Émile Bernard seemed overcome with emotion; he did not linger. He returned to his studio where he had begun and rubbed out many sketches of Virginie, all drawn from an imperfect memory. Lautrec remained to pay his respects to Achille and Féraud. Achille introduced the artist to Adele.

“Adele, this is M. de Toulouse-Lautrec, a fine artist. His studio’s not far from here.”

Lautrec doffed his bowler, looked up at the handsome young woman and smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mme. Lefebvre. I’m indebted to your husband. If it were not for his detective skills and dedication to the cause of justice I might now be languishing in prison. If there’s anything you want of me, I’m at your service.”

Adele’s eyes lit up at the offer. “Oh Monsieur, we have a charming little daughter. Her fifth birthday’s not far off, and I’d so much like a portrait of her.”

Achille frowned and half-whispered to Adele: “Really, my dear, you ask for too much.”

Lautrec laughed. “Nonsense, Inspector; I’d be pleased to paint the child’s portrait. You may call upon me at my studio or contact me through Joyant’s gallery. We’ll set up an appointment for a sitting at your convenience. Now I must be off. Madame, I’m delighted to have made your acquaintance. Au revoir, Messrs.” The sometimes cynical and acerbic artist left them with a sunny smile and another polite tip of his hat.

The other mourners having gone, Féraud turned his attention to Adele. He addressed her with a friendly tone and a fatherly grin. “Well, Madame, it seems your husband has become something of a celebrity. The newspapers are gushing praises for our brilliant young detective. Some have suggested that if Achille had been working for Scotland Yard they would have nabbed Jack the Ripper. There has even been speculation as to whether or not Collingwood was the Ripper.”

Achille frowned. “Please, Chief,” he muttered, “the newspapers are full of rubbish. The Yard has nothing linking Collingwood to the Ripper murders or their unsolved torso killings. As for our case, we’ll never know if Collingwood and Mlle Endicott acted together in the murder, or if one killed Virginie and the other conspired afterwards with the murderer to cover up the crime. I wanted to bring them in alive for questioning; I wanted to know the truth.”

Féraud put his hand on Achille’s shoulder. “What is truth? This is all we know; they were both guilty of a crime, they executed each other, our justice is satisfied and the case is closed. The rest can be left to God. At any rate, from my perspective, things worked out all right. You’re entitled to bask in the glory of the moment. When he was considering a young officer for promotion, the Emperor Napoleon said, ‘Yes, I know he’s brilliant, but is he lucky?’ In my opinion, you are both brilliant and lucky, and, as you well know, I’m stingy with compliments.” Then to Adele: “Madame, I believe you and your husband are due for a nice holiday. Please give it some thought.” With that, the Chief bid them good-day.

Achille and Adele took a cab back to their apartment. On the way he remarked, “I’m glad you’ve smoothed things over with your mother.”

Adele sighed and looked down at her hands. “After our harsh words, I doubt we’ll ever be fully reconciled. Formal mutual apologies are one thing, true forgiveness is something else. At least we can remain together as a family, although I still worry that her prejudices might infect our daughter.” She turned to Achille with sad eyes. “The spirit of the Exposition was so hopeful, so forward looking. We’ve made such remarkable progress in science and industry, but I wonder if we’ll ever change for the better as human beings? Do you remember that day at the Fair when we heard the choir singing Gounod: Lovely appear over the mountains: The feet of them that preach, and bring good news of peace. . . . Will such a time of peace and love come in our lifetime, or Jeanne’s?”

Achille shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We can’t overcome human nature. People prefer self-serving lies to unflattering truths and blame others for their own faults. We’ll have technological progress all right. The times change, but people will remain the same.” Noticing the sadness in her eyes and thinking the conversation had turned too gloomy, he smiled, put his arm around her, and whispered in her ear: “Besides, Mme. Lefebvre, in a perfect world I’d be out of a job.”

Adele pulled away from him. “Don’t be cynical, Achille. It doesn’t suit you.”

Realizing that his attempt to lighten their dialogue had fallen flat, he asked, “What would you have me say?”

She smiled, gently stroked his cheek and noticed an unaccustomed roughness. “Didn’t you shave this morning?”

He rubbed his chin. “No, I’ve decided to grow a beard. Now that I’ve become Chief Féraud’s heir apparent I thought it would make me look older and more suited to the position.” Then he took her hand in his and kissed it. “So, Madame, I’ll repeat my question: What would you have me say?”

She gazed at him fondly for a moment. Then: “Simply this, my love. Even though we know it won’t come in our lifetime, or the next generation, or the one after that, we should hope for an era of love and peace, we should strive for it.”

“Of course, Adele, but until that time I’ll settle for just laws and honest, capable, and compassionate people to enforce them.”

“Honest, capable, and compassionate; that’s you my dear. That’s why I love you so.” She kissed him and rested in his arms.

Horse hooves clip-clopped, coach wheels rumbled over the cobblestones. After awhile Achille said, “Your mother was right about one thing. We ought to give Jeanne a little brother or sister.”

“I agree, darling. Féraud said we’re due for a holiday. There’ll be plenty of time for. . . .”

She didn’t finish the sentence. His mouth covered her lips.

A crisp autumn breeze rustled the branches of tall elms and oaks; sudden gusts rattled yews, pines, and stout shrubbery. Gold, brown, and russet leaves stirred on the garden path, took to the air, and drifted for a time before falling back to earth. Some of the scattered leaves floated on the surface of a small, mirror-like pond crossed by a weathered footbridge.

Wrapped in a warm, brown cloak, a broad-brimmed straw hat pinned securely to her thickly coiled auburn hair, Marcia Brownlow sat on a camp stool on the edge of the path near the footbridge. A pochade box rested on her lap as she captured the scene in watercolor. With an unerring eye and deft hand she carefully limned the garden view; washes of autumnal earth tones, bright pastels covered over with a shimmering haze that hovered over the reflecting pond, glimmering highlights and subtle shading, all materialized in recognizable forms and shapes on white sized paper. Marcia was so engrossed in her work that she failed to notice the sound of boots crunching on the leaf-strewn pathway.

“It’s a bit brisk out here. I think you’d better come inside.”

She set down her brush on the portable easel, turned her head and looked up. “Oh Arthur; you startled me.”

He smiled and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, my dear. I was watching you from my study window and I was worried. The wind’s kicking up and the barometer’s dropped. There may be a storm coming in from the sea.”

“Perhaps you’re right. At any rate, I’m almost finished; I can add the final touches in my studio.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course you may, but please be careful. It’s still damp.”

Arthur bent over her shoulder and studied the watercolor. His eyes widened with admiration. There wasn’t the least hint of decline in her work; if anything it had improved. If only she could have more time. He had consulted with doctors; they recommended taking her to Italy before the cold, heavy rains of late autumn and the first snows of winter.