On the sixth day of her self-enforced isolation she made a sorry sight. The stall owners stared in astonishment at her when she went out to fetch the cat food. She had always been a clean and tidy young woman but now dirty clothes hung on her, her fine hair was tangled and in need of brushing, her manner distrait and strange. She did not notice their curiosity.
When she made her purchases and was hurrying back to the studio she heard a voice calling her name. Pierre came running along the street towards her with his arm raised in greeting. ‘Marie, Marie, wait, wait. I want to speak with you,’ he shouted.
Panic-stricken she ran like a greyhound up the stairs to the studio, slamming the door in his face, but this time he would not go away and knocked, frantically, calling her name. ‘Marie, Marie. What’s happened to you? It’s Pierre. Let me in. Are you sick? Let me in and I’ll help you.’
She stood in the middle of the room holding the parcel of foul-smelling fish to her breast and listening to his entreaties, but he was determined because he had been trying to make her answer the door for a long time and was shocked when he caught sight of her in the street.
When she would not reply to his pleading, he said loudly, ‘If you don’t open, I’ll fetch a gendarme to break this door down. I really mean it, Marie. You need help.’
Still she did not reply so he said it again. ‘Please open or I’ll have to go to the police.’
When she heard his footsteps descending the stairs, she ran to the door and threw it open. ‘Don’t do that. I don’t want any police here. Come in.’
The normally fastidious girl was unkempt and dirty; the room she had cleaned with such care was stinking and filthy. Cats were everywhere, sitting on window ledges, perched on the furniture, all yelling hungrily because of the smell of fish.
He thought she must have gone mad and tried to treat her gently. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, leading her to a chair.
To his relief she was quite amenable though her eyes were swollen and her cheeks sunken. It was obvious she had not been eating.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong? Tell me and I’ll try to help,’ he said, taking the fish and putting it in the pot on the stove. The cats crowded round him yelling and rubbing themselves against his legs.
Marie started to weep, shoulders heaving. ‘The man I love is marrying someone else. His sister told me. But he said he loved me. He said I was to wait for him…’
Pierre said sympathetically, ‘He doesn’t sound like much of a man. You’re well rid of him.’ He came across the room and knelt beside her, holding her hand.
She protested through her tears, ‘No, he is a good man. I love him. He’s marrying his cousin because she’s rich. And his family wouldn’t want him to marry me because my father was a navvy and my mother was murdered.’
Pierre said, ‘Tell me about it.’ And she did. The whole story poured out: Nanny Rush and Tibbie; David and his terrible letter; the Roxburgh family and Amy… and Murray, always Murray; how she loved him, how she didn’t really blame him but tried to lay blame on other people.
Pierre listened, nodding and never contradicting, from time to time brushing her disordered hair from her face with his paint-stained hands. His love for her shone from his eyes but she did not notice it.
When her story was told, he asked, ‘Have you eaten anything today?’
She shook her head surprised. ‘No. I don’t want to eat.’
‘Did you eat yesterday?’ he persisted. She shook her head again.
He frowned. ‘This won’t do. I’ll take you out for a meal. You can’t eat in here because it stinks.’ The smell of cat and boiled fish was making him nauseous.
He combed her hair, brushed down her skirt which was covered with cat hair, found a clean blouse in her unpacked bag and persuaded her to put it on.
Then he helped her downstairs to the Café Flore where they found a table in a shadowy corner.
‘What would you like to eat?’ he asked, studying the menu. ‘How about an omelette?’
She nodded dully. ‘Yes, an omelette and could I have some absinthe please?’
Pierre frowned. ‘An omelette and absinthe! That’s not a very good mixture.’
She looked at him with enormous eyes. ‘Oh please. I need a drink and absinthe will make me feel happier.’
She was visibly shaking so he decided to humour her.
‘All right, absinthe,’ he said.
When she finished eating, he asked her, ‘What are you going to do? You can’t stay shut up in that flat for day after day with those cats. Will you go home?’
She shook her head violently. ‘No, no, I want to break away from everything in the past.’
‘You should stay in Paris. No one here cares who your mother or your father was. All they know is that you’re going to be a great painter. Stay here and keep on painting,’ said Pierre.
She looked at him from tragic eyes. ‘But what if I’m doomed? What if Amy’s right about heredity. What if nothing will ever turn out right for me? I’m so scared.’
He briskly set about dismissing these notions. ‘Forget all that. Start thinking optimistically and things will turn out better.’
She drank a second glass of absinthe. Perhaps he’s right, she thought. If I concentrate on happier thoughts, things can only get better. I’ve still got money. I can afford to stay here for a while.
It was easy to feel happy when she had absinthe fumes in her head so she drank a third glass and when Pierre helped her up the stairs to the studio she was drunk. He made her lie down on the sofa and covered her with one of Félice’s glorious wrappers, chased out the cats and banked up the stove before he went away.
When she woke it was the following morning and her head was splitting. Pierre returned with bread and milk, chivvied her to eat and when she did, he said, ‘Now the next thing you must do is finish your picture.’
The food did make her feel better and after she’d tended the cats, she could lift a brush and make a few daubs.
