“I believe,” said Gerard, “that you are getting a taste for la vie boheme.”
“Perhaps I was born into it.”
“I think that may be so. That is why you have taken to it. My mother is a little shocked by the way I live. She cannot understand why I do not return to La Maison and live what she calls the life of a country gentleman.”
“That would not suit you in the least,” I said.
After a short pause, he said: “You are less sad now.”
“You have cheered me up.”
“So our little jaunt was just what you needed?”
“Yes. And I can’t think why I should want to hide the truth from you.”
“I should like to know, of course.”
“It was like this: Your Uncle Robert and a man called Charlie were two of my mother’s greatest friends. She was always surrounded by people. They came and went. But there were three of them who were always around: Robert, Charlie and the producer Dolly. When my mother died, Charlie insisted on taking me to his home. He had a son, Roderick. I had met Roderick and knew him quite well before my mother’s death. She did not know of our meetings. They were not exactly secret, but I had not mentioned them. Charlie had promised my mother that he would always look after me if need be, and he took me to his home. Roderick and I fell in love. We were going to be married. Then Charlie told me that I was his daughter and so Roderick and I were brother and sister.”
He was looking at me in amazed horror.
“And so,” he said, “that was the end …”
I nodded. “That is why I am sad. After the shock of my mother’s death, I wanted to start again. I know I could have done so … with Roderick. You see, my mother and I were so close. We had always been together. I could not imagine a life without her … and then … with Roderick, it seemed there was a chance.”
He moved closer to me and put an arm round me.
“My poor, poor Noelle, how you have suffered!” he said.
“We were saying we have to accept the blows life gives us … but we do have the power to rise above them … if only we can find it.”
“You are right. We have to do this. And we can … I am sure we can.”
“I did not want to talk of this to anyone.”
“But you were right to talk to me. I understand. You see, I have lost my wife.”
He stood up suddenly and went to the window.
Then he turned and said: “The light is still good. I could work for a while. It will make up for playing truant this morning.”
Then came the day when the portrait was finished. I was sad to think that period was over. There would be no more sittings, no more intimate conversation, no longer an excuse for me to go to the studio every day. There was no doubt that it had been a stimulating experience.
I studied the portrait while Gerard watched me with a certain apprehension.
I knew it was good. I was not the beauty Marianne had been, but there was a haunting quality about it. The likeness was there— and something else. It was the face of a young woman, innocent to a certain extent, and in a way unmarked by life, but there was in the eyes an expression of something which told of a secret sorrow.
I said: “It is very clever.”
“But do you like it?”
“I think it betrays something.”
“Something you would rather was not there?”
“Perhaps.”
“It is you,” he said. “Whenever I see it, I shall feel that you are here.”
“Well, I suppose that is what a portrait should be.”
Lars Petersen came in.
“I am all agog,” he said. “Where is the masterpiece?”
He came and stood before the easel, legs apart. He always seemed to fill a room when he was in it.
“It’s good,” he announced. “You’ve done it this time, Gerard.”
“You think so?”
“We’ll see. It’s got depth. It’s the picture of a beautiful girl, too. There is nothing that pleases like a beautiful girl.”
“It’s not really beautiful,” I said. “But it is interesting.”
“My dear Mademoiselle Tremaston, I venture to say an artist knows best. It is the picture of a beautiful girl. Come on. Where is the champagne? We must drink to the success of our genius. Excuse me one moment.”
He disappeared through the door and across the roof.
“He likes it,” said Gerard. “I could see he liked it. He really thinks it is good.”
Lars Petersen came back with a bottle of champagne.
“Glasses!” he demanded imperiously.
I brought them out and he opened the bottle and poured out the wine.
“It’s good … good,” he cried. “It’s almost as good as my creation. Gerard … success! Noelle is going to launch you as Marianne did me. Not quite so well … but almost.”
He was laughing. I wondered how the reference to Marianne would affect Gerard; but he just drank the wine and his eyes were shining.
Lars had convinced him that the portrait was good.
Angele and Robert agreed with the verdict and there was talk of an exhibition. Gerard had now gathered together enough pictures which he considered to be worthy and there was a great deal of discussion about the arrangements.
We stayed on in Paris, and I was frequently at the studio. I helped Gerard to decide which pictures he would exhibit. Lars Petersen was often present to give his judgement. Others came, too, but as Lars was such a near neighbour, he was constantly in and out.
Madame Garnier grew in importance because her portrait was to be one of the exhibits. We chose some scenes of the country, but mainly of Paris; portraits, however, were really Gerard’s forte, and they predominated.
Angele and Robert shared in the excitement of preparation for the exhibition. Angele did say that Marie-Christine was continually asking when I was coming back.
“We shall all be up for the exhibition, of course,” said Angele, and I knew that soon we should have to leave Paris. But there would be other visits. I should look forward to them.
The exhibition was fixed for September and I realized it was nearly six months since I had come to France.
I returned with Angele to La Maison Grise, where I was met by a reproachful Marie-Christine.
“What a long time you’ve been away!” she said. “Does it take so long to paint a portrait? My English is getting awful. One needs constant practice. I bet your French is pretty awful, too.”
“I have been getting a lot of practice.”
“Which I don’t with my English. It was mean of you to stay so long. Did you like sitting?”
“It was interesting.”
“I expect I’ll have my portrait painted someday. That’s what happens if you have an artist in the family. You get painted. Are you going to the exhibition?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be famous.”
“I? What have I done?”
“When my mother’s portrait was painted, everyone was talking about her. Everyone knows who Marianne was.”
“They won’t be wondering about me.”
“Why not?”
“Your mother was very beautiful.”
She looked at me critically. “Yes,” she said slowly, “she was. So it must have been because of that.”
She seemed mollified. / was not going to be famous, so perhaps I would settle down, return to La Maison Grise and continue teaching her English.
I received another letter from Lisa.
I had written in answer to hers and told her that I was feeling better. Robert and his family were so kind to me, and he was the sort of man from whom it was easy to accept hospitality, as she had found. I was feeling cut off from the old life. Here everything seemed so different. I had done the right thing in coming, of course, but I could not stay here indefinitely, though everyone seemed not to want me to go … so here I was.