[...] "The Führer himself," Virginie said heavily, "is an artist, after all." Reproductions of his barely competent watercolors, his hesitant lines, his featureless faces, his vacuous, pretty, empty urban façades, had circulated as curios in occult Paris. Virginie and Thibault shared a glance of contempt.

I saved Paris, Thibault makes himself think. Destroyed a new utter demon. I saved th world. He feels flat. Outside, the sunlight hits them differently than it did within the old city.

Is this it? Are they done?

"He never could paint people," Sam whispers. "He always left them out. Painted everything empty. Even when he drew himself, he couldn't do features ..."

The figure turns and Thibault glimpses its faceless face. Empty. A faint graphite sweep where there should be eyes. Blank as an egg. A poor, cowardly rendition, by a young bad artist.

"It's a self-portrait," he hears Sam repeat. She and Thibault reach for each other, hold each other up in fear.

Thibault says, "Of Adolf Hitler."