“Vincent exhibited in The Hague, twice, before his death,” I quickly added. “As part of group shows.” Shows Theo had set up with great effort.

“I seem to remember sunflowers.” Holst made a dismissive gesture. “Garish. Common. Peasant material.”

“All the most exciting new artists in Paris claim him as their equal.”

“How many paintings did he sell there?”

“One.” Well, in Belgium, and to a friend, but the important point was that Vincent had sold a painting, in fact.

“And at the group shows here, in The Hague?”

I remained silent.

Holst picked up his pipe and gave his full attention to tapping it, as if he couldn’t bear to look at the paintings. “You will never sell them.” He lit the tobacco. “If your dream is sudden riches,” his scathing tone cut, “you might as well abandon it, madam.”

“I do not wish to sell them.” I had come to a decision just in that moment. Theo had been wrong to try to sell the paintings as the works of a new artist as bargains. Tastes must grow up to recognize Vincent’s genius.

“I am confused.” Holst took his first puff of tobacco. “What do you wish to do with them?”

“I’d like to ask you to help me arrange loaning the paintings to the best museums for exhibits.”

“To be hung next to the works of the masters?” He laughed. “You know, I almost admire you for your audacity, madam.”

I fisted my hands in the folds of my dress. “I want Vincent’s works in their rightful place.”

“In one of your letters,” Holst sucked on his pipe, “you mentioned over a hundred works. The canvases stretched? Framed?”

“All of them stretched, and about half of them framed.” At great cost.

“I could take them.” His expression turned magnanimous. “For the cost of materials. I could scrape the canvases and reuse them, although, all the impasto would require considerable work.”

More work than it was worth, his tone implied.

“I would like to be able to help you,” he added, “but I am afraid that is the most help I can offer.”

The inlaid clock on the wall ticked loudly in the pause that followed his words.

I had to break my silence, lest he thought I was considering his ridiculous and insulting suggestion.

“Thank you for the offer.” I stood. “But no.”

“My dear Mevrouw Van Gogh,” Holst said as we faced off. “You are a charming little woman, aren’t you? And such enthusiasm for the arts. Most commendable. Yet, I fear you are blinded by sentimentality. I understand your sorrow over the loss of your husband and his brother. That in your distraught feminine state of mind you misjudge the art is certainly forgivable and most understandable. But as an expert myself, you see, I cannot afford to make the same mistake—”

I barely heard the rest.