I wish we could visit all of them, too, but I’m starving.
“Please tell me that the next stop involves lunch,” I say with a laugh.
Louis perks up. “Bien s?r! It’s not a French date without food.”
He takes us back toward the Tuileries and to Angélina, a renowned traditional tearoom.
“I should warn you,” Louis says as we stand outside, waiting to get in. “This is a pretty touristy spot. Not my usual go-to.”
“Oh, so you’re just making an exception for your American girlfriend?” I ask, checking my hair in the shop window. And then I realize what I just said. Non, Mia! What is wrong with you? You can’t call yourself someone’s girlfriend. Especially when things are so complicated already.
But if it surprises Louis, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he moves right along. “Exactly,” he says. “It’s my duty as a French person to make sure you taste their infamous hot chocolate and decadent desserts. But we’ll have salads first, so we can pretend like we’re not just in it for the sweet stuff.”
“I only have a week left to try every raspberry tart in the city,” I say. “I can’t waste time on pretending.” I mean it as a joke, of course, but a shadow passes across Louis’s eyes.
“Just a week, huh?” He’s not really asking, though. We both know the deadline we’re facing. Louis sighs and puts his arms around my waist, pulling me close. It feels so good, so right, so perfect, to be against him. Then he kisses me.
* * *
He was right about the desserts, and lunch practically puts us in a sugar coma. I love American pastries, and I’m not picky: donuts, carrot cakes, brownies, I’ll have them all. But there’s something special about the French ones, from the shiny glaze on top to the delicate placement of fruits, or the funny names like “religieuse” for a double cream puff pastry, or “Paris-Brest” for what I think might be the ancestor of the Cronut. But, forever brave, we soldier on for part deux of our Tour de Degas.
* * *
Painting number two is even harder to access. It’s housed at the headquarters of Givenchy, a famous French fashion house, and displayed in the head designer’s office. Under normal circumstances, we wouldn’t be allowed to just pop by, but, luckily, Dr. Pastels helped the company acquire this piece many years ago.
Since it’s Saturday, the building is empty. The only person here is the designer’s assistant, a young guy named Vincent who is wearing a black suit and has a shaved head, and who, thanks to Dr. Pastels’s insistence, has been assigned the task of shepherding us through the building. As we walk past a room-sized closet in which hundreds of couture dresses are hanging, I realize that I could never have found this painting by myself. If Louis hadn’t given me the hope that we could, I’d never be here, so close to coming face to face with yet another masterpiece.
This one is actually a sketch, framed simply in black and taking up half the wall behind the desk. It features three dancers and is so simple—just charcoal on a white canvas—yet incredibly precise. The girls are captured doing a plié, and every detail—from the position of the tutu to the curve of their arms—makes it obvious that Degas wasn’t just an observer. He really understood ballet.
“This is it,” I tell Louis. I can’t explain how I know it. I just do.
The girl in the middle looks so familiar, and soon I realize why. Still, I need to be sure. I pull the picture of élise Mercier and her two friends from my bag. Louis takes it from me and places it on the wall near the drawing, while Vincent frowns at us. I’m guessing he’s not a Degas fan.
“Look,” I say, comparing each girl in the photo with one in the drawing. “Their height matches.”
We stare at each other, smiles gradually spreading over our faces.
Louis studies the sketch again, and then nods slowly. “This is your ancestor.”
I take a deep breath as my eyes well up. I haven’t forgotten what Dr. Pastels said. There’s no way to be certain. But my heart knows. Louis knows. We’re standing in front of a Degas sketch of my great-great-great-grandmother, a danseuse étoile at the Paris Opera. My family legend is true. There isn’t the shadow of a doubt in my mind.
“See,” he whispers in my ear, like he can read my thoughts, “ballet is your destiny.”
Louis exchanges a few words with Vincent, and mentions me taking a picture. Vincent’s eyes grow wide with disgust, as if Louis had asked if I could just scrunch up the sketch and put it in my pocket.