“He’s had trouble with his neighbors. And disagreements with Gauguin. They share a house. Did I tell you?” Exasperation twisted Theo’s features for a second before he shook it off. “But you should see the colors in his Bridge of Langlois, how he suffused his work with life and light.” Passion shone on his face once again, and his voice filled with exhilaration.

I kept thinking I barely knew him, yet I knew this was the true Theo. Here was a man showing me his true heart. Love for his brother. Love for art. Love for life. “Then you think success is at hand?”

“If only he wouldn’t lose himself to dark thoughts.” Frustration flooded back. “I am in constant worry about him. Mere talent is insufficient to succeed these days. One must have flair and charisma, and the ability to make friends easily. One must be able to manufacture the appearance of fame, even if one must resort to self-praise. And Vincent… It’s not how our father raised us, you understand.”

Their father had been a minister.

“Do you feel lonely without your brother?”

He gave a sad little nod. “I have taken in another lodger, for economy’s sake.”

When Vincent had moved to Paris, Theo rented a larger apartment. No opulent lodgings, according to Dries, just the two bedrooms, and a bathroom in the hall, shared with other tenants. Rents in Paris were astronomical. Vincent’s departure had to have left Theo in a bind, but he was too much of a loving brother to tell me that.

He asked me about my family instead, and we talked about them all the way to the square, the time passing far more pleasantly than I’d expected.

Directly ahead, the opera house was a towering palace with its magnificent arches, majestic dome, and golden statues on the roof. The skill of the creators set my imagination soaring. “Do you think there are buildings in heaven?”

“If there are, this is what they look like. Should we go inside? Perhaps I could convince the guard to allow a quick tour?”

I didn’t wish to be that much trouble. “Another time? I think I’d rather enjoy this rare moment of winter sunshine.”

Out in the open square, the tall buildings no longer cast their shade over us. Even the wind that had raced down the boulevard without care for anyone’s comfort was kinder here, as if halting to admire the glorious structure along with the tourists.

“Monsieur Degas!” Theo greeted a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction with a large camera under his arm. “I was hoping to run into you today to tell you we might have a buyer for one of your pastels.” He shook the man’s hand. “May I introduce a good friend from Amsterdam? This is Mademoiselle Bonger.”