by Jean Stubbs
The canvases glimmered in the evening light, projecting their own myth. Even in landscapes, even in a few minute strokes of the brush, mother and child were present. He had sought to throw them off in a hundred ways. Yet Odette was a child in the circus audience, Gabrielle the singer in the music-hall. They permeated his imagination, and the artist in Carradine struggled against the man. His obsession had a life and will of its own, demanding more attention than he should give. His awareness did not help him. For to paint them was to love them again.
‘He seems to have everything a man could want,’ said Lintott, at last. ‘What’s worriting him?’
They stood in the darkening room. Puzzled, simple people, content in that station of life to which it had pleased God to call them, and pondered the wilfulness of his discontent.
PART TWO: REFLECTIONS IN A MIRROR
‘In a life like this are we not all fugitives? You will have no peace, but to be stripped of everything.’
Georges Rouault
CHAPTER FIVE
The girl intrigued Carradine because he couldn’t make up his mind whether she was fleeing or inviting him. He had sauntered some distance behind her, on his way to Montmartre, simply because they were walking in the same direction. She seemed to be a respectable creature of the servant class and he had been careful not to alarm her. But when he slowed down so did she, and the frequent glances over her shoulder began to appear more hopeful than fearful. He stopped deliberately. She looked round, paused and stood still. Amused, he crossed the street and heard her hurrying after him. He lengthened his stride until she was almost running. Then she called, softly and timidly, ‘M’sieu, if you please!’
‘Mam’selle?’ turning back.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but would you be kind enough to let me walk with you? I’m feared to be out at night by myself, but Madame would send me with her message.’
He raised his hat, offered his arm. She came up with a rush and a gasp, and clung to him childishly. Her voice was light, her tone pathetic, her accent provincial.
‘I was always afraid of the dark, sir, but Madame will have her way.’
‘The pleasure is mine, mam’selle. Perhaps I should introduce myself? Nicholas Carradine, at your service. And whom have I the honour of escorting?’
‘Valentine, sir. My name is Valentine. Leastways, it wasn’t Valentine until I went into service with Madame. It used to be Marie-Charlotte at the orphanage, but I never thought much of Marie or Charlotte myself, and Madame thought Valentine was more like a lady’s maid. Although I do more than any lady’s maid for her, not that I mind, along of her being so good to me, and the life very different...’ She stopped for breath.
‘An uncommonly pretty name, Miss Valentine, which suits you admirably. To where may I escort you?’
‘Oh, we live near the Étoile, sir. Quite a step.’
‘More than a step, mam’selle, and you are walking away from it.’
Bewildered, she murmured something about mistaking her direction.
‘Let’s find a cab, shall we? I can’t allow a lady to tire herself further. Surely, Madame doesn’t expect you to go such errands on foot?’
‘Well, she did give me the fare, sir. But I lost it.’ Woefully.
Carradine smiled down on her, and she smiled back in confusion.
‘I hope you didn’t lose the message as well.’
‘Oh no, sir. Madame pinned it to the inside of my pocket, and the answer is pinned back there this minute.’
‘I see.’
He studied the fine olive skin, the dark hair escaping in tendrils on neck and forehead. Given spirit, the narrow eyes and full mouth would have been alluring. But Valentine’s face was as guileless and unwritten as that of a child. She had the simplicity and trust, the directness of a child. As he helped her into the cab, he resolved to warn her against talking to strangers, but Valentine was bent on confidences.
‘Marie is a Holy Name, sir, don’t think I’m saying anything against it. Only, in the orphanage we’re all called Marie and then given another name as well, and you don’t half get tired of hearing it. Marie-Jeanne, Marie-Louise, Marie-this and Marie-that, all day long. I don’t know what my Mama and Papa would have called me, if they’d lived, but it would have been something very grand. They were members of the aristocracy, you see, sir. You can always tell from a person’s hands and features, can’t you? My hands are very small,’ extending them in a pair of black cotton gloves, ‘and my features very fine, so I’m told.’
