Jacques ran from room to room, getting swept out at every turn. Earlier that week a cart had taken Aimée’s painting, and the whole family had stood on the front step and watched the small canvas, crammed in with other paintings, bump down the street like a child being sent out into the world. Colette ordered new dresses. She even had one made for Madame Savaray, who opened the box, took one look at the drapes and ruffles, and refused to wear it. But, on the morning of the Salon, Madame Savaray found it carefully laid out on her bed where she couldn’t help noticing that, at least, Colette had ordered it in gray. She let her fingers trail over the fine fabric, and decided she’d put it on, for Aimée’s sake. Aimée was so nervous she could hardly button her dress. Never had her work hung in any gallery and now, at this very moment, her painting was on display at the Palais de l’Industrie, the most prestigious art exhibit in Paris. Already people were looking at it. Struggling with the last button at the base of her neck, she heard the clock chime in the hall and knew they were late.
