It gave Violet a strange feeling to see it, and to know, as Allain told her, that the painting was at least a hundred years old. It did not seem right, somehow, that it had survived so many years past the life span of the man who created it.
“One day,” Allain said as they stood looking at the canvas, “I would like to have a house where this can hang in the salon to brighten a dim corner — and with your portrait over the mantel to watch over the household.”
Violet looked at him. She swallowed hard as she looked away again. Her voice quiet, she said, “It would be lovely — but it’s not possible.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice tight.
“The portrait — Gilbert ruined it, slashed it. He was sorry, I think, afterward, but the damage had been done.”
“And you?” he said. “Was that when he hurt you?”
She couldn’t answer; it wasn’t possible. As he reached to tilt her chin so she must look at him, she shielded her eyes with her lashes.
He didn’t insist. Taking her in his arms, he held her to his heart while the hard breathing of his pent-up anger stirred her hair. At last he said, “I should have killed him.”
His understanding, his delicacy, and even his outrage were healing. Over the knot in her throat, she said, “He was sorry for the injury, too.”
It was long moments before he spoke again. Finally he sighed, the tension going out of his hold. “Perhaps I should pity him. I might be violent in my anger, too, if I knew I was losing you.”
She managed a small nod. “I am so sorry.”
“About the portrait? I will paint another, and finer. But it comes to me that you would not have been hurt if not for me. I share your husband’s blame.”
“Why,” she said in low, strained tones, “when all you have done is give me joy?”
“I have taken more.”
“Nothing that I did not offer, willingly.”
“Yes, of course, such a wanton as you are,” he said with an ache in the soft, laughter-edged timbre of the words.
“Yes,” she agreed seriously. “Will you take me to bed now?”
“Madame, you shock me.”
“Impossible. Will you?”
“St Mark’s own bronze horses come to life couldn’t stop me,” he answered.
Afterward, as they lay naked in the warm wind from the sea that filtered through the shutters over the windows, Allain rose and left her lying half-asleep among the twisted sheets. He returned a moment later. His weight caused the mattress to shift, then something cool and heavy was placed between the pale and gently rounded mounds of her breasts with their rosy nipples and tracery of blue veins.
She thought at first it was a pendant necklace. The chain was of heavy links with the soft rich sheen of pure gold. Attached to it was a small object that looked much like the censers for the burning of incense used in churches. It seemed to be carved from a single large amethyst and set in gold bindings that were ridged with pearls and diamonds.
She sat up, taking the piece of jewelry in her hands. The workmanship was ornate and extremely fine, with scrolls, veins, and leaves forming the gold bindings, and a design of a bird with spread wings carved into one side of the amethyst. Her fingers trembled a little as she turned it this way and that in the light, for she could see it was no ordinary trinket.
She looked up at Allain. Her voice compressed, she said, “What is this?”
“Here, permit me,” he said. Reaching for the necklace, he twisted the amethyst. A portion of one caplike end came away in his hand.
From the jewel-like bottle rose the fragrance of a perfume so lovely, so complex yet simple, rich yet refined, so dense with dreamlike images that it struck the senses with purest delight. It was the essence of a summer’s night in some exotic clime, redolent of hot breezes from hills where oranges and almonds grew. It was scent-heavy blossoms within a walled garden drenched in moonlight where could be heard the far-off whisper of the sea. It was deep kisses and moisture-dewed bodies amid crushed petals of roses. It was candied violets and roots of iris-orris and tangled fields of wild rosemary and narcissus. It was waving vetiver fans and twisting vanilla pods and snow-chilled wine. And still there was more, layer upon layer of evocative scents that rose in the mind like some ancient, half-remembered refrain.
“Cleopatra’s perfume,” Violet said, her voice quiet with wonder.
“And Joséphine’s. And Eugénie’s.”
“But how — why?”
“The perfumer in the Rue de la Paix whom I spoke of before holds the empress’s commission to make it. He risked much giving it to me, but he was indebted to me for past favors. Besides, he is a romantic, and could not refuse when he learned I wanted it for the special lady who rules my heart.”
She met his gaze, and thought she might drown with ease in the measureless depths of love she saw mirrored there. She felt chastened by it, unworthy yet exalted, and warmed, even heated, by its force.
“I will be grateful for the power it’s supposed to have,” she said, “if it will bind you to me, and me to you.”
“I pray it’s so,” he answered.
It was a vow that required a kiss, and more, to seal it. Later, as they lay with arms and legs entwined in the bed, Violet said, “I would thank you for my perfume—”
“You already have,” Allain said, a low laugh shaking his chest, so that it rumbled under her cheek.
“Wretch,” she said without heat, tugging a little at a clutch of curling hair on his chest that was tickling her nose, then immediately soothing the spot. She rested her hand on his arm, idly smoothing the tender red scar where the knife cut he had taken had healed. “I was going to say that I’m afraid I may enjoy the effects of this perfume so much that I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s all gone.”
