Luc stepped behind a tree where he could see her without being seen himself. His breath caught at how lovely, how innocent and fresh she looked. A bitter envy blocked his throat as Pierre led Hélène onto the dance floor, placed one hand on her back, took hold of her other hand and they began dancing.
He had the strangest experience. He felt divided in two with one half detached, and completely removed from any feeling whatsoever, noting details as if he were studying and making sketches for a painting; but this half also observed another part of himself endure agonies of possessiveness as the object of his desire enjoyed dancing with another man. It meant nothing that the exchange was innocent. He burned with jealousy: he should be holding her in his arms, leading her through the dance, amusing her, having her gaze at him as if he was her entire world.
The minute the music stopped, and he saw Hélène and Pierre making their way back through the dancers, he marched up to their table.
"Madame Louise," he made a small bow. "Mademoiselle," he bowed in Hélène's direction, as she and Pierre approached. "M'sieur. How pleasant to meet you here," he addressed Pierre, taking care not to pay Hélène too much attention.
"Ah, Monsieur Luc!" Louise smiled up at him, "And as you can see, Benoît is completely well." She turned her pride and joy around to face Luc, "and everyone says he's growing exceptionally fast. I will never forget how you helped us."
Luc smiled, somewhat embarrassed to be so praised in public, but he covered his discomfort by leaning forward and lightly stroking Benoit's cheek. The baby gurgled up at him. "He is an angel," he said to Louise after giving Benoît due consideration. "Fortune has smiled on you. You have much joy ahead of you, and many sleepless nights too."
"Well, you would know, wouldn't you? You must have plenty of experience with your two."
Luc gave a forced laugh and focused on Hélène. "And are you looking forward to having a large family with many children, M'selle?"
"I haven't given the matter a lot of thought," replied Hélène thrown off balance by Luc's sudden appearance, and blurting out the first words that popped into her mind. She couldn't look at him, staring instead at her hands clasped tight together in her lap.
"Oh, what a fibber," cried Louise. "I know for a fact she wants at least half a dozen."
Hélène felt the heat rise to her face.
"Louise, stop!" Pierre chided. "You're embarrassing her."
"I won't keep you long. May I sit?" Luc put his hand on the back of the fourth chair at the table, looking at Pierre for permission to join them.
"Of course, Monsieur Marteille." Pierre nodded more than willing to oblige. He felt indebted to Luc and wasn't the type of man to forget what he owed. "Something to drink, M'sieur Luc?"
"No, merci. That's very kind of you but I'm meeting friends soon. Actually I have a proposition." He hesitated then glanced around the table, adopting his most earnest honest expression. "Seeing you sitting here this minute an idea has struck me." He paused before finishing in a rush. "I wish to paint you and Hélène, with the baby, in a garden scene. Would you consider it?"
He relied on Louise and her husband appreciating the extra money as it couldn't be easy for them with a young baby. After Hélène left, Pierre's wages would be their sole source of income.
"Oh, dear," Louise said with a nod in Hélène's direction, "she's leaving tomorrow, but I'm available."
"The thing is the scene in my mind is more than mother and child. That has religious connotations," he said animated by his vision. "I want my painting to show a normal family interaction. The kind of activity you can see any day in a park or garden."
The band played a slower melody and around them the hum of conversations rose and fell.
"How long will you need us for?" Louise asked. "If it's not too long," she turned to Hélène "would you stay a day or two more?"
Hélène heard the plea in her cousin's voice.
"Yes, that will do." Luc didn't wait for Hélène's answer before rushing on. "I could sketch the outlines and get the basic color blocks down in maybe two, three days. Is it possible you might delay your journey by that amount?" He gave Hélène an appraising look waiting to see which would win. The waiting fiancé or her cousin's financial needs.
Hélène thought about staying, but Claude expected her to arrive in Bordeaux tomorrow. "But my fiancé—" she started.
Luc spoke across her objection. "I'll pay for a telegram if that helps?" He directed the full charm of his personality at her. "You, your cousin and nephew immortalized…" He let the idea hang in the silence.
"Yes, yes. I could stay two more days," Hélène said, "but not three. Three will create difficulties for others. I have a number of commitments…you understand…"
Louise's eyes lit up.
"Wonderful!" Luc spread the attraction of his smile equally between the two women. "Two days will be enough. Tomorrow at eleven o'clock I will meet you at the Porte Maillot entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. Don't worry; there'll be shade for the little one." Abruptly he stood, his tone that of brisk business. "A pleasure. M'sieur, Madame Louise, and au revoir Mademoiselle." He bowed to Louise and Hélène, holding the bow to Hélène a fraction longer. Making his way towards the exit, he was soon lost to sight among the revelers.
It wasn't until Luc returned home, and noticed the dining room table was laid, smelled the aroma of food being prepared, and heard Annette's frenzied activities from the kitchen, that he remembered his family was due home that afternoon. He quickly bathed and was pulling a fresh shirt from the closet when the clatter of hooves outside and the squeals of children's voices announced their arrival. Two minutes later, Luc straightened his shoulders, smoothed his hair, opened the front door and went to greet his family.
