by M. J. Rose
“You were not taking advantage of me,” I answered his question from a few moments before. “And to complete the introductions, I am not ‘Mademoiselle.’ I am married.”
He was taken aback. I saw shock but also relief on his face. After all, a virgin can be a certain kind of trouble a married woman cannot.
“Are you married, Julien?”
“No, affianced.”
Had he said it with some reluctance, or was that my imagination?
“How lovely.”
He nodded but didn’t offer any information.
“Is it a love match?” I asked brazenly.
He didn’t answer, and his face offered no clue as to what his response might be. Finally he said: “My situation is complicated.”
“What situation isn’t complicated? My grandmother says it is the grand complications of life that keep her in diamonds and pearls.”
“Your grandmother is a wise and witty woman.”
“She’s also very secretive. She still has not told me anything about hiring you and this decision of hers to turn La Lune into a museum.”
“I wish I could give you some insight, but she hasn’t shared any of her secrets with me.”
“I thought when I came here the first day that perhaps you were a new lover.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”
“Which pleases me.”
“And why is that?” he teased.
“It would make me quite uncomfortable to take my grandmother’s lover as my own.”
Again I had astonished myself and, from the expression on Julien’s face, astonished him as well.
“I’m sure your husband wouldn’t like that either.”
“My husband and I are separated,” I said, lowering my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s not a kind man.” I wanted to tell him at least part of the truth. I lifted my face. “But that is in the past. I’ve come to Paris to start over.”
“Let me help you. Tell me what you are planning.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble with my grandmother.”
“You mean if she were to notice that a jade frog is missing from the cabinet?”
“I asked you not to look. If Grand-mère thought you took it, she would—”
He put his hand up and touched my cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Sandrine. Are you in trouble? Tell me why you took it. What are you planning?”
How could I make him understand how deep my need was to study painting, to begin my life anew? What would he think of me?
Julien leaned down and kissed me, letting me know without a word that he didn’t need to understand, that he wasn’t there to judge; he just wanted to help.
“Any way I can, Sandrine.”
“Can you find a place where I can pawn the little frog? If I am going to attend Les Beaux-Arts, I need money for supplies and clothes, and I can’t ask my grandmother.”
“Of course I’ll help you. I told you that, but you do realize it will all be for naught. Les Beaux-Arts doesn’t accept women.”
“You mean they haven’t yet accepted a woman, don’t you?”
“You’re going to challenge centuries of tradition? How?”
I didn’t want to tell Julien; I wanted to show him. As long as he didn’t know what to expect, his reaction would be a true test of whether I could actualize my idea or was just dreaming.
Chapter 10
“All right then, we’ll go to my aunt’s,” Julien said. “Get your hat, bring the jade frog.”
I was astonished. “But why your aunt’s? Does she buy jewels?”
He laughed. “It’s an expression we use here in Paris. ‘My aunt’s’ is what we call the Crédit Municipal, the pawnshop owned and operated by the government. It’s the only one in Paris and has been for over a hundred years, since individual pawnshops were outlawed for overcharging interest.”
While we’d been inside, a light snow had begun falling, and rue des Saints-Pères was dusted with white. Standing on the steps of Maison de la Lune, I imagined we were inside a snow globe, two small figures in a dark fairy tale, about to set off on a dangerous adventure.
And it was dangerous. If my grandmother knew that I had taken an objet d’art out of the maison, she would be furious. And probably even angrier if she knew the reason.
There were no carriages to be had, so we began to walk. I didn’t mind; Paris looked so lovely under the mother-of-pearl sky, and so quiet. Everyone seemed to be inside due to the weather except for us.
We reached the corner, and he took my arm. “It’s slippery here.” When we reached the other side, he didn’t let go, and I was glad.
“You can really see the shapes of the buildings when you aren’t distracted by the materials they are made of,” Julien said as we turned onto Boulevard Saint-Germain.
“Are any of these yours? Can I see something you’ve built?”
“No, not here. I’ve done nothing on so grand a street. We would have to go out of our way.”
“Would you mind?”
He looked surprised by my request.
“There’s one just three blocks out in this direction, and once there we might find a carriage. Are you interested in architecture?”
“Very much. My father and I would often watch construction going on in New York.”
“Your father seems like a most unusual man.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak for missing him. “He was. For one thing he was a perennial student. He craved knowledge and studied constantly. In addition to the arts, he was interested in mystical teachings and was working on a paper that traced connections and showed the similarities between different esoteric philosophies.”
Julien laughed. “He sounds like a Renaissance man. That was a wonderful period for thinkers. Many men of the time were quite enlightened in the way they treated women.”
“I think my father would have supported me if I’d chosen the life of an artist. Even if he’d had to contend with my grandmother’s protestations.”
“Why would she have objected?”
“My father told me she was superstitious about Verlaine women becoming too involved in the arts.”
“So she knew there was an artist in your family?”
