There’s a sketch of Jasfoup in the museum. He’s in human form, and sporting a moustache and stiff-collared shirt and looks more like a servant to the two ladies on the balcony that a rather powerful demon but it’s him all right.
It’s something about the eyes. Even though the figure is not the form Harold recognizes – he’s Caucasian in the sketch, for a start, rather than the ink-black, soft-as-buttered-chocolate skin of his present form – Harold knows the figure has been caught by a master painter’s quick hand.
“Who are the ladies?” he asks and Jasfoup appears almost embarrassed that Harold has unearthed the yellowed parchment. He takes it and a slow smile softens his features.
“That’s Lady Waters, your great grandma,” he said. “We stopped in
“He changed the faces in the painting, though.” Harold took it back and placed it carefully back between tissue paper pages. “Why was that?”
“A hundred francs and a blind eye to his mistress.” Jasfoup grinned. He’d never have sold the painting anyway. It was better that he painted in nobility instead.”
“Manet should have kept is as Lady Waters,” said Harold. “She’d have given him more than your hundred for the painting.”
“Perhaps,” said Jasfoup, “but he was flattering Berthe Morisot.”