“Don’t be foolish,” I replied. “I am not your chérie.” I tried to shrug him off and instead felt a sharp prick of pain at my side.

“I am efficient with a blade,” he whispered into my ear. “One wrong move and it will be your last. We will take a walk, you and I, among the graves.”

“Why should I walk with you?” I demanded, my voice sharp with fear. “You’ll only kill me anyway, and without the risk of anyone looking on.”

“You will walk because you have no choice,” he said, and I felt the pressure of that knife digging into me. “And maybe all I want is your money to help me get to England. We shall see how I feel.”

And he propelled me forward, one arm draped around my shoulder like a lover, while the other one held the knife firmly at my side. I tried to think how to struggle, to throw him off guard without allowing him to stab me first. He half pushed, half carried me between two mausoleums. Then I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Someone was coming. Someone really tall. I could see his head over the top of the roof of the mausoleum. And I recognized him.

“Monsieur Degas!” I called. “It’s Madame Sullivan.” And I jerked my head back into Maxim Noah’s face, hearing a grunt of pain as I connected with his nose. I followed this with my elbow into his stomach and took that brief moment of surprise to wrench myself free. I ran over to Degas. “What a pleasure to meet you again,” I said, going up to him and taking his arm.

“I have been visiting the family tomb,” he said. “It is the anniversary of the death of my mother. I always take flowers.”

“What a fine sentiment,” I said. “I have been examining the graves with Maxim Noah.”

I tried not to look back, to see if Maxim was still behind me. If Monsieur Degas thought it was odd that I was behaving in this familiar fashion, he was too much of a gentleman to say anything. We walked a few yards up the path when he said, “Madame, is something wrong? What is that I see? Mon dieu. Can it be that you are you bleeding?”

I looked down at the ground and saw bright splashes of red on the yellow gravel. I put my hand to my side. It came away warm and sticky. “Maxim Noah. He…” And I realized I didn’t know the French word for “stab.” “He wished to kill me,” I said and everything started to go black.