But the thing that had touched Sarah, what had intrigued her most of all, was the discovery of a stash of letters to Marthe from her gentlemen admirers. They had been wrapped up in silk ribbons, all left intact.
And now, Sarah was holding such a thing right here, in her hands.
While she was tempted to sit and let some of the magic distill itself onto her, she knew that she had to investigate, and now.
Sarah went to her computer. First questions first.
When she read that the courtesan’s apartment was now available for rent, Sarah simply stared at the screen in front of her and sat back in her seat.
But then, as she sat there, a thought began to kick in. It was mad, creative, the sort of plan that she would normally laugh off as ludicrous—but then, ideas that seemed mad at first were often valuable; how many artists had she studied over the years to learn that?
What if she were to go to Paris?
What if this was her chance to get close to her mysterious ancestor—to find out whether Louisa had ended her own life? If Sarah had no living relatives left, why shouldn’t she find out about the past? After all, Louisa’s father had lost nearly all of his old Boston wealth as a result of his terrible grief, and the family had been shunned by society because of the taint of suicide.
Sarah knew the feeling that gossip could bring. Rumors had led her to the sickening awareness that her ex-husband, Steven, had a girlfriend, an old flame of his whom Sarah had known nothing about. Once the horrible truth had come out, Sarah had avoided every place that she knew Steven frequented in Boston. In spite of this, she bumped into him and his girlfriend all too often—the woman always stared at Sarah as if she were something unpleasant that had crossed her path. Not the other way around.
But that was nothing compared to the death of a young woman at a party in Paris. Sarah looked at the letter sitting on the table in front of her. The idea that had started forming in her head was turning into a plan.
What if somewhere there were letters from Henry to Marthe that were as revealing as the one she had just found? If the courtesan had kept all her correspondence, this was not a long shot. What was more, the idea of getting away from Boston, from her own past, for a little while was more than tempting; it seemed like a release. What if she could rent Marthe de Florian’s apartment?
Summer in Paris was starting to sound like the perfect idea.
The following morning, Sarah steeled herself against any further doubts. Over breakfast in the museum’s elegant café, she convinced her boss, Amanda, that she would like to use her sabbatical right now. Before she could think again, she would call the owner of Marthe’s apartment—a Monsieur Loic Archer. What if Marthe had corresponded regularly with Henry? What then? There had to be more clues to Louisa’s life and end in the apartment.
Once Sarah was in her office, she closed her door, swept a hand through her glossy black bob, and dialed France.
She explained, in her halting schoolgirl French, her reasons for wanting to rent the apartment. She said that she was hoping to make a reservation for the entire summer, but Loic Archer, the charming-sounding Frenchman who replied to her in English, speaking, curiously, without any French accent at all, sent all her hopes sinking like liquid down a smooth drain.
“I understand your interest in the apartment, Sarah, and to tell the truth, I’m intrigued by your ancestor’s seeming connection with Marthe. But there is one problem. We have a clash. Laurent Chartier, the artist. I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”
Sarah nodded in silence down the line.
“Laurent,” Loic Archer went on, “needs to be in Marthe’s apartment for the entire summer—there is nothing I can do about it. He’s one of my oldest friends. We grew up together in Provence. I’m sure you know how famous he is. He’s been commissioned to paint a series of portraits for Vogue magazine in the style of Giovanni Boldini. You know, models, actresses, the sort of celebrities whom Boldini would have painted, were he alive now.”
Sarah had heard of Laurent Chartier—he was a wunderkind, the next big French artist. He had held wildly successful exhibitions in Paris, London, and, more recently, New York. His style was ever changing. He adapted all the time. And that had made him extra famous, one to watch. His paintings sold for record prices because no one knew what sort of mode of expression he would take on next.
“Laurent needs to be in the setting where Boldini painted while he works—the lighting, the props, Marthe’s things. Vogue is fixated on the idea of using the famous courtesan’s rediscovered apartment as a backdrop for the series of paintings. It makes sense that he stays there. I’m sorry. He paints all night when he’s on a roll.”