Based upon Achille’s evidence, and with the backing of Chiefs Féraud and Bertillon, the juge d’instruction, Magistrate Leblanc, issued a warrant for Jojo’s arrest and an order for his investigative detention in La Conciergerie. The infamous prison adjacent to the Palais de Justice, formerly referred to as the “antechamber to the guillotine,” had been rebuilt during the Second Empire. Following the reconstruction, the mostly modern structure had retained the forbidding aspect of a medieval fortress along with its grim reputation. Deep in the bowels of that dreaded prison, its slate towers looming over the banks of the Seine as a warning to all criminals, Joseph Rossini, aka Jojo the Clown, sat despondently on a hard, narrow wooden bench in a dank cell. He stared at the stone walls and iron bars like an animal in the slaughterhouse pen. But unlike a dumb beast Jojo had a guilty conscience, and that sharp human knowledge of guilt tormented him with images of swift justice and harsh retribution.

Jojo rested his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. Why did I do it? I was making good money at the circus. I was popular, a featured act. The answer of course was gold, and he hadn’t been paid for the last job, the one that had got him caught. It isn’t fair. Jojo recalled a life of neglect and cruelty. He blamed his deformity for his misfortunes, and he had taken out his resentment on those weaker than himself, most particularly the young girls who had worked the streets for him. But now all his pent up rage and bitterness against an unjust world was turned on his employer. Why should I take the fall? I didn’t harm the girl. I was nothing but an errand boy, and an ill-used one at that.

Thumping boots echoing down the arched corridor, the clicking of a key turning the lock, the sliding of a bolt and the creak of a heavy iron door swinging on its hinges interrupted Jojo’s ruminations. “C’mon Jojo, my lad” barked the guard, “it’s time for a friendly chat with the Magistrate.”

Sir Henry and Betsy exited the auberge and proceeded down a gravel path winding through the acacias until they reached a gateway that opened onto a narrow cobblestoned street. Betsy wore a gray traveling coat, a jaunty little veiled black hat and scarf, and she carried an umbrella. The air had a singular freshness to it, a crisp autumnal bite and unmistakable fragrance that betokened rain. A bracing breeze stirred, scattering un-raked leaves, rattling semi-nude branches, and fluttering her scarf and the black-ribbon furbelow on her coat. Sir Henry was elegantly turned out in a Savile Row suit and bowler hat. He took her arm possessively as he escorted her through town in the direction of the old bridge.

As they passed by bright yellow- and white-walled shops and stalls, many of the townspeople took a moment from their occupation to admire the handsome couple; but they didn’t gape or let the visitors’ presence overly distract them; they were used to well-heeled tourists down from Paris for a day or two’s sightseeing.

They stepped onto the arched bridge and crossed halfway before stopping to admire the view. Betsy removed her gloves and touched the rough, cold masonry as if by doing so she could connect with the place and experience centuries of history in a moment. We have nothing like this in America, she thought. She glanced up through her veil at a cobalt sky filled with immense white clouds shaded gray round the edges. The diffused autumn light shimmered over steep spires, towers, and slanted slate roofs. Beneath the ancient walls and stone embankments the burnished silver river flowed, reflecting the town’s image on its smooth, barely rippling surface as it lazily meandered toward the Seine.

“A lovely subject for a painting,” she remarked.

His eyes scanned the scene and he spoke while concentrating on some undefined object in the distance. “Indeed yes, and artists have come here for years. We’re not far from Barbizon, you know. I imagine the place as Corot would have painted it; earth tones under a cobalt sky, all visualized through a glimmering coat of amber varnish. But the Impressionists have a different way of expressing it.”

Betsy smiled and eyed him provocatively. “I’d like to see how you’d paint it, Henry.”

“Oh me,” he replied with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m just an amateur. Painting’s not my pigeon.”

“Yes, not like Marcia. She’s a genius. Next to her I’ve always felt so—so ordinary.”

He turned to gaze directly into her eyes and took her by the hand. “Nonsense my dear; you’re an extraordinary woman. I’ve known that since the first day we met.”

Her veiled eyes were questioning, challenging. “What’s so extraordinary about me, aside from the fact that I’m immensely rich?”

“You underestimate yourself. You’re a distinguished collector. Without the support of people like you, the creative arts would wither and die.”

“Perhaps you’re right. After all, we wealthy Americans must be good for something.” She paused a moment to study his expression, as if searching for some telltale reaction. Seeing nothing but his familiar amiable smile she pursued: “Henry, we’ve known each other for scarcely a fortnight. We’ve become intimate, and . . . ,” she paused and lowered her voice to a whisper, “. . . there’s that other business.”

He winced in response to her reference to “other business” but said nothing.

She stared at him searchingly for a moment before continuing: “Yet I know so little about you. For instance, where do you come from? Why did you choose to become a surgeon instead of an artist?”

There was just a wrinkled hint of a frown around his lips and his eyes. “I was born in Abingdon in Oxfordshire, not far from the University. It’s fine country for farming and raising fat, wooly sheep. Our market town is ancient; in many respects it resembles this place. We have a medieval church and abbey, and an old stone bridge like this one, spanning the Thames.

“As for surgery, it wasn’t all a matter of choice, my dear. My mother loved the arts; she taught me and encouraged me, but she died when I was very young. Father was a physician, and he tended to make my choices for me.”

Betsy could tell from his facial expression and tone of voice that he was reticent, yet curiosity moved her to press further. “Would you mind telling me more? I’d like very much to know about your mother.”

He stared at her; he had never discussed the subject with anyone, not even under duress. Packed off to school by his father shortly after his mother’s death, he had suffered the abuse of a brutal prefect who fagged him endlessly: “Collingwood, fetch water! Collingwood, black my boots! Collingwood, polish my silver!” The prefect used the slightest provocation, the merest failure in an assigned task, as pretext for a merciless caning. “Take down your trousers, Collingwood, bend over the back of that chair and prepare for six of the best.” Every beating was followed by an admonition: “There’s something about you I don’t like. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I shall surely beat it out of you before the end of term.”

Young Henry stoically endured the senior boy’s bullying until an incident occurred that might have changed the course of his life. Early on a winter morning Henry sat on a wooden bench in the corridor outside the prefect’s study. Dawn peeped through a frost covered windowpane. There, in half-darkness, he performed one of his routine chores, polishing his tormentor’s boots. Lonely and miserable, aching hands chilled to the bone, he paused for an instant, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a miniature portrait of his mother. The miniature had been painted as a memento of his mother’s eighteenth birthday, just prior to her wedding. Henry sighed, his warm breath forming a small, vaporous cloud in the unheated hallway. “Dearest, I miss you so. Why did you leave me?”