He shook his head. “Oh, Cecile. I am so in love with you. After you left, I sent Esmé away. Nothing happened between the two of us, I swear! The look on your face. I could not believe what I had done and how stupidly I’d behaved.” He grabbed his head, like it was pounding. “We’d had too much to drink then we got dancing; that’s all. It was hot in my apartment. You must believe me.”

“Can I ask you something?” I stood close to him, looking up.

“Of course, anything,” he said. He began to wind up for another wave of protestations of his innocence, but I held up my hand to silence them.

“Even if what you say is true, had I not come to your door when I did, what would have happened between you and my sister?” The question lingered. I could see the guilt on his face. “I see.” Having my answer, I turned and walked down the street. Two blocks ahead, I could still make out Sylvie’s shape ahead of me.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he called, running after me, catching my arm. “I will do anything that you require to make it right. I will give up painting. We can move away together.”

I shook free of him. How dare he touch me when he just admitted to me that he’d wanted my sister. There was a cruel streak in me that longed to tell him there was nothing to be done, his choice had been made when he’d invited her to his apartment. The desire to see him twist for what he had done to me was great. Before I’d met him, my life had been lonely, but simple. Surely this spiteful inclination comes from Father. I took a few deep breaths in through my nose, trying to calm myself. I took him in and softened, for the man who stood before me looked to be days away from his own death. He had not eaten nor, it seemed, slept for days.

“Please,” he pleaded with me. He began pacing the street like a madman, tugging at his hair.

I was startled to see my own internal storm of emotions physically manifested in him. He looked like I felt. Waves of both worry and relief washed over me as I saw that his feelings for me had been very real, but then I realized that he was causing a scene on the street. Women were stepping away from him as they passed us.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” I took his hand and led him to Closerie des Lilas. As we approached, Sylvie, who’d found a two-seat table, frowned.

“Why is he still here?”

“Shut up, Sylvie,” I said, muttering under my breath as I attempted to locate another chair in the crowded café.