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head. “No, he made it ugly on purpose. He wanted to show—”
    “Ugly on purpose? What kind of fool would do that?”
    I frowned at my plate and gave up. I could feel the other girls swapping glances around me, and I could read their thoughts: Of all the men who come to Madame Virginie’s, why did Rachel choose him?
    Françoise pulled me aside after we cleared the table. “You must stop spending so much time with him. It’s dangerous.”
    “Dangerous?” I scoffed. “Don’t be silly. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
    “You know what I mean. You’re playing with fire.”
    “You’re the one who told me to find some regulars.”
    Her nostrils flared. “To have regulars is fine. To have someone special who brings you presents and treats you good, is fine. But once you start running around outside the maison , you invite all kinds of trouble. Do you see me going anywhere with Joseph? Or anybody else?”
    “Monsieur Roulin is married and has three children. Vincent—”
    “He could take advantage of you, get you to see him for free.” Before I could fire back, she ranted on, “If you fall for him, you won’t want to screw anybody else, and Madame Virginie will sack you. That painter doesn’t have a franc to his name, he can’t take care of you. You could lose your post, lose him, to end up where? On the street?”
    “He told me about his painting, and he walked me here. That’s all.”
    “I’m not blind, Rachel. And I’m not stupid.”
    A flush colored my cheeks. “Why should you care?”
    “I don’t want you getting hurt.” The sudden tremble in her voice made me stare. “Years ago, I met this mec . Oh, what a sweet talker he was. I sneaked out, saw him for free, he strung me along for months. Then I got pregnant. When I told him I loved him and wanted to get married, he was gone, poof! The other girls warned me, but did I listen?”
    I laid my hand on her arm. “What happened to the baby?”
    “What do you think happened?” she said harshly and shook off my touch.
    It wasn’t hard to guess. Madame Virginie had told me months before about the old woman who lived out the road to Tarascon, who had herbs filles de maison might want. “It won’t be like that,” I whispered. “I’m not in love with him.”
    Tears swam in Françoise’s eyes, thick-skinned, barb-tongued Françoise who always seemed untouched by anyone. “Be careful, Rachel. I only want to save you.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Yellow House
I want to make it really an artists’ house—not precious, on the contrary nothing precious, but everything from the chairs to the pictures having character .
—Vincent to Theo, Arles, September 1888
    B
    e careful. Be careful.
    Françoise’s words kept me awake that night and haunted me the next day. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, not the mending I needed to do or the book I wanted to read, and when I gave up and went to the market, I wandered aimlessly among the stalls, looking over my shoulder for a yellow straw hat. When the maison opened for the evening, Françoise watched every move I made, and when I broke not one glass but two, cleaning up the bar at closing time, she hissed, “Get your head out of the clouds!”
    I did not meet Vincent at the Café de la Gare. After breakfast that day, I went upstairs and sat on my bed, listening to the clock in the hall chime nine and trying not to think about him sitting alone at an empty table. Part of me hoped he would visit the maison that night to learn where I was; another part of me hoped he would stay away. And he did. For over a week there was no sign of him. Joseph Roulin came to see Françoise during that time, and when I passed by their table with a tray of drinks for a customer, he said gruffly, “Vincent waited for you at the café. For two hours.”
    I nearly dropped the tray. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, ignoring the accusation in his eyes and the curiosity in Françoise’s face.
    One sunny afternoon, the kind of