“Take it,” said Lara. “You might be able to confirm that it is from 1925. I have my copy of the notes. You might be able to translate a few of the things I couldn’t.” She opened up the diary and showed him a few notes on the pages.

“Why don’t we finish this discussion over lunch?” Gaston looked over at Lara and seemed to read her mind. She was starved. “Hopefully our hotel rooms will be ready after that.”

Barrow made a copy of Lara’s journal translation before sliding the original back in the envelope and placing it in the locked safe along with the wrapped painting. “I know a great spot for lunch,” said Barrow. “We can finish our discussion there.”

As the trio walked up Rue de Richelieu to a little restaurant tucked behind Opéra-Comique, Lara was so exhausted that she felt like she was staggering. With its cozy red velvet banquettes and low chandeliers, the restaurant looked like it had remained frozen in time from the Belle Époque period. Any moment, Lara expected women to arrive in velvet dresses with their hair pinned up and men in waistcoats. Vintage opera costumes and photos of opera stars decorated the walls. With its atmosphere, Lara imagined the place was a delight in the winter.

The waitress walked by with a chalkboard displaying the lunch specials. Barrow ordered the carpaccio de Saint-Jacques followed by the côte de boeuf, and Gaston the snails and the turbot. Lara chose a “tiramisu” of tomatoes with Parmesan and chicken ravioli, which consisted of two large pasta sheets formed into one giant raviolo containing shredded chicken smothered in an onion-and-cream sauce topped with the floral taste of thyme. All three had wine—something Lara didn’t typically drink at lunch. Barrow chose a Bordeaux, Gaston a Sancerre, and Lara a Meursault, the rare, oaky wine produced by a commune in Côte de Beaune.

While they waited for the wine to arrive, Barrow skimmed the copy of Lara’s journal translation. Pushing the paper aside, Barrow took off his glasses and rubbed his face.

“So, what do you think?” She sensed that he couldn’t wait for her and Gaston to leave so he could devour the journal and her notes. He kept coming back to it, pulling it over to refer to it and then pushing it away toward the salt and pepper shakers.

“I am speechless, Ms. Barnes,” said Barrow. “You don’t know how long I have searched for answers on these missing paintings. I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that I am the foremost scholar on Giroux’s work.”

“Modest,” said Gaston, chuckling as he tore off a piece of bread and pointed it at Barrow. “But true.”