by M. J. Rose
“These paintings are nothing at all like the paintings that Mademoiselle showed in order to be admitted to your classes. I saw those—we all saw them. These paintings, this style, everything she has created since she’s been with us has been markedly different. While she uses the same Renaissance-era chiaroscuro, the new paintings are looser and more contemporary.”
“Her style has changed, of course.” Moreau frowned.
“It’s more than just change,” he countered.
“What are you suggesting? And be careful, lest you make an accusation you can’t back up,” Moreau said.
Several of the students had stopped what they were doing and gathered around. The silence in the large high-ceilinged room was extreme. I was afraid they would all be able to hear my heart beating so loudly in my chest as my fear escalated as I waited to hear Serge’s accusation.
“I charge Mademoiselle Verlaine with using paintings that weren’t hers to gain entry to the École.”
Moreau looked from Serge to my canvas. He cocked his head. Studied my work.
“You are right in that her style is markedly different,” Moreau said.
I had just been invited to enter a painting into the 1894 Salon. Was that honor to be snatched from me so quickly? “Yes, different,” I said. “I’ve studied and grown under your tutelage, Monsieur Moreau.” My voice trembled—did they all notice?
“All that matters to me is this work—the painting you are doing now,” Moreau said.
I held my breath. Was it going to be all right? Was he dismissing Serge’s charge?
“But would you be so kind as to bring your admission paintings with you next week so that I can take a look. I don’t expect a problem. I have a feeling about you. I have faith in you. But an accusation has been made, and as distasteful as this is, investigate I must.”
Chapter 32
I walked home in tears, overwhelmed by a combination of exhaustion from what I’d painted that day, the excitement of the praise Moreau had heaped on me, and then the devastating allegation.
I was waiting at the corner to cross Boulevard Saint-Germain when a carriage stopped in front of me. There were two passengers in the back seat. Both men. One turned, looked right at me. He was backlit, his features indistinct, but . . . Was it Benjamin? Could it be? It had to be, didn’t it? The man next to him, even in profile, looked like William Lenox, his business associate, who I’d seen on the ship from New York to Southampton two and a half months ago.
I stepped back into the shadow of a storefront.
I hadn’t heard from Mr. Lissauer in days. Wouldn’t he have telegraphed if Benjamin had left New York? Yes, if he knew he’d left, but why would he? Mr. Lissauer didn’t work for the bank. He wasn’t privy to Benjamin’s whereabouts.
There was always the possibility that Benjamin’s presence in Paris, if it was Benjamin, might be a coincidence. Perhaps he was here on business.
I was grasping at straws, and I knew it. The most likely scenario was that, if this was Benjamin, his efforts to find me had succeeded at long last. Had there been papers revealing my grandmother’s identity in my father’s study? Or a record of a bank account with her name on it in one of his desk drawers? There had been no one to prevent Benjamin from searching through my father’s personal effects. He’d had months to sift through every file and slip of paper. If he was here, it was my fault for not being more vigilant before I left.
I strained to see into the carriage. Someone walking down the street passed in front of me, blocking my view. And then the horse trotted on. I remained frozen to the spot.
Had that been my husband? Had he recognized me? The man had not seemed to do more than give me a cursory glance. Why should he? I was wearing a man’s pants, coat, hat. My hair was short, and my face was hidden in shadows.
As I continued on, I convinced myself that the man in the carriage had not been my husband. It was my overactive imagination again. Hadn’t I thought I’d seen him at the Eiffel Tower? Hadn’t I been wrong that time? Benjamin was haunting me the way a problem you’ve put off confronting keeps creeping into your mind given any opportunity. Like the problem I’d brought home with me from class. One that I was not overthinking or exaggerating. Would Moreau be able to tell I wasn’t the artist who’d painted the works in my admissions portfolio? Was there something in those lines and brushstrokes to give me away? And if there was, what would the ramifications be? Was there anything I could do to prevent being found out?
