“You could have found her at the circus,” said Sylvie sharply. She looked beyond him down the street toward our destination, hoping this was a momentary diversion.

“Can I walk with you alone?” His doe-like eyes pleaded with me.

Sylvie tensed. I motioned to her to go on.

“I’ll be at the Closerie des Lilas waiting for you.” She gave Émile a final, disapproving glance before placing her hands in her pockets, spinning on her heels, and starting toward Boulevard du Montparnasse at a pace that let me know she didn’t agree with my decision.

Émile and I ambled down the street in the opposite direction, in silence.

“Why did you need to see me?” I stared straight ahead at the crowd in front of me, not meeting his eyes.

“I hated that you saw me with her,” he said. His tone was desperate. “I needed to explain.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Émile.” Clutching my purse tightly, I had a vivid recollection of that night. I was humiliated that he saw me in such a state, my bloodshot eyes, tearstained cheeks, and swollen face.

“But I do.” He stepped in front of me. The soft breeze blew at his hair, and car headlights illuminated him as they passed. “I don’t want her. I don’t know how that could have happened.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” I raised my eyebrow.

He placed his hands on my shoulders to stop me from moving on. “I tried to find you, but I could not get back into the circus.”

That was a curious development. Father had shut off Émile’s access to us.

“Then you didn’t come back here, either. When I couldn’t find you, I painted you, again and again. Each night. I would paint you and stare at you, telling you all the things that I am telling you now, and I would wake every morning—”

“And I would be gone,” I said. Am I terrible for admitting that I smiled at him then? It was just a small upward tilt of my mouth, but the idea that he had been in agony over me seemed fair. Now we were even.

“Each time, I tried to change something… your nose or your lips… anything so it wasn’t exactly you.”

“It isn’t like that, Émile. You can’t paint my essence, even by memory. It has nothing to do with changing my nose or lips.” I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Have you eaten?”