“I think it’s hopeless, trying to inspire you to like our business,” René said, shaking his head and handing him the paper and pen.
“I respect your knowledge of the trade, but I agree, my passion lies elsewhere.”
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation.
“Entrez, come in,” René said.
The tapping continued, and Michel opened the door.
“Désirée, what a surprise! What brings you here? This is no place for a lady,” he said.
“I came for Edgar,” she replied, looking past her father into the office.
Edgar stood up and rushed across the room to where she stood.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
“Not at all.” She lowered her voice. “I thought you might like to be rescued from all the cotton talk,” she smiled.
“You’re an angel,” he whispered. “I’ll come right away.”
Edgar jammed his hat on his head and waved to René.
“I have to go back to the house now,” he said. “See you at dinner.”
René, looking annoyed by his brother’s sudden departure, spoke to his uncle.
“We shouldn’t waste any more of our time on Edgar; he clearly has no interest in working here. Let him paint his heart out. Maybe he will even be good enough someday to sell his work . . . and help us out.”
Outside on the street, Désirée took Edgar’s arm.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
“Anywhere you like. I’m glad to have some time with you. I’ve always enjoyed your company—it reminds me of Paris!”
She smiled, and he patted her arm.
“I thought we could see the steamboats by the river,” Désirée said. “They’re unlike anything you see in France. I remember they designed the ships there for sailing across the sea, not down rivers like ours.”
“We have boats on the Seine, but I expect you are right; they are different. Those you saw on the Mediterranean were similar to the one that took you across the Atlantic, only smaller.”
“It’s wonderful that you came all this way to visit us, Edgar. I expect everyone has already asked you a hundred times, but how do you like la Nouvelle-Orléans so far?”
“It’s true. Everyone wants to know, and I want to say good things. In particular I do not wish to disappoint your sister Estelle. She wants so much for me to be happy, and to make this place my home. . . .”
“Yes. She worries about everyone except herself, and she should pay more attention to her own needs. Her eyesight is getting worse by the day, it seems,” Désirée said sorrowfully.
“She makes light of it, but I can tell she has trouble. Is there nothing to be done?”
“The doctors say nothing, but she never complains.”
“I know. That’s one of the most endearing qualities about her. As René says, there’s so much sweetness in her sadness that she makes us all sympathetic. She looks always on the good side, to the horizon where the sun is rising, and finds color when there is none . . . I intend to paint her portrait. She has already agreed.”
“That would be wonderful,” Désirée beamed.
“And yours, too, if you don’t object.”
“Of course not, but I’m no longer the young woman you knew in Paris. There you painted my hands.”
“Beautiful hands,” he said, as he held one of hers up to his face.
She let him hold her hand, her face showing obvious enjoyment at his touch. Then, dropping her hand abruptly, he said, “I am not fond of painting outdoors. Now, my friend Manet, he would see lovely things here, even more than I do. I promised Estelle I would paint the family, and I will content myself with that.”
Désirée’s face fell, and she turned away from him. They walked down Canal Street to the river, and soon the steamboats were in full view. Désirée held her handkerchief to her nose as they neared the docks. Open sewage ran in streams along the streets there, leaving green slime in its wake.
“Mon Dieu, les bateaux! They have chimneys!” Edgar said, looking at the smoke stacks. “And huge wheels!”
The multi-tiered boats towered above them on the dock, black smoke belching from their funnels. One boat was leaving, and the huge wheel at the back churned the water into foam as it propelled the ship into the middle of the river. A strong smell of salt and fish filled the air, and seagulls wheeled overhead. Throbbing crowds clustered by the waterfront, many waving at passengers standing by the rails on the vessels as gruff horns warned of their imminent departure.
“The riverboats are like the houses in the Vieux Carré, with their balconies and ironwork. Where do you imagine they’re going?” Edgar asked.
“Perhaps up the river to Memphis, where I’ve never been,” she said, “but that doesn’t matter. I’d like to go back to Paris. Now that’s a fine city.”
