“She seems to be, from her picture.”
“She was painted by several artists. They saw her and wanted to paint her. She is in several galleries. The most famous one of them all was done by a Norwegian … or he might be Swedish … Scandinavian anyway. Lars Petersen. Poor Gerard. I think he was a bit put out. Naturally he thought he was more qualified to do the picture.”
“She must have been outstanding to arouse such attention.”
“She was reckoned to be exceptionally beautiful.”
“You must have known her well.”
“I can’t say that. She and Gerard were in Paris most of the time.”
“And Marie-Christine was here?”
“Yes. That seemed the best place for a child to be. I’ve looked after her all her life. Marianne was not much of a mother. Overaffectionate at times and then forgetting all about the child.”
“I see.”
“It was really quite unsatisfactory from the start. Even when Marianne was here, she was at the mill more often than in this house. She was very close to her sister and, of course, the nurse encouraged her to go there.” Angele shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it is all over now.”
“And your son was in Paris most of the time.”
“He always was. His art is his life. I’ve always known that. We wish he had been more conventional. He could have gone into banking with Robert, or law with his father … and then of course, there is the estate … not large, but it demands a certain amount of time. But he knew what he wanted to do even when he was a child … and that was paint. Marie-Christine should not have taken you to visit them like that.”
“I think the idea came to her on the spur of the moment.” “So many of Marie-Christine’s ideas come like that.” “Well, they were very affable and have invited us to go again.” Angele lifted her shoulders in that familiar gesture of resignation, and I think she must have been only mildly displeased that I had met them.
A few days later she suggested that we should at last make the visit to Paris.
“Robert has a small house there in the Rue des Merles,” she told me. “There is a concierge and his wife who live in the basement. They guard the place during his long absences and look after him when he is there.”
I was excited and immediately made preparations for the visit.
The Portrait
I was enchanted by Paris—that city of gardens and bridges, dark alleyways and wide boulevards, whose turbulent history seemed to be encapsulated in its ancient buildings and monuments.
I wanted to see everything, and both Robert and Angele were delighted and proud to show me.
I was overwhelmed by the majesty of Notre Dame. It exuded the past. Robert said what a tragedy it had been that during the Revolution the mob had sought to destroy it.
“Fortunately Napoleon came to power just in time to prevent its being broken up and sold,” he added with satisfaction. “And then Louis Philippe, before his abdication twenty years or so ago, he did much to restore the old magnificence and necessary work has been done.”
I could have spent hours there, absorbing the ancient ambience, dreaming of the past, of St. Denis, its first bishop, who had become the patron saint of France, or Peter Abelard and his love for Heloise.
We walked a great deal. One must walk to see Paris. We visited the Louvre; we sat in the Tuileries; we spent hours in Les Halles; we crossed the Pont Neuf, the oldest of all the bridges, and I was both fascinated and repelled by the decorations on the parapets. Those grotesque masks would remain in my memory forever.
Robert was very interested in the work of Haussmann, which he said had changed the face of Paris in the last few years; the work had been necessary after the vandalism of the people during the Revolution. Robert was quite clearly proud of his city, and he enjoyed showing it to me. I noticed how he delighted in my admiration, which I did not have to assume. I had always been intrigued by big cities. I suppose it was because I had been born and bred in one of the largest. I had loved London, but my desire to be back there was smothered by persistent memories. Paris I could enjoy without reservation, from Montmartre to the Rue de Rivoli, from Montparnasse to the Latin Quarter. I could revel in it all.
I would return to the house exhilarated.
“You are incapable of fatigue,” said Robert.
“It is because everything I see stimulates me.”
“I knew you should come to Paris,” commented Angele. “We waited too long.”
Marie-Christine was at my side most of the time. She was developing a new interest in the city.
She said: “I’ve already seen most of this before, but with you it’s like seeing it afresh.”
There came the day when we called on Gerard.
As I expected, he lived in the Latin Quarter. I was in a state of high expectation when we set out. I had been hoping for some time to pay this visit, and wondered why it had already been postponed on two occasions.
We were to arrive at three o’clock.
I noticed a certain tension in both Robert and Angele. Marie-Christine had changed, too. She seemed a little remote. I wondered why the prospect of a visit to Gerard should have this effect on them all.
We made our way along the Boulevard St. Germain, past the church of that name. I knew it had been built here on the site of a Benedictine abbey as long ago as the eighth century, but the present church, which now replaced it, dated back only to the thirteenth.
The studio was at the top of a tall building. We had to climb a great many stairs to reach it. The last flight brought us up to a door on which was a card bearing the name “Gerard du Carron.”
Robert knocked and the door was opened by a man—Gerard himself. I recognized him at once from the picture I had seen in the gallery.
He cried: “Ma mere, mon oncle et ma fille!” He turned to me, smiling, and went on in English: “And you must be Mademoiselle Tremaston. Welcome to my studio.”
We were ushered into a big room. There were several large windows and a fanlight in the sloping roof. The room contained a couch, which was probably a bed by night, some chairs, a table on which stood an array of tubes and brushes, and there were two easels, and canvasses stacked against the wall. It was the room of an artist. Glass doors opened onto the roof, which was flat, and the view across Paris was spectacular.
“How good of you to call on me,” said G6rard.
“We wanted to come before,” Angele told him. “We thought you might be busy. How are you, Gerard?”
“I am well, and there is no need to ask you. You look radiant. How is my daughter?”
“Learning English,” Marie-Christine told him. “And I can speak it very well.”
“That’s excellent.”
“Noelle … Mademoiselle Tremaston, is teaching me. I’m teaching her French. We’re both a lot better than we were.”
“That is indeed good news,” he said. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Tremaston, for being so instructive to my daughter.”
I smiled. “The benefits are mutual.”
“I can hear you have succeeded very well already. Your French is charming.”
“Unmistakably English,” I said.
“Well, therein lies its charm. Now, my dear family, refreshments, I think. I shall give you coffee.”