"Papa! Papa! You're early!" Six-year-old Guy, sturdy, thick brown hair, and on his heels four-year-old Giselle, her golden curls flying, threw themselves at him with abandon. They had been picking flowers from the small front garden and dashed towards him the instant he opened the gate.
Their maid, Marie, huffed after them.
"Look, papa. What I picked for maman." Giselle thrust a full blown red rose up at him.
First, he admired the rose, holding it to his nose and exclaiming over its perfume. Next he picked her up and swung her around. She screamed in delight and he gave her a loud kiss on the cheek before putting her down. He pulled his son close, ruffling his hair with affection. "How is Madame?" Luc asked Marie who stood watching the three of them with an indulgent smile.
"She's resting, M'sieur."
Luc stood looking at his children for a moment. Guy had his mother's fine features, his father's darker coloring and possessed a serious nature. Giselle had his bone structure, mercurial temperament and her mother's fair skin and hair. Both of them adored their father. From out of nowhere, Hélène's smile flashed before him, shadowed by a twinge of guilt. He brushed both aside. "Tell Annette I'll have lemon tea on the veranda."
Marie bobbed her head and trotted off.
"Bring lemonade for Guy and Giselle," he called after her. "We'll sit together, eh?" He smiled as they raced off around to the back of the house, their exuberant squeals filling the air.
Luc stood in the doorway of the bedroom observing his wife. She was asleep, her chest rising and falling, her breathing shallow. Despite her poor health, Émilie remained a strikingly beautiful woman. Her blonde hair, combed and arranged earlier in the day, now fell in disheveled curls framing her finely chiseled features. Luc thought she was like a delicate flower in the midst of the pile of green satin pillows. A subtle touch of color on her lips and cheeks hid her pallor, and asleep, he couldn't see the exhaustion in her eyes.
"I knew you were there." She opened her eyes and smiled at him. Her voice was a whisper.
"How are you?" He crossed the room and bent down to kiss her forehead.
"A bit better," she said.
"Fibber," he answered, his tone softening the word. He helped her sit up, feeling her bones through the flimsy gown and noticing how frail she'd become as he propped the fat goose down pillows behind her. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
"I had a letter from papa this morning."
Luc hid the irritation, his customary reaction to the mention of his father-in-law. Émilie was wealthy being the sole beneficiary of both sets of grandparents; but her father had never approved of, or been able to thwart, her choice of a penniless artist for a husband. Luc's distinguished ancestry was his one saving grace.
"He insists we must visit with him and Maman at Le Conquet. It would be good for the children to get out of the city in this heat. And you know the sea air is good for all of us."
Luc said nothing but sat listening to the birds chattering in the garden as evening drew on.
"You can visit Boudin in Camaret, and Monet will probably be in Le Havre." Émilie continued her cajoling. "Papa wrote that it's fine with him if you want to paint. He said you can have the garden house as a studio."
Yes, he accepts my art these days because I'm becoming successful, Luc thought. Nonetheless, he'll take the opportunity to acquaint me with the fact he thinks I'm a parasite. "Yes, of course. That's a wonderful idea. You go ahead and I'll join you after the academy lists are up."
Émilie covered her disappointment at his answer with a quick smile.
He raised her hand to his lips, turned it over and gently kissed her limp, damp palm before continuing. "Check with the good doctor that you're allowed to travel before you start Annette and Marie flustering around and packing everything up."
"Dr. Brasson is coming tomorrow at midday. You could wait and hear what he says for yourself. If he agrees to the idea, we could be in Capelle by the weekend."
"I've got three paintings to finish before the submission date."
Émilie paused before answering. "Of course. As long as you're not putting off visiting my father?"
Luc laughed. "You see right through me don't you?"
"Please, Luc. For me," she sweet-talked, making sad eyes at him.
"I surrender, I surrender. I'll do my best to come at the end of next week but I can't promise. Does that satisfy you?"
