Painted with Love: Romance Eludes Time and Death

by Karen Diana Montee

  In mere seconds it was over and I knew nothing of Kenya and Leboo; only white light, fractured with changing colors. I floated, drifting like falling snow, in a colorful sea of complete calm and love, without a care. Everything was perfect. I felt no worries, no concerns for getting home, no interest in how my body was or if I were well. I enjoyed the serene pool of euphoria, suspended, weightless, at ease and at peace. It was a place I could stay forever. I had no desire to know what happened. I had no desires at all. I was bathed in happiness.

  Without any concept of time passing, suddenly the stillness came to an abrupt halt. I tried to open my sand filled eyes, but nothing came into focus. Through small slits, I detected a bright sun beating upon me. I tasted the rich, wet, gritty earth coating my tongue. My limbs would not move. Thirst scratched at my throat. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. I couldn’t tell what was happening. Vaguely it seemed as though people were pulling on me, lifting me, shouting, and moving me. But it was as if that was off in the distance. I didn’t know if it was real.

  Gradually, I slid sideways down an imaginary slope into a peaceful sea of pleasure. A dreamy sunset appeared, similar to the one I remembered from the Eiffel Tower in Paris. I felt Paris and the tower around me and below me. I felt her energy, her amour. In the sky above Paris, purples danced and traded places with red and orange. Blue intertwined between shades of pink. I merged with the colors. Together we became one sea of bliss and beauty. Africa faded away as I floated in the waters of tranquility. I wondered, Is this my last sunset?

  ***

  Chapter Two: Exploding Sky

  Paris, France, New Year’s Eve, 1898

  From the Eiffel Tower I floated over the landscape of Paris, peering upon familiar monuments and parks. The modern contrast of new building to the old architecture was noticeably absent. Horses with carriages stepped slowly through the streets; a strong juxtapose to the automobiles I saw racing around the city last time I was here. The men wore dark suits and coats while the women donned long skirts and elaborate hats.

  Despite the remarkable difference from my last visit, Paris felt incredibly familiar, as if it were native to me. Slowly I floated down to the ground and stood on a sidewalk lined with bare trees facing a beautiful bridge whose sides were made of thick, ornately carved stone. Strolling along the street, I knew I was making my way toward home. I passed the Louvre, while the winter sky dripped a light rain. Strolling merrily along the recognizable streets lined with bare branches and manicured evergreens, I opened my mouth and let raindrops fall cool against my tongue. In the center of the long bridge, I twirled in circles with delight as my long coat and full length skirt spun out wide.

  Instinctively, I turned left. The street looked familiar. When I saw the street sign, Quai Voltaire, I knew I was nearly home.

  I grasped the door handle and pushed it open, feeling certain that this was my front door. I walked past the parlor to the kitchen where the housemaid was preparing croissants and beef stew. The aroma of the glazed meat caramelizing, wet my ravenous appetite. I took a grape from the counter and popped it into my mouth.

  My mother spoke as she entered the kitchen. “Cherie, don’t forget about the party tonight. That dinner is for tomorrow. Save your appetite.” My name was Cherie. Yes, this felt right.

  “I’m not going to the party,” I said a little surprised as the words exited my mouth.

  “You most definitely are going.”

  “Do not make me do this Mother. I loathe these ridiculous parties. Why must I be subjected to hours of boasting from YOUR friends? Mother, please grant me this New Year’s Eve to myself, I beg you. I’m eighteen. Allow me to make my own choice. This is my life, not yours!”

  “My child, you never stop with your selfishness. This whole world is not all about you. There are others to consider. You must not live your entire life as if no one matters except yourself. Think of Andre, working hard at Law School. He would be happy to attend a party instead of studying for exams. His grandparents shall be attending this evening celebration and they will wish to meet you, their future granddaughter-in-law. What would Andre want for you to do this night?”

  “Perhaps you’re content to go about your day pleasing everyone except yourself, Mother. I will not sacrifice my desires for the pleasure of others. My life will be lived differently than yours.”

