Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  He had imagined Vipèrine nothing but a demonic peacock, flaunting his colors and shrieking loudly. He had been wrong.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mysteries abound

  ~ Charles Baudelaire

  RISING on her toes, Theo looked down the long central passageway to the entrance to the Bazar de la Charité. The double doors were the only way in, so Mélanie and Carmine should be easy to spot—if only the crowd didn’t keep blocking her view. Her height gave her little advantage over the top hats of the boulevardiers and the plumes and gargantuan bows ascending from the hats of the ladies. Ordinary Parisians mingled with the fashion-plate extravaganzas, thrilled to see members of Tout Paris that they had only read about in the society pages. Even sweeter, the elite were playing at being saleswomen and waitresses in the booths of their favorite charities.

  Theo had arrived early to secure a place in line for the cinema demonstration—a line already long in front of her and getting longer and longer behind. Just then, she saw Mélanie making her way through the throng. Her friend looked exquisite in a dotted Swiss dress foaming with ruffles. Tiny flounces cascaded down the skirt, growing ever larger and ending in a huge flounce. What a challenge that would be to paint! Would it be too trite? ‘Woman in a White Dress’ was a genre unto itself. Would it be possible to paint a portrait of Mélanie that wasn’t too pretty? Maybe Theo should try that for next year’s Salon, completely dazzling, completely sincere prettiness! But could she capture the ambition and anxiety lurking behind the huge doe eyes?

  “How wonderful!” Mélanie squeezed in beside her, magically unrumpled by the crowd, black hair serenely coiled in a perfect chignon. She wore some unusual scent, white flowers blooming beside a shady forest pool. At her throat, a Wedgewood cameo of the virgin huntress Diana seemed the perfect image for the fragrance. “Look—there is even a Gothic cathedral!”

  Together they admired the faux medieval interior of this year’s Bazar de la Charité. Not long ago this was an empty lot near the Champs Élysées. The promoters had erected a huge wooden structure and created a quaint village inside it. High overhead, the painted canvas ceiling suggested a cloudy sky. Gauzy streamers drifted down from above and festoons of paper lilacs and roses bloomed in a lush imitation spring.

  “I can tell you want to paint it, Theo!”

  “Perhaps I only want to imagine painting it.” Theo laughed. She shifted, trying to imagine different vantage points. She did love the fanciful mix of historical village and strolling men and women in modern dress, but she had never tried such an ambitious interior. “I meant to bring my sketchbook, but I was afraid of being late and ran off without it.”

  “You can come back tomorrow,” Mélanie said. “But where would you draw without getting jostled?”

  “Maybe near the entrance—with you on one side and Carmine on the other?” Theo suggested. “We could trade places and protect each other’s drawing arm.”

  “It’s a good idea, yes, if you like modern scenes.”

  “But you wish to evoke the purity of the Ideal.” Theo pressed her hand to her heart.

  “Oh, you make me sound so silly.” Mélanie laughed then said very seriously, “I do want images that inspire, that resonate with history.”

  “You did le grand art perfectly for the Salon and they all but slapped you.” Theo felt renewed anger for her friend.

  “Honorable mention is hardly a slap,” Mélanie replied, but her voice was subdued. “If it didn’t receive a medal, something must have been lacking.”

  Mélanie had painted Cassandra. The canvas was of modest size, but great intensity. In the foreground, the scorned prophetess wept alone on the battlements of Troy. Her grief, her despair, were palpable, not theatrically staged gestures. The sunset sky glowed in muted hues of gold and bronze, streaked with forbidding clouds of charcoal grey. Shadow draped the prophetess like a shroud. A dying glory, the sun sank beneath the horizon in streaks of blood red and royal purple. Far below, the dark horde of the Greek army pretended to depart for their ships. Isolated, the tiny Trojan horse waited on the plain. The strong diagonals of the composition created an unsettling effect, mysteriously predicting the reversal of fortune. Tomorrow, the miniscule figures, no bigger than ants, would rule Cassandra’s world.

