I couldn’t blame Lucia for not recognizing our visitor. As I’ve said before, Giselle was tiny and could easily pass for a fourteen-year-old without the elaborate eye makeup which she usually wore. Today her face was scrubbed bare of any cosmetics whatsoever. Her long dark hair hung straight down to below her shoulders, falling over her peaky little face so as to half-hide its features. She wore a pair of faded blue jeans which had been hacked off carelessly just below the knee to make elongated shorts, and a shapeless navy-blue toweling T-shirt. Her feet were bare. She looked less like a film star than anybody I had ever seen. Lucia was sitting at the far side of the table, also munching a biscuit. The two of them were chatting as fluently as Lucia’s halting French would allow.
Giselle saw me, looked up, and smiled. “What delicious biscuits, Mme. Weston,” she said.
“Mlle. Arnay!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I am so sorry—”
“Why are you sorry? The biscuits are divine; and I have been having such a nice talk with Lucia.”
Lucia, who had done a double-take of staggering proportions, now dropped her ginger nut as if it had bitten her, leaped to her feet, and clamped both hands to her mouth, giving a sort of whiffling scream, in which the words “Giselle Arnay!” were just audible.
Giselle smiled ravishingly at her. “You must come to my house one day, Lucia,” she said, “and we will talk again.”
Lucia, now entirely bereft of speech, turned crimson. I said, “Let’s go into the sitting room, Mlle. Arnay.”
“Oh, please call me ‘Giselle.’ And it is ‘Jane,’ is it not? I feel I know you very well, even though we have met only once. Sylvie has told me so much about you.” She stood up—and somehow managed to make a movement of infinite grace out of it; then, like a naughty schoolgirl, her hand flickered to the biscuit tin to snatch another ginger nut. Leaving Lucia in a state of near-collapse, she led the way into the sitting room, followed by a trail of biscuit crumbs.
“I really must apologize,” I said again. “Lucia simply told me there was a girl to see me. I had no idea—”
Ignoring me, Giselle said, “I must tell you why I have come here.”
“Lucia said…Anne-Marie…”
“Ah, yes. Anne-Marie.” Giselle nodded gravely, as if making a point in some inner conversation with herself. “Later, we can talk of Anne-Marie.” She paused. Then she looked straight at me from under that curtain of silky hair. “Mme. Weston…Jane…I have come to ask a big favor of you. I know you are a famous sculptor. I have heard much of your work. Would you be willing to make a head of me in marble? The price would not matter. Anything you name.”
I was so taken aback that I could only gape at her for several moments. Then I said, “Mlle. Arnay—”
“Giselle,” she, corrected me gently.
“Giselle, your husband must have told you that I telephoned this morning—”
She smiled, not to me but to herself. “Michel can be very stupid,” she said. “I think he must have been rude to you. I have come to make amends, if I can. Michel is ignorant of such things, but I appreciate the honor you do me in wishing to make my head. I would like to accept your kind offer, and to pay a proper price for your work.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I replied, truthfully enough. “Of course…naturally…I shall be delighted…”
“That’s good, then,” she said, suddenly offhand. She began wandering around the room, inspecting the pictures, the furnishings, the curtains, like a little cat—and all the time nibbling her biscuit. I watched her, fascinated. Then she said, “That is settled, then. Come to the chalet this evening and bring your friends. Eight o’clock.”
“But I can’t work—” I began to protest.
“Not to work. To get to know. We will work in your studio tomorrow, I think.”
“Yes,” I said feebly.
“Good.” Again the little nod, to herself. “A bientôt.” And suddenly she wasn’t in the room any longer. She had the facility of moving as fast and as unexpectedly as a small wild animal. I heard her for a brief moment in the hall, saying, “Au revoir, Lucia.” Then the front door clicked shut, and she had gone.
I ran to the bathroom window, which overlooks the car park. Outside the front door stood the most beautiful car I had ever seen. It was canary yellow, and I know now that it was a Monteverdi—probably the most expensive sports car in the. world. A moment later it roared away up the drive, driven by Lucia’s barefoot ragazza.