‘I’ve been admiring those features with an artist’s eyes, Miss Valentine. Why?’ seeing her expression change. ‘How have I offended you?’
Because she was suddenly so alarmed and dejected that he feared she might try to jump out of the moving cab, and he grasped the hand that grasped the window ledge.
‘I never knew you were an artist, sir. I thought you was a gentleman!’
‘I hope I’m both, mam’selle. Allow me to give you my card.’
She clutched this, as she had clutched the ledge, as she would clutch a solitary spar in a furious sea.
‘Oh, and you’re foreign, too!’ she cried, further distressed. ‘But you speak like a French gentleman, sir.’
‘I’m English,’ said Carradine patiently. ‘But my stepmother was French, and taught me the language. I’m very rich, you see, mam’selle, and have nothing to do but spend money and amuse myself. So I paint pictures. I should like to paint a picture of you, in that pretty hat. And because I am rich I shall pay you one franc an hour.’
She stared at him, frightened and tempted at once.
‘I shall, of course, ask permission of Madame, and assure her you will be quite safe with me. I can write her a letter, or call on her tomorrow, if you wish.’
Valentine shook her head until the crimson feathers trembled. The hat had belonged to someone more fashionable, and perched over her plain grey cloak and mocked her mended gloves like a rich relation. On a self-possessed girl it would have seemed ravishing. On Valentine it had an air both sad and rakish. A child, dressing up.
‘No, no, sir. Not Madame. She’ll give me such a telling-off as never was. I know I’m safe with you, sir. I knew the minute I saw you that you were a gentleman. The only thing is, sir, would it be all right to come in the afternoons when she rests? I could slip out and back and she’d never notice.’
‘I should prefer you to ask your mistress,’ said Carradine, fearing too much responsibility.
But Valentine became so incoherent and repetitive that he reassured her with a handclasp.
‘Only,’ he insisted, ‘you must come in a cab. Here is my address. Show it to the cab-driver. Tell him I will pay him when he delivers you safely. Then I shall send you back in another cab. Have you a further safety-pin on your person, Miss Valentine, so that we can secure the address to the inside of your other pocket? And shall we say Monday?’
He had thought of everything. Her gratitude and excitement were boundless. She alighted, with a flourish of white petticoats and black-stockinged ankles, and caught up his hand and kissed it vehemently. Then her expression altered from one of radiance to one of doubt.
‘You do believe that my Mama and Papa were members of the aristocracy, sir, don’t you? It’s the features you can tell by, sir.’
‘I know it, Miss Valentine. I know also that they would be proud to acknowledge their daughter as a beautiful young lady.’
Her lips moved slightly, as though she tried out his meaning. Then she smiled again.
‘Goodnight, mam’selle. Until we meet again.’
He watched her assume the air and carriage of a great personage as she swept away. Her gracious mounting of the steps revealed a hole in one stocking-heel, and the tattered lace-edging of a cast-off underskirt. He felt amused, and sorry.
The excitement of a secret assignation with a gentleman-artist, the grandeur of arriving in a cab, sustained Valentine until she entered the studio. Then old terrors seized her between their teeth and worr
ied the truth from her, even as she unpinned her crimson hat and allowed Carradine to take her grey mantle.
‘Madame says somebody must have dropped me on my head when I was a child, sir,’ she said, troubled. ‘Madame says I’m full of foolishness. But I don’t really tell lies, sir. Only I get confused about things.’
Carradine, elegant even in his old clothes and streaked smock, a cheroot in his mouth, watched her walk to the window. Carefully, he folded the cloak and laid it on a chair, smiled over the outrageous hat.
‘I get confused, too,’ he assured her charmingly. ‘We’ll confuse each other, shall we? Did Madame give you this wonderful piece of millinery, Miss Valentine?’
She turned hurriedly from her contemplation of Montmartre.
‘Oh yes, sir. She can be kind. Something bad happened to me and I was very ill, and she came to the foot of my bed and hung the hat on the post. And she said, “You have always wanted this, petite. Get well quickly and you can wear it.” So I got well, and now it’s my very own.’
