Paris: The Novel

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “What of Monsieur de Cygne?” she asked.

  “We have heard nothing recently. My father says that he took extra leave to deal with his father’s affairs and the family estate.”

  “And what do you feel about him?”

  “It is flattering that he may have taken an interest in me.”

  “And that he may again.”

  “He is very agreeable, but I hardly know him. That is all I can say.”

  “You have no other prospects at present?”

  “If I have, nobody has told me. Aunt Éloïse,” she went on, “will you please tell me if my father and Marc have quarreled.”

  “What makes you think they have?”

  “Marc never comes to the apartment anymore, and Papa doesn’t want me to visit his studio.”

  “You’d have to ask them if they’ve quarreled. I might not know. Perhaps your father doesn’t think you should disturb Marc in his work.”

  “But I never see him.”

  “Well, you can certainly meet him if he comes here, or if I take you both out. Your father cannot object to that.” She paused. “If we go out, I may ask him to bring his American friend. I think he’s a good influence on your brother. Would you mind?”

  Marie’s heart missed a beat.

  “I don’t mind. Monsieur Hadley seems nice enough.” She shrugged. “As far as I can tell.”

  In the coming weeks she met Marc several times at her aunt’s. He was usually with Hadley.

  She noticed that Hadley’s French was getting very fluent now. Not only that, he was picking up all kinds of the idiomatic expressions the French love. Instead of saying, “To return to the subject,” for instance, he’d say: Pour revenir à nos moutons, “To return to our sheep.” He might say, “He bores me stiff.” But he might also say Il me casse les pieds, “He breaks my feet.” And this new confidence with the language made a difference in their relationship.

  He began to converse with her.

  He’d talked before, of course. But when he sat down on the sofa beside her at Aunt Éloïse’s apartment and turned to her, and looked into her face seriously with his handsome eyes and asked what she thought of the Dreyfus affair, or some other piece of current news, or whether she liked a particular painting by Manet, and why, she experienced two reactions.

  She felt short of breath. It wasn’t the questions. It was the fact of his presence, so close to her, the fact that her heart would palpitate, she hardly knew why. She managed never to blush; she was grateful for that. She made herself concentrate very hard on everything he said as if he were a teacher in a classroom, and made herself think hard before she replied. That got her through.

  “You look a bit distressed sometimes, when you’re talking to Hadley,” Marc told her. “But you mustn’t mind him. It seems the American girls are used to discussing all kinds of things and having their own opinions in a way that men wouldn’t care for here.”

  But the other reaction she experienced was even stranger to her.

  It was a thrill of a new kind of excitement. She felt uplifted, as if this stranger from another world was taking her into a new and larger life. To a place where she could grow, like an exotic plant, become a person she had never dreamed of being before.

  So when Marc asked her if she was still finding his friend a little difficult, she replied: “No. He’s American, but I’m getting used to it.”

  Early in May, Aunt Éloïse announced that she and Marie were coming to visit Marc in his studio. They came late in the afternoon. The light was good, and it looked as if Marc had tidied the place up before their coming. Against one wall was a settee and chair where visitors could sit, and a low table on which he’d set out some refreshments. His easel stood about twenty feet away, with a low dais and chair for a sitter. Stacked against the far wall were two sets of canvases, one set face out, the other reversed. Beside them was a plan chest for drawings, a roll of canvas and a pile of stretchers.

  “This portrait,” he showed them the painting on the easel, “is almost complete. What do you think?”

  The picture showed a slim, pale woman in a long dress, her unsmiling face half turned toward the viewer. The effect was one of conventional formality, yet there was a hint of ambiguity in the depiction, as if it were the frontispiece of a short story that the audience was waiting to be told.

  “Who is she?” asked Marie.

  “Mademoiselle Ney, the daughter of a lawyer. Father got me the commission, which was good of him.”

  “There is something hidden yet sensual about this woman,” Aunt Éloïse remarked.