The sound of a gong chimed softly from downstairs, followed by Marie's voice calling the children.
"Go and eat, darling. You don't want to make Annette cross with you by letting your meal get cold."
"Sleep and get well, chérie."
"Close the drapes for me before you go. The light's bothering my eyes."
He kissed her forehead. Her skin felt hotter than when he'd arrived. Even a few minutes conversation took a toll. He closed the drapes and walked quietly to the door turning to look at her before he left. The light penetrating the green voile drapes coated the walls, furniture, and Émilie in shades of leafy green. She had closed her eyes, and her skin looked translucent in the ethereal light.
The whole of Paris appeared to be out that evening, relishing the relative coolness of the air that came at the day's end. Luc threaded his way through the group clustered outside the entrance to the Café de Nouvelle Athènes, and pushed open the glass door. He nodded and waved to several acquaintances further back in the main part of the crowded smoke filled café reverberating to the noise and laughter of courtesans, artists and writers. His friends sat at the two round marble tables that were customarily reserved for them in the front section of the café. Manet was holding forth. The intimate group of artists listened with attention, for he was clever and entertaining when he spoke, and there was often a hidden barb behind his wit.
"Bonsoir," Manet sung out to Luc as he spotted him "A chair. Bring a chair for our newest recruit—our quiet, serious painter!"
Luc greeted the others around the table as a waiter hurried forward with a seat for him, and he sat down amidst the welcoming laughter. This was where Luc needed to be. The association of these artists, who wanted to change the status quo of the art establishment, kept his enthusiasm strong. They painted what they observed in front of them, and their visions were different from the staid, proscribed pictures so beloved by the academic elite makers and shakers of the Paris art world.
The laughter subsided as Manet continued to argue with Degas. The two men were on opposite sides politically, but both had served with the army when the Prussians had laid siege to Paris three years ago.
"We need peace, not a republic," Manet said, tossing back his dark blond hair.
"Ah, my dear socially advantaged friend that is where you're misguided. You must understand that without a republic, there can be no peace." More laughter as the two bantered back and forth.
"It doesn't matter what government we have, if we can't exhibit our paintings, how can we make a living? Why should we—well, most of us anyway, have to endure such poverty?" said Pissarro. There were nods of agreement around the table.
Luc had been lucky. He'd already spent most of the small inheritance left him by his father when he'd met Émilie. Marrying her had made it possible for him to continue as a painter. She believed in him, and it was she who'd initiated the move to Paris, insisting that if he was serious, the capital was where they must live. Émilie's money had bought their house and paid the monthly fees for his attendance at the Académie Suisse for three years. And though his work was beginning to sell for a satisfactory sum, it was Émilie's money that paid for his studio.
A waiter approached the table with a tray of drinks. "From Dr. Gachet," he told them placing the drinks on the table.
Manet nodded at the thin-faced mustached gentleman who stood inside the bar. The artist lifted his glass, and in unison, everyone copied him, turning towards the café's interior. "To our good doctor's continued health," Manet toasted. A round of cheers ensued, and they downed the drinks.
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Monet cleared his throat. "Frederick and I had an idea." A look of pain crossed the lean face of the new speaker as he remembered the tragic death of his closest friend. Frederick Bazille, had been an artist of great promise who had died during the Prussian retreat at the end of the war.
"Well, spit out this brilliant idea. Don't keep it to yourself," Manet interrupted.
Monet continued as if the other man hadn't spoken. "It's very simple. We have our own exhibition. Not a Salon des Refuses," he emphasized the last three words, "but a group exhibition of our best work."
"The realist movement exists. It is. It has to show itself separately. I agree; we absolutely have to have a realist Salon." Degas's enthusiastic voice boomed across the room.
There was silence for three seconds before pandemonium broke out among the artists as they argued the pros and cons of Monet's idea. Most of the artists were a good bit older than Luc and had struggled for many more years than he. They were ambitious to attain success in a world than refused to consider anything new, except to reject it.
