One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  "Mum, it's not Jean Paul's fault!" Ingrid was indignant.

  "I'll take the packages up to the room and hopefully he'll be here when I get back." Anna took Ingrid's packages and marched off into the hotel. Damn man, she grumbled under her breath as she waited for the elevator. Wasn't it enough she endured the intrusion of this man into her personal quest? And to top it off she had to wait for him when he knew they were expecting him. It was too much.

  He still hadn't appeared when she returned, even after taking plenty of time to freshen up and change her blouse, wondering why she was bothering to do so because it certainly wasn't to impress anyone. Ingrid and Jean Paul were talking animatedly but their conversation petered out when she appeared and the three of them stood in awkward silence.

  "There 'e is." Jean Paul exclaimed, his relief obvious as he pointed to where François was making his way through groups of tourists sauntering along, cluttering up the pavements.

  "My apologies," François said, slightly out of breath. He tried to catch Anna's eye, but she looked away.

  "Finally, you're here. Let's go." She gave him a tight smile.

  "Bien sûr."

  At that point Jean Paul burst into a rapid flow of French. Ingrid stood next to Jean Paul watching him, making no secret she thought him fascinating; being French definitely added a layer of exoticism to the appeal.

  Anna watched the facial expressions and body language of the two men. François didn't appear happy, and it was clear Jean Paul was pleading, but the exchange was rapid and she barely caught a word or two.

  At last François, his tone a mixture of exasperation and apology, turned to her. "Jean Paul is asking me to beg for permission to escort the beautiful Ingrid to the Louvre museum."

  Anna glanced at Jean Paul, who couldn't have done a better imitation of a puppy begging for a treat if he'd graduated from drama school. She didn't need to look at Ingrid to know her expression mirrored Jean Paul's.

  "I told him I do not approve of this idea," François continued, "but I said I will pass on his request."

  "Please, Mum. We did discuss the Louvre and remember you said you wanted to take me if we could fit it in. And this way," Ingrid finished in a triumphant tone, "I can go with Jean Paul and you can go with François. In any case, he'll be able to help you better than I can."

  Anna wanted to ignore her growing anger. Did Ingrid think that because they'd spent the morning together, she'd paid her dues? Of course, she should have known her daughter would try something along this line. She'd have to be alone with François. Again. The anger bubbled. She wanted to scream, what about me? Don't I get anything I want? Why am I always the one maneuvered into a position not of my choice?

  Sucking in a deep breath, she held it for a second before letting it out as slow as possible. Ingrid's words from last night crossed her mind. She couldn't keep her daughter on a leash.

  "That's fine." Her words were clipped. "I understand."

  Ingrid and Jean Paul had the grace not to crow at their triumph.

  François fixed Jean Paul with a stare. "We'll meet back here and go for dinner. Together."

  "We'll be here on time. Promise." Ingrid said. "Don't worry. We'll be fine. You two, go and research to your heart's content. Remember, this is our last full day here." She gave her mother a quick hug before she and Jean Paul took off for the Louvre.

  François and Anna stood watching the young couple as they left with their hands intertwined, bodies leaning towards each other, the way people the whole world over do when they are in love. The older couple stood silently watching the youngsters as they disappeared into the crowd before heading off in the opposite direction.

  "This is a first for Jean Paul." François shrugged with Gallic eloquence attempting to make conversation as they walked.

  Anna grunted. Her mood of the morning was gone, and she was boiling with resentment. What choice did she have? She was stuck with him, just because his translation skills would be useful at the museum. She wished he wouldn't walk so close.

  "Yes, he's had girlfriends, he's nineteen, but I haven't noticed that particular look when he's talked about other girls," he continued, apparently determined to overlook Anna's fractious mood.

  "What look?"

  "Oh, what is the word? Enchanted? Is that how you say it? I can tell when he's thinking of Ingrid because he gets a special softness in his eyes, stares out of the window, and doesn't hear a word I say." He gave a loud sigh and gazed up at the sky with an exaggerated love-lorn expression.

