Mira's Diary by Marissa Moss Page B

or a bad one? I had no idea. What if everything he had said was a complete lie? Did Mom really care about Dreyfus that much? Was his life the change she meant?
    I could assume that much was true because of her letter, but did she really expect me to sneak into an embassy office? Was I supposed to knock out the cleaning woman and take her place? That sounded like the kind of thing that would happen in a spy movie. But was it something I could do? And could I get to 1894 to do it?
    Or was this whole thing a setup by Morton? Was he an evil time-traveler like the beautiful creepy woman? I didn’t think he’d be so scared of her if they were on the same side, but I wasn’t sure who or what to believe.

Over tea with Claude, Degas chatted about his favorite jockeys, the dancers he’d draw tomorrow, and one particular one that he was recommending Halévy find a position for in the musical theatre. He was so cheerful that I stopped thinking about the crumbling of the French government and how I was supposed to stop it somehow.
    â€œMonsieur Degas,” I said. “I was surprised to see you sketch at the races! I never see you paint outside like Monsieur Monet.” It was easier to talk about art than why he should like Jews more. I couldn’t quite get myself to do that.

    â€œAh, well, drawing a quick sketch is one thing. Painting is another. You know how I feel about that! If I were the government, I’d have a special brigade of police to protect the public from artists who paint landscapes outside from nature. They don’t have to arrest anyone, but a little bird-shot now and then as a warning would be effective.”
    â€œThose are your friends you’re talking about!”
    â€œI respect Monet, but he’s no friend. Now Manet and Renoir, they are true friends, so I forgive them their follies.”
    â€œAnd Claude? He was drawing outside too. And he’s Jewish, so how about him?” Ugh, that was clumsy. I was practically asking Degas if he was ready to round up Jews and shove them all into a locked ghetto.
    â€œClaude is Jewish?” Degas raised an eyebrow. “I did not know that. Should I reconsider his position here?”
    â€œNo, of course not!” What a mess I was making! Was I getting Claude fired? I shot him a panicked look. Would he ever forgive me? “I thought you didn’t care he was Jewish. After all, the Halévy family is Jewish.”
    â€œThe Halévys were Jewish,” Degas corrected me. “They are good Christians now. You can hardly fault them for their ancestry. Well, actually, I suppose one could but I, for one, do not.”
    â€œMonsieur Degas is teasing you, Mira,” Claude said. “He knows perfectly well that I am a Jew. What matters is whether I can draw, and that is something I am still struggling with. And you are an artist yourself, no matter how much you protest. I’ve seen you drawing in your sketchbook.”
    I could feel my cheeks turn bright pink. “I told you, those were just notes,” I stammered. “I admit I like to draw, but I’m not an artist.” Not on the same level as Claude. And certainly not Degas. I would never show either of them my clumsy scrawls. It would be easier to talk about Judaism than that!
    Anyway, Degas was tolerant enough with Jews, and nothing I said made a difference one way or another. If he wanted to support Dreyfus, he would. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. I suppose that meant I should think about the second task Mom had given me, at least according to Morton, but that would mean finding a touchstone that would somehow get me to 1894.
    Claude walked me home after Degas left for the theater. It all felt so normal that I almost forgot I didn’t belong in this time or place. It was easier to think about Claude than time travel and urgent secret missions. Neither of us said anything, but it was a comfortable silence, the kind that holds you like a