Katherine Keenum (26 page)

“Come on, let’s go,” she said. “I can’t stand it inside any longer. If we make a detour around through the Luxembourg Garden, we should get there at about the right time.”

The garden was one of their favorite places, somewhere they could go at any time of day or evening and feel they belonged. This morning, as they turned in the gate, young mothers and uniformed nurses were already pushing perambulators or holding the hands of toddlers. An old gentleman, with his hands resting on a cane between his knees, sat on a bench with his eyes closed to let watery morning sunlight hit his face. Purple, gold, and white crocuses bordered beds of yellow daffodils. It all should have calmed Jeanette, but halfway to the main fountain behind the palace, she suddenly decided they had pushed their luck. “Well, then, let’s cut over this way and head on out,” said Effie in the placating tone of someone humoring an overwrought companion.

By nine thirty, they had reached Rue Nôtre-Dame-des-Champs. They were not alone. To Jeanette’s dismay, as they approached the handsome façade of No. 58, a well-dressed gentleman was already entering the house while three carriages stood parked at the curb, their loitering drivers deep in conversation with—oh, no, Robbie Dolson.

In a fury, Jeanette marched up to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, Miss Palmer, always a pleasure! Surely you know that, of all places, Carolus-Duran’s studio is the place to be on a Thursday morning. Of course, you do: Here you are. Or did you think you had a private audience?”

“Why did you come?”

“Oh, well, because, for my sins, I am a journalist and must cover whatever is happening.”

“Not this, not for
Noggins
.”

“Well, I do sell to other periodicals, you know. Nothing if not versatile, this lad—although, dearest collaborator, how brilliant! After all, our dandy Peregrine does go
partout
.” He took her by the elbow and started her up the front steps.

She pulled back, resistant. “I don’t think I want—”

“No cold feet now,” whispered Effie, on her other side. Effie’s curiosity was whetted by the traffic, and not even Robbie’s behavior could dampen it.

Nor, on second thought, would Jeanette let him ruin her chances. She jerked free of him and climbed the steps.

At the front door, a servant was posted to receive and direct visitors to a large front room on the ground floor. It was strewn with thick Persian rugs and hung with tapestries and pictures. Some dozen people circulated to examine M. Duran’s paintings, while more clustered in front of a full-length portrait mounted in the middle of the room. Its subject, a fashionably dressed lady, let fall a fur-trimmed evening cape as though she might step out of her frame to join her admirers or disappear behind one of several tall potted palm trees in the room.

“Why, it’s as elegant as a hotel lobby or a fashion house!” exclaimed Cousin Effie as they stood on the threshold.

“May I use that?” said Robbie.

“Shhhh!” hissed Jeanette.

“Mais elle a tout raison, mademoiselle.”
But she is so right. Horrified, Jeanette turned to face the smirk of a man who had arrived behind them, a boulevardier in his thirties, dressed in a well-cut English suit of subdued gray-and-brown checks.

“Martineau,
mon ami
,” said Robbie, somewhat wryly. “May I introduce Miss Pendergrast and Miss Palmer from America.”

Cousin Effie ducked and grinned. “
Enchantée
,” said Jeanette, anything but enchanted to have had Cousin Effie’s stupid remark provide a bon mot to be repeated all over Paris.

At sight of the new arrivals, Carolus-Duran crossed the room, his teeth shining in a wide smile. On his own ground, he appeared even more astonishing than at the Renicks’ house. The boots in which he stepped lightly were made of sueded kid, supple enough for a dancer’s shoe; their cut above the ankles hinted at the equestrian sports at which he excelled. His striped trousers were, if anything, tighter than the pair he wore on Tuesday; instead of the roomy work jacket of two days ago, he wore a short velvet smoking jacket, soft yet cunningly shaped by a tailor to show off his lithe torso. His collar was wider, his cravat looser. A gold bracelet shone out from under his ruffled cuff as he extended a hand to lift Jeanette’s fingertips and conduct her into the room.

“
Vous êtes venue, mademoiselle
,” he said, and took her hand in both of his. She had come. Good. Did she know these gentlemen?

Reluctantly, she introduced Robbie as the brother of a fellow student at the Académie Julian. She regretted that she did not know M. Martineau.

Ah, but M. Duran did. He spoke in a tone that implied it was better that she should not, although he and M. Martineau exchanged civilities. With a cock of his famous eyebrow, he bowed the two men on into the room. A moth’s kiss brushed over the back of Jeanette’s hand. For an instant dark eyes avowed his deepest wish to attend to her and her only, immediately, at once. Ruefully they added, what could he do? Such a crowd! So many demands! He would be with her as soon as he could, he said. In the meantime, she should put him to the test by examining his work. Before she could reply, he was off to the far side of the room to attend a white-haired gentleman.

