One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  "Anna, you are researching a dead painter's love for a mysterious girl. And you are also a mother who has lost one of the greatest loves of your life, your son. You're in Paris. This is the city of love. Wake up! Don't live in the past!" He kept a firm hold of her hand, turning it over.

  She jerked her hand back "Don't you dare tell me what I should or shouldn't do." Her raised voice attracted looks from people sitting nearby, and conversations halted as they listened, but she didn't care. "This is who I am. A mother and a faithful wife!"

  "In an unhappy marriage?"

  "But I can't throw away my principles. For what? A one-night stand?"

  François expression changed; a door clamping shut. Neither of them spoke. The other diners lost interest and the hum of conversation resumed around them.

  Wanting to ease the sharpness of her remarks, she rested her hand lightly on top of his. "Be honest with me, wouldn't you have tried everything within your power to save your marriage to Lucie if you were in my position? And possibly there's time to repair my relationship with my husband. Whereas if you and I take this further… I might be saying my marriage is finished. But it may not be."

  He moved his hand away from under hers.

  Strange that this small gesture should leave her so alone. "In another time and place...." she left the sentence unfinished. The tide of rising emotion threatened to drown her. She desired him but couldn't have him. She wouldn't ever have him.

  "Or in another life," he said, his voice soft.

  The waiter approached their table and as François waved him away, the raucous laughter of a group of passing pedestrians intruded shattering the intimacy of the moment.

  Anna stood up abruptly, knocking over her glass. The remnants of her wine spilled out, a plum stain spreading across the white tablecloth.

  He looked up at her in bewilderment.

  "I'm fine," she snapped, holding up her hand, indicating he should stay. She left, walking as fast as possible, choking back the tears running down her face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The purpose of a promise is to encourage trust and cooperation. A promise establishes the parameters of certain behaviors to which all parties agree. But who hasn't, at some point in their lives, given their word and for one reason or another, intentional or otherwise, broken it?

  Paris, July 1873

  Hélène and Louise sat in an open grassy area of the Bois de Boulogne holding the parasols Luc had brought for them and posing as ladies of leisure. A small copse behind them provided the woodland greenery he wanted for the background. He'd liked Hélène's hat with the splash of red from the flower and had instructed her to wear it for the sitting. Benoît lay on a blanket between them—a perfect model who slept the whole day apart from waking to be fed and changed. The two women appeared to be cooing over the baby and leaning forward as if in engaged in exchanging confidences.

  This was the second, and final, day of the sitting. The day before he'd painted with intense concentration, hardly speaking to either Hélène or Louise as they lunched on the food he provided.

  On the way home yesterday, Louise commented on Luc's behavior saying she'd never seen him so silent and focused. She considered him a chatty artist, wanting to find out the gossip from his competition and giving her his news. She jokingly asked Hélène what she'd done to have this effect on him.

  Several times during the morning, Hélène caught Louise studying her with a calculating look in her eye. Not much escaped her cousin's notice. Hélène hoped Louise wouldn't ask any awkward questions. Tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter anymore, because she'd be on the train to Bordeaux.

  Today they'd eaten another lunch in silence. Thankfully, the noontime heat had lessened, cooled by an afternoon breeze. Benoît woke, his low whimpering alerting Louise to his needs.

  "Give me a minute, please," Louise dusted off the last few crumbs of the bread and cheese, and picked up Benoît before his crying escalated. She soothed him with a lullaby, cradling him and rocking back and forth in rhythm to the song.

  Luc and Hélène watched her moving slowly towards the copse on the edge of the clearing.

  Hélène thought about starting a conversation, but hesitated, not wanting to disturb him. She hadn't lost her initial awe of him, especially when he painted, irrespective of what had passed between them

  "I'll be finished here shortly," he said. "Will you accompany me to the studio?"

  "What for?" she asked in surprise.