Pierre had to hurry away to his own work. ‘I’ll come back tonight,’ he promised.
But the moment the door closed after him, she put the paintbrush down again. Her head was throbbing, she could not concentrate. She knew what would cure her — absinthe.
In the café, she liked the feel of the glass in her hand and appreciated the numbing effect the alcohol had on her mind. She remembered someone had told her — was it Bella? — that her mother drank. It was easy to understand why.
A week later, made brave by drink, she walked to Madame Guillaume’s and collected her letters from Isabelle, who exclaimed in shock at the sight of her.
‘Oh Mademoiselle Marie, you are so thin! You look ill. Come in, come in. Madame is out and I’ll give you something to eat.’ The maid was horrified to see that the girl was not only looking ill but that she was drunk, for she staggered, slurred her words and reeked of absinthe.
Marie allowed herself to be plied with bread and strong black coffee which sobered her slightly and sharpened her perceptions.
As she walked back to the studio she realised for the first time that summer was over and autumn had begun. The trees in the Luxembourg Gardens were assuming their autumn colours of brown, gold and copper. Soon it would be winter. Slowly she walked along with her head lowered, kicking at fallen leaves as she used to do with Kitty long ago, now and again bending to pick up a gleaming chestnut and slipping it into her pocket like a treasure.
It struck her that though Félice had originally intended to stay away for only two months, her absence had stretched over the whole summer. Time had passed without Marie noticing it. Félice would return soon and then where would she go?
The next day she received a petit bleu from Moustiers. The telegraphed message said, ‘Returning 15 October. Please vacate. Félice.’
She laid the message on the table beside the unopened letters she’d collected from Isabelle and did nothing about it, but fortunately it was spotted by Pierre on his daily visit. He lifted it up and rea
d it with a worried expression on his face.
‘Where are you going to go?’ he asked.
Marie shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’ve only two days left. She’ll be furious if she comes back and finds you still here.’
‘I’ll get a place,’ said Marie despondently.
‘How? You won’t unless you start looking. Have you any money left?’
She frowned. ‘Yes, I have money. I haven’t spent much.’
‘Where is it?’ he persisted.
She turned out her purse and her pockets – a search that produced ten gold pieces and about thirty francs.
‘But I’ve still got about eighty English pounds in the bank,’ she added when they’d counted up all the coins.
That was a fortune to him and he looked at her in amazement. ‘You’ve been living here like this and you’ve all that money!’ he gasped.
‘I forgot about it,’ said Marie weakly. Money had ceased to be important to her, as had almost everything else. All she needed was enough to buy a bottle of absinthe and a pile of fish pieces every day.
‘Where is your bank?’ asked Pierre, who was a practical man.
‘In the Champs-Elysées.’
‘Come on,’ he said, pulling her to her feet. ‘We’ll go and take out enough to rent you a place to live.’
‘But I don’t want to be among strangers. I don’t want to have to speak to people,’ she groaned as he hurried her along.
He paused and looked at her. ‘Would you like to live at Mancini’s? It’s friendly and people know you there. They won’t bother you. And you might start working again.’
‘Yes, I’d feel safe at Mancini’s,’ she said. The reason she’d done nothing about Félice’s message was that she was afraid of ending up again in dark and gloomy rooms like Madame Guillaume’s. Though Mancini’s building was ramshackle and none too clean, it was not disapproving.
‘Let’s go,’ said Pierre, hauling her downstairs and onto a passing omnibus.
They took out some of her money and then went to Mancini’s where she was lucky. An old woman who sold flowers in the street had died recently and her room was empty. When she opened the door, Marie said, ‘Oh yes, I could live here.’ It was the first sign of real animation she had shown for weeks.
The room contained only a sagging bed, a wooden chair and a little table with a pottery jug on it. A pot-bellied stove with ashes spilling from it stood in one corner and a big window looked north, the best aspect for painting. It was a homely place and there was an atmosphere in it that reminded Marie of the security she’d felt when she lived with Tibbie.
‘I’d like to live here,’ she told Pierre again.
The owner of the building was Mancini and he did not need any persuading to take Marie on as a tenant. She paid fifty francs as an advance and was told that another fifty would be required on the first day of every month. If no relatives of the old flower seller turned up to claim her bits of furniture, she could have them too.
When all was arranged she seemed transformed, laughed gaily and flung her arms around Pierre saying, ‘Thank you very much. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ For the first time since Amy told her about Murray’s impending marriage, she felt that there was some point in living.
Pierre and Thérèse, however, were worried about her. The quick way she had gone from almost catatonic misery to high enthusiasm seemed unbalanced to them and Thérèse resolved to keep an eye on her.
‘I’ll watch her for you,’ she whispered to Pierre when he turned to go.
Though spartan, the little room was clean and it was a relief that it did not smell of cats. Marie fussed around, going out to buy food and setting up her easel in the best possible light. Then, even before she unpacked her clothes, she began to paint again and there was no longer any hesitancy in her style. She did not stop until it was too dark to see what she was doing.
Next morning, Mancini looked in on her and found her putting the finishing touches to a picture of roses. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you about the dots.’
