But she didn’t really need any help. She was discovering a rich imaginative vein in herself that she’d never knew she had.

She spent considerable sums on every redecoration, but she kept a sharp eye on the profits and the cash, and found that she could charge more for the quality of service she was providing. As for the girls, they loved dressing up to suit the part, whether Egyptian princess, Roman slave or any of the many roles that fantasy, light or dark, might demand.

There was always something new at Louise’s brothel, and it was done with style. She hoped that her Blanchard family, if they had known, would have been pleased.

After the prospective girl had gone, telling her staff that she would not be back for several hours, Louise left for Jacob’s gallery. It was less than a mile and she decided to walk. She walked west to the Place des Victoires, crossed behind the Palais-Royal, and up through the district near the Bourse that she knew so well. She was in a good mood as she entered the rue Taitbout.

Monsieur Jacob was delighted to see her. His wife was visiting the gallery. Her plain dress and pale skin suggested that, as Louise had always supposed, the Jacob family were strictly observant. She had a baby girl with her, of whom Jacob was obviously very proud.

“Your first?” she asked with a smile.

“Oui, madame.” He beamed.

“Her name?”

“Laïla.”

“A beautiful name.”

She suspected that Jacob himself knew what she did. He might have told his wife, or he might not. The younger woman seemed a little reserved, but that might just be her manner. She did not touch the baby, but she congratulated both parents on having such a pretty child. Then mother and daughter left.

“So what have you for me?” she asked Jacob.

“Something different, madame. Drawings.” He went to a plan chest and returned with a portfolio containing a number of charcoal and pencil sketches on thick paper, which he placed on a table. “I remembered that you had taken an interest in the work of Marc Blanchard,” he continued, “and I was at his place the other day.”

“Ah. He is well?” She was careful not to sound too interested.

“He is getting old, madame. But I asked him if he had any other work for me—for I have sold a number of his paintings, you know. And he told me that the only thing he had was a portfolio of drawings that he hadn’t looked at in years, and that I was free to take it away and see if there was anything of interest.”

He showed her three. One was a rough sketch of Paris seen from the hill of Montmartre, not especially interesting. Two others were very incomplete life drawings, one of a man, the other of a middle-aged lady in a hat.

“They’re all right …,” said Louise, without much enthusiasm.