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the memory. “You know, the Salon was the official stamp of approval for any artist, but they only accepted the usual classical subjects. They didn’t like pictures of everyday life, so naturally they rejected my art. Not Degas! And his opinion meant so much more to me than the foolish Salon. He had no idea how much I’d drooled over his pastels when I saw them in gallery windows! Truly, seeing his work changed my life. He was a mentor for me before we even met. His pictures were teaching me. And then in person, well…”

    She waved her hand as if summoning up all Degas had done for her.
    I drew constantly. I couldn’t stop my fingers from grabbing a pen or pencil and trying to capture what I saw. But that didn’t make me anything close to a real artist. For a second I wondered if I could become a painter like Mary if only I had the right teacher. Except that it takes more than a brilliant teacher. It takes a talented student.
    I wanted to ask about Claude but didn’t dare. Where was his family? How long had he worked for Degas? And, most importantly, did he have a girlfriend? Instead I said, “Do you ever miss America?”
    Mary laughed. “Not at all! I missed my family, but my parents and sister moved close by, so that’s home enough for me. I could never be an artist in America. Women simply aren’t allowed.”
    I thought about that, what America would be like in the 1880s. Good thing I was born when I was. If I ever got to live in the twenty-first century again. I felt a sharp pang of homesickness and stuffed it deep down. I couldn’t allow myself to panic. I was safe and being taken care of and should feel grateful for that while I figured out what to do next.
    I reminded myself I was lucky to be with Mary and even more lucky to have found Claude as a friend. Except I wanted him to be more than a friend. That evening, we walked along the Seine, admiring the sunset. The city was so beautiful and his eyes so warm, and it was all so romantic. I leaned into his chest, tilted my lips up to his, and waited.
    Nothing.
    Wasn’t he supposed to kiss me? I couldn’t be the one to kiss him. That would be, I don’t know, pushy, awkward, and just plain wrong. Everyone knows the guy is supposed to pull the girl in close, lean down, and give her a soulful, tender kiss. Especially in the nineteenth century.
    Everyone except Claude knew that. He cleared his throat and turned bright red and pulled away from me. Not toward, but away, completely backward.
    Then he started babbling about how fond Degas was of me, how he appreciated my wit (wit?), my keen eye, my delightful Americanisms. Nothing as charming as “turkey buzzard,” but close.
    â€œIn fact, he was amazed when I told him you’re Jewish,” Claude said, totally ruining the romantic mood.
    â€œWhy would you tell him that? Who cares whether I’m Jewish or not?”
    â€œHe does, of course! Monsieur Degas is a brilliant artist, a kind gentleman, but that hardly makes him a friend of the Jews. He’s quite opinionated about it really, though he laughs and says some of his best friends are Jewish. Like me. And now you.”
    Instead of being kissed, I was stuck in a ridiculous conversation. “I don’t want to be a token Jewish friend,” I snapped. But I liked Degas. He seemed so modern in so much of his thinking—like having faith in electricity, respecting women artists, valuing people like laundresses who did hard drudgery and painting their pictures. Yet he was old-fashioned enough to share that most ancient of prejudices, anti-Semitism. I didn’t know how to make all those things fit in the same person.
    I thought of Mary Cassatt and how much she admired Degas. And Claude, who was Jewish himself, worshipped him. Did that mean I could still like him? I wasn’t sure what I felt anymore.
    I hurried across the bridge facing Notre Dame. The square in front of the