She looked round and smiled. ‘I’m glad you did.’
‘That is a magnificent picture. You’d easily be able to sell it to one of the dealers on the Quai Voltaire for a thousand francs,’ he said heavily.
She carefully signed it in the right-hand corner with tiny letters – ‘M. Benjamin’, as Professor Abernethy’s friend had advised.
‘Do you really think someone will buy it,’ she asked.
‘I wish I could say “no” but tha.t would be a lie,’ he said, walking away.
The news that Marie had painted a picture that was so good it put Mancini off his midday meal went round the colony in no time. Thérèse was amused that their landlord felt upstaged by one of his tenants and told the story to Tadi, who returned that night from a visit to his family in Hungary.
His eyes lit up because he liked to hear such tales and he resolved to pay a call on Marie to see the picture for himself. He did not tell Thérèse what he meant to do, however.
Her door was ajar and he gently pushed it open wider so that he could lounge against the upright, watching.
Her sheet of pale hair was flowing down her back like a veil of yellow silk. It was poker-straight and so long that it reached her waist. She was very thin and her skin so pale it was almost translucent. She seemed to glow in the shadowy little room like a will-o’-the-wisp.
‘You have made a difference here,’ he said and came strolling in, idly fingering the drapes of bright colours which she had bought from the local flea market and placed over the chairs in imitation of Félice.
There was a pot of coffee on the top of the stove and without being invited he poured himself a cup, sipping it while he looked at the girl. His stare made her blush, for his eyes were very dark and soulful with long, girlish lashes and he could use them to devastating effect.
She was wearing a thin blouse deeply open at the neck showing the cleavage between her small breasts and her feet were bare. She looked as if she had only just risen from bed. His gaze made her very conscious of her state of undress and she reached out to lift a shawl off the back of a chair and drape it over her shoulders.
‘Aaah, do not cover yourself up. You have a beautiful body. I think I told you that before,’ he said softly. Slowly he walked across the floor towards her and ran his hand down her bare forearm. ‘It’s like marble and so cold,’ he said. His face was close to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. He smelt of the black tobacco all the artists in the building, except Marie herself, smoked.
She stood transfixed, watching his hand as it moved up to her elbow and gently turned her arm over so that the palm was upwards. Then he bent his head and planted a kiss in it.
‘Hold that,’ he told her and without thinking she curled up her fingers.
She closed her eyes and gave a little sigh. One hand cupped her head to turn it towards him. He kissed her on the lips.
‘Do not be sad my pretty one,’ he said. Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, he left and she stood like a statue in front of her easel with a stunned look on her face.
He did not come back the next day, or the day after that, but on a very rainy morning when the window glass was gleaming with a sheet of running water, he turned up again.
Her door was unlocked and she was arranging a still life on the table. Pierre had persuaded her to paint a few ‘pretty’ pictures which he offered to take to a dealer he knew.
While she was positioning some oranges and apples beside her pottery jug, Tadi materialised at her shoulder, reaching his brown hand over to adjust the setting she had made.
‘No, let me show you how to do it. You must contrast the colour, like this… It’s like eating food or making love, variety is necessary…’
She looked up at him, and tried to step away so that there was no body contact between them but he would not let her go. His arm
went round her shoulders and he held her to him.
‘Why are you afraid of me?’ he asked, putting his other hand on her shoulder and gently squeezing the taut muscle there.
She shook her head. ‘I’m not afraid.’
‘But you are! Your muscles are so tight it shows you are terrified. You must let them go soft, loose, easy.’ His hand ran down her arm, touched her waist and went on down her flank. She felt the muscles loosen out under his touch. It was magical.
He felt the relaxation too because he smiled. ‘You see?’
His teeth were beautiful, unmarked and very white, contrasting with his sallow skin.
‘I’ve come to ask you to model for me,’ he told her but she shook her head.
‘I couldn’t pose. I’m too shy. I’m sorry.’
‘I am not asking you to take your clothes off. I wish to sculpt your feet. When I was here the other day I saw that you have beautiful feet. I wish to make a model of them.’
‘Just my feet?’ She sounded disbelieving.
He nodded and laughed. ‘Your feet only. Are you disappointed?’
The colour rushed to her face again. How she wished she did not blush so easily. It was disconcerting. ‘Of course not. When do you want me to sit for you?’
He shrugged. ‘I do not know. Soon. Perhaps tomorrow or the day after. I will come when I can. You can paint while I work. You will not even know I am here.’
Before he left he looked gravely at her canvas and said, ‘You are very talented. But you are too virginal. You should paint with more passion. Perhaps you do not know what passion is?’
He did not come the next day or the next, but one evening there was a knock on her door and he stuck his head round to say, ‘I have not forgotten about your feet. I will come tomorrow morning.’
He banged the door shut and she heard his footsteps running up the stairs and his voice calling out for Thérèse. She felt like a fish, being lured by an irresistible bait.
When he came he brought a beautiful pineapple, with bright green leaves sticking out of its top. ‘You might want to paint it, or you might want to eat it,’ he said, laying the fruit on the table beside the still life arrangement.
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