It was the summer of 1913, and Lebrun, a promising young artist, had only been in Paris for a few weeks. A shy man, especially in the company of women, it took some courage for him to speak to the young girl he saw standing beneath the street lamp in Montmatre. She was looking about her so helplessly - so obviously uncertain about her whereabouts - that Lebrun finally decided to go to her assistance.
She turned towards him - and his first reaction was astonishment, because he had never seen a more beautiful face! And instead of offering to assist her, he found himself begging her to pose for him.
For several moment she stared at him with a puzzled, frightened expression in her eyes. Then, slowly, she replied:
"A portrait would take several sitting, and my time here is very short. Tonight I'm with you, but tomorrow I have no idea where -"
Lebrun resolved to finish the portrait in one night, and he pleaded so hard that she finally nodded and walked along silently beside him.
When they reached his studio, they set to work at once. She was a perfect study in black and white ; her face was almost pale, almost deathly hue about it and her clothes were coarse and black. She had a black band, high on her throat, and when Lebrun asked you to remove it, she stared at him in terror - and shook her head.
As Lebrun worked through the early hours of the morning, the girl sat perfectly still, perfectly silent.
The first cold light of the new day was over the horizon when lebrun finished the painting. It was a perfect lightness, except for the black band, which he decided not to incorporate into the picture.
The first cold light of the new day was over the horizon when lebrun finished the painting. It was a perfect lightness, except for the black band, which he decided not to incorporate into the picture.
Later that day his landlady came to the studio to collect Lebrun's rent. She took one look at the portrait on the easel and exclaimed, "What a good likeness of Greta Peterson! You must have seen the photograph in the papers after she was guillontined for murdering her parents and her husband."
Lebrun stared at her. He hadn't heard about the murder and surely he hadn't seen her photograph.
After pacing his room for hours he decided he must have been over working. The whole thing must have been a figment of his imagination - he must have glanced at her photograph in the papers and must have registered it into his subconsious.
Just as he decided to take things easy, he heard a knock on the door. It was his artist friend, Julian Stant.
"Lebrun, you can call me a madman if you'd like, but I think I saw a ghost last night!"
Stant went on: "It was the early evening, about eight o'clock, in the streets near here. There was a young girl and I was obsessed with the though tof seeing her somewhere before. I just saw her as I pasted, but I could never forget that beautiful face.
"Today I went along to the newspaper files, and I saw her photograph. It was Greta Perterson."
Lebrun said nothing, instead he pointed to the picture.
"That's her alright," said Stant, "But when I saw her, she had a black band around her throat."
"And that's not all. I found out that last night was the anniversary of her death..."