  “Don’t let them make you doubt yourself,” Theo said with quiet fury. “Yours was better than the grand prize winner.”

  Shrieks of panic rose behind the curtain hiding the cinema presentation. Mélanie looked at Theo in alarm. Then came a burst of relieved laughter. Everyone in line relaxed. Soon, a group of dazed looking people emerged from behind the curtain and went through the turnstile, and another group was admitted.

  “Where is Carmine?” Mélanie tried to peer through the crowd. “She is always late just because she thinks punctuality is bourgeois.”

  “She’s never late to class—just everything else,” Theo laughed. “Oh! I see a hat that must be hers.”

  “Bonjour!” Carmine Dougnac hailed them as she made her way through the throng.

  “Oh my!” Mélanie exclaimed when the parting crowd gave a better view of Carmine’s chartreuse plaid dress and latest hat, an elaborate creation of emerald green straw, lime green plumes, black netting, and purple roses.

  Theo laughed. They were an odd assortment, the three best women in Theo’s first class at the Académie Julian. Carmine was already a professional. She painted delightfully bizarre animals—horses riding bicycles, monkeys at the roulette table, a daring young cat on a flying trapeze. She preferred to amuse and provoke, but she also made oodles of money with her sentimental pet portraits. Her printmaker father had paid for her classes at the Académie Julian to improve her skill—even though women were charged double for the same lessons.

  “Mes petits choux-fleurs!”

  Theo wondered yet again why “little cauliflower” was a French endearment as her friend kissed them on each cheek with a cheerful smack. Carmine could make Theo feel positively polished sometimes. She was so earthy, so brash. Small and sturdy, like the roan pony Theo had loved in childhood, she was just as feisty. Her olive skin and brown hair had a rosy cast, like her name. Even her eyes were a ruddy chestnut brown.

  Carmine adjusted her tip-tilted chapeau. “I wore a wide brim today, the better to slice through the crowd.”

  “I love this one!” Theo said. “The purple roses are so decadent.”

  “And I love your new painting!”

  “What is it? I must see it,” Mélanie said eagerly.

  “Le Moulin de la Galette,” Theo told her, “but transformed by storm clouds.”

  Carmine spun her fingers like pinwheels. “Bold.”

  “Not too bold, I hope?” Mélanie teased.

  Carmine rolled her eyes. Theo laughed. “So bold no one will buy it!”

  “Don’t you care?” Mélanie asked plaintively.

  “I don’t need to,” Theo said. “I just finished a portrait for which I’ve been paid a fortune—in croissants.”

  “Better than gold.” Carmine grinned at her.

  “Now remember, this is a charity event.” Mélanie became all earnestness again. “We must each be sure to give something.”

  “There are a hundred and fifty charities to choose among. I’m sure I’ll find at least one worth a franc.” Carmine grinned. “Though the boutiques will beckon to my purse.”

  “Any purchase goes to charity. There is a school for the blind with many orphaned students. I have ten francs for that. They teach those with musical talent to play the organ,” Mélanie said primly. Then her face brightened. “Monsieur Braille taught there. Do you know he adapted his system from a secret spy code that soldiers used to read in the dark of night?”

  “What a marvelous bit of history.” Theo smiled. “They shall have a donation from me. When we have finished, let’s have a cozy tea at Ladurée.” She loved the salon’s gilded interior.

  “Or, supper if the line does not move faster,” Mélanie said plaintively.
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br />   “This is the most modern exhibit. Everyone must see it.” Carmine gave her wicked smile. “All two thousand of them.”

  The line crept forward as another set of people went through the turnstile. As they drew closer the deep blue of the curtains made the hidden interior all the more alluring.

  “Theo, did you read the Petit Journal yesterday—the editorial on suffrage?” Carmine lifted her brows in provocative challenge.

  “Did I read about the superior wisdom of France compared to the United States?” Theo retorted. “Did I discover that French women live under a rule of benign order, unlike the profound disorder in the state of Colorado where women serve on juries and are free to vote?”

