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him. My social standing did cause me to be invited to a number of soirées, dinners, and parties, but I felt no need to attend any that did not interest me, confident that my mother would not appear from behind a bush in the Tuileries to scold me for refusing an invitation.
    During this time I finished reading Chapman’s Iliad as well as The Age of Fable . Rather than turning my attention to the Odyssey, as I had originally planned, I delved into Pope’s translation of the Iliad . The Meurice was only a short walk from the Louvre, and I spent many afternoons there mesmerized by the exquisite collection of antiquities. After touring all the Salles Grecques, I returned to my sketchbook, starting with a fragment of the Parthenon friezes that depicted an Athenian girl and two priests. I could not reproduce the scene as accurately as I would have liked, and wished that I had paid better attention to the drawing master who had taught me at my mother’s house. But, my lack of skill notwithstanding, what better way to spend an afternoon than in a noble attempt to capture some of the Parthenon’s exquisite beauty? Every moment that I spent reading, sketching, or wandering through the museum brought me closer to the man I had married, a feeling I welcomed, although I was not quite sure why.
    “There is a man waiting to see you, Lady Ashton,” my maid informed me as I returned to my rooms following one such excursion to the Louvre. “A Frenchman, madam,” she said, wrinkling her nose to show dissatisfaction. “I only agreed to let him wait because he said he was delivering something of Lord Ashton’s.”
    “Meg, we are bound to see Frenchmen occasionally, given that we are in their country. Bring him to me. I’d like to see what he has.” A few moments later, she announced a Monsieur Renoir, who carried under his arm a good-size flat package wrapped in brown paper.
    “Madame, I was devastated to learn of your husband’s death. It was a tragedy indeed.” His dark eyes burned intensely. “It pleases me more than you know to be able to deliver to you this picture.” He placed the package on a table away from the window. I opened it immediately and was shocked to see my own face.
    I couldn’t speak. I had heard of the work of the impressionists but had seen few of their paintings. Renoir had captured the essence of my face while bringing to it a beauty I had never seen, colors and light dancing across the canvas.
    “How did you paint this?” I sat down. “Please pardon me, but I am rather confused. Obviously, I did not sit for this portrait.”
    “I hope you do not find it displeasing.”
    “No. No. It’s lovely, Monsieur Renoir.”
    “Lord Ashton stopped in Paris en route to Africa before his death. He showed me a photograph taken on your wedding day and asked that I paint a portrait of his bride. I had to rely on his descriptions of your coloring. Now that I see the original, I think he did you justice.”
    “I hardly know what to say. Did you know my husband well?”
    “ Oui, madame. He did not buy his paintings from dealers but directly from the artists. He had an appreciation of impressionism not shared by many, which I like to think shows a greatness of mind. He dined with us whenever he came to Paris.”
    “I had no idea.” I paused. “Did he pay you already?”
    “My child, this is my wedding gift to the two of you. I only wish he could have seen it.”
    “Thank you, sir. I shall treasure it.” Monsieur Renoir cocked his head and looked at his painting.
    “ Portrait of Kallista . I think it is one of my finest efforts.”
     
    S OON THEREAFTER I ACCEPTED an invitation to tea at the apartment of Cécile du Lac, an older woman to whom I had been introduced at a dinner party. The note she sent struck me as surprisingly charming, and, having passed several rather uneventful days, I agreed to attend. Meg helped me into yet another gray dress and arranged my hair beautifully, all the time lamenting that I