Belle Epoque (11 page)

“Find whom?” I ask. Is he talking about Suzanne? “You fell asleep,” I say, and want to kick myself for stating the obvious.

“The muse,” he says matter-of-factly. As if I should know what he means. “I’m searching for inspiration.”

“Oh.” I feel so uncultured.

Paul exhales deeply. He smells like Café Chez Emile when I walk past in the mornings. “I’ve seen every exhibition at all the bohemian galleries from Montmartre to Montparnasse,” he says. “Today I thought I’d look at the old masters.”

He’s acting as if we were midway through a conversation, but the truth is I’m having trouble keeping up. Has he confused me with someone else?

“I don’t know if you remember me. From l’Académie, a few weeks ago?” I sound prim and formal.

He gets up slowly, one hand on the bench for support. “Absinthe is the devil indeed.” Eventually he manages to steady his gaze on me. His eyes are soft; the gallery feels warm suddenly.

“May I repay my debt?” I ask, pulling out my change purse and taking out some coins.

A look of recognition crosses his face. “Ah, the hardworking laundress. I remember now.” He blinks heavily, as though he’s having trouble focusing. “You’re not supposed to return a tip.”

“But I’d much rather,” I say, holding out the coins to him.

He shakes his head and pushes my hand away. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, thank you.” I put the coins back in my purse, wondering what I can talk to him about next.

He sways a little on his feet.

“You don’t look so well,” I say, almost reaching out a hand to steady him.

He laughs. “I am not a true bohemian at all—I can’t keep up with the rigors of the lifestyle.”

“You mean you’re hungover?” I wish I didn’t sound like a schoolmistress. His manner is informal, and for some reason it makes me act the opposite.

“I just need to walk around and I’ll feel better.” He gestures to the paintings. “Do you care to look at the art together?”

“All right,” I say, and fidget with my bonnet ribbons, which have come undone. When I dressed this morning it wasn’t with thought of company. I have one better dress and bonnet. I wish I were wearing them today. But then, why should I care? He looks scruffier than I do.

We begin to stroll along the wall of paintings.

“Now tell me, mademoiselle—”

I interrupt him. “Maude.”

“I remember your name.” He throws me a smile. “Now tell me, Maude, are you still scolding innocent patrons at cafés?”

“I’m not a laundress anymore,” I say, removing my bonnet, realizing too late that’s not what a lady would do.

“They sacked you because of the tablecloths? Where’s that fighting Breton spirit?”

“Actually, I left the laundry.” My voice sounds more defiant than I meant it to.

He looks at me, surprised.

“I found a better position,” I say, trying to justify it. But how on earth can I describe my job? I grope for a believable explanation. Clearly I can’t admit the truth to him—it’s shameful enough to admit it to myself.

“I’m a young lady’s companion,” I say. I bite my lip and glance at him to see if he’s swallowed it. Can he tell that I’m hiding something?

“Ah, a governess.”

I don’t correct him. “Yes,” I answer. I can feel the relief of the lie ease my expression.

“And is the little girl spoiled?”

“She is,” I say truthfully. “But I think I can handle her.” I’m not adept at expanding on a fib, so I ask, “Have you been to the Louvre before?”

“I used to come often, until I discovered the contemporary galleries. But it’s nice to come to such a grand place to see art, don’t you think?”

His relaxed manner is rubbing off on me. I want to know more about him, and feel bold enough to ask. “What did you mean before, about the muse?”

“I’m a musician, and when I’m stuck with composing I like to plunge into another art form.”

I’m intrigued by this but feel unqualified to keep up my end of the conversation.

He goes on, “I thought I’d come and remind myself what the Impressionists are revolting against. Plus the benches
are comfy, and it’s more civilized than l’Académie,” he laughs. “Everyone’s not drunk by noon.”