  “Cherie, you’re childish. You will grow up and learn that in order to survive in the world you must cooperate with the people around you. You cannot have every simple wish of your young, naïve heart. You do not live alone in this world.”

  “We shall see Mother, if I’m naïve or simply strong enough to follow my own passions.”

  “Indeed we shall. Now, put on the new dress I bought for you. We leave at seven. Wear your red, long coat. There’s quite a chill. Bring your overnight case; we are staying until tomorrow. It’s too far to travel home tonight after midnight in this cold.”

  “Argh!” I looked at my mother with an angry pout, wishing to make her feel guilty. She ignored my expression and walked away. When the argument began I knew I would likely fail to get my way; but it was worth a try.

  This Paris dream is amazing. It feels as real as it possibly could.

  At seven in the evening, I presented my emphatic pout at the front door where my parents were waiting. They both ignored my look and turned to walk out. This meant that my mother had prepared my father for my resistance. He should at least be compassionate that I was upset. She had obviously requested that he have no reaction. This fueled my anger, for the one thing I appreciated most in my home was my father’s soft heart for me. His gentle compassion made life more bearable.

  We rode quietly together in the closed carriage that helped guard against the bite of the winter air. The horses pranced obediently forward with their nose cutting through the damp night. I continued to pout, thickening the air in the small, carriage cabin.

  An hour later, I entered the country mansion of Jacques and Martine Soule, stepping under a large French flag hung above the double door threshold. Immediately my parents were embraced by familiar guests and the hostess, Martine. Martine embraced me as well, kissing my cheeks. “Darling, I’m pleased to have you. I hope you do not find my little party too boring.”

  “Happy New Year, Auntie. Your party’s a perfect opportunity for me to see you,” I lied, dreading the next twelve hours.

  “Oh, my sweet child, you must come visit more often. We have much to catch up on. Have you seen the ballet recently?”

  “Not recent enough. Would you like to attend the ballet with me?” I asked. “I would much prefer to have you all to myself, rather than just see glimpses of you tonight.”

  “Of course, I would love to my dear. Let us go next week. I will arrange everything. You don’t worry about a thing.” Martine and I had a wonderful connection, as if she were my real aunt. We enjoyed many of the same things. She always treated me like family.

  I glanced around the estate that I visited occasionally. The mansion was adorned with Parisian finery. Painting of masters adorned every available wall. Richly woven fabric draped the floor to ceiling windows, complementing the Persian rugs covering the tile and wood floors.

  Inside I found the same crowd from other parties, clothed in their fancy garb. On this winter evening, some of Paris’s wealthiest or most educated citizens moved about the three hundred year old estate. Their elaborate apparel fascinated me.

  One woman over emphasized every element of popular dress. The bustle on her bottom stuck out from twin pillows hiding under her skirt, while her bosom protruded, clamoring to escape her bodice. Several feathers from a tropical bird adorned her bright red hat covering her coiffure, held in place as if it were wood. Buttons and pearls on her sleeve cuffs nearly hid the fabric, while lace draped over her velvet skirt, which dragged two feet behind her. Her laughter drowned out even the orchestra.

  It amused me to look around the room and watch the party goers reveal themselves with their eyes,
lips and clothing. The more outspoken the clothing, the more boisterous it made the wearer. Long, bustled skirts swished to and fro, as if each woman were meant to outdo the others. The men wore variations of the same suit, with white, pressed shirts, tightly drawn ties and dark, long dress coats over slacks.

  The large hall echoed with laughter, music and conversation. Well-dressed Frenchmen talked above the sonata from the string quartet while holding their champagne glasses casually. There wasn’t a single soul with whom I wished to visit, except the busy hostess. Friends of my parents greeted me politely, before gliding away looking for a peer.

  Although I would rather have celebrated the coming of the New Year with a hot bath, writing in my journal, at least attending this party had one advantage, Jacques and Martine ensured that their guest enjoyed the finest of everything. They served Bordeaux, Burgundy, Chardonnay and Champagne with excellent cuisine. On the menu were many of my favorites: beef bourguignon, French bread, pastries, chocolate cake, dates, mints, carrot bread, pound cake and fudge.