“Well, it’s certainly a privilege just to look around!” said Cousin Effie.

Jeanette thought it should have been, but she was overwhelmed by the artificiality of the open house made worse by the need to avoid or thwart Robbie Dolson.

They soon learned from overheard comments that the featured portraits would be sent to the Salon this year. “Maybe that’s why there are so many people here today,” said Effie.

While Cousin Effie surveyed their fellow visitors with a surreptitiousness that fooled no one who happened to notice her, Jeanette kept her eyes fixed only on the walls even while she was careful to maintain a distance from Robbie. Studies for the portraits that had won M. Duran his large clientele were hung along with some landscapes, the head of a gaunt man asleep, a copy of a Rubens—not her Rubens, but surely her omen! She swung around to search out M. Duran again. It thrilled her to think he must still explore, must still copy in the Louvre sometimes. His work was the work of a colorist, a man who took sensual pleasure in the act of painting. In that moment, she knew to a certainty that he loved, really loved his art.

“Well, look at that, he’s selling on the spot,” said Cousin Effie.

M. Duran’s hand was, in fact, slipping something into his jacket pocket while the white-haired gentleman took down a small, unframed study of a nude with coppery hair.

“One of the naughty ones,” Effie continued in a stage whisper.

“Shh. It’s just a study like a thousand others,” said Jeanette. But Robbie and M. Martineau were watching, too, with malicious enjoyment. They smirched the sale with a touch of the sordid. Jeanette felt an irrational pity for the little nude when a servant appeared discreetly to wrap it in brown paper and string for the white-haired gentleman to carry away with him. She turned away and moved off, not wanting either M. Duran or Mr. Dolson to know she had witnessed the transaction.

“Ah, mademoiselle, maintenant.”

In trying to make herself inconspicuous, she had drifted toward a screen where, suddenly, M. Duran was beside her, kindly but brisk. Obviously wanting to be quick about it, he conducted her behind the screen to a worktable on which artist’s paraphernalia had been pushed more or less neatly to one side. Effie scurried in behind them. Jeanette set down her portfolio and opened it to a full-length figure study.

“
Vous êtes heureuse, mademoiselle
,” said M. Duran. She was lucky—lucky to be at the beginning of her career when she might devote herself entirely to her ideals. Impatiently, he dismissed the crowded room behind them. He turned a few pages without comment. When he came to her sheet of baby’s faces, he smiled and glanced at Jeanette. You have seen the portrait of the boy that goes to the Salon? he asked.
Bon.
To catch a child’s expression, the tenderness of its skin in the delicate envelope of air surrounding it, ah,
tres important et tres difficile
. He looked at a couple more drawings, then reached for the little oil sketch on the bottom, a view out the back window of Amy and Sonja’s studio. But she had not done this
chez Julian
.

“Non, monsieur.”
It was done in the studio of a friend who had given her a few lessons.

Evidently, she was a good teacher.
“Vous êtes contente?”

“Oui, monsieur. Non! Non, je ne crois . . .”

He smiled at her confusion. She was right to be loyal to her friends, he said, but it was equally important to serve her talent. Yes, he could teach her. Her drawing was strong enough to support painting now, although she must continue to work on it with Julian to perfect her technique. His ladies gathered at No. 11, Passage Stanislas, at eight in the morning. He would advise the
massière
of the class to expect her.
Au revoir, mademoiselle.
Until Monday.

He bowed slightly from the waist to her and to Effie (the first indication he had been aware she was present). When he was gone, Jeanette felt shaky inside—exhausted and elated at the same time. Her hand trembled as she straightened her samples slowly and retied the ribbon. “Oh, my.” Effie, who had watched and listened only half understanding what was said, understood enough. When Jeanette turned to meet her eye, Effie neither dithered nor gaped after Carolus-Duran. Instead, she stood calmly with her face composed and looked at Jeanette with pride. “I knew you needed to come to Paris,” she said.

“Oh, Cousin Effie!” cried Jeanette, leaving the portfolio on the table to throw her arms around her cousin in a burst of tears.

Effie returned the embrace with a quick pressure. “Oh, my. Well.”

“I know,” said Jeanette, wiping the corner of each eye with the back of her gloved hand while she squeezed Effie’s hand with the other, “this is not the place for demonstrations. But, oh, Cousin Effie—I am so glad you were here.”