  “What of your state?” Carmine asked. “Are they so enlightened?”

  Anger tightened Theo’s back and sharpened her voice. “The amendment failed in California last year.”

  “Did you march in the street to protest?” Carmine asked her.

  “It failed after I left, but yes, I marched to promote it.”

  “Then you are truly French!” Carmine laughed then became vehement. “The women of France fought in the Revolution—we led the march on Versailles! Again, in the Commune, we joined the struggle for liberty. Are we not worthy of equal rights and privileges?”

  “You cannot want the vote.” Mélanie looked truly appalled. “Politics is the man’s world, as home is the woman’s. If she enters into masculine troubles, how can she create a haven for sheltering those she loves?”

  “If she has no choice, then she’s just a servant in her supposed domain,” Theo protested. “Controlling your money, owning property, having a vote, it’s all necessary to being a person, not just some decorative attachment, a pretty bauble.”

  Mélanie shook her head. “I wouldn’t want the vote. Let men deal with sordid politics.”

  “I want a say in just which stupid, sordid idiot runs my world,” Carmine declared.

  “If you feel that women belong in the home, why did you apply to the École des Beaux-Arts?” Theo challenged. Mélanie’s impeccable technique had just earned her a place within those sacred walls. She and two other women were the first ever admitted. It was the fulfillment of a dream for Mélanie, who lived a quiet and all too proper life with her widowed mother.

  “Artistic skill befits a woman as well as a man. Women cannot expect to outdo men at the pinnacle of their skill, but they can still strive for excellence,” Mélanie said stiffly.

  “They promised to admit women almost a year ago,” Carmine said, “then danced around in circles—with us still on the outside. They have opened their doors at last, but do not fool yourself. You will not be given classes equal to the men’s, no matter what they say.”

  “We share the oral lecture classes,” Mélanie said defensively. “Of course anatomy is segregated. But we will have the same models—we will simply study them independently. They have promised.”

  “Have they kept their promise?” Carmine asked pointedly.

  “…Not yet. No male nudes have been permitted. But classes have barely begun.”

  Carmine huffed, but Theo forestalled further arguing. “It’s a beginning, at least.”

  Finally, they passed through the turnstile into the dimly lit room behind the curtains. Their host briefly explained the system while his assistants readied the machine. “Monsieur Joly has improved upon the kinetograph of Edison and the innovations of the brothers Lumière, giving our machine greater smoothness. No longer is just one person at a time able to view the magic world of cinema. This entire audience will experience the wonder of our films,” he proclaimed proudly. “The Cinématographe Joly is a most marvelous creation—a camera, a printer, and a projector all in one!”

  The mechanism operated something like a sewing machine, shuttling the slotted film through the teeth of the projector. “Up and down, in and out, move and pause,” their host chanted, his hands moving as if pushing fabric under a needle. Theo almost laughed, but the man was so serious she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. When she tried for a closer look at the intriguing machine, the projectionist and his assistant blocked her. Their host pointed at the screen. “Attention! Three magical films for your viewing pleasure—each almost a minute!”

  The lamps were dimmed and they were in darkness. The air filled with quivering light and the screen with flickering images that cast a spell over the audience. Theo gasped and sighed with them, tingling with excitement at the visions unfolding before her. First there was a wonderfully sweet and silly moment of a woman feeding her baby daughter porridge. The baby was chubby cheeked and got the gooey stuff all over herself and her mother, who threw up her hands in dismay. Murmurs of awe wove with bursts of laughter. “It’s a miracle, a modern miracle!” was whispered all around. After the baby came a glorious scene of boys having a snowball fight, running, falling, and rising to send their missiles flying through the air. Theo wanted to be with them, to gather the white snow in her hands and hurl it with the same laughing abandon. Weaving through her enchantment were elusive distractions. The machine made a soft clattering as it ran the film, and a swish as the spools unwound and fell into a box beneath the projector. The booth had a curious smell, a dizzying hint of the ether used to lubricate the mechanism.