  “Really?” Marc looked at her. “How interesting you should say that. I can’t see it myself. She is highly respectable, I assure you. And her father is paying handsomely for it.”

  “No doubt,” said his aunt, drily. “May we see some more?”

  For ten minutes or so he showed them paintings, drawings, sketches, of people, landscapes, animals, some finished, others not.

  “Well, Marc, I can see you’ve been working. And I am very glad of it. Are you happy in your work?”

  “I am.”

  “And what of those?” Aunt Éloïse indicated the stacked canvases.

  “Oh. Things I’ve abandoned. Canvases I’m going to paint over.”

  “May we see them? You never know, Marc, artists are not always right about their own work. There may be something good in there.”

  “Absolutely not.” He gave his aunt a hard look. “There’s nothing there that I wish you and Marie to see.”

  Aunt Éloïse bowed her head.

  “I understand, Marc,” she said. “An artist must always protect his reputation.”

  Aunt Éloïse seemed well pleased with the visit, Marie thought. As for herself, she was delighted.

  As they were leaving, she noticed Aunt Éloïse slip a roll of banknotes into Marc’s hand. Her aunt thought she wouldn’t see, but she did.

  “Why did you give Marc all that money?” she asked after they had left.

  “Oh,” said Aunt Éloïse, with scarcely a moment’s hesitation, “I owed him for a painting he bought for me.” But Marie wasn’t sure that this was true.

  It was two weeks later that her father told Marie he had received a letter from Roland de Cygne.

  “He writes that after much consideration, he has decided to rejoin his regiment and devote himself to his military duties. I think that means he has decided not to settle down and take a wife just yet. At all events, we shall not be seeing him for a while. His regiment has been posted to eastern France.”

  “I am sorry not to see him, Papa, but I am not hurt,” Marie replied. It was always agreeable, she supposed, to know that such an eligible man might be a suitor; so she could not help feeling that she had lost something. A little status, perhaps.

  “I must confess, I’d rather hoped he might have pursued you,” her father said frankly. “And until I knew whether he might, I didn’t look too hard for other candidates.”

  “We’ll both keep a lookout, Papa,” she said.

  “And he’ll be a lucky man,” he replied, and kissed her.

  “Marie,” her aunt told her the following week, “I have a very important errand. Your brother’s friend Hadley wants to meet Monet. Marc tells me he’s quite set his heart on it.”

  “But they say he never sees anyone nowadays,” Marie objected, “unless he already knows them.”

  It was years since the great painter had retreated to the quiet village of Giverny, some fifty miles out from Paris, on the edge of Normandy. For a time he’d known peace there. But gradually, young artists had started making pilgrimages to Giverny to see him. A regular artists’ colony had developed. Nowadays, in self-preservation, Monet had been forced to close his doors, in order to get any work done.

  “There is someone in Paris who may be able to give me a special dispensation,” her aunt said with a smile. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

  The rue Laffitte was hardly a ten-minute walk from the fam
ily apartment: across the columned front of the Madeleine, past the Opéra, and then the rue Laffitte was on the left. It was a straight, narrow street. On its modest journey northward, it encountered other, larger thoroughfares with famous names: the boulevard Haussmann, the rue Rossini, the rue de Provence, rue La Fayette, rue de la Victoire. But humble though it was, the rue Laffitte contained some of the best art galleries in Paris.

  They had just crossed the Boulevard Haussmann when, ahead of them, they saw Marc and Hadley waiting. Moments later, they were in the gallery.

  Monsieur Paul Durand-Ruel was already in his sixties, though he looked ten years younger. He was a dapper man with a small mustache and kindly eyes, and as soon as he saw Aunt Éloïse, those eyes lit up with pleasure.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Blanchard. Welcome.”

  Aunt Éloïse quickly made the introductions.

  “My niece Marie has been here before, Marc I think you know, and this is Monsieur Hadley, our American friend who is studying art in Paris for a while.”

