The man was a good-looking fellow in his early thirties, with a light brown beard and a pipe. He had two easels, side by side. One held a sketchbook, the other a primed canvas on which he was just starting to work. Thomas stared at the sketch, and stopped.

“Pardon, monsieur,” he said politely, “but isn’t that the Gare Saint-Lazare?”

“It is.” The artist looked up with a pleasant smile. “It’s a sketch I made last winter. A snow scene, but I felt like working it up today.” He shrugged. “It’s nice to sit out in the sun.”

“I worked there last year,” said Thomas, inspecting the sketch. “I can see the railway lines, the steam from the trains. That’s exactly how it looks.”

“Thank you.”

“But why would you paint a railway?”

“Why not? Monet has painted several pictures of the Gare Saintazare.”

“So are you what they call an Impressionist?”

“You can call me that if you like.” The artist smiled. “The term began as an insult, you know. But nobody really knows what it means. Half the people they call Impressionists don’t in fact use the word.”

“You live here, monsieur?”

“Mostly. I was in Holland, in Rotterdam, this spring. I may go back there.”

“What is your name, monsieur?”

“Norbert Goeneutte.”

“You know Monsieur Renoir?”

“Very well. I have modeled for him, in fact.”

“My name is Thomas Gascon. I live here. I am an ironworker. I built the Statue of Liberty.” They shook hands. Thomas continued to inspect the sketch. “I still can’t believe you painted a railway line.”

“You expect artists to paint gods and goddesses in pretty Italian landscapes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Plenty of people expect that. But what I try to do, and Monet, and many others, is paint the world around us. Paint what we really see.”

“But a railway station isn’t beautiful …”

“Are you familiar with any writers?”

“I was at the funeral of Victor Hugo.”