“We’ll have some more made,” he answered comfortably.
“Isn’t that a little extravagant, sending so far for it?”
“Thank you,” he said in mock umbrage. “I see now what you think of my foresight. But, my dear love, if Napoléon brought his Joséphine the recipe for this perfume, do you suppose I would do less?”
“You have it?”
“Indeed. And you may have as much of it as you like made, enough to take a bath in, if that’s your desire.”
“My desire,” she said with a wondering shake of her head, “is for you. You are amazing.”
He hoisted himself up so that he rested on one elbow. Leaning over her so that his mouth was inches from hers, he said, “See that you remember it.”
So the days passed, fading into each other in sunny, mindless splendor. They ate and slept and made love; they sat late into the evenings on their loggia, watching the sunset colors stain the city and shimmer away into the gray of night. They added to their meager wardrobes with visits to tailors and modistes. One day Allain bought a sword cane, for use, he said, when she was not near at hand with her trusty parasol.
Sometimes they hired a boat and took a basket of food and wine to the Lido or to one of the outer islands, where they fished and waded in the water, returning sunburned and ravenous for their dinner and each other.
Allain bought oils and brushes and began to paint again, concentrating on capturing the lambent light and delicate colors of Venice on small, easily carried canvases.
While he worked, Violet sometimes sat with him with her embroidery. Other times she visited with the widow Signora da Allori, a lady of sharp tongue and gentle heart who delighted in screaming out the window at her majordomo as he departed on his errands. Now and again Violet went shopping on her own, enjoying the freedom to come and go at no one’s behest except her own. She learned the language spoken around her, became known to the shopkeepers, and made the acquaintance of a special gondolier, a handsome boy who watched for her appearance on the quay and shot his black craft forward to meet her, risking life and limb and volleys of insults to serve her.
Slowly, the things she and Allain bought on their outings — the
fragile Venetian glassware, the small pieces of antique furniture, the paintings and bits of bric-a-brac — began to crowd their room. They arranged to take the entire top floor of the Widow da Allori’s house. Spreading their possessions out in that spacious area, they hired a maid — a girl they were unsurprised to discover was the niece of the majordomo, Savio. With the slow passage of the days, the rooms began to take on the feel and look of something approaching a home.
By accident and incidental introductions, Violet and Allain met other expatriates in the city, most of them English. They began to attend dinner parties now and then, or else received an occasional visitor from among this circle. They made little effort to enlarge such contacts, however. Their own company was preferable at any given moment.
Violet was happy. There were times when her spirit sang with an ecstasy so intense she could hardly contain it. There were days so beautiful, so filled with color and laughter and pure, unrelenting grace that they brought tears.
There were also times when dread seized her with iron talons and would not let go, times when she stood staring out the window at nothing, or lay at night watching for the dawn and listening to the soft sound of Allain’s breathing.
She sat one morning watching Allain paint. He had set up his work area in the end of a spare bedchamber with tall, north-facing windows. The light spilling in over his shoulder was clear and blue-tinted. In it, his face had a look of sober concentration not at all marred by a streak of azure paint on his chin where he had rubbed it with the side of his hand. He was so intent upon what he was doing that she thought he had forgotten she was there.
She shifted in the velvet slipper chair where she sat. He glanced up at once.
“Bored with embroidery?” he said, glancing at the half-finished cushion cover lying neglected in her lap.
She shook her head. “I just like watching you. You are so involved in what you do.”
A slight flush of pleasure and something more rose to his face. “I didn’t mean to neglect you.”
“I haven’t been neglected,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she sent him a quick, smiling glance from the corners of her eyes. She went on: “But I wish sometimes that I had something, some kind of work, to absorb my time and thoughts in the same way.”
“There’s plenty of paint and canvas here if you want to try.”
“Oh, I doubt I have the talent.”
“You sketch well, I’ve seen the things you do in your journal,” he said seriously.
She only shook her head with a smile. She had been doing a sketch of him on the back of a journal page at the same time he was painting her. It was a tolerably accurate likeness, but failed to capture the warmth of his personality, at least to her eyes.
He gave her a direct look. “What did you have in mind to do, then?”
“I don’t know, really.”
“Music? We could buy a piano for you. Or you might try writing, since you seem to enjoy keeping your journal.”
“I like music very much, but prefer to listen to someone else. As for my journal, it’s like second nature, spreading my thoughts out on paper, but I’m not sure I have stories or poems inside me.”
“You underestimate yourself, I think,” he said seriously. “But what shall it be, if not these things?”
“Maybe I’ll take in needlework,” she said, and laughed aloud at the look of total disapproval he gave her. “I was joking, but there may be something else just as tainted with trade that will take my notion.”
He put down his brush and wiped his hands before coming to kneel beside her chair. “Do what you will, so long as you remain near me.”
She reached out to wipe at the paint smear on his chin with the soft pad of her thumb. “As long as you want me.”
