I Am Madame X (13 page)

“If you have any problems, any stiffness or severe pain in the morning, come see me.” He handed me his card: D
R
. S
AMUEL
-J
EAN
P
OZZI
, H
ÔPITAL
N
ECKER
. His face looked pale, his dark eyelashes almost blond in the transom’s harsh lantern light.

The door creaked open, and the maid appeared in the entry, wearing her black uniform, her face a smear of weariness.

“Thank you for seeing us home,” Mama said icily, extending her hand to the handsome doctor.

“
Bonne nuit.
Sleep well,” Dr. Pozzi said. He kissed Mama’s hand and bowed slightly to me. Then he bounded to the pavement with two leaps on his long, elegant legs, and stepped into the night.

The following afternoon at three, Mama and I met in our large square foyer with our hats and coats on. Mama had just come in from a lunch date, and her cheeks and nose were red with cold. I was on my way out.

“Where are you going, dear?” she said, yanking off her gloves finger by finger.

“Dr. Pozzi’s office.” I rubbed my shoulder and winced for Mama’s benefit. I was a bit sore, but hardly in need of medical attention.

“I don’t want you to have anything to do with Sam Pozzi!” Mama shrieked. “He has a heart like an artichoke—a leaf for everyone, as the old Creoles used to say.”

“I’m not going to marry him, Mama. I’m only going to see him about my shoulder.”

Mama blocked the door, planting her tiny frame in front of the huge wood panels.

“I won’t allow it, Mimi. He’s been notorious ever since his student days. I’ve seen how he operates at the theater and the opera, preying on girls younger than you and women older than me.” She stuffed her gloves into her purse. “Anyway, I don’t think you want to go out today. I’m sure you want to be here to greet Julie.”

“Julie? Today?”

The corners of Mama’s lips turned up in a gentle smile. “You were asleep this morning when I got a
petit bleu
from her. She landed at Le Havre yesterday and was getting on a train at ten. She should be here by evening.”

This delightful news was not totally unexpected. Though Julie hadn’t told us the exact dates of her departure and arrival, she had written us of her plans to come to Paris to paint. In the years since we had left Louisiana, Julie had become a professional artist. I don’t think she ever would have considered selling her work had not a sugar broker who was visiting Parlange one day admired her portrait of Valentine and asked her to paint his family. That led to other commissions, including one from the archbishop of New Orleans, who hired Julie to copy two Titians at the Louvre for the St. Louis Cathedral. The archbishop paid Julie’s passage to France and promised her three hundred dollars for each picture—enough to buy Grandmère a new plow.

In my excitement to see Julie, I forgot about Dr. Pozzi. For the rest of the afternoon, I read a little and tried to practice the piano, but I couldn’t concentrate and ended up staring out the window, my heart pounding every time a cab rolled up the street. Finally, at a quarter to seven, I heard the doorbell ring and tore downstairs.

Julie was standing in the foyer next to Mama, her small figure dwarfed by two huge steamer trunks. A faded brown pelisse of Grandmère’s hung on her childlike frame. Her black, gray-streaked hair was pinned up under a hat decorated with a stuffed pigeon.

“Chérie!”
she cried as I ran into her arms. “Together, we’re together, forever and ever!”

“Forever? Really?”

Julie hugged me tightly. “Well, for a long time, at least.”

Those first days after Julie arrived in Paris were the happiest I had known since Valentine’s death. I loved my aunt more than anyone in the world and felt consoled and protected by her presence. I think Mama did, too. With Julie around, she seemed less nervous, less irritable. You could see Mama’s limbs relaxing and her face softening, losing its brittle mask of tension. The three of us spent days together, shopping, playing cards, and wandering Paris.

Though she still limped, Julie could manage now with a single cane. Her energy and boldness stunned me. One evening with Mama and me she climbed the steep, narrow stairway to the top of Notre-Dame to watch the sunset and inspect the cathedral’s massive steel bells. Another night, at her suggestion, we walked through the city morgue, a popular tourist attraction that had opened to the public a few years earlier. As soon as Mama and I saw the gray, bloated cadavers laid out on marble tables—naked except for the strips of leather covering their sex—we fled outside to the Quai Napoléon. Julie, however, remained inside for a half hour, long enough to make a sketch of a female drowning victim.

