An Artist in her Own Right

by Ann Marti Friedman

  “I’m sorry I missed you,” he murmured.

  “I arrived there just as you emerged from the building with your touching little family group.”

  “Oh.” He lowered his eyes to the crumbs on his plate.

  “You were too busy cooing to ‘Daddy’s little girl’” – here I gave a savage imitation of his tone of voice – “while Mademoiselle Arm-about-her-waist bent down to fix her shoe. That’s why you didn’t see your wife coming toward you.”

  “My dear, I––”

  “Just think,” I continued brightly, “you could have introduced us, and then I wouldn’t be asking you about them this morning.” He had given up trying to interrupt and waited for me to finish. “So – who are they?”

  “My granddaughter’s name is Françoise-Cécile,” Maman Madeleine said proudly. “Cécile is my middle name. Her mother is Françoise Simonier. Cécile was born in March, and a finer birthday gift than Antoine could have hoped for.” From you hung unspoken in the air. I stared at her, and she looked calmly back.

  I turned to my husband, but now he was busily buttering a slice of bread, as though the conversation bore only the vaguest relationship to him.

  “Antoine!” I protested.

  “Yes, my dear?” He raised his eyes to meet mine with an expression of aggressive tolerance that I hated: by not engaging in an emotional battle, it made me out to be the unreasonable one. He hated arguments, especially the running battle between wife and mother that forced him to pick sides. He preferred to deal with domestic issues not with the hot-blooded emotion of his youthful battle scenes but with the cold sterile Neoclassicism of his recent paintings.

  I rose and left the room, shutting the door behind me. As I started toward our bedroom, I could hear Antoine’s voice raised in furious reproach to his mother. “I was hoping to find a way to have her come here to live with us as our ward. Augustine has always wanted a girl. When Cécile was older, I was going to propose her as an infant I had heard of who needed a home. Françoise could have come as her nurse, and then I could have had them here every day.”

  His voice quavered on those last words, and I knew he was crying. He continued in a stronger voice. “I could have thought up some explanation for what she saw yesterday, brought her around. But you had to put your foot in it, stating things in black and white. There’s no way she’ll accept Cécile now.” He was crying again.

  I expected to hear his mother murmuring her usual words of comfort and support, but he had shocked the old lady into silence. I could see her in my mind’s eye, struggling between her need to comfort him and her desire to take umbrage. A chair scraped back and her heavy footsteps approached the door. I fled to the bedroom.

  Antoine came to speak with me. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” he began. Not that it happened, nor that it would be any less painful any way I heard about it, but that I’d found out in such a way as to thwart his plans. I looked at him coldly. He wasn’t sorry for me so much as he was sorry for himself. I stopped listening and finished dressing.

  “I’m going to visit Père Martin,” I told him. “Perhaps it would do you good to come with me.”

  He winced. “I’ve already been to confession this week.”

  “And got off lightly, by the look of it,” I said tartly. I left.

  It was a beautiful early summer day and the short walk along the rue des Saints-Pères to the Chapelle Saint-Pierre on the Boulevard Saint-Germain would normally have raised my spirits, but my emotions were too turbulent to be readily soothed. Out of habit I glanced in the window of Debauve et Gallais, the confectioners shop, only to have my eye fall on a display of those cornets of sugared almonds given to new mothers. I hurried onward, almost running, as if I had just witnessed a horrible crime. I yanked open the door of the church and stumbled inside.

  Once there, I forced myself to stop, breathe deeply and evenly, and marshal my thoughts. I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water, made the sign of the Cross and genuflected to the altar. In my haste to leave the house, I had neglected to notice the time and now I had arrived in the middle of the weekday Mass. Normally I would have joined in, but I was in no frame of mind that day to be worthy to receive Communion. I slipped into the chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary and knelt to pray, but words would not come. I looked to the painting on the altar for inspiration, but the calm serene face of the Virgin looked as if it had never felt anger. Joy, acceptance, foreboding, suffering, sorrow – I had seen her display all of those in various works of art. But never anger. Didn’t you at least rage at those who tortured and killed your Son? I wanted to ask her. She went on smiling fondly, a little sadly, at the baby who reached for the thorn-eating goldfinch, accepting His fate. I looked up at St Joseph, who had found himself married off not to a capable widow who could help him, a lusty woman his own age with whom he would have had something in common, but to a slip of a girl already pregnant with someone else’s child. He had acquiesced to all of it. There would be no sympathy for me there either. Finally, I found myself drawn to a painting of St Peter, the patron saint of the church, cutting off Malthus’ ear in a fit of rage, then denying Christ thrice before the cock crowed. Thinking about his very human temper and frailty calmed me.