  "I need to do one more check on the portrait." He sounded distracted, "Will you come?" Luc had been distant these past two days, but his undeclared emotions hung heavy in the space between them.

  Hélène recognized being alone with him wasn't a good idea. She had Claude and her future, but yet they diminished in importance when he required something of her.

  "Louise can accompany us and view the painting," he stated.

  Hélène knew he mentioned Louise to add the subtle pressure of making her appear ungracious if she refused. That she would be safer with someone else present so that nothing might happen between them, was understood. "Of course. It won't take long will it? I still have some packing to do."

  "No, a couple of details and that will be it."

  When Louise returned, he counted out their payment, handing it to her and inviting her to come along and see Hélène's portrait. However, it turned out she'd promised Irene to look after her three youngest for a couple of hours so she was unable to go.

  Louise wasn't happy with Luc's request. She trusted Hélène, and she usually trusted Luc, but something didn't seem right, though she couldn't put her finger on anything in particular. She would need the money from the modeling Luc sent her way after Hélène left. Having little choice in the matter, she let it pass.

  Luc stood up, meticulously brushing his trousers and waistcoat before marching back to his painting. He didn't wait for Louise to settle Benoît before starting to paint, and he continued without stopping for another hour.

  "Okay, that's it." He called out, moving back and scrutinizing his work before beckoning them over. "Come and look."

  "You go," said Louise.

  Benoit had begun fretting, waving his arms and legs, his face screwed into a grimace, his mouth opening ready to inform the world of his requirements.

  "There, there, little one," she picked up the squirming baby, and headed for the shrubbery.

  Hélène folded the blanket they'd sat on, gathered up the parasols and lunch basket before walking over to study the painting. She could see various details, the wisps of cloud, shimmering greenery, the sleeping infant, were unfinished, but Luc had captured the naturalness of the outdoors as well as depicting the women's protectiveness towards the infant. "It's beautiful."

  He gave no indication that he noticed the admiration in her voice and continued packing up his paraphernalia.

  Louise emerged after feeding Benoit, who'd fallen asleep in her arms, and came over to examine the painting. "M'sieur Luc, it's wonderful. Merci beaucoup."

  "Ah, no. It is I who should be thanking you."

  Hélène was startled to see Luc smiling at Louise with genuine pleasure. For whatever reason, he did have a soft spot for her cousin.

  "A bientôt." With a deftness born of practice, Luc tucked his paints into his shoulder bag, hoisted his easel under one arm, holding the painting with the other.

  "Don't keep her late." Louise called after his retreating figure. There was no doubting the edge in her tone.

  "I'll be fine," Hélène hugged Louise and dropped a quick kiss on Benoît's head before running after the artist.

  Luc set a fast pace. He'd disciplined his emotions throughout the day, understanding himself well enough to realize that if he started a conversation, something might slip out, and the feelings he struggled so hard to contain would spill out beyond his control. He pictured the result: Hélène distraught, Louise outraged. He'd be the laughingstock of Montmartre. And the gossips would make sure Émilie heard of the inci
dent. He required at least one person in the world to look at him with absolute adoration. It was essential he retain the high estimation in which his wife held him.

  Hélène trailed behind, hot and gasping for breath, unable to keep up with him. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but she couldn't tell whether it was fear or anticipation. Louise was right; you couldn't figure out artists; they were beyond comprehension.

  He slowed as they turned into Rue Gabrielle and upon reaching his building, held the door open, waiting for her to enter.

  She sensed his gaze burning into her back and attempted to move up the stairs faster, but the day's heat, plus the effort she'd expended trying to match his pace, left her drained of energy.

  "Sit," he instructed as they entered his studio. "The usual pose."

  Dabbing at the sweat on her forehead, she followed him into the familiar disarray. "Where's the chair?"

  "Sit on the couch. It'll do," he said.

  She crossed the room, sitting down and watching Luc as he fussed with brushes and paints.

