François followed her at a distance as she studied the works of Toulouse Lautrec, Utrillo and Kupka and finally came across three of Luc's pictures hung in the far corner of the last room.
The largest was a portrait of a young girl, fresh complexioned with thick honey blonde curls falling loosely over one shoulder. She looked directly at the viewer; her wide blue eyes frankly assessing what she saw, her expression a tad quizzical as if she couldn't understand why there was any fuss. The frills of a white blouse revealed her shoulders. The backdrop was a lush dark red.
Anna bent close, examining the title of the picture. One word. Hélène.
Her face alight with excitement, she beckoned him over. "I've seen photos of this painting in books but titled The Country Girl. This is her, the woman Luc wrote the letter to. But standing here and looking right at her. Whew! It's exhilarating."
François moved closer studying the information below the portrait. "Donated to the museum by Giselle Collet. Do you think that's his daughter?"
"Mmm, more things to find out."
"Why do you think he never posted it?" he queried.
"I'd love to know because when you read the letter, you're sure he's in love with Hélène, but he was married. Maybe his wife suspected he was having an affair? Maybe it was one step too much for her and she forced him to choose. Your mistress or me?"
François laughed.
She flushed. Yet again he was mocking her.
"You have a vivid imagination. Possibly he wrote other letters which might tell us more. Many of Manet's letters, and letters from other Impressionist artists, have been published."
Anna chose to ignore him. How had she managed to end up being stuck with a Frenchman who had no imagination?
After a while he walked away.
She studied Hélène for a long time before moving on to the other two paintings. The larger one, of a garden with two children playing, focused on the bright-colored flowers splashed across the foreground. These attracted the eye first. The children, placed in the background with heads bowed as they examined an object in the grass, hadn't been painted in much detail. Below, the title said L'Ete en Brest. Second was a rural scene: a high open sky with clouds in thunderous colors dominated the farm tracks and peasants at work in the fields below. This was titled Normandy. She loved the way Luc painted; his fresh and immediate style brought her in and made her feel part of the scene.
"Ah," said François returning, "I have news."
"I bet you they're Luc's children." Anna nodded at the painting.
"There are several letters but we will have to make an appointment and come back later. The library archives open at special times. What do you say to having lunch and returning later?"
Instinct told her to reject any offer from this objectionable man, but what option did she have? What could she say? No. I'd prefer to be by myself as my daughter falls in love with your nephew, and the pair of them disappear to goodness knows where. She wasn't finding François the easiest man to get on with, but without being asked he'd gone off and efficiently communicated with the curator. And his translation skills would be very useful this afternoon. Why did he make her feel so defensive? "Yes, that sounds good," she said. His mention of food reminded her she was hungry. "But I'd like to speak to the curator about my letter first."
"Of course. Follow me."
He strode off, Anna trotting behind him. A group of tourists surrounded the curator, and they waited till he'd finished. Before she could say a word, François and the little round man with a shiny badge proclaiming him as Monsieur Battingnon, Le Curator, were chatting volubly in French.
Everything was going well, breathe, let it pass, but she clenched her jaw as François held his hand out.
"Have you the letter?"
"I brought a photocopy with me," Anna told the curator, ignoring François. This was her project, hers alone. Not his, nor anyone else's. She took a brown envelope from her handbag and carefully pulled out the photocopy.
M'sieur Battingnon's eyes widened with pleasure as he skimmed the letter. "This way, please. We should conduct this business in my office."
In the tiny overcrowded space that passed for his office, the curator shifted a pile of papers off his desk and took some minutes scrutinizing the photocopy of Luc's letter. "I'll write you a receipt for this and will see what I can do about having it verified." He pulled a pad towards him and scribbled on it. "I understand you're here for a short time, so I'll do what I can. You're coming back this afternoon, so we can speak later." The little man glowed with pleasure as he handed her a receipt.
Anna smiled back. She was making progress.
Outside the museum, François took hold of her elbow.
This time, her enjoyment of the new familiarity of his skin touching hers was a surprise; under the influence of an impulse she didn't understand, or recognize, she allowed this small intimacy. The sane, level-headed side of her disregarded the idea she was exploring something out of the ordinary, and possibly dangerous, with somebody new. She knew Greg would be taken aback if he saw how relaxed she was in the company of another man, one she hardly knew, guiding her in this way through the labyrinthine back streets of a foreign city.
François took her to a busy bistro tucked away on a side street and chose a table near the edge of the outside seating area. He held a chair out for her.
Greg wouldn't have cared where she sat, and he certainly wouldn't have pulled out a chair for her. Was this how continental men behaved, she wondered. It was different, but pleasant and relaxing. She experienced a certain gratification in surrendering, in allowing someone to make this small decision for her.
He sat opposite. "Vegetarian?" he inquired.
She looked up sharply but didn't catch even the tiniest of smirks. "Yes, I'd better," she gave an embarrassed laugh. "I promised Ingrid. When she became a vegetarian, she insisted we promise to try it for a year."
