were exceedingly late to dinner.
Colin had spent no fewer than five hours with Sebastian before coming to bed the previous evening, and was surprisingly tight-lipped about the nature of their conversation. They met again in the morning, leaving me to breakfast with my mother-in-law, who was no happier to see me than she’d been the day before. Cécile, perfectly willing to rise early when she had a good reason, managed to converse with both of us, holding two separate conversations at once as we munched on what may have been the most perfect croissants I’d ever tasted.
We boarded the first train to the town of Vernon, which would put us nearly at Giverny. Monet and his longtime mistress, Alice Hoschedé, had bought the house some two years ago, after having spent nearly ten happy years there as renters. Their relationship had started oddly—Alice and her husband, together with her children, had lived with Monet and his first wife, Camille, and the couple’s two sons. Ernest Hoschedé spent more time in Paris than with his family, and after Camille’s death from tuberculosis, Monet and Alice soon fell in love. They lived together, with all the children, Monsieur Hoschedé more or less keeping his distance. Last year, however, he died, freeing Alice to do as she wished.
In all the time he’d lived in Giverny, whether as tenant or owner, Monet had dedicated himself to improving the gardens, where he spent countless hours painting canvases of exquisite beauty. Cécile had visited him there many times, but I did not know him so well as I did Renoir. She had introduced me to both of them, along with Alfred Sisley and a host of others, when I’d first met her in Paris, nearly two years after the death of my first husband. This new circle of friends, unlike anyone I’d known before, opened my eyes to a world of art and culture and a decidedly bohemian lifestyle, igniting my imagination and intellect.
I already adored the Paris studios in which I’d seen them work and I could not wait to be welcomed into a house about which I had heard so much. We made the short drive from the station through Vernon, crossing the Seine near the ruins of a twelfth-century bridge on which a half-timbered mill jutted into the river between two of the ancient piers. Moments later, we were approaching the village of Giverny, utterly charming, a jumble of stone and half-timbered houses against a backdrop of rolling hills. Cécile tugged on my sleeve and motioned to the back of a long, pink house, its green shutters peeking through a veritable wall of ivy.
“That is Monet’s,” she said.
He was waiting, leaning against the gate, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his long white beard brushing against his chest. Alice, next to him, stepped into the narrow road and waved as our carriage approached. From here, there seemed nothing extraordinary about their home. We rushed through introductions and Colin nodded at Sebastian, who presented both himself and the painting, which Monet took from him at once.
“How did you get this?” he asked.
“Trade secret, I’m afraid,” Sebastian said. “But I can assure you it wasn’t simple, so you may rest easy. It’s unlikely anyone with less artistic fervor than I would even attempt such a thing.”
“This is meant to endear him to me?” Monet said, looking at me. “To persuade me to forgive him and not set the police on him?”
“Mr. Capet has more charm than sense, it would seem,” I said, scowling in Sebastian’s general direction.
“Forgive me, good sir. I’m a great admirer of your work,” Sebastian said. “I object strenuously to the reaction you’ve had from certain critics and can assure you that all I wanted was to ensure the painting was in the collection of someone who would appreciate it.”
Monet raised an eyebrow. “Is this your best strategy? To remind me of negative reviews and suggest that only a common criminal could find a person to like my work?”
“Cécile?” Monet’s lip twitched and he tugged at his beard.
“His taste is excellent,” Cécile said. “And though his methods are questionable, I do think he should be given credit for ingenuity and an admirable boldness.”
“We will finish this discussion inside,” Monet said. We followed a pavement perpendicular to the house and stepped into a garden magnificent beyond anything my imagination could have conjured. Perfect paths ran from the front of the building, dividing flower beds bursting with daisies, phlox, larkspurs, delphiniums, and asters. Benches placed at intervals were painted the same cheery green as both the house’s shutters and the metal trellises straddling the paths. Above all of this, the sky, a crisp and clear blue, set off the bright colors on the ground.
With difficulty, I forced myself away from this vision of floral perfection and followed Monet and Alice up green, wooden steps into the house. We passed through a small corridor that opened into a modest-sized salon decorated entirely in shades of blue. The longcase clock standing in a corner and a cupboard holding gardening books on its upper shelves matched the walls perfectly, as did the upholstery on a charming settee. None of the artist’s work hung in the room. Instead, he displayed exotic Japanese prints done, he explained, by well-known artists Hiroshige, Utamaro, and Hokusai. Their variety was spectacular: elegant women at their toilettes, scenes from nature—I particularly liked the crashing waves of the seascapes—animals, rain falling on a bridge, chrysanthemums and bees, peonies and butterflies.
Once we were all seated, Monet scowled at Sebastian. “I cannot have works disappearing from my studio. Your behavior is outrageous, regardless of whatever noble spin you may try to put on your motive.”
Had I never before met Sebastian, I would have been taken in by the perfectly poignant look of remorse on his face. His eyes, half-closed and heavy-lidded, drooped. His lips pressed together. He wrung his hands. “Any amends I attempt to make would not be enough. Not even a decent beginning.”
“You’re right on that count,” Colin said.
With a beautifully elegant and dramatic flair, Sebastian whisked a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his brow. “Motive may be irrelevant, but I assure you, Monsieur Monet, my heart, my soul, want nothing more than to see your work in the hands of those who appreciate it.”
“Then perhaps you should change your line of work, Monsieur Capet,” Monet said. “Become an art dealer instead of a thief.”
“An excellent suggestion, in theory,” Sebastian said. “And I’ve taken the first step towards following your advice.”
Colin coughed and I rolled my eyes.
“Yes. Well.” Sebastian waved us off with a flutter of his handkerchief.
“I have a note from Mr. Markham, the gentleman who received the painting,” I said, handing a sealed letter to the artist, who opened it at once, read, and then laughed.
“The recipient of your so-called generosity is offering more than a fair price for the work,” Monet said. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but the artist stopped him. “No, monsieur. Do not debase yourself by trying to convince me you negotiated the deal. It’s obvious Kallista is behind this. I see her hand in it bright as the sun.”
“Any admirer of Kallista’s sees her hand in all good things.” Sebastian stood and crossed the room to Monet. “Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”
Alice wrinkled her nose. “You, Monsieur Capet, want to reach a resolution with far too much ease.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Monet said. “But I’m in a conciliatory sort of mood and inclined to accept his disingenuous apology. What man wouldn’t do the same in the face of such happiness? Alice, you see, has at last agreed to be my wife.”
“Champagne!” Cécile cried. “There must be champagne at once!”
“This is the best sort of news,” Colin said. “When can we expect the wedding?”
“We were married three days ago,” Monet said. “I couldn’t risk giving her time to change her mind.” We all erupted, cheering and embracing them.
“I could not be happier for you both,