  "Hair," he instructed, moving over to her portrait on his main easel and choosing a brush.

  She removed her hat and loosened her hair, attempting to arrange it as it had been for the sitting. He was making it clear, this was purely business. She wondered why that disappointed her. Wasn't it better if this was her last impression of him?

  "No." He didn't scream or shout, but his harsh tone made her wince. He walked across and stood over her. "I didn't mean to scare you." He said, his manner softening.

  When she glanced up his eyes were kind. Encouraged, she smiled up at him. "I'm not that easily frightened. And you're an artist," she said as if that explained everything.

  "I wish that were the problem," he said lifting her hair.

  She sat as motionless as possible as his hands brushed her shoulder. They were different from Claude's hands, toughened by farm work, but neither were they weak. Luc's hands were his instrument, the fingertips a little roughened, but they were the tools of his art. She blushed as the unbidden thought of what it would be like to kiss them wandered into her mind.

  Luc breathed in her fragrance. He was aware he should move away from her; this close, she intoxicated him. But he didn't. He knelt and took hold of her hands. His fingers rested on her wrist and he felt the butterfly of her pulse beating under his touch. He didn't look up but examined her hands, turning them this way and that. He caressed her palms, long gentle strokes, heard her intake of breath.

  "I'm in love with you." He experienced an immense release as he said it and slumped down, laying his head on her knees. "Please, Hélène," he raised his head and stared at her, "You say you love Claude but you also have feelings for me. I know it here." He placed a hand on his heart.

  He reminded her of a child hankering for a favorite toy. She stroked his head, the thick curls springing around her fingers as she pushed them through his hair. An irritating voice whispered, you realize he won't leave his family for you, don't you? What about Claude? This isn't real. She didn't call this thing between them love although she admitted he fascinated her. What was so wrong with this attraction? Today was her last day. When she left Paris, this temptation would become a faded memory, and she and Claude would live the life they'd planned.

  He reached up, and pulling her towards him, kissed her.

  Her body responded, it seemed natural, and she wanted this. For that instant, for both of them, nothing existed except the other. The yielding touch of the other's lips completed them; the closeness of the other, the point of contact where hand brushed over the other's skin was complete satisfaction. No other time or place was real. Only he and she existed in this moment.

  He rose, put his hand under her head, moved her onto her back, and shifted alongside her.

  For a minute she acquiesced, but as he began exploring her body, the nagging voice resumed. You're a virgin. You should be doing this with Claude. Luc continued to kiss her, his lips moving down her throat, but all she could see was the look Claude had given her when she set off for Paris. You won't be the same when you return, he'd told her. That's true, she'd laughed. I'll be grown up and sophisticated.

  "No." She attempted to push Luc off her. "Stop! Please stop."

  But Luc was deaf. He'd been consumed by thoughts of Hélène for weeks. The fact that she was leaving drove him insane. What was it about this girl that she'd been able to take over his every waking moment in this manner? He leaned into kiss her. She'd responded to him moments ago; she couldn't have gone cold on him from one second to the next.

  Hélène panicked. She wrenched her mouth away, pushing his head back.

  But he kept pressing down on her. It wasn't until she started hitting him on the head and shoulders with her fists that he grasped what was happening. When he saw her eyes, fierce, fighting back the tears, he released his hold on her and sank face downward.

  She jumped up, straightening her clothes.

  "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry." He twisted around, staring up at her, mortified; his expression one of abject misery. "I—" Guilt froze his tongue, he could hardly speak.

  "No... no... I shouldn't have... it's as much my fault." She grabbed her hairpins from where they'd fallen on the floor, jabbing them in into her hair with far more force than necessary as she pinned it up again. With her hat settled back on her head, a facade of composure in place, her voice betrayed nothing of her inner turmoil. "I have to go." Her shoes rapped a staccato across the floor. She didn't turn around, simply opened the door and left.