As soon as Guy and Giselle caught sight of their father, they flew up the garden path and threw themselves at him. "Papa! Papa!"
He gathered them both up, arms around their waists and held them close, smelling first Guy's hair, then Giselle's before swinging them round till they squealed. "I must help your mother," he said putting them down, and kissing both heads.
At the carriage, Émilie stretched out her hand for him to help her descend. They exchanged kisses on both cheeks.
Luc took a step back and studied her. "You look well," he said, "I mean it, you appear," he stopped, searching for the right word, "recovered. Are you are yourself once more?"
Émilie, pale from the journey, with faint smudges under her eyes, her face framed with fine blonde curls escaping from her bonnet, gazed at him with bright blue eyes, and Luc realized he had forgotten how much in love they had been when they married.
"Yes," she smiled up at him, "I am much better."
Marie gathered up the bits and pieces the children had left strewn around the carriage and chivvied the children inside as the servants fussed about unloading bags.
"Would you like to take a rest straight away?" he asked Émilie, taking her arm as they turned towards the house.
"Yes, Luc, thank you, I will. It's been a long journey."
"I shall have Cook bring tea and something light for you to eat to your room."
"You're so considerate of me."
For a minute he thought she might cry, but she maintained her composure.
"I'm happy to be home with you."
He put his arm under her elbow to make sure she was steady on her feet as they climbed the few steps to the house.
The children ran off to their rooms, their excited cries filling the house as they rediscovered favorite toys.
As evening drew in and the house quietened, Luc went up to Émilie's bedroom.
She sat at her writing table wearing the lavender Chinese silk dressing gown he'd given her as a gift last Christmas. Her face lit up when he entered. "What do you see?" She pointed at the empty tray on the chest of drawers waiting for Marie to collect.
"Nothing. I don't see anything." Luc was puzzled. Then he understood. The sea air had done its work and her appetite had re
turned. "I'm sorry I didn't come." Apologies had never been his strong point.
"You wrote. I got your letters."
"Do you forgive me?" He swallowed.
"Forgive you for what? Not wanting to spend time with my cantankerous father?" She gave a little laugh. "He sends you his regards and wishes you well. And he has promised me he will come to your next exhibition."
Luc looked at her, his eyebrows rising. "I'm so glad I have that to look forward to."
They laughed and sat in companionable silence.
"How goes your painting?"
Émilie's support since their marriage had helped him fulfill his ambitions. Her assistance was more than financial; she was knowledgeable about art and made an excellent critic.
"Well, I've nearly completed one which I'm pretty sure I'll be submitting to the new salon this year." Hélène's smooth peach-gold cheeks had required quite a bit of detailed work, but the painting needed no more than a few minor touches before he declared it finished.
"A new salon?"
"Yes, we, Monet, Renoir and a whole host of us are staging our own exhibition. So far, we've not got a name, but it's not a Salon des Refuses. You'll see how we shall thumb our noses at the Académie." He hoped she wouldn't ask too many more questions about his work.
"Well, tell me, I'm eager to know what you're working on at the moment?" In the past, Émilie's advice and encouragement had, in some cases, made crucial differences to his finished work.
"Oh, it's a portrait." He attempted to keep his tone casual.
She persisted. "Are you pleased with it?"
"Yes." What else could he say? I've enjoyed painting this young girl with her incredible vibrancy for life so much that I've fallen in love with her when I'm supposed to be in love with you. Luc thought about the new painting he was starting tomorrow. He'd decided how he intended to arrange the two women and the baby. Hélène would sit…
"That's wonderful. I miss seeing your work."
Luc was genuinely happy that Émilie's good health was returning‒she had been poorly for almost a year‒yet he couldn't help but compare her to Hélène. His wife was older with her fine bone structure and blondness adding an air of fragility, but anyone who was well acquainted with her discovered her strength of love and devotion to her family. And in spite of her less than robust health, she had carried three babies to full term.
"I'm tired. That's enough for today," she put down her pen and reached for the green tablet lying next to a glass of water on her desk. "I'll finish this letter to Papa tomorrow." She downed the tablet and looked at Luc.
The trust in her eyes brought a stab of guilt. Émilie, his wife and companion, was the mother of his children for God's sake! Why did he have such a powerful longing, an almost physical ache, for another? "I'm truly happy you're home, chérie. I've missed you." He meant it even as he recognized his angst over Hélène had rendered Émilie invisible.
She rose, moving over to where he sat, and kissed the top of his head. "Good night, my love."
Each knew the other so well; the tenderness in her tone caught at his heart. Yet instead of turning his face up so she could kiss him on the lips, he reached out, squeezing her fingers lightly. He stood to leave "Good night. Sleep well."
Luc wasn't tired, and the thought of tossing and turning in bed held no attraction. He paced back and forth on the back porch, finding relief in the cool of the late evening and watching the sunset colors change from peach to crimson as night fell. The air was velvet and a luminous full moon broke through the trees.
Montmartre's night life didn't appeal, and tonight he preferred to stay home. Thoughts of Hélène fevered his brain. He couldn't concentrate on anything. Neither did he want to draw. Images of Hélène would emerge on the paper, no matter what he started out intending to sketch, and Émilie was too attentive to miss so conspicuous an indication of his state of mind.