Carradine spun it until the feathers were twirling flame.
‘How do you feel when you wear this hat, mam’selle?’
She had forgotten her fears, or hopes, of seduction; of the scene that would certainly follow if Madame found her absent. Her gentle eyes concentrated.
‘Oh, I feel like Madame in that, sir. Very brilliant. Very beautiful.’
‘Then I’ll paint you in it, shall I?’
She glanced down at her plain black dress.
‘Your gown will provide the contrast I need, Miss Valentine. I mean, of course,’ as her face lengthened, ‘the contrast in colour. Here, put it on for me. We’ll pull this chair up to the table, and stand a looking-glass on the table. Then look at yourself in the glass as though you had just put on the hat. I shall have two Valentines to paint, and be twice as honoured.’
‘Do you wish me to pin it, sir?’ Hopefully.
‘Did Madame give you the hat pins, too?’
‘No sir, I bought them. They’re very grand, aren’t they?’
‘Most striking,’ said Carradine, delighted by the incongruity of flaking imitation pearls the size of small tomatoes.
He drew the first white space of paper towards him and picked up his stick of charcoal.
‘Ah! Stay like that, will you, mam’selle?’
Slim arms raised to the hat brim, pretty face intent.
‘I shall only be a few minutes with this first sketch. I know it’s tiring to pose in that way. You said you were brought up in an orphanage. Do you remember anything of your parents?’
For she was pursing her mouth in a most ridiculous manner, imitating portraits of society beauties, and he wanted her to forget her image.
Valentine became shy and uncertain. ‘Do you know what I mean, sir, if I say I can’t exactly remember them, but I know what they were like?’
‘Perfectly. There are different kinds of truths.’
She was relieved, and garrulous. ‘Well then, sir, my Mama was something like Madame to look at. Very beautiful, very clever, very much admired by the gentlemen. Gentlemen admire me, too, sir — for all I’m a working girl. She had cupboards full of dresses and mantles and a long feather boa.’ The boa meant much and was slightly ahead of its time. Carradine suspected that Madame had one and Valentine coveted it. ‘Drawers full of gloves and silk stockings and lace handkerchiefs and fans, and one cupboard with racks and racks of shoes. And she never scolded me and she always gave me presents, not just when I was ill or she was pleased with me for dressing her hair. And my Papa was tall, very tall, with thick white hair and black eyes that could read right into my heart. Very rich, very strong. And he loved me better than anyone else except Mama.’
‘How lucky you are, Miss Valentine, to have had so much, to have loved and been loved so well. Love never leaves us, you know, even when we lose it. We always know that we are special people because we have been so blessed. Where did you live? Can you remember the house?’
But she had no aptitude for mental architecture. Her sketch could have been a museum in the Tuileries. Small immediate possessions stirred her most: silk sheets, pillows edged with lace, velvet chairs, chandeliers.
‘They wished me to marry a gentleman, naturally,’ said Valentine, with a touch of hauteur. Then, tiring, ‘If you please, sir, might I rest my arms?’
‘Certainly. Would you care for a glass of wine, mam’selle?’
She took the stem delicately between her fingers and sipped, delighted with the attention and courtesy.
‘But how should I marry without a dowry?’ she asked, pausing, suddenly disturbed by the practical.
‘That is a difficulty, without doubt. And a lady of your perception and warmth would have to find a gentleman she cared for. That is another difficulty. But all things are possible. We must hope. For myself,’ he added, careful to discourage any personal inclinations with a compliment, ‘I should not hesitate to pay court to such a pretty girl, except that I am in love already.’
A little silence. The feathers drooped. His surmise had been correct.
‘I dare say the lady’s ever so pretty, sir,’ she said wretchedly.
‘As pretty as you, mam’selle.’
‘She’s lucky, isn’t she?’
