by M. J. Rose
Some secret part of me soared hearing him say that. Second-class medals, third-class medals, and honorable mentions were given out, in addition to the most prestigious Prix de Rome, but with over ten thousand paintings being submitted and less than half making the first cut, just being accepted was a feat. What would it be like to achieve that?
“Don’t encourage her, Gaston. Less competition for us,” Serge said.
Gaston laughed. “You only wish you could compete with her.”
We’d reached the end of the bottle of wine, and Serge suggested we move on to a bistro a few blocks away on Saint-Germain that served the best soupe à l’oignon in all of Paris.
It was there, a half hour later, just as the waiter was putting our food on the table, that I noticed the door open and a group of three men enter. One of them was Julien. He must have gotten back from his trip.
I watched as the maître d’ seated them inside toward the back.
“Do you know them?” Serge asked me.
“One looks familiar, but I’m not sure. Why, do you know them?”
“The gentleman with the gray beard is Monsieur Cingal, the architect. He teaches at the École, so perhaps you recognize him from seeing him there. I don’t know who the other two are.”
“But of course,” I said, and spooned some of the hot, fragrant soup. It was delicious: brown and buttery with a crisp layer of cheese on top that had just the right bite to it.
So that was Cingal, Julien’s prospective father-in-law. I glanced over at their table, trying not to bring any attention to myself. Cingal and Julien interacted much like father and son. And why not? Julien had known his father-in-law-to-be for over ten years, first as his student, then his apprentice, and now his partner.
Examining Cingal’s features, I tried to imagine them feminized and picture what his daughter would look like. But his nose was too big, his chin too square, and his brow too heavy.
As I ate and talked, I kept casting glances over at Julien’s table. I paid less attention to how many times my wineglass was filled than I ought, and before long began to hatch a plan that a more sober soul might not have dared.
Julien had told me his apartment was in one of Monsieur Cingal’s buildings and that his mentor and his family resided there also. If I followed them, I might find out where Julien lived. Where she lived. And once I knew that, I could return during the day, wait for her, and see her. See what my rival looked like. What she was made of. Learn better how to fight her for what I’d come to realize I wanted to wrest from her grip.
So when Julien and Cingal paid their bill, I threw some coins on the table and told my fellow students that it was time for me to leave and hurried out.
It was foolhardy, I knew. I wasn’t even sure where they were going or how they were going to get there. What if they took a carriage, and I was left in some neighborhood I didn’t recognize? What if it was unsafe?
But as it turned out, they walked and never left the 6th arrondissement. After crossing Saint-Germain, they strolled down rue de Tournon toward the Luxembourg Gardens and then into the gardens themselves, traversed a diagonal path and exited on rue de Fleurus.
After they crossed the street, the two men proceeded down de Fleurus, stopping in front of number 6, a five-story building with lovely wrought-iron balconies and a slight undulation to the facade. Designed, but not overly so, it was elegant without being grandiose. Julien remained outside while Cingal disappeared inside. I waited a few doors down in the shadow of another building’s entrance. There were no gas lamps on my side of the street, only on theirs, and since Julien didn’t glance my way, I believed I was safe.
Was this the building where they lived? Why hadn’t Julien entered? Where had Cingal gone? I was imagining scenario after scenario when, after a few minutes, Cingal returned, a young woman on his arm.
In the lamplight, I could see her well enough for her countenance to disturb me. She was very lovely, with blond curls, full lips, and a feminine figure, and from the way she tossed her head, she was very used to being the center of attention.
I tried to imagine Julien touching her face the way he had touched mine. Kissing her the way he had kissed me. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t just because I was jealous. There was an iridescent aura about her that was evil. It made me uneasy and frightened for Julien. And for me.
Just like the creatures hovering above and living below the tombstones in the cemetery, the shimmer, I had no doubt, was real and a manifestation of dimensions never before accessible to me. But it was visible now for some reason I couldn’t comprehend.
The rabbi’s words echoed in my mind just then. You’re in touch with a troubled spirit, aren’t you? he’d said. She’s showing you her realm. We must find out why.
A carriage pulled up, and Cingal, his daughter, and Julien climbed inside. I watched as the horse trotted off, and was left standing on the street by myself. How was I to get back to my grandmother’s on my own? Unused to traveling alone in Paris at night, I walked to the corner and hoped that I’d find a carriage as easily as Cingal had. But there wasn’t one in sight. And so I began to trace my footsteps, back through the park, back toward rue des Saints-Pères.
There were no other pedestrians in the gardens. The pathways were dark. Figures seemed to lurk in the shadows. The wind rustling through bare branches sounded like footsteps. What was I doing? How foolish to have put myself in the position of being a helpless woman out alone after dark in a park. How would I be able to defend myself if attacked?
I looked straight ahead and kept my pace quick. While I walked, I distracted myself with thinking about Charlotte Cingal and the way she’d tilted her face to look up at Julien. How the light had skimmed her cheekbones and how fine her skin had been. How petite her feet and hands were.