  Compassionate, white-haired Père Martin sought me out when Mass was over: “I can see that you are troubled, daughter.” That also helped: someone who was considerate of my feelings in the matter as Antoine and his mother were not. In fact, his kind words and welcome were enough to bring tears. He asked if I wanted confession and absolution. I bridled – I was not the sinner here! No, I told him, I wanted to ask his advice. He nodded and took me to the vestry, where we could be alone at that hour. He composed himself to listen. “Tell me, daughter.”

  The whole unhappy tale came out: the years of wanting and trying to have a baby, the discovery of my husband’s lovechild, the hurtful attitudes of Antoine and Maman Madeleine, the assumption that I would accept it all without complaint. I needed advice that would bring me some peace of mind now and point the way to handling this in the future. To leave my husband was not an option, nor to divorce him (divorce, permitted under Bonaparte, had been outlawed by the Bourbons). My husband’s mistress and child were something I was supposed to shrug off and accept with good humor. If I were to leave him, everyone would think I was overreacting.

  The priest sighed as he removed his glasses and rubbed his tired face. He had to get up early and hadn’t had his after-Mass coffee yet.

  “It is a tale I have heard often, over the years, and I am sorry to hear it again. The message I need to give you, to accept and forgive, is never a welcome one. Nor, I am afraid, do acceptance and forgiveness come quickly and easily, but they are necessary for your peace of mind. I have seen too many women who profess them on the surface but who seethe and turn sour with resentment inside. I don’t want you to become another of them. I know you have had much to deal with these last years – your husband’s illness, your mother’s death and the strained relationship with your sister and brother. I know this isn’t the advice you want to hear now, but believe me, it is the only way.”

  I sat with my head bowed, absorbing Père Martin’s words, wincing at times. He was right. I did not want to accept this advice – at least, not yet. Then another thought came to me. “Perhaps, if I went to see the woman, to talk to her––”

  He sighed. “The damage is done, daughter. It is not the woman with whom you have the quarrel, it is the fact of the child.” Involuntarily, unable to deny the truth, I nodded in agreement, and a small sob escaped my lips. “Even if she and the child were to disappear tomorrow, that would remain.” His voice was gentle but firm, forcing me to face facts. I started to cry in earnest then. He said gently, “You would not wish the child harm, would you?”

  “No!” My denial was quick and heartfelt. I raised a shocked face to the priest. “You do not think I would––”

  “No, of course not, but I wanted you to realize it, too.”

  I
was silent for several minutes. “Why her, Father? I’m the one in holy wedlock with the blessings of the Church. I’ve prayed so long and hard for a child. Why her, Father? Why not me?” I pounded my fist on the vestry table to emphasize my point. Evidently the old priest was familiar with such vehement protests, for he did not look particularly surprised, nor give the disapproving sniff Maman Madeleine would have.

  “I cannot speak for God’s intentions in this matter, my child. You must ask Him yourself.”

  So I did, at length. God must have grown impatient at my ceaseless questioning, for I never received a satisfactory answer. Perhaps, Josée later suggested when she had returned to Paris, it wasn’t God’s intent so much as a matter of luck. She meant to be kind, I know, but the thought of a random universe was too frightening to contemplate – it was that chaos that had led to the self-determination of the Revolution and the turmoil that ensued.

  Then an idea came to me. Perhaps the answer was in the child. I hired an agent to make discreet inquiries. Françoise Simonier was unmarried and was herself the daughter of an unwed mother. She had moved to Paris several years before from Valenciennes and found work in the linen trade, starting as a laundress and progressing to seamstress. I realized it must be she who had made the new shirts of which Antoine was so fond. She and the child lived in the rue des Prouvaires in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré on the right bank of the Seine.

