“What is it you wanted to tell me,” Simone asked, “about your work today?”

“Well, you know Gaston Ticolat, that bastard who rules our conservation department like a tyrant, always calling me ‘Immigrant,’ bossing me around, ordering me to do this, do that—” He took a deep breath. “Never mind that. What I want to tell you is what he assigned me to do, to fit paintings with glass.”

“Paintings under glass? But it will make them impossible to see, the glare—”

“Perhaps, but the museum has decided they must protect their masterpieces. Though again, that is not the point. The point is which paintings will now have glass, and which painting, just today, I was working on.”

Simone leaned across the table, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes, turning them gold. “Which one?”

Vincent held the moment. He enjoyed the expectant look on his beloved’s face. “Guess,” he said, smiling broadly, such a rarity that Simone played along, tapping a finger against her lips.

“Courbet’s Allegory.”

“No, no, that painting is too large for any glass, and you know that,” he said, the smile gone, his lazy right eye appearing even smaller when he frowned.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Simone said.

It made him feel bad that he had so little patience with this extraordinary woman, but he wanted his story to match the thrill he had felt, and he wanted to impress her. “One more guess.”

“That ghastly Titian in the Salon Carré?”

“No, but you are warm.”

“Tell me!” Simone reached across the table and gave his arm a playful slap.

“None other than Leonardo’s lady.”

“No!” Simone’s eyes widened “It cannot be!”

“Yes! I held her in my hands.”

“The Mona Lisa? You are lying!”

“I had her this close to my face.” Vincent indicated a fraction of an inch with his fingers. “I could see every detail—the mountains and paths, the fine brushwork of her hair, even the cracks in the glazed surface.”

Simone’s eyes widened further. “What was it like, Vincent? How did you feel?”

The question took him by surprise. What had he felt? Thrilled? Yes. Excited? Absolutely. Though months later, he would tell himself that at the moment what he had felt was envy—that Leonardo had created something he could never make, something perfect in every way—and that he wanted to remove it from the world forever.

“May I see her?” Simone asked.

“Of course. You can come to that wretched graveyard of art any day and gawk at the painting like everyone else.”

“Oh, Vincent, what a thing to say. One day, your work, and perhaps even mine, will be in such a graveyard. But I meant, when you next get to hold the painting, may I come to see it in your hands?”

“Ticolat would never allow it.”

“Well then, I have a better idea,” she said. “Bring the painting home for me, and I will hang it over our bed!” Simone laughed and Vincent laughed too, though he thought he would bring it home for her if he could, that he would do anything for her, anything at all.