CHAPTER SIX
I ENJOYED MYSELF that evening. I suppose, to be truthful, that I was riding on a wave of euphoria. I like to think of myself as a reasonably mature and balanced personality—who doesn’t?—but it’s not every day that a middle-aged sculptress of modest talent finds herself so much in demand. I had been begging Giselle Arnay to do me a favor by sitting for me; and now she had turned the tables and was, to all appearances, flattered and honored that I wanted to sculpt her. Looking back now, I can see that perhaps I was foolish and gullible; I can only plead that the temptation was great.
In any case, the whole atmosphere of the Chalet Perce-neige quickly dispelled Henry’s sinister suspicions. This evening, in contrast to our previous visit, a carriage lamp was burning over the front door, which was opened by Giselle herself while Henry’s finger was still on the bell push. Michel Veron and Chantal were laughing together as they brewed aromatic vin chaud over the log fire—Chantal looking enchanting in a dark, silky cat-suit, Michel Veron looking surprisingly young and vulnerable without his dark glasses, like a handsome, well-mannered schoolboy. There was no sign of Mario, nor of Jean Bertrand.
It was soon made clear that the evening was to be do-it-yourself.
“It is Mario’s evening off,” Giselle confided to me—thereby, in one short sentence, relegating Mario to the servants’ hall. “I think he has a girl friend in the village; when we are in Montarraz he can never wait to get away. So now, I will show you that I can make the French kitchen myself.” Her English was as attractive as Sylvie’s. “Look, Jane. There is a special surprise for you.”
Giselle grinned, like an urchin with a secret, and went over to the window, where she pressed an electric switch. At once the gardens beyond the big panes of plate glass leaped into life. Colored lamps had been set among the trees and shrubs, giving the whole place the air of an enchanted stage setting. The glass screens were in position again around the swimming pool, for the evening was chilly, but—high up—panes for ventilation were open; and the reason for these was obvious. Around the shimmering pool, barbecue equipment was ranged, joints of meat were already spitted, plates and bowls of salad were waiting on low ebony tables. As we went out through the French windows into the semigarden of the pool area, I could see and smell that the charcoal fires had been smoldering for some time. All that was needed was to stir aside the ash, revealing the burning heart of the embers, and to set the steak and lamb joints turning. Do-it-yourself, perhaps—but somebody else had already done a great deal.
Giselle, gay as a trivet, made a great joke about being chef de cuisine, putting on a tall white hat and a butler’s apron. Chantal was appointed her kitchen maid. Michel Veron was to provide the cabaret. The Tibbetts and I were the honored guests.
So, in that dreamlike garden, we relaxed on cushioned swing chairs, while Chantal served us with wine, and Giselle Arnay bent her internationally famous profile over the glowing fires as she basted our meat, and Michel Veron strummed softly on his guitar for our amusement, and sang wistful songs in the voice which cost nightclub owners in Paris a thousand pounds an evening. By the time the meat had been cooked and carved and served, we were laughing and chattering away like old friends.
Giselle had acquired a black streak of charcoal down her flawless cheek, and when Michel drew attention to it, she grabbed a charred stick and proceeded to embellish all our faces with curly moustaches or Mephistophelian eyebrows. Veron turned out to have an unsuspected gift for comic mimicry, despite the fact that he made his name singing tender, bitters
weet love songs. As the evening wore on, however, he treated us to hilarious parodies with voice and guitar—how Maurice Chevalier might interpret Alban Berg, how Mme. Callas would tackle a Beatles number, what Noël Coward might make of a Rossini aria. Not only the voices, but also the music was precisely caricatured, with a most lighthearted erudition. I remembered the wedding photographs of Michel and Giselle, and realized what a false impression a newspaper reportage could convey. Not only were these two brilliant, but they had a quality of innocence which was totally unexpected.
It was after two o’clock in the morning when we got back to Panoralpes, still slightly euphoric and simmering with laughter. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I felt that I wanted to get to sleep as soon as I could, to bring the morning closer; for Giselle was arriving at eleven o’clock for her first sitting.