  Plucking up my courage, I set out to find it. It was one of those small bustling streets behind the grand hôtels, the luxury residences of the district. As I passed one, I had to step back to avoid a briskly moving, smart-looking carriage and pair emerging from the gateway. The rue des Prouvaires contained marchands-merciers and other shops that furnished the smart hôtels and buildings housing the working-class residents that support the luxury trades. There was even a shop specializing in flowers made of sugar, for table decorations. At the same time, a reassuring whiff of the countryside came from the nearby vegetable market of Les Halles. Casting glimpses through windows and doorways at ground-floor workshops as men and women cut and stitched sheets, towels, and tablecloths, I began to get an idea of what Françoise’s life had been like.

  I did not stop to browse as I usually would, afraid I would lose my nerve. As I passed places selling embroidered cloths, my sister came to mind; but embroidery was a skilled occupation even a middle- or upper-class woman could be proud of as a hobby. Françoise, I understood, did plain sewing. As I stood in front of the address the agent had given me, a tenement building five stories tall where the inhabitants would be tightly packed, a family to a room, a woman came out and introduced herself as Madame Mauvre, the concierge of the house. She was in her forties, thin and bustling. She asked if I was looking for one of her tenants.

  “Mademoiselle Simonier. I heard she was good with linens, and I have some that need mending. My housekeeper recommended her, and since I was shopping in the neighborhood––” The lies came plausibly.

  “Ah, Françoise! Yes, she used to do such work, but she hasn’t for the past year. Her gentleman friend insisted she stop working and stay home with the baby.”

  “How fortunate for her.” Said neutrally, politely, as one does about a stranger.

  The other woman nodded eagerly. She clearly enjoyed the knowledge she had of her tenants and the feeling of power it gave her. “She came here from the country five years ago to get a bit more out of life. Followed her young man only to find he’d taken up with someone else. It hasn’t been easy for her, getting too old to be married and working all hours with the linens, pricking her fingers, her back aching from lifting the materials. Then she met Jean, her gentleman friend.” Jean? Was this the wrong woman, then? “He may be a famous painter to Kings and Emperors, but he’s not a snob, treats her nice. Lifts his hat to me, and says, ‘Bonjour, Madame Mauvre,’ whenever he sees me. And doesn’t mind treating to a round of drinks in the café.” She nodded towards a working-class café on the corner, Aux Beaux Echecs.

  “He goes there to play chess – some of the best players in the city come here.” I hadn’t even known he liked chess.

  “About a year ago, she came in with me one evening for a drink, and they liked each other right away. He’s been good to her, treats her nicely, paid for the midwife, and he’s that fond of the little girl.” She shook her head in wondering admiration. “He bought her a teething ring of real coral set in silver – would you believe it? And she hasn’t even started to get her teeth!” She laughed, displaying how many of her own she had lost.

  “Why doesn’t he marry her, if he’s so fond of them both?”

  Madame Mauvre shrugged philosophically. “He’s married already. Not happily, I’d say, or he wouldn’t be looking elsewhere. But he won’t leave his wife.” Clearly, she admired the man’s integrity. I was speechless, as well I might be, but she seemed to take that for assent. Then, as if sensing the shift in my mood, she said, “Well, can’t be gossiping all day, got to get my shopping done. It’s a pleasure to talk with you, Madame.” She smiled again, and nodded, and went on her way.

  I had been prepared to go to Françoise’s flat to confront her, but the conversation with Madame Mauvre had made me pause. As I hesitated, Françoise herself came out of the building, pushing an expensive English pram, a sort of baby barouche that was an anomaly in that neighborhood where working-class mothers carried their babies wrapped in shawls.

  She smiled hello to me, “Bonjour, Madame, a beautiful day, isn’t it?” She radiated happiness, goodwill, and contentment with her lot in life. Startled, I had to agree that it was a beautiful day and smile back at her. After that, attack was impossible.

