He moved to her slowly, consciously trying to ingrain an image of her waiting for him on an unmade bed. After the second kiss she lay very still while he gently ran his hand across her belly, her smooth thighs, her hips. After a third kiss she arched slightly, lifting her breasts to him . . .

And later, years later, when they would all say that she had been a remarkably adroit lover, Gray would still remember this relatively shy girl barely stirring when he touched her again.

Like a vision slightly out of focus, there is something elusive about Gray's early portraits of Mata Hari, something that defies definition. De Massloff has said that in the beginning the painter really knew very little about her, and perhaps this is what we see: an exceptionally beautiful girl who might have come from anywhere.

It was half past eight in the evening when de Massloff finally found his friend again—slumped in a chair by the window watching the yellow fog. There were still glasses on the table, blankets on the floor . . . but the portrait now stood in the corner, propped against the wall.

"Well, it's absolutely marvelous, Nicky. You have succeeded in making her look like an angel."

Gray reached for a cigarette—one more exhausted gesture. "She's a sweet girl, Vadime."

"Of course."

"And I like her."

"Not surprising."

"And I definitely intend to see her again."

The fog seemed vaguely yellow now, suspended above pools of rainwater. There were sounds of passing wagons below and the cry of an itinerant vendor.

"Well, at least tell me if you enjoyed it." De Massloff smiled.

"Enjoyed what?"

"Your afternoon with the bicycle girl. I mean, is she in fact amusing?"

"Shut up, Vadime."

"Oh, Nicky, I'm merely—"

"I said shut up."

He drank through what was left of that night, and hardly moved from the window.

He met her again in the Tuileries. He wore a pale morning coat and dark flannels. Her clothing was slightly less suitable. They walked for an hour, lingering under the ivy, while a carriage continued to circle on the gravel. She told him that her favorite flower was the orchid, although she also favored lilacs and Parma violets.

She became silent along the banks of a willow pond, clutching his arm like the child he would never forget. Further along the damp path she stopped to kiss him on the neck.

"I really shouldn't be keeping you from your work/' she told him.

He smiled. "It doesn't matter now."

"But it does, Nicky. If you don't keep painting, how do you expect to become immortal?"