  The last film was the most startling. Iron struts of a bridge framed train tracks that curved away out of sight. Suddenly, a train turned the bend. Like a black beast, it rushed toward them, spewing a cloud of white smoke. Theo was transfixed. There was no sound, but her mind filled with the grinding sound of steel wheels and piercing whistles. Her heart raced as the engine with its jutting grill charged forward. The next instant there was nothing but smoke and black iron as the train seemed to hurtle off the screen into the room. Frozen in place, Theo gasped in delighted terror. She gasped again when Mélanie clutched her arm as blackness swallowed them.

  Almost instantly the lights came on. Everyone laughed with relief to find themselves still alive and filled with wonder at this joyful present the modern world had given them. They smiled at each other as their host hurried them out as quickly as the turnstile would let them pass. Outside the booth, the air buzzed with anticipation. Some of the waiting crowd tried to catch a glimpse inside while others studied their faces to see if it would be worth the long wait. Exhilarated, Theo grinned at them all. She wanted to see the films again—but the line was very long. At the end, she saw Paul and Jules patiently waiting their turn. She would have gone to speak to them, but Carmine declared herself famished. Theo waved and they bowed in return.

  Theo felt hungry, too. She followed her friend to the buffet by the entrance. There she purchased and devoured a croque monsieur with such dry ham and greasy cheese she needed a second glass of cool fizzy cider. Carmine had a slice of berry clafoutis and Mélanie chose a petite quiche. When they were done, they all sat back with sighs of contentment.

  “What next?” Theo asked. “A stroll among the boutiques?”

  “Did you bring your Tarot cards, Carmine?” Mélanie asked. “You promised to tell my fortune.”

  “You didn’t tell me you read Tarot cards.” Theo was bemused. Irreverent Carmine was interested in the occult?

  “I didn’t tell Mélanie, either. The sneaky minx caught me working on a design.”

  “We can’t let any of the organizers catch us,” Mélanie whispered. “The good Catholics would probably throw us all out as devil worshippers.”

  The gleam in Carmine’s eyes suggested this was an exciting prospect, but she shook her head. “This place is too noisy for a full reading,” she began, but at Mélanie’s stricken look, she relented. “I will do a simple three card spread for you.”

  “Thank you.” Mélanie leaned forward eagerly.

  “First clean the table and your hands, both of you.” Carmine frowned at Theo’s greasy fingers. The task was quickly accomplished with their handkerchiefs, then Carmine took an oblong bundle from her purse and unwrapped it. “I always keep the cards in silk for prot
ection.” They were large and stiff, but she handled them with practiced ease. Theo watched the flow of colors and tantalizing glimpses of painted images. Carmine drew out a few and laid them face up on the table. There was a man in a belled cap with a little dog, a woman holding open a lion’s jaws, and a dashing knight on a white horse. “Here are the Fool, Fortitude, and the Knight of Swords.”

  Theo was entranced. “You designed these yourself? They are beautiful, Carmine.”

  “I am pleased with many of them, especially the ones with animals! But they are still too much like the usual decks. I want to use the traditional symbols, but in a more modern fashion. My father says he will print them if I do all the designs.”

  “How exciting for you,” Mélanie said, restraining her impatience.

  “I can design a deck now, when I’m young and inventive, and another when I’m a crone filled with wisdom.” Carmine laughed. “I expect it will take me a year or more to think it out and execute it.”

  “So long?”

  “Yes, I have a new teacher, Moina Mathers. Her name is pronounced Mina, but she spells it with an O. She says the old Celtic form has greater power.” Carmine smiled fondly. “She has already given me new insights. But the images themselves will be the challenge. I don’t want pictures just on the Major Arcana, but on the minor cards as well.”

  “The Major Arcana?” Theo knew almost nothing about the Tarot.

  “The ones you see here with the pictures, like The Fool on the edge of the cliff. There are twenty-two of them. They bring depth and power to a reading. Most of the Minor Arcana you know from a deck of playing cards. Only their court cards have pictures, like the Knight.”

  “Can I look through them?” Theo held out her hand expectantly.