Within the hour, though, Esmé and the Spaniard had gone. Émile Giroux took a chair and wedged it between Hadley and me. She was amused by his audacity and widened her eyes. He was wearing brown corduroy pants with a sloppy jacket—all the men in Montparnasse seem to wear brown corduroys and sloppy jackets. He told me that he has never gotten a ticket to my circus. I nodded. So this was why he was trying to converse with me. Now it all made sense. I sighed, a little disappointed. “Let me guess. You haven’t gotten a ticket, but all your friends have?” The brandy had gone to my head a little.

“I hear it’s quite a spectacle,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “I never much liked the circus, though.” He studied my face, causing me to look away. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Turn away.” He reached over and turned my chin toward him, adjusting it up to the low lighting. “I should paint you.”

I smiled. He could, but my likeness would be gone before the paint dried.

“Are you hungry?”

It was an unexpected question, and I realized that I was famished.

“Let’s get out of here.” He didn’t move, but his eyes motioned toward the entrance.

“Let me guess?” My eyebrow rose. “Back to your flat to paint me?”

He shook his head, finally standing. “No, to Les Halles.”

Hadley overheard him. “The market?” She made a face.

“Come,” he said, taking my hand.

I looked at Hadley for her opinion.

“He’s honestly the best of all of them.” She winked. “And he knows Paris better than anyone. I’d go.”

Her earnest smile made me warm to her. Unlike the flappers, like Esmé, who had dyed and cropped their hair and painted their faces with sapphire and black eye shadow and dark-red lips, Hadley kept her face pristine. There was little pretension to her, and I’d liked her instantly. My own silver hair flowed down my back in ringlets like hers. As it is the fashion, I know that we have both been under pressure to bob our hair. She and I looked like we belonged in another time, like two American Gibson girls.

Sylvie, in a cozy corner and deep in conversation with an American socialite, eyed me warily as I made my way to the door. “Can you get home all right?” I could feel Émile’s impatience at the door. I’d never been alone with a man before and I was hoping that Sylvie wouldn’t spook me.

It was the woman who teased, twirling a strand of Sylvie’s hair. “She’s not going home tonight—at least not with you.”

Her eyes traveled to Émile pacing outside, and a wicked smile formed on her face. My face felt hot. I pushed through the door into the night.