He sees that her skin beneath the gold is smoothed wood, and her general outlines are stylized and conventional. She is really an ingenious little casket for the improbable sacrifice she bears, but her upward stare now strikes Roy as being impassively self-aware; certain covert bargains made in the past must now be paid for, and this payment, luridly dramatic, is rehearsed behind the pair of peek-a-boo doors. The silliness of art. The crude approximations. But he is moved, nevertheless, at the way a human life drains toward one revealing scene.

The doors themselves tempt him, especially their neatly worked hinges-but to touch them, he reasons, would probably set off an alarm. The whole museum is sure to be electronically monitored; it would be madness not to, given the current situation. He wonders if Meg had been similarly tempted, and thinks how she is always stopping to shut a bureau drawer, straighten a picture, adjust a chair cushion. She is more than just nervously neat; for Meg the believable world consists of touchable objects, mainly texture and angle and curve, that tremble above and powerfully rule her place in it. Or so he thinks, never having been able, even after all these years, to uncover her separate design or the source of her will.

He looks about and sees no one, though the density of the room seems to have shifted. He senses some material displacement, and at a distance hears what he believes to be the patter of rain falling on the ancient roof, a small fretful slap-slapping against stone. Quickly he reaches out and pushes one of the little doors. The tremor in his hand conveys itself to the mechanism, and it moves obediently in a small silken arc that delights him. But as he pushes it back to its original position he glimpses, at the periphery of his vision, a uniformed guard approaching.

The guard is wrinkled and stout with a squashed plum for a nose. The way he tilts his stoutness at Roy gives the impression of a formal, respectful bow, but his face is crimson-with anger, Roy thinks at first-and he speaks in a loud, throaty incomprehensible French and gestures roughly toward the entrance of the room.

Roy, in turn, points to the Virgin. He smiles benignly; he wants to protest that he’s done no damage, only indulged a whim. “Elle est si belle,” he tries, anxious to placate the reddened face and show himself properly appreciative.

“You must leave the museum,” the guard announces loudly.

Roy, amazed to hear a complete English sentence coming out of this cracked old face, defends himself. “I only touched the door,” he protests. Then, “I’m very sorry.”

“You must leave the museum.” Louder this time.