"And you don't want to break your promise. That's good and not a problem." He looked at her.
She looked away, his direct gaze unsettling her.
"Shall I order?" he asked.
"Please. It would make things easier."
And they laughed.
A companionable laugh, thought Anna, noting how his eyes lit up when he smiled. He became another person.
"So how many of you have made this promise to the charming, and obviously irresistible, Ingrid?"
She wavered before answering. "Oh, my husband, Greg, and myself."
"Do you have any other children other than Ingrid?"
Anna's expression changed.
He picked up on it immediately. "I apologize. It's a casual question. I don't mean to intrude. Have you been to Paris before?"
Anna took a deep breath. In and out. Focus on the breath, on the lilt and rhythm of the French language around her. Even if you'd never learned a single word of the language, the sound was more expressive, and somehow more sensual, than English. What did they say about French? Wasn't it called the language of love?
Everything is fine. She repeated the mantra silently over and over. People. Normality. She was handling the situation; she just hadn't mastered the turmoil that assaulted her when she told someone for the first time. "No, no. It's okay. It's...." and the words fell, tumbling out of her mouth. "It's that my son Jeremy died six months ago in a car accident. So there were four of us, now there are three."
The chatter of conversation and laughter from a noisy group at a nearby table continued, as if she had said I have an Uncle Fred, or some other words of little meaning.
"I'm very sorry." François leaned forward and placed his hand over hers covering it completely; his palm was slightly rough, his touch warm. He squeezed her hand.
"Thank you," she said, making no effort to shift her hand from under his. "I'm still adjusting."
"Loss is hard. Whether it's sudden or you watch them eaten day by day by a disease you can do nothing to stop." His voice wobbled. "I know what it means t
o lose someone." For a moment his face softened with memory. "Life does go on. And yes that's a cliché but one that's true."
Ah, she thought, and an infinitesimal paradigm shift occurred. We have something in common. He understands grief. "Yes," Anna sighed, "but does it get easier?"
"It does, and, yes, you do learn to live with it. You have to. It's not possible to go to your bed and stop living, is it?"
"M'sieur? Madame?" A waiter appeared at the table.
François moved his hand away, and the moment was gone.
Over plates of delicately flavored salad and spiced tagine, accompanied by a fine white wine, which she appreciated but was imbibing more than she was accustomed to, especially at this time of day, they began to share parts of their life stories.
She discovered an interesting fact about him; he wasn't French. He came from a Lebanese Christian Maronite family, which intrigued her as she'd never heard of the sect. This explained his exotic looks. His family had been prominent, and his uncle, an up and coming politician, was assassinated early on in the conflicts which tore Lebanon apart in the seventies and eighties.
"My father took the decision to leave for a safer country to bring up his children in, so my parents left Lebanon and we came to France when I was seven."
"That must have been hard," she said, hoping he didn't think her comment trite.
"Yes it was." He didn't speak for a moment. "A few memories of a different life remain but not many. And France still remains a more secure place to live and raise children."
She learned he was retired. First, he'd been a successful stockbroker who after marrying had given up city life to start a family in the south of France. Using his business skills, he'd built up a prosperous business in real estate. He'd recently visited his daughter, living in America, and seen his two grandchildren for the first time. His son, a doctor, of whom he was immensely proud, and constantly worried about, worked with Médecins Sans Frontières at a refugee camp in Kenya. Jean Paul's mother was his younger sister.
He'd been so open she told him stories she'd not shared with anyone for a long time. She talked of her passion for art and mad art student days in Glasgow, but talking about her younger self felt like discussing a stranger. As they waited for coffee, she wondered where that adventurous young woman had gone. She believed she had channeled her passions into being a mother, bringing up two wonderful children and looking after a husband. She'd kept her art alive in a part-time job that Greg viewed as a hobby because they didn't need the money. But she was starting to understand that she'd neglected an important aspect of herself, regardless of being able to justify her choice.
François glanced at his watch. "We should get going if we're to catch the archives." He looked around for the waiter. "I'll get this," he said, point blank refusing to let her contribute.
She finished her coffee, watching François through the window as he paid, and thought about Greg. Was she in love with her husband? Or had he become a habit—a dependable but well-worn armchair you were reluctant to dispose of because it had become so comfortable? Did relationships have a sell-by date? Would an affair be such a bad thing? Would she be an awful person if she cheated on the man she'd married and lived with for twenty-odd years? She wondered idly where these notions were coming from. Were the barriers she'd installed with such deliberation and care over the years disintegrating? Or was the intoxication of being in Paris revealing a side to her nature she'd hidden from everyone—a side she'd never acknowledged, even to herself?
Her chair jerked, and she spun around in time to see a young man take off at a run, with what she recognized in stunned bewilderment, was her handbag.
"François! François!" she shouted, her voice rising. "Help! Thief! Thief!"
Chapter Ten
When you think you may lose something, or someone, that object or person increases in value. However, sometimes you do lose something precious, after which, life is never the same.