We have almost completed a tour of the room, and I stop to look at a painting. I have no interest in it, but I’m trying to prolong our encounter. We stand side by side before a stormy seascape. The painting is a blur. I can only focus on the fact that Paul’s coat sleeve is touching mine. “Why do paintings inspire you?” I ask. I’m out of my depth, but I want to understand. “Why not listen to music?”

He reflects for a moment. “I enjoy looking at paintings. It reminds me that others also toil to create.”

I’m not used to being so close to a man, and I have to concentrate on appearing calm, pressing down the coil of excitement springing up inside.

He shrugs. “In a way I can appreciate it more than a symphony—I don’t have to compare myself and my talents.” He laughs. “Or lack thereof.”

Paul seems different from other people I’ve met in the capital. He doesn’t possess the smooth manners of the rich or the crusty suspicion I have encountered with the working classes. He has a frankness to him, an honest spontaneity that draws me in.

“So was that what I interrupted on the bench? You were soaking up inspiration.” I’m teasing, and it catches me by surprise.

His eyes sparkle. “Come on. I’m wide awake, and my search for the muse continues.” He takes my hand. “We are going to find a melody for my composition.”

Delighted that he wants to remain in my company, I glide
out of the gallery, my heart pounding from the warmth of his hand in mine.

“Portraits generally do the trick. This way.” He navigates through a small group of visitors and takes me up a flight of marble stairs and to a long gallery, the ceiling of which is lined with skylights.

There are several other patrons dotted around the room, and on the far wall a woman artist has set up her easel and paints, with a cloth underneath to protect the floor.

Paul turns to me. “I can hear music in certain paintings. Women evoke melodies for me. Seascapes and rivers are the string section; in battle scenes the percussion reveals itself.” After saying this he gives a half smile, maybe feeling self-conscious about sharing his theory.

“That makes sense.” I nod thoughtfully, as if considering his words, but my eyes are examining his appearance. When he smiles, it sends a ripple through me like a wave. He has a small scar on his cheekbone. His hands are expressive, always in motion when he talks. They look like a sculptor’s work, large and strong with slender fingers; the skin is smooth with the trace of the veins underneath.

“There’s Ingres’s
Bather
,” says Paul, gesturing to a painting of a nude woman. She’s seated with her back to the viewer, her face partially visible. “It wasn’t popular when he debuted it at the Salon. But tastes change, and now people can appreciate it.”

I worry for a moment about whether I should feel awkward. Is it hugely inappropriate to be looking at a picture of a naked woman with a strange man? The blush rises to my cheek, but
I will it away. This is art, I decide, and find my composure. I concentrate on the painting.

“What do you think?” asks Paul. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m going to say something most original and intelligent. Does he not realize I’m only a village girl who knows nothing about art?

I clear my mind and study the painting.

“It’s curious, how the artist had taken something ordinary, a private moment, and made it so striking.”

“Go on,” urges Paul.

“I mean, she’s exposed, the bather, yet hidden.” I take a step closer to examine the canvas. “And the colors—when you look up close, they appear a bit messy, haphazard.” I step back from the painting, as if I need the perspective of distance, but really, I just want to stand close to him again. “Yet when you look at the whole canvas, it all fits together.”

I turn to him, surprised by my own ease and confidence in his company, trying to control the excitement beneath my chest.

“You possess it,” he says.

“Possess what?” I ask, hoping what follows is a compliment.

“You have that capacity to be moved by art, to be affected by beauty.”

Beauty
. That word clangs like a saucepan lid crashing to the floor. I move on to the next portrait. Another beautiful woman. Her painted eyes stare blankly out at me, and from her rosebud lips I hear her whisper,
“Repousser: to repel, to repulse, to push away.”

No. I can’t let the agency ruin this afternoon. I shrug off my negative thoughts. I turn back to Paul. “Tell me more about your music,” I say cheerfully, so as not to betray my hurt pride.