“Now that we’ve found the studio, I guess she must have, but at the time when I asked my father about it, he didn’t know why she felt that way.”
“So you always wanted to be an artist?”
“No, not seriously, not before I came to Paris. I was happy being my father’s companion in his pursuits. Going to museums and galleries with him, attending auctions, growing his art collection. He involved me when he built his bank on Wall Street. Together we met all the architects he considered, and afterward we pored over their plans and discussed their philosophies. Do you have a philosophy, Monsieur Duplessi?”
“Julien,” he corrected me.
“Yes, Julien.” For a moment I felt almost giddy to be walking down a Paris street in the snow, arm in arm with such an interesting man. Even though it was cold out, I welcomed the weather. The icy flakes stinging my cheeks were helping me wake after a long-dormant existence.
“Do I have a philosophy?” He hesitated for a moment, and I wondered if I had asked a naïve question. Then he smiled. “An architect who does not have a philosophy is just a draftsman.”
“What is yours?”
He gestured to the buildings we were walking past. “These are outdated masks. There’s nothing here not borrowed from other ages. There’s nothing new and certainly nothing noble about adapting styles from Byzantium and medieval times and slapping them onto our present-day buildings. I’m not seduced by the past.
“I believe in the unique. Like the architect Viollet-le-Duc, my eyes are looking toward the future. Archi
tectural forms for our times. I supposed you could say I’m tired of being mired in tradition and sick of the commonplace. Why build an ordinary building when you can create one that is unique? I strive for a structure that has harmony, logic, and will appeal to our love of beauty.”
I couldn’t help but think how much my father would have liked Julien Duplessi and his radical ideas. “Yes, yes, I agree. How many of these amazing buildings have you erected?”
“I haven’t had many commissions yet. Mostly I do the kind of interior work I am doing for your grandmother. But I’m hoping that when people see what I’ve done, even though it’s extreme, a few will be drawn to them.” He pointed to a building on the corner. “Look at how wrong that is. If you are going to use stone, then it needs to be treated like stone. Glass, on the other hand, should not be treated like stone but like glass. Iron and cast iron have a beauty that shouldn’t be hidden, and by exposing them, you can allow in so much more light. And is there anything more important than light? Bay windows, glass roofs, wide-open vistas. And why do ornaments that have nothing to do with the form of the building show up all over it like a woman wearing far too much jewelry? It’s time to reject the flower and seize the stem. Today’s design needs to be about line! Nature is a living thing. I want my buildings to live in nature.”
We had reached the corner of rue de Rennes. Julien stopped and turned to face the direction we’d just come from. He gestured to the buildings we’d passed. His face was animated, his voice filled with passion. “None of them have any life. They are boxes with cutouts. But come look at number 76.”
We turned onto de Rennes.
I hoped Julien’s building would indeed be unique. That the structure would live up to the promise of the man. He’d set himself a lofty goal. Papa and I had often talked about how duplicative and unoriginal most artists’ creations were. Paintings that were really imitations of other paintings, music that was nothing more than a rehash of what had come before, novels that were plots borrowed from other plots.
We walked by one ordinary building and then another until Julien stopped in front of what was indeed a unique structure. It was small and scrunched in between two others, neither remarkable. But number 76 was like a tree growing out of the sidewalk. The upward movement of its lines carried the eye to the sky. It was a force of nature, indeed a living thing.
Beside me I could feel Julien waiting to hear what I thought.
“This is astonishing. It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. What is this style called?”
“Some of us are calling it the new art, Art Nouveau. Sinuous lines and whiplash curves, first inspired by botanical studies of the German biologist Ernst Heinrich Haeckel and the marvelous Japanese art prints that Edgar Degas, Mary Cassatt, Paul Gauguin, Vincent van Gogh, and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec have embraced and incorporated into their work. Art Nouveau is our reaction to the academic art and architecture of the last century. It’s taking off all over Europe, and it’s encompassing everything. Furniture, art, architecture, jewelry, even book design.”
“Art Nouveau,” I repeated. Liking how it sounded, sinewy and rounded like the style itself.
Even the lettering on the sign above the door was free and spacious and curving. I read the words it spelled out: Librairie du Merveilleux.
“The Marvelous Library?” I asked Julien. “What amazing books do they sell here? Is there more of your design? Can we look inside?”
I was already at the door. Even the handle was a surprise. Like a branch it arched and had a grace to it that captured my imagination.
Bells chimed as I opened the door, and two men sitting at a table turned around. Two ordinary businessmen poring over a large map.
“Hello, Julien,” the older, gray-haired man said. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
“No rush, Dujols. I just wanted to show Mademoiselle Verlaine around your library.”