  Anna's antipathy towards François thawed the tiniest bit. Perhaps she should have pity on the man. He wasn't the one manipulating this situation; he was giving his time to help. "Oh, I'm sure it's reciprocated." She attempted to sound civil although she wasn't sure she succeeded. "Jean Paul is the first young man I've seen Ingrid so enamored with, and so quickly as well." She restrained a smile, deciding she wasn't going to tell him she'd observed Ingrid in a similar trance-like state.

  "Shall we?" He offered her his arm and stood waiting for her to link arms with him.

  She thought of the hardness of his muscles underneath her hand. For goodness sake, she was more than capable of making her way to a destination on her own two feet. Hadn't she managed to walk unaided for most of her life? And she didn't want to send him the wrong message.

  "I'm fine, thank you. I don't need a walking aid." She stalked off wondering how he managed to bring out the worst in her.

  "Where are you going?" he called after her, "the Musée is this way."

  She stopped, her face flaming with embarrassment.

  He was pointing in the direction of a nearby side street. "Ah, a shame you English are so stiff," he mocked, "because everything would be so much smoother if you relaxed."

  Anna was so incensed by the disdain in his voice that she didn't speak for fear of what she might say. She hardly noticed the route they took as her antagonism towards everyone and everything‒him, Jean Paul, Ingrid, Greg, Fate‒spewed out from every pore. Her emotions were raging out of control and calming down was out of the question at this point. The best tactic was for her to shut up and say nothing.

  François walked fast and made no attempt at conversation.

  Bit by bit, her anger cooled. If she was honest, she would admit she was enjoying Paris, in a different way to Ingrid, but her existence was no longer an unending stream of bleak granite grey days. She was gratified by how soon she was at home in Montmartre with its cobbled streets, small green spaces and glimpses into courtyards ringed with terracotta pots filled with plants. Although she'd visited the place no more than a couple of times, already the route felt familiar. By the time they reached their destination, her remaining grumpiness had dissipated.

  "Madame, M'sieur." The curator recognized them from yesterday and welcomed them with a nod of pleasure.

  "M'sieur Battingnon." François replied for both of them.

  Anna frowned. The man obviously thought them a couple, but she couldn't be bothered to correct him. She had more important matters to think about; she wanted François to translate accurately.

  "A colleague of mine is examining your letter. When do you need it back?" he inquired.

  "I leave early tomorrow afternoon. But I have several photocopies at home if you need more time," she answered promptly. This was her affair. She didn't need François answering for her.

  "No, no, that won't be necessary," the curator protested. "If you can come back tomorrow morning, I should have news for you."

  They followed his short rotund figure through a side door and along a corridor into the archives. The room was well lit, lined with tall dark brown wooden cabinets filled with drawers, a large empty table in the center, and the slightly musty smell of a room not often aired.

  Anna shivered with anticipation as the curator opened a drawer and pulled out a slim hardback grey book. Holding the book with great care, he placed it on the table, opening it with no less reverence than a priest towards the Holy Eucharist. />
  "This is the total collection of correspondence we have to and from Luc Marteille. It is not very much of a record as there are not many letters, but," he paused, giving them a smile, "they do reveal some interesting facts about his life." He trudged out of the room leaving them alone.

  Anna stood, looking at the book for a moment, listening to the curator's footsteps fade. She moved forward. Her hand trembled as she opened the book. This was why she had come; here she might uncover something, anything, about Luc's love for Hélène. She leaned forward to read the first letter smiling at the sight of Luc's familiar handwriting.

  "This" François pointed at the list of numbers in the middle of the page, preceded by the old sign for francs, "is asking for payment for these items."

  "What does this mean?" She asked François pointing at a word.

  "Debt," he replied.

  She turned the page and the following ones carefully. These letters were unmistakably business ones appearing to ask for or demand payment for goods taken, or agreeing to delays in payment. Luc didn't appear to be managing his finances too well.

  "These are dated from before he achieved any level of success." She turned several more pages of the book before finding the first personal letter. "Would you translate? I want to be sure I understand."