  Luc lay unmoving, drowning in shame. He heard the studio door close, her light quick footsteps on the stairs, and the finality of the front door banging shut.

  By the time Hélène arrived home, Louise was bustling in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, and Pierre was walking around the sitting room with Benoît in his arms. The baby gurgled up at his father when he brought his smiling face close. The tears she'd been holding back nudged nearer to falling.

  "How's the painting?" Louise popped out from the kitchen, hair in disarray and flour on her nose and chin.

  Hélène focused on putting her hat carefully in its place on the stand turning aside and hiding her tears from Louise. "It's fine. He just wanted one final check."

  "Here," said Pierre. "You'd better take the opportunity while you're here." He winked as he handed the baby over to her.

  She kissed the creamy skin on the top of Benoît's head, the fine baby hair tickling her chin. "How will I cope without seeing you every day?" Her tears, cool wet drops, fell on to the baby's head making him cry.

  "Are you upset?" asked Pierre, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  Louise dried her hands, came straight over, and put her arms around Hélène's shaking shoulders. "Here, take the baby." Louise made a clucking irritated noise and lifted the sniffling Benoît out of Hélène's arms, giving her husband a cross look as she returned the baby to him.

  Benoît was set to let rip, but quietened as Pierre came into view.

  Louise led Hélène into the bedroom, sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. "Come," she ordered. "Tell me what happened. What did that bastard do to you?"

  "Oh no, Louise," protested Hélène, "it's not him." How could she say she was so attracted to Luc that when he kissed her, she'd kissed him back? That if she hadn't been leaving the next day with a fiancé waiting for her, the outcome might have been very different.

  Louise had sat for many artists to supplement her income as a laundress when she'd first arrived in Paris. And received many offers, she'd confided to Hélène on one of her sporadic visits home; she'd accepted none of them.

  "No, it's seeing you and Benoît and Pierre. You're so happy. I hope I'll be as content as you are."

  "Oh, I see. Well, as long as that's it." She pulled Hélène into her arms. "You wait. Your turn will come. And remember we don't stand around gazing into each other's eyes the whole day either. I'll finish cooking, you finish your packing, and we'll go for a strol
l after dinner."

  Hélène closed her small suitcase‒she didn't have a lot of clothes‒but the single image haunting her was Luc's expression when he realized how he'd behaved. Guilt and shame. Remembering the feel of his body pressing down on hers brought heat to her cheeks. She couldn't believe how near she'd been to letting go. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she sat down before she fell.

  Her thoughts were drawn to what might have happened next if she hadn't pulled back from the brink. Her skin tingled with expectancy. No. This day dreaming about him had to end. Women of her class didn't get away with making those kinds of choices. Men such as Luc Marteille had mistresses; he'd probably had a dozen. Nobody would blame him with an invalid for a wife, but a country girl from a farm had one chance. She was lucky, she had Claude to live and work besides, whose children she would bear and rear. To have someone who loved you, and would care for you no matter what, wasn't something to be tossed aside; you didn't abandon the prospect of a lifetime of marriage for momentary gratification. Not in her world.

  Early next morning Hélène and Louise, with Benoit in her arms, jolted along the route to the station. Pierre had hired a horse-drawn cab for the journey as it was too far for Louise to walk.

  Hélène had said goodbye to him before he left for work, extracting a promise to come for her wedding. Soon she would be gone from this the city with its grand buildings and crowds of people. She made an effort to fix these last moments in her memory. Who knew if she would ever return?

  The Gare d'Austerlitz, was crowded, and they pushed their way through the early morning crowds of hurrying Parisians. Flower sellers, beggars and hawkers of all sorts called out, trying to sell their wares in and around the station entrance.

  "The farm is going to be quiet after this," said Hélène as they hugged.

  "Oh, you'll be busy enough with your wedding preparations," Louise said as Benoît started to fuss "I hate rushing goodbyes but you understand, don't you?" Benoît's thin voice rose to a wail.