I didn’t usually stay in my art-school attire when I got home. Not wanting to be late for my cinq à sept with Julien, I always hurried to my bedroom, undressed, bathed, and then, after attending to my toilette, dressed for my lover. But my lover was mourning his fiancée, and I had nothing to dress for that afternoon.
I climbed the stairs slowly, studying the gallery of ladies who seemed to be watching my progress. The longing in their eyes spoke to me. What had they wanted? Love? Passion? Did any of them have a desire to create? How many of my ancestors had stood here and faced their futures with the same dread I was feeling at that moment?
Their eyes locked on mine as I passed each one. Their unfinished lips mocked me. For what? For caring so much about my paintings? For caring so much for Julien? Like Charlotte, Julien’s father had died in a terrible accident, and Julien had never stopped blaming himself. Would he do the same now? After all, Charlotte had been on that tower in order to introduce a potential client to him.
As I soaked in my bath, I tried to plan how I should deal with Moreau’s request. If only I could ask Julien. He always had a solution. I tried to imagine what he’d suggest, but I couldn’t think the way he did.
A radical idea occurred to me. Maybe I didn’t have to bring the paintings in at all. I was an accomplished liar. I would claim they had been damaged. Perhaps burned in a fire? Or what if I said I’d destroyed them because they were so inferior to the kind of work I was doing now? Would that work?
“Mademoiselle?”
I opened my eyes.
“Monsieur Duplessi is downstairs,” my maid said.
Julien was here?
“Thank you. Help me get dressed, Alice.”
I stepped out of the bath into waiting, warmed towels and watched in the mirror as my grandmother’s maid rubbed my skin. I felt blood rushing to the surface. Around my neck the ruby rosettes that I wore even when I was naked glinted in the setting sunlight.
Make of the blood, a stone. Make of a stone, a powder. Make of a powder, life everlasting.
What did it mean? Julien was back now. He would help me figure it out. And he’d help me come up with a solution to my problem with Moreau. Everything would be all right now that he was here.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I wanted to see you but didn’t want to interfere,” I said as I stepped into the salon where he was waiting.
He came over to me and took my hands. For a moment he just looked at me, as if he’d never seen me before, as if he was learning my face. Then he bent and kissed me chastely on the lips.
“It’s only been days, but it feels as if I haven’t seen you for so very long . . .” He hesitated. “Sandrine, there are some things I must tell you.”
Oh no. I imagined his confession. He felt guilty that he had been seeing me when he was betrothed, and now that Charlotte was dead and he was in mourning, he was going to call off our affair.
I felt a sudden breath of hot air behind me. Turned around. No, no one was there. Beads of perspiration gathered at my hairline.
“Let’s sit, we’ll have some wine.” I called out to the maid to see to some refreshments.
There was a chill in the room. I glanced over at the mantel. Yes, the fire had been laid in anticipation of the evening’s soiree. Approaching, I lit the paper fan and watched it blaze. Once I was sure the fire had caught, I returned to Julien, who was on the couch.
“I
’m so very sorry for your loss,” I said.
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
My grandmother’s manservant came in with a decanter of Julien’s favorite Bordeaux and goblets. I poured two glasses and handed one to my lover, who took one sip and then another. He was so dark, so gathered into himself. His green eyes were a deeper shade than I’d ever seen.
“How is Charlotte’s father?”
“Inconsolable. Since his wife died three years ago, he’d become dependent on Charlotte. Now I can’t get him to eat . . . He barely sleeps.” Another sip of wine. “I didn’t expect him to rebound quickly, but I’m actually worried that he might try to take his own life. I’ve been staying with him all day and all night. That’s why I haven’t been here sooner and—”
“You don’t need to explain. I understand. You’re both devastated. Mourning has its own timetable, I know.”
He nodded. “I saw her fall, Sandrine. It was terrible. You do know that she fell from the Eiffel Tower, don’t you?”
