His journey had the smell of desperation, of both the hunt and the hunted. A one-man game of hide and seek.

“Your professor mentioned a Salon des Refusés,” he said. “What was that?”

“Actually, I mentioned it,” said Clara. “I don’t think Professor Massey was all that happy to be reminded of it.”

“Why not?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Not the college’s finest moment,” said Clara with a laugh. “There is an annual end-of-year show. It’s juried, judged by the professors and prominent art dealers in Toronto. Only the best get in. One of the professors thought this was unfair, so he set up a parallel show.”

“The Salon des Refusés,” said Olivier.

Clara nodded. “A show for the rejected. It was modeled on a famous exhibition in Paris back in 1863, when a Manet painting was refused entry in the official Paris Salon. A Salon des Refusés was set up, and the rejected artists showed there. And not just Manet, but Whistler’s Symphony in White ended up in the Salon des Refusés.” She shook her head. “One of the great works of art.”

“You know a lot about it, ma belle,” said Gabri.

“I should. My works were front and center in the college’s Salon des Refusés. First I knew that they’d been rejected by the jury. There they were, in the parallel exhibition.”

“And Peter’s?” asked Gamache.

“Front and center in the legitimate show,” said Clara. “He’d done some spectacular paintings. My works were not exactly spectacular, I guess. I was experimenting.”

“Not yet rescued?” said Gabri.

“Beyond saving.”

“Avant-garde,” said Ruth. “Isn’t that the term? Ahead of your time. The rest just needed to catch up. You didn’t need rescuing. You weren’t lost. You were exploring. There’s a difference.”

Clara looked at Ruth’s rheumy, tired eyes. “Thank you. But still, it was humiliating. They fired the professor who set it up. He had strange ideas about art. Didn’t fit in. An odd duck.” She turned to Rosa. “Sorry.”

“What’d she say?” asked Ruth.

“She said you’re an old fuck,” said Gabri loudly.

Ruth gave a low, rumbling laugh. “She isn’t wrong there.” She turned to Clara and Clara leaned away from her. “But you’re wrong about the Salon. That’s where real artists want to be. With the rejects. You shouldn’t have been upset.”

“Tell that to my twenty-year-old self.”

“What would you rather be?” Ruth asked. “Successful in your twenties and forgotten in your fifties? Or the other way around?”

Like Peter, everyone thought. Including Clara.

“As we were leaving, Professor Massey mentioned Francis Bacon,” said Clara.

“The writer?” asked Reine-Marie.

“The painter,” Clara clarified. She explained the reference.

“Seems a cruel thing to say,” said Olivier.

“I don’t think he meant it that way,” said Clara. “Do you?”