  I enjoyed a delicious plate of bon bons and a glass of Bordeaux. Afterwards, there was nothing to do except watch the hours pass. The terrace seemed a suitable escape and an opportunity for fresher air. Making my way through the crowd of fine fabric and brandy breath, I noticed a man watching. My breath quickened as I felt his eyes scan over me. I straightened my posture and ignored his glare. Jean-Paul Soule stepped back into the shadow at the top of the grand staircase overlooking the parlor. He seemed to perceive my pause. A great distance was between us, but it felt as if there were none.

  Slowly I turned my head to look away, and I walked towards the terrace. Just as I’d hoped, he followed after me. As I opened the door to the terrace, I noticed that Jacques and my father interrupted his intended path for a chat. The thought of the conversation that might ensue if my father knew that Jean-Paul was following me, made me smile. Stepping into the cool night, I tilted my head back to gaze at the shimmering sky. Moments later I heard the terrace door open. The handsome man took a few steps towards me.

  “Are you chilled Mademoiselle?” he asked.

  “Not especially, Merci. It’s more pleasant to stand amongst frosty trees than in rooms filled with stale air.”

  He stood staring at me for a moment. Finally he spoke. “It has been a while since I have seen you. You have grown into a young woman.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “True, a wise man might anticipate that a young woman would mature. However, your growing up has caught me by surprise.”

  “How’s that, Jean-Paul? Why are you surprised?”

  “I didn’t anticipate the effect your maturity would have upon me.”

  “Oh,” I replied casually. “Of which effect do you speak?”

  “I have always known you to be a young girl. Now that you’re a young woman I feel that I don’t know you at all.”

  “In that case, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Cherish Bourguignon, the only child of Michel and Catherine Bourguignon. You, fine sir, may call me as my parents do, Cherie. Pleased to meet you Monsieur. And you are?”

  “Captivated…and delighted to be sure.” I smiled and blushed at the same time. Jean-Paul was present on many of my previous visits to see Martine, but we had rarely spoken. He was seven years my senior and we had little reason to converse. Jean-Paul had a strong frame, with distinctive features. He was strikingly handsome. Since I was sixteen I had admired him, with no hope of enjoying anything other than distant fancy. He was a man and I was a girl; a girl betrothed to her parent’s best friend’s son.

  “Your father and I spoke inside. He’s quite the stern man and somewhat intimidating. He adores you to be certain. He doesn’t seem to think that highly of me it would seem; definitely not enough to allow me to court his now mature daughter.”

  Jean-Paul’s remarks surprised me. Our playful conversation had turned serious quite suddenly. I wasn’t prepared to be serious, so I kept the conversation light. “What are you suggesting Monsieur? Are you not up for a challenge? Are you stating that you have not the confidence to win the approval of my father? I shall tell you something about my father. He intimidates everyone. Perhaps it’s his high intellect and the reputation of a great professor. It’s also his silence. He listens far more than he speaks. He does not reveal what he’s thinking, and this is what is daunting to many men. It may not be as difficult as you thought. That’s of course if there were a reason to make the effort.”

  “Believe me when I say to you, there’s a reason, for you have intrigued me more than anyone I have ever laid my eyes upon.”

  Looking at Jean-Paul, I saw him differently for the first time. Prior to this evening, he seemed like an attractive masculine essence, far from my reach. All at once he was before me, teasing me with the idea of courtship? Could this be real? Could I become the object of Jean-Paul’s affection? What about Andre?

  “I regret to tell you that there is an obstacle in your path. It’s only fair to tell you.”

  “Oh? And which great obstacle must I face?”

  “My parents have fixed in their minds that I must wed Andre Monet.”

  Jean-Paul stood silently. He stared at me for a moment, then gazed off into the black night. He looked strong and masculine in the dim light. He turned his gaze straight into mine. “Andre Monet? Do I know of him?”

