Then, we take the stairs down to the lower floor. We find a staff member—a young man in a gray uniform—and tell him that we have an appointment with Mr. Martin, the museum’s archivist. He leads us to a door at the end of the hall marked Privé （Private）， and I feel a spark of excitement as we walk through it. Look at me, using my connections in high places. Or as high as a museum’s basement can be, anyway.
“You cannot touch anything,” Mr. Martin tells us as we walk through rows of large black boxes standing a few feet apart. He has a thick black beard, round-rimmed glasses, and the air of someone who would do anything to protect his babies. “And you can’t tell anyone you’ve been here,” he adds, sounding like a schoolteacher.
“We won’t,” I say. Though, if we do find a painting featuring my ancestor, I might be tempted to slide it under my arm and make a run for it. It’s very cold in this neon-lit, windowless room, and I shiver in my floral sundress. Mr. Martin explains that the temperature is kept low to preserve the works of art, many of which are several centuries old. Meanwhile, this seventeen-year-old work-in-progress wishes she’d put a cardigan in her bag. Louis rubs my arm to warm me up, and I put my hand on his. I’m still cold, but I no longer mind.
Mr. Martin stops in front of a big black box marked 57.B. and retrieves a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket. Louis and I hold our breaths as he opens the container, and I notice how silent it is around. You can only hear the hum of the air conditioners. It strikes me that, while no one in Paris has AC in their home, the art gets to enjoy an ideal temperature all year long. Priorities.
“Here it is,” Mr. Martin says, pulling out a small frame. Carefully, he brings it over to a nearby stand and unwraps the tissue paper.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, scanning the young woman in a sea of green tulle. Her features are sharp, her nose pointy, and her black hair is neatly tied with a matching green ribbon. She’s lifting her left arm in the air, but whether she’s halfway through an arabesque or simply stretching, it’s hard to tell.
“Why do you hide this away?” I ask. I’d assumed that Degas’s best works were on display all around the world, and that only his lesser pieces might be constrained to the archives. But this one is magnificent and deserves to be seen.
Mr. Martin shrugs sadly. “We have so many, and so few walls. Sometimes we’ll loan pieces for an exhibition. But this one—no one has seen it in over ten years.”
“That makes us extra special,” Louis says with a twinkle in his eyes.
I study the painting again, hoping it will speak to me in some way.
“What do you think?” Louis asks.
I tilt my head. Am I supposed to recognize her? Will I just know when we find her? I ask if I can take a picture, but Mr. Martin responds with a look of sheer horror. Hey, it was worth a shot. At least he lets me stay awhile to gaze at it. I can feel Louis’s eyes on me, wondering, but I’m not sure what to feel. Mr. Martin is patient enough to listen to all my questions about the painting—where exactly was it painted, what year, its history—but while he has many answers, they don’t really give me the clarity I’m hoping for.
* * *
The Tuileries are bustling with people—and even more dogs—when we exit the museum.
“Our next appointment is not until this afternoon, right?” Louis asks as we begin strolling down one of the alleyways.
I notice the spark in his eyes, and smile. “What do you have in mind?”
“You, mademoiselle, are in for a treat,” he says, grinning. “It’s a not-so-secret secret.”
After a short walk, we arrive at the front of what looks like a tiny alley. The entrance to Galerie Vivienne is barely noticeable from the street; you could easily miss the faded sign atop the curved wrought-iron door.
Once inside, it’s like going back in time. It’s a long, narrow passageway covered with a domed glass ceiling. It lets in all the sunlight, which reflects on the intricate moldings and colorful tiles. It feels like we’ve stepped inside Degas’s world. The space is lined with beautiful little shops selling books, wooden toys, wine, and antiques.
Louis watches me take it all in. “Thank you for showing me this,” I say, feeling strangely proud to have my very own tour guide.
“I wish I could show you more,” he replies. “There are many of these hidden passages around the city. I love that you have to know where to look. They’re not so easy to find.”