  There was no particular show at the gallery at that moment, but a selection of gallery artists hung on the walls. As they went around together, Durand-Ruel chatted amiably.

  “Your family still has the house near Barbizon?”

  “At Fontainebleau, yes.”

  “Back in my father’s day,” the dealer explained to Marie, “your aunt was buying members of the Barbizon school from us. She has two Corots, I think. And then, when I began to promote the Impressionists, as we call them now, your aunt was one of our first supporters.”

  “Tell them how that adventure began,” said Aunt Éloïse.

  “Our first exhibition of Impressionists was not in France at all,” Durand-Ruel explained. “During the German siege of Paris, in the war of 1870, I managed to get out and go to London. Monet, Sisley and others were painting there at that time. I made their acquaintance, and was so excited by their work that I organized a show in London, on New Bond Street. Then in the seventies, we started Impressionist shows here in Paris. And people laughed at us. They said we were mad. But your aunt saw the light. She was one of the few. She bought Manets, Monets, Renoirs, Pissarros, Berthe Morisot, the American Mary Cassatt …”

  “It was you, monsieur, who single-handedly brought the Impressionists to New York,” Hadley interposed.

  “You are very kind,” said Durand-Ruel. “And may I congratulate you on your excellent French. It is true that we opened a New York gallery, and also that the American collectors were wonderfully receptive to the Impressionists, far more so than the French at that time, I must say.” He turned to Aunt Éloïse. “But you must have a remarkable collection yourself by now. Wherever do you put them all?”

  “In my apartment,” said Aunt Éloïse, simply. “But they are scattered about in every room. Most people don’t even know what they are.” She paused. “This reminds me. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Our friend Hadley here would like to visit Giverny, and I thought we might all go up there. I know that Monet is besieged by people wanting to take up his time, but I wondered if you might give us an introduction …”

  “With the greatest pleasure. I shall tell him that you were one of the first to acquire his work—he likes to sell, you know!—and that you have the work of all his friends. He will be delighted to receive you. If you care to look around the gallery, I’ll write the letter straightaway.” And he disappeared into his office.

  Marie was fascinated. She had always known that her aunt was cultivated and that she bought pictures, but she had never realized quite how far this went.

  “I must look at the pictures in your apartment more carefully,” she whispered to her.

  Meanwhile, Marc and Hadley were moving from picture to picture. After a few minutes, she noticed that Hadley had remained in front of one in particular for some time.

  “Let us see what Monsieur Hadley is looking at,” she said to her aunt.

  It was a painting of the Gare Saint-Lazare. Clouds of steam were rising from the railway tracks, as seen from behind a bridge above. The thing had an extraordinary life, and Hadley was gazing at it with rapt attention.

  They were standing beside him admiring the painting when Durand-Ruel came back.

  “This should do,” he said, as he handed Aunt Éloïse the letter. He looked at the painting. “You like it?” he asked Hadley.

  “I love it,” Hadley replied.

  “Many artists have painted the Gare Saint-Lazare, including Monet, but this is by a painter named Norbert Goeneutte. He painted at least three of Saint-Lazare in different lights.” He paused. “I’m sorry to say that he died, about four years ago. He was hardly forty years old. A considerable talent, lost.” He paused. “It’s for sale.”

  “I’d love to buy it,” Hadley said frankly. “But my father gives me an allowance to study, and I don’t want to ask him for more. Perhaps later—though I’m sure you’ll find a buyer for such a fine work long before I can buy it.”

  Durand-Ruel did not press the matter.

  And it was then that Marie had her wonderful idea. But she didn’t say a word.

  They set out early from the Gare Saint-Lazare. The train took them fifty miles down the broad valley of the Seine to the small town of Vernon. From there, it was only a four-mile ride in a cab, crossing the river by a long, low bridge and following the curve of the stream up to Giverny.

  As the train puffed through the delightful countryside, Marie felt a great sense of happiness. Her little plan had worked.