“It is, but not as fine as it was . . . the war with Prussia has destroyed many buildings, and it will take time to rebuild.” He stopped, and focused dreamily on the departing boat. “I miss it already,” he said.
Désirée said cheerfully, “Well, you never answered my question. How do you like this city?”
“It’s satisfactory, but I wonder what there is besides cotton. I am becoming weary of the climate of cotton. Isn’t there any music here? I love to go to the opera and am used to going often.”
“Oh yes, Edgar. We love the opera. Sadly, there is no program this season, but we attend recitals sometimes. Estelle sings beautifully. I could ask her to arrange a musical evening, if that would amuse you.”
“That would give me much pleasure, thank you,” he said. “Let’s follow the river a little. It’s so wide, and so muddy. The color is like my paints, a mix of ochre and sepia, much browner than the Seine.”
“It is a slow, serpentine thing, the Mississippi, and for me, full of mystery. It stretches far to the north and flows many miles south before it empties into the Gulf of Mexico. Small communities nestle on its banks, homes of Cajuns, who live by fishing.”
“Cajuns? What are they?”
“They are French speaking, but their language is not like our French Creole,” Désirée said, wrinkling her nose. “They come down from Canada, from a place called Acadia.”
“Do you know any of them? Are they friendly?”
“We don’t socialize at all.”
He looked at her. “Oh. What else do you do here, yourself? You have no connection to the cotton business, I see.”
“It’s not an appropriate pastime for women. We have Mardi Gras to look forward to in February.”
“Ah, yes. Are balls and parties part of the carnival?”
“They are. Didn’t René talk to you about them? He traveled to Paris to obtain ideas for costumes. This year there’s a special theme: Darwin’s Origin of Species. He brought back insect masks to wear.”
“So he did. I had forgotten.”
“It’s all great fun, one of our best Creole traditions here. I love the costumes and dancing. Do you like to dance?”
“No. I’ve never been fond of dancing, though I love painting ballet dancers. Ballet—now, that’s the art of dance that I can appreciate.”
She glanced at him and started to speak, but he stepped ahead of her. The intensifying morning heat bore down on them like a wool blanket. He slowed down and dabbed at the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
“Would it offend you if I loosened my necktie?” he asked.
No . . . as long as you keep your shirt buttons fastened. It would be improper for you to escort me in a state of undress,” she teased.
He cleared his throat. “Is it time for lunch? I find I have an appetite. It must be your company, Didi, and the walk.”
“Or the heat.” She laughed. “But we have always been friends.”
She turned sideways to meet his eyes.
“Perhaps we should be more . . .” Edgar began.
She waited for him to continue, but he again strode ahead of her, and said, “It’s
almost noon. Shall we turn back?”
“Yes. Edgar . . . I’ve enjoyed our talk,” she said, bowing her head.
“Thank you, Désirée, for the tour. As always, I am charmed by your company, and I cannot thank you enough for rescuing me.”
She nodded.
They strolled toward the Vieux Carré and soon arrived back at the house. Estelle was giving last-minute instructions to Clarice about drinks to serve with lunch. They didn’t drink wine every day with the noontime meal, but since Edgar would be joining them, she wanted to have it available. The table was set for four: Edgar and the three women, Désirée, Mathilde, and herself.
“How did you spend your morning, Edgar?” Estelle asked
“Didi met me at the office, and we visited the dockyard. I liked the riverboats, their funnels like factory chimneys, and the river—so wide, so brown.” He smiled.
“It is. Did you see the bales of cotton waiting for shipment?”
“No. I didn’t notice those.”
“We send much of our cotton all over the world, and New Orleans has one of the largest ports in the country. Well, please sit down. Lunch is ready.”
The women took their places at the table, and Clarice served the first course.
“What’s this soup? I’m not familiar with the ingredients,” Edgar said.
