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taught to be as spiteful as his mother, so she could properly ruin his life. But she was not with her father today.
    “Rat Catcher!” called Pissarro, foiling Lucien’s respectable-distance strategy by snatching the boy up by one arm and mercilessly planting a beard-cushioned kiss on each of Lucien’s cheeks before dropping him back to his feet.
    “Look, monsieur, how they gather to see who will win your painting.”
    “I think they gather for your father’s bread,” said Pissarro. He exchanged a warm handshake with Père Lessard, who was about to recite the virtues of his friend’s painting and the deep ignorance of the Salon for rejecting his work when there came a tapping on the glass from inside and everyone turned to see Mère Lessard brandishing a demitasse spoon like a petite battle-axe, an eloquent and urgent eyebrow raised to convey that the loaves were ready to come out of the oven and Father could dawdle if he wished, and the bread could burn, but at some point he would have to sleep, and it should not surprise him in the least should he wake up dead with a small spoon driven into his brain by way of an ear or nostril.
    “In a moment, my friend,” said Père Lessard. “The loaves.” He shrugged and hurried around the corner.
    “I’ve been drawing,” said Lucien. “Monsieur Renoir has been teaching me to draw what I see.”
    “Show me,” said Pissarro.
    Lucien was off in an instant, down the alley, in the back door, through the bakery, up the stairs, and back with his sketchbook before Pissarro could get a good ember going in his pipe.
    “See?” said Lucien, handing the sketchbook to the painter. “It is two dogs I saw fighting in the Maquis yesterday.”
    Pissarro looked at the drawing, nodding and turning it in the air, holding it at arm’s length while he studied it and stroked his great thundercloud beard, as if he were Jehovah surveying an extracted rib for creative possibilities.
    “These dogs are not fighting.”
    “Yes they are. Like the paintings we saw in the Louvre,” said Lucien. “Gecko-Roman wrestling, Father called it.”
    “Ah, of course,” said Pissarro, as if it had become clear. “Yes, Gecko-Roman dog wrestling. Superb! I presume you haven’t shown your wrestling dogs to Madame Lessard, then.”
    “No, monsieur, Mother doesn’t appreciate art.”
    “Ah, well, then I must insist that you give it to me for my collection.”
    Lucien felt he would nearly burst with pride. “Really, monsieur, you want it?”
    “It will hang next to a Cézanne. I believe he has an affinity for wrestling dogs.”
    “And you will tell Minette that I drew it?”
    “Of course.”
    Lucien started to tear the drawing out of his sketchbook, then paused and looked up. Lucien had dark eyes that often seemed a bit too wide for his face, like those of a hungry kitten, and now they bore distress that bordered on tears. “But, monsieur, I don’t want your Lucien to feel bad when he sees my wrestling dogs in your house.”
    Pissarro laughed. “Your friend has his own sketchbook, Rat Catcher, don’t you worry about him.”
    Lucien smiled, tore out the page, and handed it to the painter, who folded it carefully in half and tucked it into his coat pocket.
    A murmur rose in the crowd and there was polite maneuvering for position at the door. Mère Lessard pulled up the shade, turned the sign, and opened the door. Madame called out a joyful bonjour to the customers and welcomed them into the shop with a breezy flourish and a smile such as one might find on a pre-revolution Marie-Antoinette painted on a teacup, which is to say, sparkling with charm and warm possibility.
    “Maman reserves her stormy side for her family,” Père Lessard would say, “for the world she has only sunshine and butterflies.”
    It was then that she smacked young Lucien in the head with a baguette. The crunchy yet tender crust wrapped around his head, bending but not breaking, showing that the oven had been precisely the