Louise stared. And then, quite suddenly, she felt her throat contract, and before she could do anything about it, tears came into her eyes. There could be no further doubt. The coincidences were too many. Marc was her father. And she was looking at her mother.

She kept very still, hoping the little dealer had not noticed.

He stood up.

“I will bring the portrait in, madame, if I may,” he said, moving to the door at the back. “It’s interesting to see all three pieces together.”

He was gone several minutes. By the time he returned, she had fully recovered herself. But she felt sure that he had noticed, and that his absence was tactful kindness.

“You see, madame.” He hung the portrait on a blank wall, and adjusted the lighting. Then he held up the two sketches, one in each hand, beside the portrait.

“A set of three,” she said. “They look wonderful together.”

“I hoped you might say that. I think so too.”

“The painting was for someone else originally,” she lied. “But I might take them for myself. I remember you quoted me a price for the painting. But that was some years ago. What would it be now, with the drawings as well?”

“The same, madame. You are an excellent client.”

“You are kind, Monsieur Jacob.”

“If you will permit me, madame, I should like to get the drawings framed, and then we can arrange delivery.”

“Excellent, monsieur. Meanwhile, I shall choose a suitable place to hang them.”

When the transaction was complete, she prepared to leave.

“There is just one thing, madame,” Jacob said. He was gazing at her kindly. “The artist may ask me who bought the painting.”

“Just tell him that a private collector has the work.”

“You are sure, madame? He might like to meet you.” His voice was very soft.

He had guessed. She was sure of it.

“No, monsieur, I do not wish to meet the artist.”

“As you wish, madame.” He opened the door and bowed, as she stepped out into the street.

She took a taxi back. She was eager to spend a little time alone in her apartment thinking about the best place to hang the picture and its accompanying drawings.

She also couldn’t help reflecting that it was sad that she couldn’t make herself known to her blood relations—to Marie, whom she liked, and Marc who, whatever his faults, had talents to be admired, and to her dear old grandfather down at Fontainebleau. Might she and Claire, whom she’d seen only from a distance, have become friends? Or would they have rejected her, as her mother’s family had done? She didn’t intend to find out.

But unknown to them all, with the purchase of the portrait, she was piecing together her family, her true identity, reconstituting a past and a truth that would otherwise have been lost.