Paris, July 1873
The night closing in didn't bother Hélène; she was a country girl used to going out into the fields at night to search for lost animals. But this wasn't the countryside. The area around the Parc de Monceau was where some of the richest men in the country lived, but which also harbored the worst criminals. Her mother had filled her head with dire stories of what happened to young girls on the streets of Paris.
She heard a noise, turned, scanning the path. Nobody. I'm simply imagining things, she thought; it's a squirrel, or an owl, or some creature settling itself for the night. Nonetheless, she increased her pace, repeatedly checking the path behind her.
Once, after a bitter winter, when she must have been about twelve years old, local farmers had started losing animals, and the story spread that a pack of wolves had been sighted in the hills. Her father had decided to spend a few nights protecting his flock of sheep and was taking her older brother. She'd begged and pleaded to go with them, and her father agreed, overriding her mother's protests. That night the three of them sat in his shepherds' hut overlooking the flock. Her father gave them a couple of old metal dishes and spoons, instructing them to bang hard and yell at the tops of their voices if any wolves appeared.
Around two o'clock in the morning she jolted awake, roused by her father's shouting as he ran out the door firing his old shotgun into the dark. She and her brother ignored his command to remain in the hut and dashed out to see what was happening. A flicker of movement caught her attention, and there, right up at the edge of the pasture, she saw two wolves disappear. Excitedly retelling the story later, this flash of two tails transformed into a horde of ravening beasts that she, her brother and her father had boldly routed.
As a couple of figures appeared out of the dark walking towards her, her pulse began to race. If she was able to face wild wolves, she thought, surely she could deal with anything she might meet tonight. As the men came closer, she saw they were young lads. Nothing to be afeared of. One thing her father had impressed on his children was that showing your fear didn't help.
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle." The shorter of the two, a stocky youth, stood directly in her path, blocking her passage and forcing her to stop.
She didn't like the way he was looking her over and balled her hands into fists. Her brother had taught her to fight a good few years ago when he'd become interested in the sport of boxing and needed someone to practice with; that is until he gave her a bruised eye and their mother realized what they were up to and put an end to it.
She nodded at the lad but didn't answer her legs suddenly weak.
"Oh! Too high and mighty to talk to us, eh?" sneered the other lad
"No, no," she replied moving to the left to pass them. "My nephew's sick, and I'm fetching a doctor."
"Likely story," replied the boy, moving in front of her once more, preventing her from passing.
She chanced a quick look behind to see if there was anyone coming along the path to whom she could shout for help, but she was alone. If there'd been one of them, she might have attempted to punch him in the stomach, or at least kick him in the shins. Her brother had lost a fair number those fights. But she wouldn't try that, not with two of them.
"Please move out of my way."
"Or else what?" the taller boy moved closer, reaching out and stroking her hair.
She jerked backward.
"Pretty and feisty, eh?" He leered closer, and she smelled his stale breath. "Hey, be a good girl. Give us your purse and we'll be on our way." He shot a look at his friend.
Her heart was beating too fast, and the question of how far these two were prepared to go to get what they wanted flicked through her mind. She balled her fists so tight her nails dug into her palms. "Hey! Hey!" she shouted, waving as if she was addressing someone coming up behind them. "Monsieur! Get the police!"
The two youths turned to see who she was calling. It didn't take them a second to realize she'd tricked them and no one was there.
But in the instant they looked away, she dodge
d around them and ran. Not far ahead she could see where the path through the park joined the main boulevard. Please, dear God, she prayed as she ran, let there be someone nearby. She didn't dare look behind, but concentrated on the ground in front so she wouldn't trip, trying to ignore the flap of her skirts against her legs as she ran. It wasn't long before she heard their pounding footsteps and jagged breathing as they closed the gap.
Desperation lent her the speed she needed, and she exited the woods ahead of her pursuers. Unfortunately, she was running too fast and, unable to slow down, collided with a gentleman striding along swinging his cane. He staggered sideways with the force of her impact, barely managing to stay upright, too surprised to prevent her from tumbling to the ground. His cane went flying.
"Help me, Monsieur!" She pleaded attempting to rise from where she'd fallen. And stared in shocked surprise. The man, clearly annoyed at her sudden intrusion upon his person and who stood frowning at her, was Luc Marteille.
"Hélène!" Luc said. "What the devil are you doing here?" He gazed at her in astonishment.
"There were two men," she gasped looking back towards the path.
He glanced up the path as he bent, helping her to stand. "Yes, I see them. They're running away."
"They tried to—" Tears ran down her face. She couldn't continue.
"There, there," he said, pulling her to his chest, patting her back with soothing motions as if she were a child.
The protectiveness of his arm around her shoulders felt natural. She rested her head, taking comfort from his presence, wanting to stay there listening to his heartbeat quicken. As she regained some composure, she tried to step back, but he seemed unwilling to release his hold.
"Are you hurt? Did they...?" He left the question unfinished as he scrutinized her face and clothes.
"No, no. I managed to get away from them."
One Summer in Montmartre Page 10