For the next while we talk about his career, from the bawdy music halls where he plays now to the sought-after place at the music academy he hopes to get accepted to. The minutes gallop by. The other patrons come and go; the artist takes down her easel and packs up her box of paints. Eventually we drift out of the gallery and down the marble stairs, through the grand rooms of the first floor and out into the Carré du Louvre. The sun is casting long shadows in the square. The October chill feels fresh after the stuffy air in the museum.

We sit on a bench with the shadow of the massive museum leaning down on us. There are fewer people in the square now that it’s late in the afternoon. A far-off clock tower strikes. Then Paul sighs and says, “I have a rehearsal this evening. I should be going.”

“Yes, I should go too,” I say, with a fizzle of disappointment. I can see the fading light reflected in his eyes as the afternoon disappears around us.

“We’re playing a concert on Saturday evening at le Chat Noir. You must come.”

I break into a smile. “I’d love to,” I say, and then immediately realize I can’t possibly go. Isabelle Dubern’s ball is next Saturday. A lead weight drags down my smile. “But unfortunately, I can’t … I have a previous engagement.” How torturous to be forced to refuse.

He smiles. “Too bad. There will be other concerts, though.”
He rises to leave and we shake hands. “Have a pleasant week,” he says. “And don’t let your charge boss you around too much.”

I’d almost forgotten about that. My charge: what a deception. “Good luck with your concert, Paul.” It feels nice to say his name aloud.

“Au revoir.”
He turns away and I watch him stride across the square and through the thinning crowds of museumgoers. The spell is broken, but the magic of our meeting lingers around me like a haze. I walk out of the square and toward the river. I lean on the stone parapet, which is warm from the sun despite the crisp air. Coppery leaves rustle by my feet; the horse chestnuts and poplars have turned as autumn has taken hold of the city. The pleasure boats continue their back and forth up and down the river. Barges unload supplies on the quay. Puffs of smoke from other boats cough into the sky and meld with the white clouds. Right Bank, Left Bank, rich or poor, I decide that the river belongs to everyone.

There are closer bridges, but I walk east toward the Pont Neuf. I prefer the view from there. Paris and its procession of life. It is at such times when the city gives me a soaring feeling and I want to hold on to the perfection of the moment. But as soon as it is labeled, it is gone. Before long, my lonely garret room will bring me back down to earth.

T
HE KETTLE WHISTLES ON THE
stove in the repoussoir dressing room. Its piping hot squeal is shrill, but it can’t compete with the excited chatter of the repoussoirs discussing their weekend assignments.

Cécile is holding court. “He’s a captain in the Guard, and his dress uniform is simply dashing.” She is in better spirits now that another client has unwittingly provided a new love interest. Her heavy chin shudders with excitement; her bulbous nose wrinkles up when she gives a detailed account of this captain’s medals. “He’s sure to be made major before long. My client says it’s inevitable.”

Marie-Josée shows up late and bustles past the other girls. She grins at me as she takes off her coat and bonnet. “The countess didn’t gobble you up for dinner, I see.” The ripples of excitement in the other girls’ conversations have ebbed, and all eyes turn to me.

“The Countess Dubern?” asks Cécile. I detect a hint of hostility.

“She’s hiring me for her daughter’s ball,” I explain. “I had a trial date with her on Saturday.”

“You lucky thing,” chimes in Hortense.

“Where did she take you?” Cécile asks.

Their scrutiny is making me uncomfortable. “Nowhere. I mean, I had dinner at their house.” I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant.

Marie-Josée has taken custody of the kettle and is making a pot of tea. “Quiet dinner, my foot. The countess knows how to put on a show,” she says, not helping my desire to stay unnoticed. She opens a box of madeleines and arranges them on a plate. “What did they serve? How many courses?”

She’s putting me on the spot. I’m not used to being the center of attention, and I feel shy. “I can’t remember how many.”

“Details, please,” Marie-Josée demands, taking a seat and placing the tea tray in front of us.

“Who was there?” asks Cécile.