Murder On The Rue Cassette

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Elena breathed in, dazzled by the paintings. As she gazed at them, the Siege and the Commune seemed distant memories. France had arisen from its ashes, shimmering in a glorious rebirth, the brightness of the works blinding her.

Her friends had labored so hard and for so many years, shunned by the Salon and their stuffy convention. God knew many of the critics had derided them. Yet the artists persisted.

Turning slowly, she regarded one work, then another and another. Paintings by Degas, Pissarro, Cezanne, Monet, Boudin, Renoir, Morisot, and a host of others she did not know and who did not know her, not yet.

The studio was stuffy tonight with all of Paris here.

“Pardon, Madame. Sorry, I did not see your train.”

“Quite all right,” Elena muttered, fanning herself.

“You too? I can’t breathe,” Etienne said. He ran a finger inside his collar and patted his cravat. “Such hideous dabbling.” He pointed to a painting of a ballerina in blue tulle.

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