A week after she arrived, Julie began work on the archbishop’s Titians. She left the house every morning at nine-thirty, accompanied by one of the maids, who carried her easel, floor mat, and paint box. Usually she didn’t return until after the Louvre closed at five. In two months, the pictures were completed. No sooner had they been crated and sent off to New Orleans than Julie announced she would remain in Paris indefinitely. She could make good money copying masterpieces at the Louvre and painting portraits of the expatriate community. She would continue to live with us, but for work she would share the Montparnasse atelier of two women artists she had met at the Louvre—Filomena Seguette and Sophie Tranchevent. Both were highly regarded painters who regularly exhibited at the Fine Arts Salon, the annual bazaar of new art that opened every May in the Palais de l’Industrie, the immense exhibition hall in the Champs-Elysées, and through which the careers of many artists were made or broken.

Early one spring morning, I helped Julie move her equipment to the atelier. The sky was black, and the streets were empty except for several blue-jacketed workers sweeping the pavement. Two sleepy horses pulled our carriage along, and by the time we arrived at the carrefour Vavin a half hour later, the blackness had receded and the sky was streaked a soft blue and pink, like stripes on a baby’s blanket. The carriage swung around the carrefour, past the ghostly terrace of the Closerie des Lilas, and stopped on the boulevard Montparnasse in front of a run-down apartment building with a plain facade and dirty, unshuttered windows.

“This is it,” said Julie.

The top-floor studio was reached by entering a small vestibule at the side of the building and climbing three flights of dark, narrow stairs. We found the door to the garret open and walked in. The large high-ceilinged space was flooded with light from tall windows on one wall and a huge skylight. Rickety easels were scattered about, canvases leaned against the walls, and in the center was a dais for a model. Casts of Apollo and Venus de Milo stood on pedestals. One corner of the room was arranged like a parlor, with an upright piano, a divan covered in red Turkish cloth, a screen for changing, and a spirit stove with a dented copper tea kettle on top.

A pretty, tiny-waisted woman with fine honey-colored hair sat on a wooden stool at an easel near the windows. As soon as we walked in, she rose and ran toward us.

“Julie!” she cried, embracing my aunt tightly. “I didn’t expect to see you until after lunch.”

“Oh, Sophie, I’m up with the birds. You’re looking well for so early in the morning.” Smiling, Julie turned to me. “I’ve brought my niece. Sophie Tranchevent, I’d like you to meet Virginie Avegno.”

“Of course. The celebrity! I’ve been following your career in Etincelle’s column.” Sophie looked deeply into my face with bright blue eyes. “Why, you’re just a child.”

“Do you mind if Virginie stays while I get organized?” Julie asked.

“No, not at all. But she might have to pose for me. I can’t depend on the model—that little seamstress Odette. I haven’t seen her in two days.” Sophie walked back to her easel, picked up a brush, and dipped it into a palette globbed with paint. She was working on a large portrait of the birth of Venus, which she planned to submit to the next Fine Arts Salon.

A moment later, I heard the sound of heavy boots clomping on the stairs. In walked a stocky woman dressed like a man in pants, a black jacket over a smock, and a worker’s slouch hat. It was Filomena Seguette.

“Bonjour!” she shouted into the air.

“Mademoiselle Seguette removed her hat and jacket and hung them on a hook. Her wheat-colored hair sprouted from a center part in uneven chunks, as if it had been hacked off with a knife. Her jaw was heavy, her eyes a deep-set blue. Had it not been for the large round breasts swelling under her smock, I would have thought her a man.

Though it was illegal at the time for women to dress like men, Mademoiselle Seguette always wore male attire. The Paris police had issued her a special “permit to disguise oneself,” signed by her doctor, for “professional reasons.” The permit, which she was required to carry at all times, strictly forbade her from attending “spectacles, balls, and public meetings” while dressed in men’s clothes. But it was a restriction the police ignored, and Mademoiselle Seguette stomped freely around Paris in trousers and boots. In the coming years, I would only once see her in a skirt—at a ball at the Finance Ministry. Even then, she was wearing a man’s jacket with her art medals emblazoned across the pocket.

Mademoiselle Seguette got away with this behavior because she was the most famous woman painter in Paris, a master of technique and color who specialized in enormous canvases depicting the glorious history of France—imperial battle victories and sentimental moments in the lives of French heroes. In order to paint the dramatic backdrops of her work, she needed to climb mountains, cross rivers, and carry heavy easels, canvases, and paint boxes—activities that would be severely restricted if she was wearing a corset, dress, and women’s shoes. That, anyway, was the explanation she gave the authorities.

“Philippe!” cried Julie, using Mademoiselle Seguette’s nickname, as she grabbed me by the arm and hobbled over to greet her friend.