  “He’s the son of Bernard and Astrid Monet. Apparently his grandparents are here tonight. I have yet to meet them.”

  “I do not remember him. Forgive me for being bold, for this is not my place to ask. Are you pleased with the arrangement?”

  “Quite the opposite actually.”

  “Your parents must have good reason to make the arrangement. I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, it’s not appropriate for me to be here. I bid you good night my fair lady.” He turned from me towards the door.

  “Monsieur?”

  He turned his head around slowly, with his body still facing the door, giving me a kind, thoughtful look, “Yes, mademoiselle?”

  “May I ask something of you?”

  “Oui, you may.”

  “Provide me company this night. I haven’t a soul to speak with and I must be here all night. I do not wish to spend this evening speaking with other guests. My parents and I are staying until morning, as your family tradition allows. I beg you.”

  He paused briefly, as if quickly considering all that my request entailed. “As you wish.”

  My heart jumped with excitement. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  “Where is your betrothed this evening?”

  “He is away studying law at the University of Aix-Marseille III. He has been away for three years.”

  “Very well, let us not speak of Andre. Do you enjoy the stars?”

  Something in his voice touched me deeply. I wanted to be near him. “Most certainly I do. I love to watch them sparkle, like a deep sea at night with dancing waves of moonlight.” I drew in a deep breath, trying to hide my nervousness. Each time I engaged his eyes, my tongue was tied up in wonder and my breath quickened.

  “Have you seen the ocean, at nightfall?” Jean-Paul’s eyes left my face and looked down the length of my body and up again. The guilt in his eyes was obvious, but I enjoyed his examining glance.

  “I have. My mother’s sister lives at Le Havre. We visited her and I stared at the sea for hours while the moon shone brightly.”

  “Le Havre, I know this place. That’s where the great ships leave to cross the sea. I expect to be on one of those boats, perhaps later this year to cross the ocean and live in America.”

  Suddenly I was intrigued. What a daring thing to do to leave France and settle in a foreign land, I thought. I was an adventurous girl and yet I’d never thought of doing something as courageous. I found myself having new respect for the man. “How spirited of you.”

  “Spirited? I…don’t feel such.”

  “Why not? It’s a daring thing to consider.”

  “I’m leaving France
to assist my uncle in expanding his tea and coffee trade. He made me a good offer and my new position will help his business a great deal. Martine and Jacques have done much for me. I wish to repay them. You may know that my parents died of influenza when I was eight years old. Jacques and Martine raised me as one of their own children and provided all that I needed. I feel an obligation to help them.”

  “Then why the heavy heart?”

  “You see ma cherie, in my soul, I’m a painter. This is who I am. Paris is the best place in the world to be a painter. I do not wish to leave the most divine, inspirational city in the world.”

  “I see. However, in France there are many accomplished artists. Your skills are less common in America. Other countries need good artists as well as Paris. The potential to be recognized could be greater.”

  “Thank you for your encouragement my lady. You are very kind.” He smiled again and my heart melted another layer. We stood there on the terrace until my toes froze and my fingers hurt from the cold. He pointed out Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the Seven Sisters and other constellations. I pretended that he was teaching me something new. Although the cold closed in on me, I didn’t want to re-engage with the boisterous partygoers. I did, however, want to see what Jean-Paul liked to paint.

  “May I see some of your work?”

  “You may. A few pieces are displayed throughout the house. I also have a studio for painting upstairs with some new pieces. I would be honored to show you. We must get an escort. My cousin Marion would be happy to accompany me.”

  “Must we really have an escort?”

  “Mademoiselle, we should not be seen alone. It would be improper under the circumstances.”

  “Who’s to know?”

  Jean-Paul was quiet while he contemplated the ramifications. As I watched him shuffle thoughts around in his head, I enjoyed the idea of sneaking off together; doing what I wanted instead of what my mother wished. Jean-Paul answered carefully, speaking as if he were giving directions. “It’s possible to enter the home from the north entrance, but that requires going around the east side to the north. We must walk in the dark through the garden. Is this comfortable to you?”