  Five days ago Aunt Éloïse had bought the Goeneutte painting for her. It was a private matter between themselves, and nobody else knew about it. Aunt Éloïse had the painting now, safely in her apartment, but it was agreed that when Marie could, she would buy the painting from her at the same price that Aunt Éloïse had paid the gallery. There was only one other aspect to the business, that even Aunt Éloïse did not know.

  One day—she did not know when, or under what circumstances—Marie was going to give the painting to Frank Hadley.

  The Seine was broad and very peaceful at Vernon that June morning as the fiacre clipped across the bridge. Here and there they passed small houses, or an old mill, with their charming, half-timbered Norman frames and tiled roofs. Everything seemed wonderfully green. It was late morning when they passed the church and came to the center of Giverny, leaving them time to have a pleasant walk about the village before having lunch at the inn. After that, they were to call upon the great painter.

  “There’s something strange about this place,” Marc suggested. “Does anyone notice what?”

  “No,” they said.

  “Then I’ll show you.”

  They had gone only fifty yards, and were walking by a small orchard, when they encountered a pleasant young fellow carrying a folder and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Excuse me,” Marc said in English, “but could you recommend where to get a drink?”

  “Why certainly,” the young man answered, in an accent that suggested he came from Philadelphia. “I’d recommend Monsieur Jardin’s little café, where you can get an aperitif. Or of course, there’s the Hôtel Baudy. I’d say that’s the best place in the village.”

  “Thank you,” said Marc.

  A few moments later they saw a couple approaching. “Go on,” he told Hadley. “You ask this time.” And sure enough the couple responded the same way, in English.

  “Where are you from?” Marc asked.

  “New York,” they said.

  “All right,” Hadley laughed. “You’ve made your point. The place has been overrun by my countrymen.”

  “I doubt this village has more than three hundred French inhabitants,” Marc said. “And there must be another hundred American artists living here as well.”

  “A gross exaggeration.”

  But as they passed an old mill, they heard American voices within. And seeing a handsome old monastery on a slight rise, Marc asked a local French
villager whether it was still a religious house and was told, no, a charming couple called MacMonnies had just moved in there.

  Yet it had to be said, the invasion of artists seemed to have brought no harm to the village. The Americans were evidently quiet, and an easel propped up at the edge of a field, or by the riverside, did nothing to disturb the natural economy.

  But if the rest of the village had absorbed the visitors without fuss, one family had seen its opportunity and seized it.

  The Baudy family owned the stout inn of geometrically patterned brick that bore their name, in the middle of the village. And their enterprise was obvious as soon as the little party reached the building.

  “Look at that!” Marc cried, as they approached.

  For there, on a grass plot just opposite the hotel entrance, were two well-maintained tennis courts.

  “Tennis courts, in the middle of rural Normandy! Those have certainly been put there for the visitors. I doubt that the villagers even knew what they were.”

  Entering the hotel, they at once found notices which announced that the hotel had stocks of all kinds of art supplies, of the best quality—paints, brushes, canvases, stretchers—everything that a resident artist might need. In the spacious dining room they found the walls covered with paintings by its many patrons.

  Sitting down, they were offered all kinds of drinks, including whisky.

  “Whisky for the Americans, eh?” Marc commented cheerfully.

  “Perhaps, monsieur,” the waiter answered, “but Monsieur Monet always likes to drink it.”

  They enjoyed a pleasant lunch. Everyone was conscious that they were about to meet a great artist, but Marc filled in a little more background for them.

  “He may surprise you. He was poor for a long time, but he had a patron named Hoschedé, who owned a department store. When Hoschedé became bankrupt, the two families lived together, and finally after both Monet’s wife and Hoschedé had died, Monet and the widow married. Monet is an artist, but he’s determined not to be poor again, and a part of him wants to be a rich bourgeois. He’s been like a paterfamilias to both families for years.” He grinned. “You’ll find him very solid.”