  Françoise was full-cheeked, with a naturally ruddy country complexion grown pale in Paris. She had the build of the farm girl, too, stocky and buxom, not at all the trim petite figure of the Parisienne. She was dressed in a simple cotton frock and bonnet, old-fashioned and respectable. Pushing the pram, she appeared to be a nursemaid for one of the wealthy families of the district.

  She was older than I had thought, already in her thirties, only a few years younger than I. Antoine had turned for comfort to a not so young woman of lower class, who weighed more than he by a few kilos. He was not the first to seek solace and pleasure with such a one, in such surroundings, but I felt contempt for his lowering himself. I could not let myself sink to his level by confronting his mistress as an equal. I straightened my spine, dusted off my gloves, and turned my back deliberately on the rue des Prouvaires.

  I next saw Cécile at a family gathering at the Amalrics’ house in celebration of what turned out to be Maman Madeleine’s final birthday. She asked Antoine to bring his little girl, then four years old. She spoke tenderly to the girl, who was shy and uncertain in this crowd of strangers, looking to her father for reassurance about what to do. Should she let herself be kissed by this old woman? He smiled and nodded and spoke to her in a voice of such tenderness – “It’s your grandmother, angel.” It was a tone of voice he had not used toward me for so long that I had forgotten it until then. I could not help myself; I started to sob. Everyone looked at me in astonishment. Maman Madeleine said, “Control yourself, Augustine!” in a sharp annoyed voice, before addressing the child again in a sugary one. Disgraced, I fled into the garden, where I could cry as much as I wanted: no one would disturb me there or, heaven forbid, come to comfort me.

  Ironically, it was Cécile who found me when the Amalric children brought her out to play hide-and-seek. She came across me half-hidden in a corner of the garden. At first she thought she had found one of the hiding children. Her look of triumph faded to the uncertainty she had displayed earlier as she realized that, instead, it was the cross-looking lady who got scolded for crying by the old woman who was supposed to be her grandmother. I must have looked woebegone, for on impulse she came up to me and gave me a kiss and said, “Don’t be so sad.” Before I could speak in reply – I just looked at the girl in astonishment – one of the other children found her and pulled her ba
ck into the game.

  “Who was that sad lady?” I heard her ask.

  “Oh, that’s just great-aunt Augustine. She’s married to Uncle Antoine, your papa. Don’t mind her; she’s never much fun.” They resumed their game.

  I was merely Tante Augustine, not much fun, dismissed out of hand by those who knew me – but the little girl, a stranger, had not hesitated to give the “sad lady” a kiss. I touched my hand to my cheek, as if to implant her kiss there forever. It made me smile whenever I thought of it and gave me the courage to go on in the days ahead.

  Chapter 13

  Paris, 1830-1835

  And now I come to the most painful memory of all, the one that takes all my courage to recall and write about: Antoine-Jean Gros – painter in turn to the Republic, the Emperor Napoleon, and the Bourbons of the Restoration, one of the best-known artists of his generation, and recipient of the Légion d’honneur from Bonaparte’s own hand – threw himself into the Seine on the night of 25 June 1835.

  His act was clearly a suicide. At the time, I said he had suffered an aneurysm, a burst blood vessel in his brain that had caused him to lose his footing and fall by accident into the water. I persuaded his doctor to confirm this story to ensure that his body could be buried in hallowed ground at Père-Lachaise, with no notoriety attached to his memory. I must confess also that I did not want the shame and embarrassment of his act to attach to me, his widow, especially as his friends held no fondness for me.

  Now I wish to tell the truth.

  July 1830

  Paris was again in turmoil, with barricades in the streets and fighting between the King’s troops and the citizens of Paris. Again, the Bourbons were forced out, this time for good.

  Charles X seemed to have learned nothing from the misfortunes of his brothers Louis XVI and XVIII. He had gained public sympathy when his younger son, the Duc de Berry, had been murdered ten years before, and there had been rejoicing over the birth of Berry’s son six months later. But now he squandered the goodwill of the people. Perhaps after Napoleon’s death he felt he had nothing left to fear and could act as he pleased.