Luc fetched a bottle of brandy, hoping it might help him sleep, and a large glass, making himself comfortable on the veranda. He filled the glass, and took a couple of sips, before downing the rest in one gulp. He enjoyed the harsh tang as the liquid hit the back of his throat; slumping back, he waited for the alcohol to take effect.
Night crept on and Hélène, not the sleep he sought, kept him company. Luc went inside, bringing the bottle of brandy with him. He threw back the fiery spirit hoping to quench his torment. It was too much—this intense ache of wanting. He uttered a growl of anguish. His heart was cracking and there was no reprieve. No release.
He paced faster. Visiting Brigitte or Marie-Claire, two prostitutes he'd made use of since Émilie became too sick to perform her wifely role, held no attraction for him anymore.
Why did he feel this way about Hélène? Especially if he acknowledged it was becoming more and more unlikely she would ever succumb to his advances? Different models had sat for him over the years, many of whom were far more striking than Hélène, and he never felt any attraction for them. He'd decided early on that this road was one he refused to travel; married to a beautiful woman he was in love with, he wanted nothing to come between them. Why, and how, had this changed? Why this obsession with Hélène? Not having her was transforming him into a crazed demented stranger. Maybe because he'd not slept with Émilie in a long time? He was a vigorous man and having sexual relations with his wife was his prerogative.
No sooner had the thoughts flickered through his agitated brain than he was up and moving. Luc stumbled through the darkened house, tripping up the stairs, not bothering to quieten his footsteps; whether he disturbed the other occupants of the house, his children and the servants, wasn't a concern. He was burning. Luc approached Émilie's room with the same lack of consideration.
She didn't stir when he entered the room.
"Émilie! Émilie!" he whispered loudly as he stripped. "Wake up, chérie!"
She stirred, but didn't waken as he lifted the covers, crawling into bed beside her.
He shook her shoulders as he climbed on top of her pulling at her nightdress.
Émilie, heavy with medicated sleep, struggled against him bewildered by what was happening.
"Chérie, it's me." Luc whispered in her ear.
As understanding dawned, she tried to rouse herself.
"Relax," insisted Luc, pushing her back onto the bed. "It's okay." He understood his wife's body; she would carry out her duty.
The next morning Luc woke with a start, flinching as the pale dawn light struck his eyes. His head hurt, and it took him a minute to remember his actions of last night. What he had done. He propped himself up on his elbow, gazing at Émilie. She slept deeply, her breathing shallow and regular. He reached out, stroking the fine gold filaments of hair spread out on the pillow. She would always be faithful to him, in mind and in body.
He'd never, ever, used Émilie in this manner, and a wave of emotion swept over him. Guilt. A crawling flush of shame. The night before he'd been desperate and drunk, his lovemaking an attempt to expunge Hélène from his soul one way or another. It hadn't worked; it had been Hélène's face he saw and her body he imagined underneath him. But surely he had the right to demand his wife satisfy his need?
He listened to Annette raking the coals in the kitchen, but the rest of the house remained quiet with Giselle and Guy still asleep. He pulled on his trousers and shirt, picking up the rest of his hastily thrown clothes from the floor, and tiptoed back to his room.
Chapter Fifteen
Suppressed emotions do not dissolve; they simmer and fester in our subconscious until they bubble to the surface forcing us to act—in ways we are generally not able to foresee.
Paris, July 2007
A soft gentle pressing of his lips on hers. That was all. He stepped back, and she gasped, open-mouthed, before instinct kicked in and she swung her hand at his face. But he was ready and his hand locked around her wrist. The blood rushed to her cheeks. As if summoned, an image of Greg, a little drunk and smiling at her as they celebrated their last anniversary
, sprang to mind. Greg embodied safety and comfort; the familiar. She'd be glad to see him. No, she had no wish to go dancing; she preferred to stay at home in her comfy slippers. Leave the dancing to the young.
"Let me go!" Anna's voice shook. He released her hand, turned and without a word walked out. She stood transfixed. Had she unconsciously given off signals that made him think she would enjoy such conduct? Or at any point behaved in an improper way for a married woman away from her husband? Up till this point in time, there had never been any opportunity or desire to be unfaithful to her husband. To kiss or sleep with another man was something people like her didn't do.
People like her. The phrase jolted her. Who were these 'people like her'? Were they set apart from humanity with a special dispensation protecting them from troubling urges? Could she honestly say she'd never entertained the whisper of a flirtation at any time in her twenty-three years of marriage? Had there never been one dinner party, dance, company event or holiday where a flicker of lust had momentarily flamed as her eyes met another's? If it had, she would have brushed it aside immediately. Anna huffed. People like her possessed standards and adhered to them.
She stared at the letter in front of her. At the end of his life, Luc's will specifically mentioned the paintings connected with Hélène. Theirs must have been a powerful relationship. No, she wasn't a Luc Marteille having her cake and eating it. Well, a relief to have that clarified. Thanks to François, she understood more clearly what kind of man Luc had been.
One Summer in Montmartre Page 15
