Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

as I said, Emile will simply refer you to me. I am the consultant for all things having to do with the arts and antiquities. So, it appears as if you’re stuck with me. I am very happy to help you find someone who can look at it. I will connect you with the right person. You won’t even have to see me again. Since you are upset, it is the least I can do to make it up to you—to prove that I am truly sorry for making you uncomfortable. Please trust me, Hannah.”

July 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

I took Sunday off, but today, when I arrived at Pierre’s studio, I asked him what happened on Saturday night. I deserved to know why he’d left me at Miss Stein’s salon without the courtesy of a goodbye.

Though we did not work yesterday, it appeared that Pierre did not benefit from the rest. He was quite irritable and disagreeable.

When I asked him again to explain why he left me in a stranger’s home, he rubbed his red eyes and raked his fingers through his greasy hair. I suspected he’d been bitten by the Green Fairy or worse.

Absinthe is illegal in Paris. Even so, it’s everywhere. Hiding in plain sight. The same holds true for the fairy’s good friends, opium and cocaine. One need not look very hard to find them, especially within the circles Pierre and Helen run.

It was clear that Pierre was unrepentant and didn’t wish to talk about abandoning me. All he said was he had run into an unexpected conflict and was confident I would see myself home.

I shouldn’t be too mad, because if he had done the right thing and walked me home, I might not have met Monsieur Armand. My heart skips a beat every time I think of him. But Pierre doesn’t need to know that.

We had been working for an hour when someone knocked on the studio door. Pierre erupted and threw his brush against the wall, cursing and demanding the person go away and let him work.

But then the door opened and my heart nearly stopped when Monsieur Armand stormed into the room.

He did a double take, tipped his hat, and said it was lovely to see me again.

I wanted to disappear into the crevices of the floorboards. Seeing this man who treated me so kindly and with such respect the other night made what I was doing suddenly feel shameful and wrong. I grabbed my robe and hugged it to myself as the two began arguing in rapid French.

Finally, Pierre went to his rusty can and counted out francs, muttering to himself the entire time.

He threw coins at Armand, who stooped to collect the money.

Armand then addressed Pierre in English, saying his debt to Mademoiselle Leon was settled. That she would be happy to receive what she was owed, though Pierre shouldn’t need someone to call to collect his debts in the first place.

He turned to go but not before warning me of Pierre’s reputation for taking advantage of his models. He said that’s why he always seems to need a new one.

Pierre began shouting at him, and I wanted to cover my ears, but Andres Armand remained composed. Again, he tipped his hat to me as a gentleman would to a lady and took his leave.

After Monsieur Armand left, Pierre threw a can of turpentine at the door, leaving a muddy, oily splat on the wood.

I had to ask him if what Monsieur Armand said was true.

Pierre called him a jackass and told me not to believe a word he’d said.

When I asked him what happened to the model he’d used before me, Pierre said it was none of my concern and demanded we get back to work.

But it was my concern if what Monsieur Armand said was true. The only thing worse than posing naked for a man like Pierre was doing it for no compensation.

He blinked and asked how I knew Andres Armand.

I told him I’d met him at Miss Stein’s Saturday night. But I wasn’t about to let him change the subject. I demanded pay for the next two days up front.

He then started growling about how he had no money because Armand and I had taken it all.

I told him if that was the case, I would leave, too.

Pierre flew into a rage, throwing things, then storming out, leaving me in the room alone with the door wide open.

By the time I had dressed, he had not returned, so I gave my portrait a little wink and marched out of that dreary studio.

Fifteen

January 6, 2019—10:00 a.m.

Paris, France

I’ve taken Gabriel at his word that he will keep things strictly professional. He’s a married man. Hard stop. There will be no more breakfasts at his favorite café, or tours of museums, or dinners for two. We will only speak of the manuscript and who can help us figure out if it’s the work of Andres Armand.

Marla doesn’t want to speak to him, much less work with him. When I told her I wasn’t afraid of him, that I could handle myself, she washed her hands of the manuscript. She wants nothing to do with him or the authenticating process.

As far as I’m concerned, that’s just as well. I’m sure she finds this book talk boring.

After telling Gabriel my hunch that the manuscript might be the unpublished work of Andres Armand, he showed up at the apartment, on a Sunday, no less, wanting to see the treasure with his own eyes.

I want to ask him what Veronique is doing on this lovely Sunday morning, but he distracts me with the hint that he knows someone who might be able to help us—a professor of literature at the Sorbonne.

“If this manuscript turns out to be important, we will need to safeguard it,” he says. “It is not a good idea to simply turn it over to someone whom you have just met—even if they are affiliated