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thrust it under his nose. “He stole my purse.”
    Tibble recovered in time to hear this last. “Oh, Miss Barbary!” he moaned.
    “Never mind, Tibble. We’re not done for yet.” Barbary helped the manservant to his feet.
    The conductor interrupted then, begging the passengers to resume their seats. There was little conversation between them as they resumed their journey; even Mrs. Smith seemed subdued. Barbary avoided the woman’s curious glances and stared out the window at the passing countryside.
    She dared not examine the uncomfortable packet. Perhaps it contained money? At the rate her luck was running, it was more likely some illegal contraband that could land her in a French jail. Yes, and how was she to make good her promise to Tibble? Having uprooted him from his homeland, Barbary must somehow see that he was provided for.
    She racked her brain. Barbary was qualified neither by education nor temperament to take up a profession. Her parents had been horrified to hear of her separation from her husband; they would disown her altogether if they learned of this further disgrace.
    The diligence inched along the road to Paris. The gentlemen dismounted and walked up the steeper of the hills so that the horses might be eased. The coach passed by white-capped women working in the fields, and soldiers returning home from the long war. Barbary saw great-coated Cossacks, stiff-shakoed Prussians, red-jacketed British troops making their way toward the Channel; ragged Frenchmen in patched breeches and big cocked hats. The soldiers all had one thing in common. Each had Conor’s mocking black-browed face.
    Barbary did not wish to think of her husband. She leaned her head back against the seat, closed her eyes. There was no other solution. Upon their arrival in Paris she must humbly beg the assistance of her cousin Mab.
     

Chapter Four
     
    Ma’mselle Amabel Foliot, conversely, had no thought of her cousin Barbary. She was concentrating very hard on holding her pose. In this she had some assistance from ropes that hung from the ceiling on a bar along the wall.
    It was very quiet in the studio. The students bent diligently over the drawing boards resting on their knees, sketching their subject with grease crayons, lead pencils, charcoal, or chalk. There would be no bursts of silly songs, no mêlées that resulted in damage to the furniture today, and certainly no buckets of water propped above the door to surprise the next unwary arrival. The master was present, and all was businesslike. Maurice had not come unaccompanied to his studio, and Mab regretted that circumstance very much indeed.
    The studio was a large rectangular room with a high ceiling, lit by a row of tall windows along one wall. An awning was draped across them as protection against the summer heat. The walls were haphazardly hung with canvases and sketches, and messages scribbled in charcoal and chalk. Palette scrapings and daubings splattered both walls and wooden floors. In one corner were stacked new canvases.
    Mab was posed on a platform against one of the walls. The students studied her through half-closed eyes, stumped in half-tones, indicated shadows by hatching or cross-hatching, as they attempted to portray Mab not as an attractive young woman clad in a minimum amount of gauzy draperies, but to transform her into a representation of the classic ideal. Maurice moved among them, murmuring comments. He had kept on his gloves in an attempt to avoid the temptation of snatching up crayon or charcoal or pencil to amend a student’s work.
    All this was very ordinary. What was not ordinary was the gentleman who had come with Maurice to his studio this day, and whose presence was at least partially responsible for the diligence that the students displayed. Maurice’s students all knew that the Duc de Gascoigne had a considerable degree of influence upon their master’s splendid career.
    “You are scowling, ma petite,” Maurice chided. A well-fed, balding