26
CÉCILE SENT THREE FOOTMEN TO ARRANGE HER LUNCHEON at Renoir's, with spectacular results. They created an indoor picnic, spreading thick blankets over the floor and placing vase after vase of hothouse flowers around the room. These blossoms combined with a blazing fire in the stove to give the effect of a lovely midsummer day. Renoir suffered greatly from arthritis and did not have the money to heat his studio to a temperature warm enough to ease his symptoms; Cécile had concocted her picnic in order to give him an afternoon of relief from the damp autumn day. I had no doubt that her footmen had also left sufficient wood to keep the stove burning hot for several more weeks. We sat on the blankets and shared an elegant feast: mousse de foie gras, pâtisseries génoises, saumon à la zingari, a variety of chaud-froids, and countless other dishes.
"I am delighted to see your work again, Monsieur Renoir," I observed, looking at the canvases that filled the studio. "Your paintings are like the music of Mozart: perfectly pleasing."
"Merci, Kallista," he replied, beaming. "I have the most beautiful model; all I must do is imitate her." Aline, who had spent the morning sitting for him, did not blush but instead leaned over and kissed her husband full on the mouth.
"How are Monet and the others?" I asked.
"Fine, fine," Monsieur Renoir answered. "Will you be in Paris long enough to travel to Giverny?"
"Unfortunately not."
"Kallista has merely stopped over on her way to Africa." Apparently Cécile had decided to reveal my secret.
"Mon Dieu!" Aline rolled her eyes. "What will you see there?"
"Egypt, Aline. I shall not be satisfied until I have laid eyes on the Great Pyramid." I glared at Cécile, not sure if I wanted to tell Renoir that Philip still lived. "Autumn is a lovely time to go, you know."
"I would imagine so," Aline said. "Seems a hopeless place. Desolate. I suppose a person might recognize a sort of stark beauty in it."
"I should like to go," her husband interjected. "If only to see the sunlight in the desert. The light must bring out a myriad of colors in the sand."
"Well, I shall stay home." Aline shrugged. "Paris is far superior."
"No one questions that," Renoir replied.
"I suppose you could persuade me to join you." Aline stroked Renoir's face. I averted my eyes, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.
"You see, Kallista-that is what marriage should be," Cécile commented. "Will you have it with Philip?" Thankfully, Renoir and Aline, utterly captivated by each other, appeared not to hear her.
"I shall not discuss it, Cécile. Please do not insist upon bringing up the subject," I retorted, quite certain that Philip would emphatically disapprove of such a public display of affection. His behavior in such matters had always been perfectly proper. Unless his near-death experience had changed him significantly, I anticipated that any displays of his devotion would be limited to our bedroom, where they would be warmly returned.
"It is something you should consider, chérie, before it is too late." Cécile waved her hand in the air as if fending off an irritating insect and sighed loudly.
"You are surprisingly melancholy today, Cécile," Renoir observed. "Have you been crossed in love?"
Cecile laughed. "Hardly. I am only hoping that our chère Kallista is not about to be."
"Ah!" Aline gasped, grabbing my hand. "Have you fallen in love? How delightful! Who is he? I hope he is French?"
"No, no, please, you misunderstand. Cécile, you will force me to address the topic I am trying so hard to avoid." My friend threw her hands in the air as if to indicate that she had no control over the matter.
"Let the child have her secret if she wishes," Aline said. Then, in a tone of close confidence she whispered to me, "There is nothing more glorious than passionate love. When you find it, nothing will compare."
"Thank you, Aline." I did not know how to respond. Truly, I hoped I was passionately in love with Philip, although such a judgment proved difficult to make after having had no contact with the object of my affections for nearly two years. I knew that seeing him again would be exquisite, but I did have some lingering doubts as the moment of our reunion grew nearer by the day. His hunting bothered me, the forgery business plagued me, and I continued to worry that he would not appreciate the changes in my character since his disappearance. I did not question for a moment that he loved me very dearly; his journal proved that. But how passionate could that love have been if he left me so easily after an abbreviated wedding trip? Clearly he preferred the idea of a safari with his friends to the company and comforts of his wife.
"I have found that in love everything falls into place when you least expect it. When you are convinced there is no hope, your heart is saved," Aline said.
"Unless, of course, it is broken instead," Renoir said, sitting behind his wife. "Aline likes to speak in absolutes that are not always reasonable. It is one of the most charming things about her." He hugged her.
"In matters of love, it is preferable to be hopeful rather than a pessimist," Cécile stated matter-of-factly. "I think you are trying admirably to do that, Kallista, even if I do not always agree with your choice of lover."
"I have no lover, Cécile!" I cried with mock indignation.
"Speaking of lovers, Kallista." Renoir turned to me. "I have meant for some time to return this to you." He opened the drawer in a small table standing near him. After rummaging through the contents, he looked a bit confused. "I was certain it was there."
"What is it?" I asked, curious.
He walked over to a chest and lifted its lid. "Not here either." He sighed. "Where on earth could I have put it?" He dug through several painting cases and a large bag, each time coming up empty-handed. He shook his head. "I just had it. I showed it to Monsieur Palmer when he came here not three weeks ago."
"What, Monsieur Renoir?" I asked, my voice growing more urgent. "What is it you seek?"
"The lovely photograph from your wedding day that I used when I painted your portrait. Lord Ashton left it with me when he departed for his safari."
4 FEBRUARY 1888
EAST AFRICA
Hunting this season so extraordinary-have already made plans to repeat the trip this fall, with sights set on an elephant-the only prey that has had the audacity to evade me. Tracked a great kudu today-an exceptionally large male. Led me through miles of woodlands before at last I found him. I was careful not to alert him to my presence, but he must have sensed something-he stood absolutely still, nearly invisible in the bush as I aimed my rifle. I felled him quickly with one perfect shot. What an animal! Immense twisting horns make it more handsome than any other antelope. Kimathi says mine has the longest horns he has ever seen-more than seventy inches. Between them a spider had woven the most enormous web that shone in the sunlight like a crown, leading Hargreaves to suggest that I had got the greatest of the great kudu.
Tonight Masai guides prepared a feast for us-must confess to preferring English roast beef-but we dined like African royalty. To be among such friends, in such a place-what could be the equal of such an experience? Our camp, in the midst of the flat-topped mimosa trees, lighted by a blazing fire, is as fine a home as any I have known. "Thus the blest Gods the genial day prolong, / In feasts ambrosial, and celestial in song."
27
I excused myself from my friends, telling them that I wanted to be alone, and shot out of Renoir's studio. They followed me to the door, obviously concerned, and I could hear Cécile calling for me to come back as I ran down the rue Saint-Georges, pulling my cape close around me. Although I did not know precisely where I was, I remembered Renoir's saying that the Opéra was only a short distance from him. When I reached the rue La Fayette, I asked the first person I saw which way to turn and soon found myself in front of the grand building. Seeking refuge under its curved arches, I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving from exertion. My heart pounded so forcefully that I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, and I felt as if I would faint. I knew that something had gone deeply, deeply wrong. I opened my reticule and pulled out two pictures from it: the first my portrait of Philip; the second the one for which Renoir had searched.