“It’s shrimp gumbo, with okra and filé. The filé is sassafras leaf powder, and okra is a vegetable from Africa that grows well in this area because of the heat.”
“Delicious,” said Edgar, eating with relish and taking small sips of white wine.
“Edgar, William would like to take you to the racecourse soon. You’ll like the horses, won’t you?” Mathilde asked.
“I like race horses, yes, and I’ve painted them. Their legs are elegant, much like dancers, you know. Both appear fragile, but in fact have enormous strength. They are active, too; I love the sense of movement that’s always present, even when they’re not in motion.”
“William works at the racecourse sometimes. He admires the animals and knows them by name. But I understand you want to paint Carrie today. She’s excited. This morning she did a drawing of our dog,” said Mathilde.
“Ah yes, I must ask to see it,” he said. “A mother is always proud of a child’s efforts, but an uncle can be as well, I think.”
The meal progressed with a fish entrée, followed by fried plantains.
“How will you approach your painting?” Mathilde asked.
“I always start by sketching. Sometimes I begin painting while the subject is right in front of me, but I usually complete work in my studio. I’m able to manage very well from my notes and drawings.”
“Let me see if Carrie has finished lunch. If so, she can sit for you now.”
Estelle watched Edgar’s face for any sign of enthusiasm about painting her niece. She had pushed the idea and did not want to imagine he was merely trying to oblige her. He seemed relaxed, but she had to admit he had expressed more excitement about painting horses and dancers.
Désirée touched Estelle’s shoulder as the diners stood up after the meal.
“Do you have a minute to talk to me in private?” she whispered.
“I do. Let’s go to my room.”
The sisters mounted the stairs, Estelle holding onto the banister. They sat on her chintz-covered couch.
“Estelle, what do you think about Edgar as a suitor?” Désirée asked.
“He would be an excellent prospect for a husband. Has something happened? Has he talked of marriage?”
“Not exactly, but he often seems on the verge of saying something and then stops. What can I do to encourage him?”
“I’m not sure. Edgar is not like most men of my acquaintance. René was always interested in me and told me so right away. I don’t know why Edgar has never married, but he did say it might be a good idea.”
Désirée’s eyes widened.
“He did? When?”
“Soon after he arrived. He even spoke of having children.”
“Well, that’s a good sign,” Désirée said, her face lighting up. “We get along, and he has always told me he enjoys my company.”
“That’s surely a good beginning. You’ve got charm, my dear. He was quite taken with you in Paris. I would say, continue to amuse him and flatter him. Take an interest in his painting. You already have an advantage because you don’t talk endlessly about cotton.”
“And I haven’t entirely forgotten how to flirt.”
They both laughed.
“He also likes music,” Désirée said. “I told him I would ask you to arrange a recital, since there’s no opera this season.”
“It would please me to do that. Let’s pick a date.”
Edgar kept his promise to paint his niece. He began a preliminary sketch in his leather-bound notebook. She sat down, her back toward him, her head slightly bowed, her dark, shoulder-length hair contrasting with her white dress. The full skirt billowed out around her. The curve of her childlike cheek was the only visible part of her face.
“Oncle Edgar, I am getting stuck, sitting for so long. Are you done yet?” Carrie asked.
“Not quite, ma petite. Please move your arm forward a little. That’s right. Now keep it there for a few more minutes, please, and I will be finished.”
She moved her arm, and held still for a minute or two, then turned her head to peer at him.
“I’ve had enough. I’d like to play now,” she said.
“All right. I have all that I need.”
“May I look?” she asked, standing up and coming around to Edgar’s side. “Oh, it’s all pencil, black-and-white and no colors,” she said.
“I’ll add the colors later, when I do the painting. This is only a drawing,” he said. “But it already has a title: Young Girl in a White Dress. Do you like it?”
She peered at it and nodded. “It does look like me, but I’d like it better if you called it Carrie in a Party Dress.”
“Good idea. I’ll consider it. Your mother tells me you’ve been drawing, too. I’d like to see what you’ve done,” he said.
