“C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer.” Monsieur Degas kissed my hand. He was at least two decades older than Theo, and the way he squinted made me wonder if he had trouble with his eyesight. “Any relation to Andries Bonger?”

“A pleasure to meet you as well, monsieur. Dries is my brother.” The name Degas tugged at my memory. “I’ve just seen your painting of dancers in Goupil’s window. It’s absolutely splendid.”

If he was pleased that I liked his art, he didn’t show it.

“Photography is my new passion. It’s the art of the future.” He gestured at his camera. Then he regarded Theo again. “An art I could not afford if monsieur here hadn’t talked Goupil into representing me and selling my works. He is a good friend and an honorable gentleman.”

Enough surprise flashed in Theo’s eyes that I suspected Monsieur Degas did not often offer gratitude or compliments.

“Are you one of the impressionists?” I ventured to ask.

Degas’s spine snapped rigid. “Certainly not.” Every scintilla of warmth he had shown a moment before evaporated. “I don’t understand the obsession with working outside. Artists who paint en plein air should be shot with bird shot.”

His violent outburst rendered me speechless.

He executed a curt bow. “Mademoiselle.” And then he marched on with his camera, calling back to Theo, “You may visit me at my studio tomorrow about that pastel.”

I looked after him, committing his image to memory so I might accurately describe him in my diary. He was quite a character.

“I apologize for his brusque manner,” Theo said as we moved on. “He prefers not to be called an impressionist.”

“I gathered as much.” My wry tone had him smiling, and then we were both fighting laughter. “What does he call himself?”

“A realist. And he’s a good one. He has a painting in a museum already. At Pau. A Cotton Office in New Orleans.”

“New Orleans? It’s an American painting?”

“He lived there for years. His mother was a Creole from New Orleans. His grandfather was from Haiti.”

Theo regaled me with tales about some of his other artists next. Then we discussed opera. Then we talked about my preference for the theatre, and a play I had recently seen. I only realized it must be noon when people began sitting down for lunch at the restaurants around the square.

I stopped, startled by how swiftly the morning had flown by. “Thank you for walking with me. But you must have important matters waiting for you at work.”

Theo took my hands. “There’s nothing more important to me than being with you.” His fingers warmed mine through my gloves. “My feelings have not changed since my visit to Amsterdam.”