  François read for a minute. "It's from his mother and expresses her sadness at receiving the news of their stillborn child."

  "Yes, she was a widow. Luc's father died when he was young and she never remarried." Anna explained. "They were poor relatives on the outer fringe of a distinguished family."

  "I know what that's like," muttered François, his lips thinning and his eyes narrowing.

  Anna paused in her study and looked at him.

  "My father was a proud man descended from a family that had, in the past, been powerful: we can trace our ancestry back to the fifteenth century. My grandfather drummed the importance of this link to the past into my father, and he made sure I grasped its importance. But this meant nothing to anyone I grew up with in France."

  She had a flash of him as Saladin in flowing robes and was piqued by the image. Maybe that's how she'd paint him.

  "So, he never approved of Lucie because, first she wasn't a Lebanese Maronite, and second, her family could trace their roots back no further than the French revolution." François grimaced, "He let me know, constantly, what a source of disappointment I was to him."

  Anna nodded. Greg's family were similar in that they had also dropped down the social ladder. In the 18th century one family member had accumulated a fortune in manufacturing of some kind, but the generations since either dissipated or lost it through bad investments, and nothing was left. Greg's father had continued to behave as if he descended from aristocracy, looking down on her father who had risen by the power of his intelligence and hard work from working class privation to middle class comfort.

  "That can't have been easy to live with," she sympathized. Family histories were complicated.

  She returned to Luc's letters. The first few pages, except for the one letter from his mother, dealt with business. François translated a phrase here or there when she needed it, but otherwise was content to stand back and watch her search.

  She scanned the next few pages before stopping at a letter to his wife. "Could you translate this one for me? It's the personal side I'm more interested in, and I don't want to misunderstand something vital."

  "My dearest Émilie," François translated. In the letter, Luc expressed his desire to join his family in Le Conquet. "Where is that?" He pointed at the name.

  "In Normandy, on Capelle-les-Grands. It's a hamlet near Brest where her father was a wealthy landowner, and where his mother's family lived. That's where they met. Luc would take Émilie walking along the Normandy coast when he was courting her. But wait a minute, I want to check something." She took out another photocopy of her letter from her bag and examined it. "See," she indicated the date on the letter in front of them, "this is around the same time‒almost to the day‒that my letter is dated."

  "May I?" He held out his hand for her letter.

  She hesitated. This was her treasure. "Be careful, please."

  "Naturally."

  Was he being sarcastic? She stiffened and restrained from snatching it back. Both pairs of eyes moved from the book to the letter.

  "So he tells his family he wants to be with them, but he doesn't go. He stays in Paris and writes to Hélène?" François said as he handed back the letter. "Many French people have a different attitude to marriage and sex than you British."

  Anna glared at him. It annoyed her she was unable to tell whether he was joking or not, because, to be exact, he wasn't French.

  "They are more pragmatic," he said not looking up from the letter.

  He's right, Anna reflected. We Brits pretend to have one standard which we disregard whenever we're inclined. Does that make us more deceitful? She kept those thoughts to herself. As far as she was concerned the relationship between François and her, whatever relationship they had, was based solely on the fact that he wanted to keep an eye on his nephew in the same way as she wanted to keep an eye on her daughter. That was it. She certainly didn't want any more intimacy with him than she already had because that would create a dilemma for her. One she didn't want to tackle. With a sigh she returned to the book trying not to think of the two of them poring over details of a life long gone.

  "And artists, well, Manet, Degas, Lautrec, any number of artists were besotted, and married sitters who were their mistresses. Absinthe, actresses and ballet dancers were part of an artist's lifestyle," François said lightly.

  "Ooh! What's this?" Anna exclaimed. "Look, it's a note from Monet to Luc," she studied the words. "It's offering congratulations for his success at their second exhibition and what does this phrase mean?"

  François smiled at her as he finished reading. "He's congratulating him on the birth of a healthy baby boy."