"Do you think Corot, Courbet or Daubigny would be interested?" asked Renoir, clouds of smoke rising from his pipe, a sure sign of his interest.
"Tissot and Legros are in London. I'll write to them," put in Degas.
"What of Cezanne?" Luc spoke tentatively.
Heads turned to where the tall bearded man sat alone, hunched over a small side table morosely nursing his drink, oblivious to the raucous laughter and gaiety around him.
"No!" For once Manet and Degas spoke in agreement.
Pissarro joined the argument on Cezanne's side. The two artists had recently struck up a friendship and Cezanne listened to Pissarro, seeing him as a mentor.
By the end of the evening, a decision had been made. They would canvass supporters, patrons and friends, and find a salon where an independent exhibition could be held. They were determined to take themselves out of the realm of academic arguments and petty jealousies rife at the Salon des Beaux Arts. They wanted to display their art where the public could view it and make up their minds for themselves.
When the group broke for the night, Luc decided it was too late for him to return home. He said his goodbyes and headed for his studio. As he walked through the cobbled streets, he ignored the sultry siren voices calling from the shadowed doorways. He no longer had any interest in Brigitte or any of the other women.
Besides, he was intoxicated with the ideas buzzing around his head. The decision to mount a separate exhibition was, so far, purely the talk of discontented artists and might never materialize, yet he was busy assessing which paintings he could show. He pushed the thought of leaving Paris and staying at Brest for the summer out of his mind, dismissing the memory of Émilie looking at him that afternoon, her eyes filled with love. She would be well taken care of by her parents and she understood how important his work was to him.
When he opened the door to the studio, the first thing he saw, illuminated by the dull yellow light from the stairs was the painting of Hélène. Her fresh innocence captivated him. He knew, aside from the fact they had no venue or date set, this painting, or the next one of her, would be one of those he exhibited.
Chapter Five
You never stop loving someone after they die, but time teaches you the lesson of living without them. Time dulls the knife-edged pain of loss, blurs and fades memories. And the love for someone who is no longer with us has a different, though no less important, quality to the love for someone living. In the present, life is forever changing, whereas the past is fixed.
Paris, July 2007
The soul of France animates Paris making it a charismatic magical city. In Paris you feel the heartbeat of a nation, and every year millions of visitors come to experience its charm. The air-conditioned Charles de Gaulle airport hummed as excited or exhausted passengers entered and departed.
"I think that one's mine, Mum," Ingrid fretfully shoved her sunglasses further back on her head. "Or maybe not," she mumbled, eyeing the suitcase in question as it rumbled passed.
Anna waited with the stoicism born of experience, ignoring her disheveled hair and crumpled linen suit; she should have known it would resemble a dish rag if she wore it for travelling. Within minutes both had their suitcases off the ramp and trundling behind them as they headed for the exit.
One hour later, and ten degrees warmer, a taxi deposited them outside the Hotel des Artistes, Place de Tertre, Montmartre. After registering, a polite young porter took them up in the lift to their room. Anna couldn't help but notice his fascination with Ingrid's mass of wild curls
Dumping her luggage, Ingrid crossed the room and flung open the French windows, stepping out onto a small balcony.
Anna joined her daughter, and they stood listening to the distant thrumming of the city.
Voices from the street below floated up, the unfamiliar words and cadences of the French language sounding exotic.
"Please, Mum. Let's go out and explore. We can unpack later. We're right here Paris, where Manet, Gauguin, Renoir, Monet, Degas and those fabulous artists lived and painted. It's historic. Oh and look! I can see an artist selling paintings along there, to the left where the road bends."
Anna looked where Ingrid pointed, and sure enough a dark tousled head bent over a canvas, talking animatedly to a prospective buyer.
"He's selling to a tourist," said Anna. "See that camera slung around the man's neck and those bags he's holding."