“Yes, I heard,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I’d heard her laughter echoing as she fell, as her body tumbled, buffeted in the wind, becoming smaller and smaller the closer she came to the sidewalk.
“It was a freak accident. The railings are too low. She was reaching for an umbrella. An umbrella.”
“I’m sorry you had to see it.”
“The worst part was telling Olivier. Seeing his face. As he listened, as he absorbed what I said, and I saw something in him die.”
My eyes filled with tears. If my grandmother was right and La Lune chose which women to inhabit, then she had chosen unwisely with me. I was not strong enough to withstand this. “I can’t . . .” I stood up.
He reached out and grabbed my hand. “Where are you going? What’s wrong?”
“You loved Charlotte. She was going to be your wife. I understand how upset you are, but I can’t be the one to hear this.”
Holding on to my hand, he stared at me. His eyes were so troubled.
“Sandrine, do you think that I loved her?”
Now it was my turn to stare at him. “Of course.”
“But I told you it was a marriage of convenience.”
“Yes, but I assumed you told me that so that I would feel sorry for you and take you as a lover.”
He laughed a long, bitter laugh. “Sit down, Sandrine.” He pulled me to him on the couch.
I sat.
Julien took a deep breath.
“Charlotte had an image of the life she wanted to live. She planned to sing opera for two more years while using her access to wealthy patrons of the arts to help me get important commissions. When I had the kind of prominence she envisioned, we’d marry and build a mansion on Parc Monceau, where she’d entertain as the wife of the important architect Julien Duplessi.”
“It’s hard to blame her for wanting to help you. You are a brilliant artist. I would want to help you, too.”
“But you wouldn’t want to cage me, and she did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our very engagement was a trick. She told her father I proposed when I had done no such thing, and he was so delighted that I . . . Stupidly, I let it go. Cingal’s wife had just died, and I couldn’t cause him more grief right away. But it was a mistake, and I told Charlotte so. She refused to call it off, and when I insisted, she turned on me and said she would tell her father that I’d gotten her with child and taken her to a charlatan doctor for an abortion. We both knew that he’d believe her, lose all respect for me, and probably let me go. My reputation would be tarnished. If word got out that Cingal had fired me, it would be difficult for me to get other employment. Paris is a town of gossips. Again I let it go. Blamed her inability to be reasonable on her mother’s death. I planned to wait a time and then approach her again. But it became intolerable to keep up the charade. She was a shallow and conniving woman. Finally I called her bluff and said I would tell her father the engagement had been a misunderstanding and take my chances; that if she did tell him her preposterous story, he would believe me.
“Before I had a chance to speak to Cingal, a fire broke out in one of the nightclubs I had designed that was under construction. One of the workers was badly burned. Within days a potential client canceled a commission because he’d heard the fire was the result of us using substandard material in order to save money. Then a second client queried our practices. Cingal was vexed and upset. Where was this gossip coming from? His reputation was stellar, as was mine.
“Charlotte came to my apartment after the rumors had been circulating for a week. We already had three jobs in jeopardy. She confessed, with a sly smile, that she’d been responsible for both the fire and the talk, and if I ended the engagement, she would stage more accidents.
“I couldn’t put the firm or my mentor at risk. Once again, I allowed the engagement to stand.”
Julien stopped speaking and drank some more wine. “So you see, Sandrine? I am not racked with guilt. My mourning is dishonest. She was a spoiled woman determined to plot out her life to her own specifications regardless of my wants and desires. The question I never understood, though, was, why me? I am not wealthy. I have no pedigree. I’m just the son of a furniture builder from Nancy. There are many better catches in Paris.”
I smiled. “Did it never occur to you that she loved you?”
“How could she love me and threaten to ruin me like that?”
“Whoever told you that love was pretty?” I was picturing the paintings on the staircase. The terrible stories my grandmother had told me. Atrocities committed in the name of love, by a woman who could still, after almost three hundred years, yearn for a man who had spurned her.