  "I knew he had three children but…"

  "And the date," François, pointed at the top of the letter. "That means the child would have been conceived near the end of the previous summer—when he was painting Hélène."

  Anna made a few quick calculations. "So he must have been sleeping with his sick wife and having a torrid affair with Hélène?"

  She struggled to reconcile the disparate images of the artist. Stuck in a marriage with a wife whose health, according to research, left her more or less an invalid; then getting her pregnant at the same time he was having sex with another woman. She'd not pictured him as licentious, and it jarred.

  "Maybe Émilie was getting better. What does torrid mean?"

  "Very passionate, intense. His work gained quite a degree of popularity in the following years," she went on, "and his paintings sold well. But he died at the age of fifty- eight."

  "So he lived happily ever after, eh?"

  "Oh, what's this?" It was the last letter, and was addressed to Sauvet & Hugo, followed by the words Société d'Advocats. "Is this his will?"

  "No," said François reading over her shoulder. "It's a letter to his lawyers stating he doesn't want the painting of Hélène or the one of the vase of flowers‒your painting‒to be sold."

  She could feel his breath on her neck as he leaned forward; she breathed in his scent.

  "I wonder if Émilie knew about Hélène. If she did, maybe she didn't want to be reminded after his death? None of his biographies have more than a sentence or two on Hélène at most, and they only mention her as a model. Nothing more. And in the end the painting of flowers was sold."

  They were both silent, pondering the mysterious intricacies of past lives.

  "Who knows?" François shrugged. "It may be that the family fortunes declined, and they needed the money. And the affair may have been brief, but who knows for how long he carried a flame in his heart."

  Anna looked at him. He was standing too near. Before she could move away, he pulled her close and kissed her.

&n
bsp; Chapter Fourteen

  People say that a great artist, writer or musician may, on occasion, be forgiven faults and mistakes not overlooked in less gifted men. The justification for this selfishness, as when someone places their needs foremost above everything else, is that nothing should take precedence over the call of the Muse.

  Paris, July 1873

  Luc did not often question his motives. Too absorbed by his compulsion to transpose the world onto canvas, he was often impulsive and gave no consideration to the consequences of his actions. He could latch onto an idea and follow it whole-heartedly wherever it took him, for his nature was such that a zealous tide gripped him when under the sway of a fresh passion. However, his character also possessed a certain stubbornness and tenacity enabling him to follow that obsession to its conclusion.

  The fever which gripped him when trying to catch the train had somewhat receded, and the hour's walk to Montmartre in the hot afternoon sun offered plenty of time to think. Luc mulled over his plan, hoping Hélène hadn't left before he arrived. He could go to Louise's apartment if need be, but, restless and impatient, he wanted arrangements settled, and the sooner the better.

  Moulin de la Galette was packed with the Sunday afternoon crowd of locals and visitors. The atmosphere, as well as the conversations, epitomized the best of Paris life with young and old taking pleasure in the Moulin's exquisite pastries and wine. People put the war behind them and took their pleasures in the moment, dancing to the band and enjoying themselves.

  Luc scanned the crowd looking for Hélène, but it was his friends he spotted first. Manet, his pupil, Eva Gonzales, Giuseppe and Degas sat around a table, deep in conversation. He watched them from a distance, knowing exactly what topics they were discussing. How to capture the texture of the land, the movement and light of the ever changing sky? These were the real questions, their real passions in life. Luc watched as Manet made an amusing remark, and the group laughed.

  Today Luc's turmoil didn't allow him to pass an afternoon of animated intellectual discussions, at least not till he'd settled a particular matter first. Circling around the outer tables, he exchanged a few words here and there, nodding to friends and acquaintances, but not stopping. He was about to give up, deciding that either Hélène had already left or she hadn't arrived, when he caught a glimpse of her. She sat at a table, smiling up at Louise and Pierre, clearly returning from dancing; Louise's face was flushed, and she was out of breath as she sat down laughing. Pierre held out his hand to Hélène, who looked uncertainly at Louise. Louise nodded, smiling and kissing Benoit on the forehead as Hélène passed him over.