"Yes, and he's doing what you and I, who are also tourists by the way, should be doing." Ingrid adopted a pleading hands together pose, stuck out her bottom lip and made goo-goo eyes at her mother. The gesture evoked the image of two small children, who used the exact same movements when begging for some indulgence. "Come on, Mum. Didn't you say this is a famous square? Can't we go and check it out? It'll be good to stretch our legs, and let's face it, the suitcases aren't going anywhere."
Anna smiled at her daughter. She hadn't asked Ingrid why she'd changed her mind about coming, but she was glad of her current high spirited mood, and wanted to keep it that way. Despair had consumed Anna after Jeremy's death, leaving little space for the needs of her youngest. Guilt over her neglect was another shadow that haunted her.
Recently she'd attempted to place her memories of Jeremy in a separate compartment of her mind. She thought of it as a retreat, a haven where she revisited the joys he'd given her in his short life. The trouble was, these memories didn't live in isolation. They were intimately connected to other people.
Let it go; another mantra she was trying put into practice. Today I'm in Paris with Ingrid. She shook her head as if to dislodge the past. This was a chance to spend time with her daughter and she was determined to make the most of it. "Ok. Let me freshen up, and we'll go."
The sights and sounds of Montmartre entranced Anna and Ingrid as they exited the hotel and sauntered towards the artist displaying his wares on the corner. Four o'clock in the afternoon saw the square crowded with curious tourists, attentive to everything they saw; in contrast, the locals continued with their daily business, nonchalant about where they lived.
Arm in arm, mother and daughter strolled along, pointing at the grey tiled roofs, white-washed buildings with their painted wooden shutters and red awnings above the shops; everything bewitched them—even the grey-bricked road and pavement drew admiring comments.
The artist they'd seen from the hotel balcony had no customers by the time they drew level with him.
"Mesdames. Please look, and if there's any picture you like, we can discuss a special price for you." He gestured at his paintings.
The artist was younger than Anna expected. In fact, thought Anna, the clear grey eyes and angular face topped by hair which needed a good trim belonged to a young man not much older than Ingrid.
"Thank you." Anna began examining his work.
Ingrid dallied by the artist. "How could you tell we're English?"
"Oh, that's easy. I can tell by your shoes."
> Ingrid gave him a puzzled stare.
"Italians wear elegant sandals, Germans wear sensible sandals and Americans wear trainers." The painter laughed as Ingrid looked at her sandals.
"But ours are elegant and sensible," she retorted, "and it's too hot for trainers."
"Well, there you 'ave it. Elegant and sensible; that's the English for sure, eh?" His joke made them both laugh. He held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Jean Paul."
"Hi, I'm Ingrid, from England, and I'm with my mother, also from England. How long did it take you to paint these?" Ingrid's gaze flicked over the ten or so paintings on display.
"Most of the year. I don't live in Paris, but I'm 'ere for the summer, and 'oping to sell these paintings. I 'ave more at home but they are too large and it's difficult to bring them on the train, and there's not enough space 'ere to display them. So, there. You 'ave my life story." He displayed his best salesman's smile. "How long are you and your mother 'ere visiting Montmartre?" Jean Paul spoke English well, but he talked fast, and with a noticeable accent.
Ingrid had to listen carefully to catch everything. "Oh, for a few days, after that we'll be joining my father near Biarritz for the rest of the summer."
"How much is this one?" Anna called out, interrupting their tête-à-tête, and pointing to a small canvas with a vivid red rose.
Jean Paul nodded to Ingrid and moved over to Anna. "That one is 40 euros, Madame. But for you I make a special price, 35 euros."
"I'll give you 30 euros." Anna pulled out her wallet and took out three 10 euro notes, holding them out towards him.
"Madame, you drive a hard bargain with a poor struggling artist, but I accept." Jean Paul ceased bargaining and pocketed the money with surprising speed. He gave her a charming smile before unhooking the painting. Within minutes he had it expertly wrapped in brown paper and string. "Thank you, Madame and Demoiselle Ingrid."
One Summer in Montmartre Page 4