She twirled around. “I like my dress. I’m going to a party now. I’ll let you see my pictures later.”
Edgar gathered his pencils and notebook and disappeared to the gallery designated as his studio.
At dinner time, Estelle knocked on his door.
“Go away! I’m busy,” Edgar shouted.
“Edgar, it’s Estelle. May I come in?”
She heard his footsteps tap toward her, and he unlocked the door. Holding the doorframe, he spied at her through a narrow crack.
“I must have privacy when I’m working; it’s necessary for me to be alone, without interruption,” he said. His voice softening, he went on, “But the light is fading, and I need to stop now. I’m working on a painting of Carrie.”
“May I see it?” she asked, tentatively.
He inched the door wider. His easel stood in the middle of the room, a small canvas perched on the ledge. The painting featured the girl in her white dress, a sepia background, and the suggestion of a tree outside, beyond the doorway.
“Even though you can’t make out her face, that’s Carrie,” Estelle said. “Nicely done, Edgar. Matilde will be delighted.”
“I’ll paint her again beside the other children. Today they were playing on the doorstep leading to the back garden. It would make a good family scene. Perhaps I can continue these portraits tomorrow.”
“By all means,” she said, “but now dinner is ready. Clean yourself up and come down.”
Estelle was overjoyed that Edgar had begun painting again. If he derived pleasure from using the family as subjects, that was fine with her. She wanted him to enjoy his stay and to extend it long enough to reestablish a connection with Désirée. Though not talking about her fear, she had become increasingly concerned that Désirée would have no financial security unless she married. Estelle knew the truth that her husband tried to keep from her: the faltering fa
mily business. Michel would not be able to support Désirée indefinitely. But would their father approve of her marriage to a cousin, another member of the De Gas family?
She remembered René’s long courtship of her. She had been twenty-six, and newly widowed, with a child, when they met. René was two years younger. Her father had sent her, Désirée, and their mother abroad to wait out the terrible Civil War that had already devastated the South. The Musson women soon contacted their De Gas cousins in Paris. René declared his love for her almost immediately, corresponded with her when she returned home, and followed her to New Orleans. He educated himself in the cotton business and accepted a job at her father’s cotton office. Upon his arrival in America, he proposed. The fathers on both sides adamantly opposed the marriage at first, but once he understood René’s serious intentions and how happy he made her, Michel gave approval. She and René had married in 1869, a short three years ago.
Estelle sighed as she recalled the tender memories. René had been so handsome when they’d met, almost a boy, not a man of the world at all. She reflected that he had changed, and not for the better. Still handsome, he had become worldly and less attentive to her . . . but she must not dwell on such dreary thoughts, she told herself. After all, he had written to her often while away, and had brought her the handkerchief from Paris. Or had he? She hadn’t yet thanked him. What mattered most now was Désirée’s prospect for marriage. A union with Edgar would be a godsend.
Chapter 11
November 1970
Anne had more than an hour to kill before a one o’clock meeting with her boss, Peter Knight, who curated the museum’s European paintings. She took a stroll through the galleries to look at the paintings on display. As she climbed the flight of stairs leading to the second-floor gallery, she noticed a large painting on the wall she had not seen before. She stopped in front of it. Why did it remind her of something from her past, as in a déjà vu moment? The style—the loose brushstrokes and the asymmetrical composition—looked familiar. The portrait depicted a dark-haired woman dressed in a black dress, almost hidden by a large bouquet. She looked down, concentrating on a red gladiolus as she added it to the arrangement in the vase. Placement of the figure on the left side of the painting beside an expanse of negative space to the right was typical of Degas’s Japanese-like compositions. The work showed the hand of a master, and she stepped closer to read the label posted underneath. She collided with a man observing the picture and holding a sketchpad. Excusing herself and moving aside, she read the label: Portrait of Mme. René De Gas, née Estelle Musson, 1872–73, by Edgar Degas.
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