That night was the first since we had become lovers that we were together without making love. But Julien was clearly exhausted and emotionally drained and needed rest.
I put him to bed in the royal bedroom, which I’d appropriated as my own. As he slept in the goose-down bed, under its gilt headboard of fat cherubic putti and garlands of roses, I watched him. In the silver moonlight illuminating the room, I could see that all the tension had left his face. When his eyes were open, their intensity was commanding. You didn’t notice the rest of his features. But with his eyes closed, and his lashes dusting his cheeks, he looked quite different. Younger and, even though he was not classically handsome, beautiful. Like the aristocrat in the Agnolo Bronzino portrait of Lodovico Capponi hanging in Mr. Frick’s mansion in New York.
Pulling back the covers, ever so slowly, I gazed at Julien’s naked body. I ran one finger down his long sinuous arm, across his chest. His muscles were like marble, carved by a master but miraculously covered by warm flesh. Leaning down, I burrowed my face in his neck and inhaled. It was easier to get drunk on his scent than on absinthe or wine.
Between my legs I felt the first stirrings of desire gathering . . . growing . . . as if my want was picking flowers . . . adding one and then another, until all the single stems were one huge fragrant bouquet of lust.
Innocently, unaware of me, Julien slept on.
I gazed at his stomach, his thighs, his shoulders. The wonder of his body in rest. I was unsure which I wanted more, to paint him or make love to him.
Why, I wondered, were there so few sensual portraits of men? None of the female artists had tackled this subject. Not Mary Cassatt or Berthe Morisot or Suzanne Valadon. They kept to mothers and daughters, female nudes.
Why were women afraid to paint a man the way Courbet or Titian or Rubens or Klimt or Renoir painted a woman? As creatures desired, as creatures of passion?
The needs to make love to Julien and to paint him merged in my mind. To do one would be to do the other. I would take him both ways, inside of me and on canvas.
Stealthily I crept out of the bedroom. It took two trips to gather my paints and a canvas and an easel, and while I set up everything in
my bedroom, Julien slept on, undisturbed.
Once my palette was ready, the satiny paint glinting in the moonlight, I began, first sketching out Julien’s form with a medium round and a thinned wash of burnt umber. I filled the foreground with him, in slumber, satiated, at rest and at peace. I painted his arms, his legs, his long neck . . . and behind him, his beautiful wings extended in all their glory.
He was my model for the mythological god Cupid. And in the shadows, approaching the bed, I painted Psyche, coming forward with her candle, expecting to see a monster. I shivered to think of how she must have felt when light fell on her husband and she beheld his beauty.
All night I painted with my heart and all of my desire. Painted Julien until the canvas was filled with a picture of a dark bedroom, slivers of moon glow illuminating the god’s glorious iridescent feathers and luminous skin.
Here was Cupid as no one had yet painted him. Full of desire and passion for his Psyche, dreaming of laying with her again and again. And Psyche acting out the dangerous curiosity that would almost destroy her. Here was a story of tests and punishment and divine favors and redemption. A story that resonated in me, for was it not so like my own? So like La Lune’s? Except hadn’t she found her lover was a monster? Wasn’t she still searching for redemption?
All through the night, the twin desires—to keep painting Julien and to make love to him—did battle. Finally, at daybreak, I put down the palette and brush and went to him. Lightly, I kissed his neck. I didn’t want to wake him, not yet. But I needed to feel him, to touch him. I wanted to become Julien’s dream. Wanted to be deep in his darkness, where he could not resist me. Certain that once I was there, he’d be mine.
Ours.
Had I just heard that? Or had I just imagined what La Lune might have said if the stories were true? But they were not. She was a tale. A myth. A legend. I had heard a door creak, the wind outside the window. I had heard a cat in the courtyard scampering up a tree. Only in my imagination was it a three-hundred-year-old woman’s voice.