My mother had been small like that, but I took after my father and my grandmother. Taller than most women, my shoulders slightly wider, my hands just a bit bigger.
My father used to say that he was glad that I wasn’t fragile, that fragile women never seemed to claim life. And that out of everything, that was what he hoped for me. That I would claim my life. I asked him once if my mother had, and he’d smiled and said she had, but he didn’t think it was the kind of life that would satisfy me.
Reflecting on my parents had distracted me further, not from the possible dangers lurking in the park but from a darker danger. But it would do no good pretending. I had to admit what I was thinking, even if it was only to myself.
I’d hated Charlotte Cingal the moment I’d seen her. As the carriage had pulled up, I’d imagined the horse suddenly rearing on his hind legs and coming down with his full force, knocking her to the ground and trampling her.
The vicious and violent image disturbed me. How could I have conjured such a scene in my head? Of course some jealousy was in order—but hatred and murderous rage?
The ugliness of my thoughts embarrassed me. And worried me a bit. I’d never had any kind of malevolent fantasy before. Not toward anyone. Even Benjamin, who had been such a curt and callous husband, had not engendered these kinds of thoughts. Not even when I discovered that he’d driven my father to his death.
From whence had this blackness in me sprung?
I was afraid I knew. And again the rabbi’s words came to me: You’re in touch with a troubled spirit, aren’t you? he’d said.
I had almost reached the rue Bonaparte exit when I realized that I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see anyone, but I was certain I’d heard footsteps. I stopped suddenly, spun around, and searched the shadows but saw no one. I began walking again and after a few seconds was sure I heard a twig crack, as if it had been stepped on. Should I turn around again? Or hurry out posthaste? Was someone following me? Had one of Benjamin’s detectives found me?
Hastening out of the park, I turned onto rue Bonaparte. Had someone watched to see what direction I’d take? If so,
I couldn’t lead him directly to my grandmother’s apartment, so instead of heading directly toward Saints-Pères, I stopped in a café for an espresso and kept my eyes on the door. It didn’t appear anyone had followed me inside, and peering through the windows, I saw no one hiding in wait in any doorways.
Believing I’d lost my pursuer, if indeed I’d had one, I continued on home, imagining what Julien and Charlotte Cingal were doing right then. I saw them in the carriage. Her looking at him from under her eyelashes again. Him taking that tiny hand to help her down.
He had not told me the truth when he’d implied that he wasn’t in love with her. Of course he was. He’d only said that it was going to be a marriage of convenience so that I’d welcome him into my bed.
I envisioned the three of them walking into a luxurious restaurant with red velvet banquettes and golden wall sconces and glittering chandeliers that would give her skin an even more irresistible glow. He would not try to resist her. Why should he? She was his. He was going to marry her, and she was going to make him a good French wife. Looking resplendent in her lace and satin and pearls and diamonds. Being oh so good for his business and charming all his clients.
Hadn’t I done the same for Papa and Benjamin? It was only since coming to Paris that I had begun to think of that life with such disdain. And why? Because unwittingly my husband had shown me the danger of allowing the pursuit of the dollar to take over your life. Because all the effort I had put into behaving correctly and doing the right thing and being the proper sort of wife and daughter had not protected me. I’d been too dependent on my father and now was unprepared for a life without him. Charlotte Cingal was who I had been. Not who I needed to become. I was going to learn to be on my own, like my grandmother, making my own way, never being dependent on a man again.
But she was dependent, wasn’t she? Without men how would she live? Where would she be?
As I turned left on rue du Vieux-Colombier, I began plotting how I might meet Charlotte myself and discover who she really was under those Fragonard-pink cheeks and rose-colored lips. There was something rotten in her soul. I’d sensed it, and I would expose it, and Julien would sour on her like cherries tasted before their season.
The thought was so satisfying, I smiled to myself.
No! It was wrong of me to think this way. Where was this evil coming from? Why did it give me pleasure to indulge in these black thoughts? I had known Julien was engaged when I took him as a lover. Our affair was a temporary passing fancy. I had read enough and had enough female friends to know how these things worked even if I’d never indulged before. One did not take these dalliances seriously.
I opened the door to the porte cochère, crossed the courtyard, and entered my grandmother’s apartment.
In the grand parlor, a salon was in full bloom. My grandmother, ablaze with her fire opals and a dress of the same incendiary hue, sat surrounded by admirers. Gentlemen in fine evening clothes lounged as they drank champagne from sparkling crystal flutes or sipped brandy from large glasses engraved with Napoleon’s crown. Several young women served drinks or lit cigars, or flitted around the room, flirting. They were either blondes or brunettes; not one had red hair to compete with my grandmother’s. The women were clearly sophisticated and clever given the way the men hung on their every word. One girl in cobalt lace passed a tray of tidbits around. A gentleman sat at the piano, playing a Debussy etude.
