Thumbing through the book, the photos of Giroux’s work showed a range of styles. His early paintings right out of school were classic and traditional. Then Giroux migrated toward cruder paintings, longer legs, elongated heads. The work was rich and vibrant—the colors leaping off the page—yet Lara didn’t care for them as much as Giroux’s earlier work. She kept flipping the pages as Giroux shifted to an attempt at cubism. Here, Lara thought he excelled. His portraits were deeply angled, exaggerated, yet displayed perfect perspective. The subjects were close-up. The deep angles were shaded with objects. Inside a cheekbone or a crease of the eye were tiny symbols that represented the moment, the time, or the subject. The paintings were intricate, textured, yet beautiful. Lara could see that his color choices were either tightly coordinated or elegantly contrasted. The final folio of photos showed Giroux—a striking man with long brown hair in a style that looked like he couldn’t be bothered to cut it. He had light round eyes and small pursed lips; his skin was pale. The photo of him, slouching in an uncomfortable chair, head cocked and resting in his hand, was taken by Man Ray. The date: April 8, 1925.

The artist was dressed in brown, his clothes warm and worn. For a poor artist, Lara imagined how cold April could be in Paris. A smile formed at the corner of her mouth as she recalled the journal entry where Cecile described all of the men in Montparnasse wearing brown jackets. Her description of the man in this photo had been so accurate that he could have stepped right out of her journal.

Seeing him, Lara wanted Sylvie on the Steed to be his creation. He looked dreamy and romantic, worthy of painting Cecile. She’d brought the journal with her, finding it hard to be away from it. Now that she was in Paris, she felt it was almost guiding her, Cecile’s voice beckoning her on. With her free time, she’d planned on retracing her great-grandmother’s steps—touring the cafés of Montparnasse, the markets at Rue Mouffetard and the Bois de Boulogne—places where Cecile had stood and lived.

A steady tick of the clock was the only sound in the room. Barrow took a long time studying the EG signature before he turned the painting over to look at the back, running his hand over the wood frame that shaped the canvas. He tilted Sylvie on the Steed under the light, scanning each inch of the edge of the picture.

Gaston had begun to whistle, and both Lara and Barrow looked up at him, annoyed.

“Well?” Gaston leaned over the table, joining Barrow.

“You were right. The signature looks correct, although it is not perfect, but the canvas and the painting style are pure Giroux. I’ve seen this exact canvas type and paint in every one of his other works.”