During this time I finished reading Chapman's Iliad as well as The Age of Fable. Rather than turning my attention to the Odyssey, as I had originally planned, I delved into Pope's translation of the Iliad. The Meurice was only a short walk from the Louvre, and I spent many afternoons there mesmerized by the exquisite collection of antiquities. After touring all the Salles Grecques, I returned to my sketchbook, starting with a fragment of the Parthenon friezes that depicted an Athenian girl and two priests. I could not reproduce the scene as accurately as I would have liked, and wished that I had paid better attention to the drawing master who had taught me at my mother's house. But, my lack of skill notwithstanding, what better way to spend an afternoon than in a noble attempt to capture some of the Parthenon's exquisite beauty? Every moment that I spent reading, sketching, or wandering through the museum brought me closer to the man I had married, a feeling I welcomed, although I was not quite sure why.
"There is a man waiting to see you, Lady Ashton," my maid informed me as I returned to my rooms following one such excursion to the Louvre. "A Frenchman, madam," she said, wrinkling her nose to show dissatisfaction. "I only agreed to let him wait because he said he was delivering something of Lord Ashton's."
"Meg, we are bound to see Frenchmen occasionally, given that we are in their country. Bring him to me. I'd like to see what he has." A few moments later, she announced a Monsieur Renoir, who carried under his arm a good-size flat package wrapped in brown paper.
"Madame, I was devastated to learn of your husband's death. It was a tragedy indeed." His dark eyes burned intensely. "It pleases me more than you know to be able to deliver to you this picture." He placed the package on a table away from the window. I opened it immediately and was shocked to see my own face.
I couldn't speak. I had heard of the work of the impressionists but had seen few of their paintings. Renoir had captured the essence of my face while bringing to it a beauty I had never seen, colors and light dancing across the canvas.
"How did you paint this?" I sat down. "Please pardon me, but I am rather confused. Obviously, I did not sit for this portrait."
"I hope you do not find it displeasing."
"No. No. It's lovely, Monsieur Renoir."
"Lord Ashton stopped in Paris en route to Africa before his death. He showed me a photograph taken on your wedding day and asked that I paint a portrait of his bride. I had to rely on his descriptions of your coloring. Now that I see the original, I think he did you justice."
"I hardly know what to say. Did you know my husband well?"
"Oui, madame. He did not buy his paintings from dealers but directly from the artists. He had an appreciation of impressionism not shared by many, which I like to think shows a greatness of mind. He dined with us whenever he came to Paris."
"I had no idea." I paused. "Did he pay you already?"
"My child, this is my wedding gift to the two of you. I only wish he could have seen it."
"Thank you, sir. I shall treasure it." Monsieur Renoir cocked his head and looked at his painting.
"Portrait of Kallista. I think it is one of my finest efforts."
Soon thereafter I accepted an invitation to tea at the apartment of Cécile du Lac, an older woman to whom I had been introduced at a dinner party. The note she sent struck me as surprisingly charming, and, having passed several rather uneventful days, I agreed to attend. Meg helped me into yet another gray dress and arranged my hair beautifully, all the time lamenting that I was not going to tea with, in her words, "a nice English lady."
I have had the good fortune always to have lived in lovely homes. Large rooms, beautifully furnished, with fine collections of art adorning their walls. Madame du Lac's house, however, was opulent beyond anything I had seen in a private residence. Her quarters surpassed even Buckingham Palace, although that may be more of a comment on the queen's taste than on Madame du Lac's. She received me in a sitting room whose white-paneled walls and ornate ceiling were embellished with gilt flowers, cupids, and caryatids. A large mirror hung above a marble fireplace on which an enormous golden clock rested between two towering golden candlesticks. The parquet floor shone brightly, and the chairs placed around the room were upholstered in a pale, icy blue, all their wood gilded. Curtains in the same blue silk were tied back to reveal long windows. Madame du Lac seemed to belong in another time. Dressed in a flowing tea gown, she ushered me into this pleasantly bright room herself, motioning me toward one of the delicate chairs.
"Sit if you can, child, though how you can manage anything in that corset is a mystery to me." I smiled politely, not having the nerve to say anything. "I'm afraid you shall find my manners somewhat lacking. I am old enough to disregard them. If that makes you uncomfortable, I am sorry for you." She clapped her hands, and two tiny dogs appeared and jumped into her lap.
"I am perfectly comfortable, thank you," I lied, still smiling. One of the dogs began nipping at the lace on her gown, and the other followed his lead.
"Caesar! Brutus! Down!" she cried, removing them both from her dress and putting them on the floor, where they sat nearly motionless, staring up at her. "Do you have dogs?"
"I believe there are some hunting dogs on my husband's estate. I have not been there."
She did not pursue the subject. "I have been interested in speaking to you since seeing the lovely portrait Renoir painted for your husband. Very romantic, I thought."
Had I not been so tightly laced, I would have squirmed in my seat, believing that I was once again caught having to pretend to have had a deep attachment to my poor husband. "He was a kind man," I said noncommittally, wondering how soon I could leave without insulting her.
"You must have to suffer through conversations like this too often.
He was a man whom everyone admired. How terrible for you. You didn't know him long, I believe?"
"No."
"Did you know him at all?"
I froze, unsure what to say.
"Don't be alarmed, chérie. I am not judging you. Like yours, my husband died soon after our marriage, and I was plagued by his friends. They all assumed I knew him as well as they did, when in fact I rarely conversed with him. The marriage had been arranged by our parents. We had nothing to do with the decision. After he died, it was quite embarrassing and very difficult to keep up the appearance of having been close to him." Before I could begin to formulate a response to this, Madame du Lac pulled a tasseled bell cord; almost instantly, a servant in full livery that must have been designed to match the room appeared. "I drink only champagne. You do not mind?"
"Of course not." I accepted a glass from her man and started to drink it slowly. Feeling a bit braver, I added that I had never before been served champagne for tea. This comment earned a hearty laugh from my hostess, and I joined in her merriment. The wine loosened my tongue, and soon the whole story of my marriage poured out. Madame proved to be a refreshingly sympathetic listener.