“That won’t be so very long,” he said, catching her hand, carrying it to his lips, “only one or two short forevers.”
Such phrases, as sweet as they might be to hear, were as close as they came to speaking of the future.
Violet wondered at times how long they would go on in this way, but when she tried to speak of it to Allain, he made some jest or proposed some treat, or went out and bought her another bonnet or bauble. She came finally to understand that it was not a subject he wanted to explore. She was not certain he had a plan or a timetable to give her.
There had been no more incidents such as the one at the train station. If they were being watched or followed, they could not tell it. The waterways did not encourage such things, of course.
Regardless, there was something not quite real to Violet about the procession of days. She thought of writing to her family, her two sisters and the wife of Gilbert’s youngest brother, who had been a friend since childhood, but could find no words to explain what had happened. They would, she knew, want explanations. They would require to be told when she meant to return to Louisiana, if she would ever return. They would want to know about Gilbert, if he was going to divorce her, whether he would complete his sojourn in Europe. The answers to so many of these questions did not depend on her, and so she could not give them. The time for writing, then, never seemed right.
Because she had not contacted them, had told no one she had left Gilbert, given no one news of her whereabouts, she received no letters, no news from home. It was as if she had been cut off from the world and all she knew.
Allain was loving and constant and endlessly reassuring, yet she could not prevent herself from wondering what she would do if he left her. She had no resources of her own. She could send to Louisiana for the means to return there, but it could take weeks, even months, before her relatives could arrange for her passage, and how was she to live in the interim?
That was, if she could return to New Orleans at all. If she took up residence in that city again, she would be forced to live in disgrace, a fallen woman, one who had left her husband for a sordid affair with an artist. It hadn’t really been like that, not at all, but she knew the gossip mongers of New Orleans well, and it would be impossible to convince them otherwise.
Somewhere deep inside, she was afraid. She didn’t know why she felt this buried edge of incipient terror; she only knew it was there.
That was, perhaps, the reason she was not surprised when, late one evening, there came a mighty hammering on the door of the house.
Savio answered the summons, then mounted up the stairs to see if Signor Massari wished to receive the two gentlemen who were below demanding his presence. Savio’s thin face was stiff with umbrage as he handed over the visiting cards that had been presented to him.
Allain stood frowning down at the cards in his hand for long moments. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Inclining his head, he said, “Inform them I will be with them shortly.”
“What is it?” Violet said when Savio had disappeared back down the stairs. She put her hand on Allain’s arm in unconscious supplication.
“Don’t worry; it has nothing to do with Gilbert,” he said as he covered her fingers with his own. “It’s only something that should have been taken care of long ago.”
She could not press him; she had no right to pry into the life he had lived before they met. Yet she didn’t want him to go; every instinct forbade it.
“Is this really necessary? Suppose it’s a trick?”
He drew her to him and took her face in his hands, pressing his lips to hers before he said, “I love your concern, but there is no possibility of deception. Trust me. I’ll only be a moment.”
He was gone considerably longer.
She did not mean to eavesdrop. It was the sound of raised voices that drew her out onto the loggia. The visitors had left the house and were standing almost directly below on the stone landing where their gondola waited. Allain had walked outside with them.
One of the callers, an older gentleman judging from his voice, was holding his raised fist before him and his face was twisted with frustrated anger. He spoke in French, yet with such an odd, guttural accent that it was almost
unintelligible.
“You could have such power as you never dreamed. I say to you that the time will come when you will mourn what you have thrown away.”
“I want no part of it, now or ever,” Allain said, his voice edged with grim implacability. “Your country is not mine, nor has it ever been.”
“Pigheaded fool. We would have risked all for you; it would have been an honor. The shame of this violation of trust is on your head.”
“I will bear it.”
“So will your country. Such a ripeness as is fast coming — you could have saved lives, changed everything. Everything!”
“Or nothing,” Allain said, the words weighted with tiredness, as if it was an old argument. “Some things cannot be changed in decades, even centuries. My father tried.”
“Ah, yes, your father. He promised freedom, justice, but they never came. Our hearts cry for them still, but must cry in vain. Remember it. Remember it well.”
“That much,” Allain said, “I can do for you.”
The older man made an exclamation of disgust. Turning, he strode to the gondola and stamped down into it with the other man at his heels. As they emerged from under the shadows of the loggia’s overhang, Violet saw that they were not the men from the train station as she had half feared. Nor did she think they were the pair who had followed Allain and herself in Paris.
They were substantial men, men who held themselves with dignified, almost military erectness. They were well dressed, their clothing correct from the silk cravats at their throats to the shine on the fine leather of their half boots. Regardless, there was about them an air of being uncomfortable in their present attire, as if something was missing, perhaps a weapon.
Standing in the gondola, the older man looked back at Allain once more. “Twice we have asked, and twice been refused. It is your right. Yet it is not so easy. There are others who will come.”
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