My grandmother looked up as I stepped into the room. With a confused expression, she whispered something to the gentleman to her right, who got up and walked toward me. From across the room, she watched.
I’d never seen my grandmother regard me with such ambivalence, and it disturbed me. Had I made some mistake I wasn’t aware of? Had she expected me even though she’d told me that she was busy that night?
In a formal voice, the gentleman said: “Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
“Can you tell me who it was who invited you?” he asked.
Why was he asking me? Why was he peering at me as if sizing me up?
“Do you have an invitation?” he asked when I didn’t answer.
I shook my head. “No.”
And then I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror and realized with horror exactly what was wrong. My grandmother hadn’t recognized me. Of course she hadn’t. Why would she? I had forgotten that I was still dressed in my art school costume. I’d been at the École, then the café, and then had followed Julien. I’d never gone back to La Lune to change into my clothes, into my pretty dress and daintily heeled shoes. I was wearing men’s trousers, and my hair fell to my shoulders in easy waves. I had on a hat that cast shadows across my features.
“I would encourage you to leave then, without further ado, to avoid any unpleasantness,” the gentleman said as my grandmother continued to watch.
“Yes, yes, I . . .”
The man put his hand on my arm. “Now would be best.”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
Just before I turned to go, I saw the expression on my grandmother’s face change from one of suspicion to one of fear. She’d recognized who I was. But she didn’t get up. She didn’t stop her friend as his hand tightened on my arm.
“Now would be best,” he repeated, and showed me out of my own house.
Chapter 16
“Why were you dressed like a man last night?”
My grandmother sat at the table in the dining room. She didn’t look well rested, and I was unsure if it was solely because of me or if something else had occurred.
“I wanted to study painting, and women weren’t allowed at the École. So I thought I’d disguise myself as a man and bought these clothes. As it turned out, I applied and was accepted as a woman, but I found I liked dressing like this; it’s easier to do everything—from walking through the streets to painting.”
Her eyes searched my face as if there were some secret written there she would be able to detect with intense scrutiny.
The maid entered with coffee and a plate of toast, which she placed in front of Grand-mère, and then asked me what I’d like. I said I’d take the same thing. Once she left, my grandmother resumed her inquisition.
“Why do you need to study painting at all? I don’t understand. You never cared about painting.”
“Why is it such a disturbing idea to you? I’ve always loved art. Museums have been a refuge and delight for me my whole life.”
“Yes, but it’s one thing to admire and appreciate art and another to put on a smock and stand in front of a canvas.” She took a bite of her dry toast.
“What about my studying painting could possibly bother you?”
She took another bite and chewed slowly, as if that was going to help her explain.
“Well, for one thing, you are dressing up to do it. Walking about in costume.”
“Yes?”
“It’s perverse.”
“I’m not sure that dressing up like a man in order to study painting is any more perverse than dressing up like a seductress in order to ensnare a man.”
She flinched as if she had been slapped, and a few drops of the coffee in the cup in her hand sloshed out and spotted the white linen tablecloth.
“How long has this been going on?” she asked.
“Almost a month.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Sandrine, you have changed since your first week here.”
“Yes, Paris agrees with me.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure that it’s all been for the best. You are more secretive, strident, argumentative. You’re darker.”
“My father died.”
“What I’m seeing is not mourning. I know what that is.” Reaching over, she put her hand on mine. “Am
I wrong to be afraid for you?”
“Yes. I’m enjoying it here. I feel as if I’m becoming the person I was meant to be. Finally.”
“What do you mean?” She leaned in closer, her voice stressed. “What exactly do you mean?”
Alice entered with my breakfast. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until she put it down in front of me. Before answering my grandmother, I took a bite. There was the perfect amount of butter melted into the bread, and it was delicious. I took a second bite.
“Sandrine? What do you mean when you say you feel as if you are becoming the person you were meant to be?”
“I’m not sure how to describe it. But living here, painting . . . I simply feel as if I am where I am supposed to be. Doing what I am supposed to be doing.”
I took a sip of the steaming coffee laced with cream. Grand-mère’s cook was a marvel.
“I have a question for you, too. Why is your house closed up? What are you really doing with Maison de la Lune?” I asked.
“I told you. A renovation. Why?”
“How long will it take?”
“Why?”
“Because I would like to live there instead of here, and I’d like to know when I might be able to move in.”
“You will not live there. Ever.” Her voice was strong and loud and raised goose bumps on my arms. “Don’t you understand that you shouldn’t even be in Paris? It’s far too dangerous for you just to be in this city, but certainly you cannot live in that house. You cannot step foot in that house.”
Her cheeks were red; her eyes were blazing. She grabbed both my hands in hers. “It’s my job to keep you safe. You have to promise to stay away from La Lune.”
I wrested my hands away. “What are you talking about? What could be in the house that could put me in danger? You lived there your whole life. My father grew up there. I spent time there when I was fifteen. The only danger I face is if Benjamin finds me.”