I said good night to Henry and Emmy, and went into my bedroom. As I closed the door behind me, I was dimly aware of Henry’s voice. He was talking to Emmy, in a tone quite as astringent as that of Michel imitating Coward, and he was saying, “What a very extraordinary performance.” It didn’t even occur to me to wonder what he meant. Within minutes I was in bed, and in a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I was in the studio by nine o’clock, getting everything ready. Moist clay was waiting in a bucket, covered by a damp cloth. A modeling board with a central spike stood ready to take the first tentative shaping of the head. I hauled a comfortable but straight-backed chair out from Les Sapins and placed it near the open stable doors so that the clear sunlight would catch and outline the lovely contours of Giselle’s face. I also set out some large sheets of thick drawing paper and thin sticks of charcoal for making sketches. Lucia brought out a tray with glasses, soft drinks, beer, and a flask of wine in case Giselle wanted refreshment. By half-past ten everything was ready. I perched myself on the edge of my work bench, lit a cigarette, and waited.
It was only five minutes past eleven when I heard the sound of a car coming down the lane from the main road. I jumped up, stubbed out my cigarette, and came out into the sunshine—in time to see Giselle climbing out of the yellow Monteverdi. She was alone, barefoot, and wearing the same truncated blue jeans as the day before. She saw me, waved, and came running up to the studio.
Giselle was at her gayest and most charming. For a moment she reminded me of Anne-Marie, as she sat perched on the edge of the chair, chattering a lot of attractive nonsense about my work and the studio, asking me how she should pose, and moving from one position to another with such speed that she gave me no chance to reply. “Like this? Or so? Or is this better? My chin up, so? Or like that?”
I put the thought of Anne-Marie firmly out of my mind. I don’t mean to sound callous, but to do good work, one must be entirely concentrated on the job in hand; if I had allowed myself to get emotionally upset by thinking about Anne-Marie’s tragedy, and the parts that Giselle and I had both played in it, the result would have been disastrous.
I told Giselle that for the moment she should just sit comfortably and talk, moving her head and upper body as much as she wanted to. Then I picked up a sheet of paper and a stick of charcoal and began making sketches. I had warned her that I probably would not listen to what she was saying—and indeed, I quickly became so absorbed in work that her chatter passed right over my head.
Sheet after sheet of paper I covered with quick, bold outlines, and the more I drew, the more enchanted I became. Giselle’s bone structure fascinated me, for a start—the wide, high cheekbones, the delicately pointed chin, the firm angles of the jaw. And then, she had such grace of movement, as if her muscles were a well-trained corps de ballet, executing each seemingly careless gesture with beautiful precision, gliding naturally from one lovely line to another. I had, in fact, been intending to ask Giselle why she had mentioned Anne-Marie the previous day, and whether she had any news of her, but everything was now forgotten in the delight of my work and the problem of how to convert such mobile beauty into a static medium.
The time passed so quickly that I could hardly believe it when Lucia put her head shyly around the door to announce that it was half-past twelve and Mme. Tibbett had asked her to say that lunch was ready.
“Do forgive me,” I said to Giselle. “I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired.”
“Tired? What for? I do nothing—it is you who work.”
“You’re very kind,” I said. I began to pack up my materials. “Are you going to be even kinder and sit for me again tomorrow? Then I can start on the actual modeling.”
“Tomorrow?” There was obvious dismay in her voice.
“Or the day after,” I amended hastily. “I realize you must be very busy—”
“Can I not come again this afternoon, then?” She was like a child begging for a sweet.
“But of course you can! I never thought you would want to.”
“I do want to, Jane,” she said seriously. “I think this is to be a good work, and I know that when a good work is started, it must continue until it is finished. In a little way, I am an artist too, you see.”
All I could think of to say was, “Thank you.” And then, as an afterthought, “Will you stay and have lunch with us?”
“Oh, I wish I could. But Michel will expect me.” She stood up, stretched, and walked over to my work table. She picked up the top sketch from the pile, studied it gravely, and then said, “This is good. When all is finished, may I buy these drawings, too?”
“You won’t be buying anything,” I said. “Of course, you can have all the sketches, as well as the head, if you want them.”