This was not a store, not a library; it was a cave of wonders, its secrets waiting to be explored. One wall undulated in a series of alcoves outfitted with chairs and tables designed in the same curving, sumptuous style as the building itself. Exotic-looking brass and stained glass sconces emitted dappled golden light in unusual patterns. The windows were bowed and had their own landscape. The books that were piled everywhere were, I thought, the only visible straight lines.
“Did you design everything here? The furniture and the lamps, too?”
“Yes. And I had it built by my uncle’s furniture factory in Nancy, where I grew up. My other uncle, who has a fine glassmaking studio, did the lamp shades and windows to specifications.”
“It’s all marvelous. Just like its name.”
I spun around. Shelves lined the other two walls. On some were candles, braziers, and alembics that suggested alchemical experiments, but the majority were filled to capacity with books. I began to read the spines, but then turned again and noticed the west wall. Painted from the floor to ceiling was an open book, its pages yellowed and fragile, filled with ancient text that was near impossible to read. I went closer to inspect it.
“How curious.”
“Monsieur Dujols”—Julien nodded at the man still engaged with his customer—“is a publisher. This isn’t just a store, but a meeting place for artists and writers interested in psychic and spiritual worlds. Paris is overrun with them. There are followers of theosophy, the Last Pagans, Swedenborgians, Eclectic Buddhists, Luciferians, Gnostics, Satanists, Rosicrucians. Yes, Paris is overrun with them, and of course there are rumors of dark things that go on. Some of it quite gruesome.” He shook his head. “Black magick, white magick . . . it’s quite the fashion, and you’d be surprised how many people of note are involved.”
“Really? My father would find it all most curious.” I bit my bottom lip to distract myself from the onslaught of emotion I felt and focused my attention on the magical, mystical, astrological symbols painted on the walls. Some I’d seen before in my father’s books, and others were identical to the ones that we’d just found on the drawings in the studio.
“Everything in the store, from the messages and symbols in the mural to the wall hangings, was chosen by Dujols to evoke and stir thoughts of the ancients’ knowledge, mystery, and wisdom. To open the mind, he says, and help usher in a new age of enlightenment.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” I said.
“No, of course not. It’s a noble goal.”
“Except?”
He smiled and lowered his voice. “There’s just a lot about it that’s not rational.”
“Ah, yes.” I nodded.
I had learned something about Julien that I hadn’t known before.
A red silk sash caught my eye. It was hanging in one corner, embroidered with Hebraic letters that looked familiar. Above that was a carved wooden winged sphinx. I saw first one and then another and then dozens more paintings and etchings of serpents, dragons, and snakes grasping or biting their tails so that they formed circles. Some of the creatures had wings, some vicious teeth. More familiar images.
“Look.” I pointed it out to Julien. “That’s the same type of circle that was around the painter’s initials in my grandmother’s house. And on the clasp on the necklace. They are all similar—a dragon biting his tail. Did you recognize it when you saw it at the house?”
He nodded.
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“I assumed the painter was drawn to it because of the address. The church was situated on rue du Dragon.”
I was still taking in more and more amazing sights. There was a huge embroidered wall hanging of a zodiacal wheel, each sign done in another gem-like color of the rainbow. There were papyrus scrolls of hieroglyphics similar to those I’d seen in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Egyptian wing.
On either side of the door was a mural of symbols painted in bronze, silver, and gold. Yes, there
was the ankh that my father had told me symbolized life, and others that looked familiar but that I couldn’t identify.
“Do you know what this one means?” I pointed to a five-foot-long drawing that glowed in the lamplight like a beacon.
“Yes. That’s the Monas Hieroglyphica. Designed by John Dee in the sixteenth century as part of his mystical symbolic language. It’s the emblem of the philosopher’s stone.”
“Alchemy?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s a wonderful design that actually encompasses seven others.” He pointed them out. “This V is the sign of Aries, for fire. The cross represents the four elements. The circle with the dot in the middle is the symbol of the sun. And the sliver on top is the lunar crescent.”
“What is that one?” I pointed to another symbol that incorporated one form I was familiar with—a six-sided Jewish star.
“The Sigil of Ameth. It has the name of God and the angels inscribed on it. Also used by Dr. Dee.”
I asked about the rest, curious about them all. Julien knew what most of them were and what they stood for.
“You know so much about all of this. Are you a student of these ancient arts, too?”
“No, but in order to direct the painters and sculptors I hired, I needed to understand what everything we were representing meant.”
I heard the door shut. The proprietor had just escorted his customer out. He bustled over to us with a quick step.
“Julien! How good to see you.” The owner embraced him.
Julien introduced us. “Pierre Dujols, this is Mademoiselle Verlaine.”
The gray-haired publisher took my hand and bent over it.
“Beware, Mademoiselle, Dujols is something of a showman. Don’t be taken in by everything he says.”
“Monsieur Dujols, how nice to meet you.”
“Yes, yes, you as well. Are you by any chance related to the Madame Verlaine who lives on rue des Saints-Pères?”
“Yes, she’s my grandmother.”
