“For my final portrait, I will paint you again.”

“Non,” I said. “You must paint Esmé. She is the natural third painting.”

“But I don’t want to paint Esmé. Everyone in Montparnasse has painted her.”

“She is a phantom, like me. Only your painting of her will survive,” I said. “It will make you famous—rich even.” I glanced around his apartment, realizing he probably struggled to buy paints and pay the rent each month.

“Why am I the only one who can paint you?”

“Because we are of the circus,” I said, rubbing my arms. “It is magic, Émile. True magic and not some trick of light.”

“My mysterious Cecile.” He took my hand and led me over to the bed.

“What did you do before you painted?” I asked, changing the subject.

He sat down on the bed heavily. “I was in the war and then I came back and worked in a building, the Sacré-Coeur. After that had finished, I worked at the factory painting cars.”

Our legs touched, and I felt the heat of him. When he kissed me, I tasted cognac on his breath.

“In the morning will you disappear?”

“Non.” My hand touched his lightly.

“Promise?” He slid on top of me and his kisses were erratic, frantic, both short and long, like he would devour me if he could. I unbuttoned his shirt and felt the beads of sweat on his chest from the sweltering apartment. He pulled me up and unfastened my dress. It pooled around my feet. I unbuttoned his trousers and slipped my hands between his shirt and shoulders and let the shirt fall into a pile next to my dress; then I returned to his trousers, which he had already begun to lower. We spun against the wall next to the open window and the breeze hit me. I didn’t tell him as he entered me that I had not done this before with anyone, but his face changed when he realized there had been no one before him. As he moved, I also saw the realization alter him. He took my face in his hands and kissed me until he came with rough, erratic thrusts. When we were done, our sweat combined and we were dripping.

“You are not like the other girls I have known.” He caught his breath so this came out in short bursts, so much so that I struggled to hear him.

I was not sure what this meant, nor was I sure that I wanted to be reminded of other girls he has known.

The church bells clanged and reminded us that, outside, life would start again soon.

“We could go to Jardin du Luxembourg today. I could paint you.”

I frowned.

“I know.” He looked down. “But I could change a detail so it wouldn’t be you exactly. It would stay; I know it would.”