“As my model fee,” she said pertly. “You will pay me in your own beautiful paper money!” She laughed, delighted at the conceit. Then she said, “I will be back at three,” and before I knew it she had gone, running down the path to the car park, her bare feet twinkling through the grass. A moment later the Monteverdi roared into life and swung up the narrow driveway at dangerous speed.
Henry and Emmy were waiting for me in the drawing room of Sylvie’s apartment, drinking white wine from a chilled bottle. As I poured myself a glass, I told them as well as I could about my excitement, the progress of the work, and Giselle’s marvelous, unbelievable decision to come back in the afternoon.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” I admitted. “I was thinking of her just as a beautiful object—I had forgotten that she is a very considerable actress. Even so, it shows extraordinary sensitivity.”
“Extraordinary,” said Henry a trifle dryly.
Emmy had prepared a delicious cold meal, but I hardly noticed what I was eating. My mind was entirely occupied with plans for the afternoon’s sitting. I suddenly became aware that Emmy was saying, “Will they, Jane?”—with the sort of emphasis which indicated that she must be asking the question for the second time.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was miles away. Will who what?”
“Will the nuns nurse Anne-Marie themselves during her confinement? Will she have her baby at the convent?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” I said. “They’re not a nursing order. They run the orphanage, of course, but that’s different. The actual convent, where Anne-Marie is, is supposed to be very enclosed, or pent-up, or whatever the technical term is. You know—they never go outside the convent, and only one Sister at a time is allowed to speak to visitors from outside.”
There was a little silence, and then Emmy said, “Does that mean that they won’t even visit her in the hospital?”
“I suppose so.” I was thinking that, for the head, I would have Giselle’s chin tilted just slightly upward, so that the muscles in her neck would be taut against the skin. Upward, and bent a little to the left.
“It’s the Convent of the Holy Cross at Charonne, isn’t it?”
Emmy’s voice was persistent, like an irritating insect.
“Yes,” I said shortly and not very graciously.
After that, a welcome silence descended, and I returned to my own thoughts. It was the sight of Emmy bringi
ng in coffee from the kitchen that roused me to a guilty sense of my duty as a hostess.
“It was a wonderful lunch, Emmy,” I said. “You’re an angel. I’m sorry to have to leave you to your own devices again this afternoon.”
“Please don’t worry about us,” said Emmy, and there was an edge to her voice.
“I shall go for a walk up the mountain,” Henry announced. “And then do some shopping—a few presents for people back home.”
After a moment of silence Emmy said, “I thought I might go down to the valley. I believe there’s an interesting church at Charonne, and a museum. It was a Roman settlement, wasn’t it?”
“I think so,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ve never really explored it. I’m like the Londoners who’ve never been to the Tower.”
“Well, if you don’t mind…” Another pause. Then Emmy said, with a rush, “Could I borrow your car, Jane?”
“Of course you can. What a good idea.” I realized then that she had been plucking up courage to ask me, and that this accounted for the fact that she had sounded a little stilted and unnatural. I was pleased to have found the explanation. For a moment, obscurely, Emmy had worried me.
As soon as I had finished my coffee, I excused myself and hurried back to the studio. I carefully studied all the sketches I had made, and then settled down to make, from them, a composite drawing of Giselle’s head as I intended to model it. This was not a dashed-off sketch, but a reasoned design. When I had finished the full-face version, I started on the profile. Dimly, with less than half of my mind, I registered the fact that my little car had gone climbing up the driveway to the main road; Emmy must be on her way. It seemed no time at all later that the Monteverdi was back, and Giselle with it.
This time I posed her carefully, showing her the drawings so that she would see just the angle I had envisaged. She nodded gravely, and composed herself with great intelligence to produce exactly the effect I wanted. I had forgotten that she was not only an actress but also a film star, and consequently intensely aware of lighting effects. It was a joy to see her, with no prompting from me, settling herself so that the sunlight fell in precisely such a way as to enhance the angles and shadows of those extraordinary facial bones. This time, there was no chatter. She was a professional, and so was I.
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