. “Were you not painted by Reynold Bryce once?”

“He painted me, yes.” The eyes that observed me were cold and I could tell she was trying to work out who I was. “Several times. But he was satisfied with none of them. He was not a man who was easily satisfied.”

“You must be sad to learn of his passing,” I said.

She shrugged. “It means nothing to me. That is all ancient history now. Frankly I was glad to walk away from him. Old and boring, and too possessive.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a reporter?”

“Possibly,” I said, holding her gaze.

She looked at Degas then shrugged. “I can tell you nothing. Frankly I don’t think he was worth killing. One only kills a person who stirs up deep and violent emotions. Love, hate, jealousy. They might drive someone to kill. But Reynold—he was of your generation, Monsieur Degas.”