“Mademoiselle Filomena Seguette, I’d like you to meet my niece, Virginie Avegno.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Filomena said, bowing slightly. Wasting no time, the artist shed her coat and prepared for work. Soon she was brushing paint onto her canvas, a huge portrait of Joan of Arc dressed in armor and kneeling in a battlefield. Filomena’s Joan had a sturdy androgynous figure, but her blond hair and round-eyed oval face bore a striking resemblance to Sophie’s Venus—the same model (the seamstress Odette, I assumed) had posed for both pictures.

I remained in the studio for the rest of the morning, playing the piano while the women painted. At eleven, we took a break for tea. Julie, Filomena, and I settled ourselves on the divan in the corner while Sophie prepared the tea and arranged cups and saucers on a little table.

“I heard Victor Hugo wants to buy my Homer,” announced Filomena. She dropped three sugar cubes into a chipped white cup. “How much do you think I should ask?”

“Five hundred francs, no less,” said Sophie. “Though Victor Hugo can certainly afford more.”

“I guess that’s about right,” added Julie.

“I never thought it would sell,” said Filomena. “Carolus wanted me to send it to the Salon last year. I refused. You’ve seen it. Hardly my best picture. He wants me to show my weakest work, so everyone will say, ‘Oh, look, France’s most talented woman painter is not as good as a mediocre man.’”

“Philippe, that’s so unfair,” said Julie. “Don’t forget how much you’ve learned from Carolus.”

Carolus was Carolus-Duran, a popular painter and teacher who had changed his name from Charles Durand to this more glamorous hyphenated version when he first exhibited his work. Carolus-Duran conducted a special class for women in his Montparnasse atelier on Thursdays. Julie, Filomena, and Sophie attended it regularly. Sometimes he dropped in on the women’s garret, and he often stayed for several hours, carefully studying and criticizing the work of each woman. Occasionally he brought collectors, as he did one day when I happened to be posing for my aunt and her friends.

It was 1870, the end of the first summer after Julie arrived in Paris, and France was at war with Prussia. The fighting was along the Rhine, far from the city, and had yet to affect our lives directly. I had gone to the studio that morning, as I often did, to play the piano while the women painted. I enjoyed having an audience for my music, and I loved the atmosphere of the atelier—the lively talk about art, the sense of purpose that charged the air, the interesting collectors who dropped in to scrutinize the works in progress.

When I arrived that morning at ten, Sophie ran up to me, her blue eyes wide, her face pale with worry.

“Oh, Mimi, I’m so glad you came. The model didn’t show up again. I think she’s self-conscious because she’s putting on weight. And only a week before the exhibition at the Cercle des Arts Libéraux. Would you mind posing?”

I said I’d be happy to. I hung up my shawl and stepped to the dais. Julie hobbled over to me. “Mimi, you have to take your clothes off,” she whispered. “I mean, you don’t have to. But if you’re going to pose, you do. We need a
nude
model.”

“Oh.”

I slipped behind the screen, undressed, and donned the blue kimono that hung on a hook. Then I took my place on the dais. I loosened the kimono belt and let the blue silk fall from my shoulders. I did not mind being naked in front of these women. They were artists, after all, and were used to looking at bodies. I was flattered they judged me attractive enough to model. Freed from my corset, petticoats, and stockings, and warmed by the nearby stove, I felt as relaxed as I did in the moments before dropping off to sleep.

Two hours went by, and then I heard voices echoing in the hall, and the sound of stomping boots growing closer. A portly middle-aged man with a large head of graying black curls and a pointed, waxed beard pushed open the door and swaggered into the room. He was followed by a handsome, much younger man. I immediately recognized the younger man as Dr. Sam Pozzi, though I don’t think he remembered me. In any case, he wasn’t looking at my face. He was eying my body with a delighted expression, as if someone had just told him a witty story. He only got a few seconds to study me, though, because I quickly retrieved the kimono from the floor and wrapped it around me.

The older man was Carolus-Duran. He parked his bulk in front of Sophie’s canvas. Scowling at the picture, he said loudly, “Sophie, Sophie, how many times must I tell you, paint what you see! What is all this light in the canvas—here and here and here? Look at the model!”

He glanced up at me and narrowed his eyes. “See?” he said. “There is only one broad light in her cheek.” He picked up a brush and added a few daubs of paint to Sophie’s picture.

“The snowy breast is good. But that left nipple has too many pinks. You’ve put in too many colorations, which I
know
you didn’t see on the model’s body.”