‘You’re more than gracious to say so. Shall we try another pose, with your hands in your lap, part-turned towards me? No, just your body turned, and you still look into the glass. It should be no hardship. Your face is your fortune, Miss Valentine.’
A woeful fortune, with real trouble behind it.
‘Sir, you’ve been ever so kind. Might I ask you something?’
‘Anything at all, mam’selle, and you may be sure I shall not betray your confidences.’
‘Sir, I did meet a gentleman, but he’s already married and attached to another lady too.’
‘How very French of him,’ Carradine remarked, delighted as always with the national zest for living. ‘A wife, a mistress and a charming friend. Where do you figure in his picture, Miss Valentine?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. But he loves me as I love him, only we just meet in passing, so’s to speak.’
Carradine laid down his charcoal and motioned her to rest.
‘You haven’t met him alone, I hope?’
‘Oh, we meet most days, sir. But though his heart’s mine he isn’t free.’
‘Let me advise you, Valentine,’ said Carradine firmly. ‘The gentleman is already doubly committed, and afflicted with a wandering eye! Don’t allow your virtue to wander after it!’ Two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. ‘Or has it already wandered?’ She nodded. ‘My dear child, you’re playing with fire, and you should keep well away from it.’
‘I’m expecting,’ said Valentine, ‘and I daren’t tell Madame.’
He left his sketching block, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, and paced the room in a leisurely fashion, thinking. Her eyes followed him everywhere, hoping for a miracle.
‘He must give you money, of course,’ said Carradine at last. ‘And you must certainly tell Madame, because these matters become apparent with time. Are you afraid she will turn you out?’
She was not sure. The scolding, being more immediate, ranked higher.
‘Would it help you if I told Madame? She must be told.’
Valentine considered, tears following one upon the next, silently.
‘What will you do otherwise, my dear girl?’
‘Run away?’ she suggested, as though it were a good idea.
‘That would be both foolish and impractical. To where, or to whom, would you run?’
He saw that she was hoping to find protection with him. It was typical of her naivety.
‘Trust is an excellent thing,’ he said bluntly, ‘but it can be taken too far. For instance, Valentine, you asked me to escort you home the other night. You were fortunate that I am as I am. It might have turned out very differently.’
‘But you’re a gentleman, sir. I can always tell a
gentleman when I see one,’ said Valentine, secure in her own brand of logic.
‘So is this gentleman of yours a gentleman. Has that prevented him from acting irresponsibly, even heartlessly, in my opinion?’
She could find no answer to any of it.
‘Look, let me plead with Madame, and take your scolding for you.’
‘You see, he won’t give me any money, sir. He’ll say it wasn’t him.’
‘Well, suppose I offered her money? Would that make a difference?’
She blew her nose with a handkerchief that Carradine could only think had been borrowed from Madame without her knowledge. He hoped she didn’t lose it. It must have been worth several francs.
‘There’s another difficulty you see, sir, only I don’t hardly know how to tell you.’
‘You wish to keep the infant? How would that be possible?’
‘Oh no, sir. I know the baby has to go. But the gentleman, sir. Madame will want to know who he is and I daren’t say.’
‘Why not? He seems more than able to look after his own interests, even with Madame likely to be after him.’
‘It’s her protector. Monsieur Émile Roche. The Minister.’
He stared at her, bemused, then threw back his head and laughed outright. She blinked at him, woebegone, the tear marks still on her cheeks.
‘Oh Valentine, Valentine! The ultimate mistake.’
‘You do see, don’t you, sir?’
‘I suggest you forget the Minister’s part in this affair,’ Carradine counselled. ‘Presumably he maintains your little establishment? Well, then he is not to be embarrassed. Or you and Madame might find yourselves in need of another protector. Allow me to inform your mistress that an unknown gentleman took advantage of your innocence, offer her something handsome to take care of expenses, and leave it at that. And you say the same, Valentine, or we’re both for the guillotine — no, I didn’t mean that, I was joking! An unknown gentleman. One evening. When you were out alone. Perhaps Madame will spare you errands in the dark, after this revelation!’