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lifted it carefully from the wall, revealing a square of darker wallpaper behind it. He turned the painting around to study the back with Emilie, but there was nothing to be seen.
    “Never mind, it’s not the end of the world,” Sebastian reassured her. “If Matisse had signed it, it would simply be a less complex process to prove that it is his work.”
    “You really think it is?”
    “With the provenance you’ve just described, and the trademark stippling, which Matisse was experimenting with around the period he painted Luxe, Calme et Volupté , I’d say there’s every chance it is. Obviously, it would have to go to the experts for authentication.”
    “And if it is a Matisse, how valuable would it be?”
    “Given there’s no signature, I wouldn’t be experienced enough tojudge. Matisse was extremely prolific and lived a very long life. Would you want to sell the painting?”
    “That, again, is another query to put on my list.” Emilie gave an exhausted shrug.
    “Well,” Sebastian said as he hung the painting carefully back in its rightful place, “I certainly have some contacts who’d be able to establish its authenticity, but I’m sure your notaire will wish to use his own. Thank you, though, for showing it to me, and the rest of this wonderful château.”
    “My pleasure,” said Emilie, leading him out of the morning room.
    “You know”—Sebastian scratched his head as they stood in the entrance hall—“I’m sure my grandmother mentioned the amazing collection of rare books that she’d once seen here, or am I imagining things?”
    “No.” Emilie realized she’d managed to overlook the library on her tour. “It’s just along here. I’ll show you.”
    “Thank you, as long as you have time.”
    “I do.”
    Sebastian was suitably awed on entering the library. “My goodness,” he said as he made his way slowly around the shelves, “this is a simply outstanding collection. God knows how many books there are in here—do you know? Fifteen, twenty thousand?”
    “I really have no idea.”
    “Are they cataloged? In any kind of order?”
    “They’re in the order my father chose to put them, and his father before that. The collection was begun over two hundred years ago. The newer acquisitions are cataloged, yes.” Emilie indicated the leather ledgers sitting on her father’s desk.
    Sebastian opened one, turned the pages, and saw the hundreds of entries made in Édouard’s immaculate handwriting. “I know this isn’t any of my business, Emilie, but really, this is an extraordinary collection. I can see from this that your father purchased many rare first editions, not to mention the books already here. This must be one of the finest collections of rare books in France. They should be professionally cataloged on a database.”
    Emilie sat down in her father’s leather armchair, feeling overwhelmed. “My God,” she murmured, “there seems to be more andmore to do. I’m realizing that organizing my parents’ affairs is going to be a full-time job.”
    “A worthwhile one, surely?” Sebastian said encouragingly.
    “But I have another life, a life that I like. That is quiet and”—Emilie wanted to say “safe,” but knew that sounded strange—“organized.”
    Sebastian strolled over to her, then knelt down next to her, leaning his arm on her chair for support. “I do understand, Emilie. And if you want to return to that life, then you must simply find people you trust to sort all this out for you.”
    “Who can I trust?” she asked the air.
    “Well, you mentioned your notaire , for a start. Maybe you could place everything in his hands?”
    “But . . .” Tears pricked the back of her eyes. “Surely I owe it to my family and its history? I cannot simply run away.”
    “Emilie,” Sebastian said gently, “it’s very early days, of course you’re feeling overwhelmed. Your mother has only been gone for a couple of weeks. You’re still in shock, still grieving. Why