*   *   *

In her present mood, Jeanette could almost forgive Robbie Dolson for coming. When they reemerged from behind the screen, she felt as light-footed as the master himself. She was an initiate now; she pitied all outsiders and mere visitors, the petitioners and customers who packed the studio more densely than ever. In a moment she would have made her way through them out into the glorious day—glorious whether the sun shone or not. Robbie pushed out of a slouch against the far wall to cut through the crowd. She could not hold back a broad smile; he brightened in response.

“I see something splendid has happened,” he said. His barely concealed taunts from earlier were replaced by an eager friendliness to all appearances genuine.

Jeanette warmed to him. “The best possible news. M. Duran says I am to join his class next week!”

“Oh, well, this does call for celebration. Congratulations, Miss Palmer!”

“We are just on our way to coffee,” said Cousin Effie.

“With a shot of brandy, I hope,” said Robbie.

Jeanette suddenly craved something hot, filling, and restorative—no, not brandy. “
Café au lait
,” she said, “or chocolate. You are the sophisticate, Mr. Dolson, but I want fatness, butter, cream.”

“Then I know just the place. Emily will be delighted at your news. I beg permission to be the one to tell her.”

“As if I could stop you two sharing anything!” laughed Jeanette.

“Did you notice,” said Robbie, outside, as they descended to the pavement, “how truly pell-mell the mob in there was? High and low, all sorts mixed together. Take the errand boy gawping at the nudes, for instance—how often is he let into an artist’s studio? The
beau monde
, of course, in the person of Martineau. But that beautiful woman hidden under a veil—did you see her? The burning question is, how does Carolus induce such a
belle Parisienne
to rise in time for a midmorning call? I was speaking to her carriage driver when you arrived—the one, yawning.
He
isn’t used to such hours.”

Jeanette stopped on the sidewalk. “You
are
thinking about a
Noggins
piece, aren’t you?”

Robbie shrugged his shoulders.

“No, Robbie; no, please. I can’t start work under Carolus-Duran by drawing him or his private studio into a cartoon. You must see that I can’t. I won’t.”

He seemed moved by the use of his first name; his face softened. “If you put it that way, my dear, of course not. You shall do nothing of the sort.”

“And you won’t either.”

“You cannot believe for a moment that Carolus-Duran would mind a little more publicity? Oh, well, have it your way. No matter. Paris of the thousand beguiling nonces will toss us something equally diverting soon enough. Has Emily told you, for instance, about the new organ grinder on our block? I’m thinking of tackling the question, where does an organ grinder procure his monkey’s fez? But for now, coffee, coffee.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A Loan

R
obbie led Jeanette and Effie to a nearby café at No. 23, Rue Brea. M. Cagniard, the owner, offered felicitations when he learned that Jeanette had just been accepted as one of Carolus-Duran’s pupils. His celebrated neighbor was a great master, a veritable genius,
et très ge
ntil
.

At Robbie’s request, he gave them a table large enough for Jeanette to open her portfolio and show him her work while they drank their coffee. When Robbie had gone through all the drawings, he said, “I’m glad to have seen your serious work. I never had before, you know. You’re rather wasted on cartoons.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Dolson,” said Jeanette, retying the portfolio, “but now I’ll need cartoon money all the more with double tuition to pay.”

“Carolus-Duran would be easy to caricature.”

“No! I told you: We just can’t.”

Even as she spoke, the need to come up with a hundred francs in a hurry almost overwhelmed principle, but Jeanette quashed her fears. After that, she knew she talked too much. It was partly that Robbie paid such flattering attention, partly the lingering exhilaration of her triumph. Outside, she parted from him genuinely grateful for his having enlarged and extended her happiness, but once he was on his way, she came back up hard against the demand for tuition.

“Oh, Cousin Effie, how am I going to pay M. Duran? You told me to put all the
Noggins
money in the ginger jar. Why didn’t I listen?”

“Well, if you hadn’t bought paints, palette, and brush then, you’d have to now.”

Effie’s words were meant to be charitable, but they only reminded Jeanette of all the other expenses that lay ahead. Her mind raced as they walked home arm in arm. She tried to think of something she could sell, work she could pick up—she knew a girl who tinted photographs in the evening; maybe she could do that. “I wonder if I could stall the
massière
or pay by the week.”

“Offer to pay a deposit,” said Effie. “Take whatever is in the ginger jar.”

“But that’s supposed to be for emergencies and pleasures—yours as well as mine.”

“This is both.”

Jeanette gave Effie an affectionate tug as thanks, then sighed. “That would leave the rest of the tuition to worry about. What if I couldn’t come up with it?”

“You’d have to drop out for a while.”

No, thought Jeanette obstinately, no. She bit her lip. There had to be some way to find the money for at least one month’s tuition, now; there had to be. Finally she said with a sigh, “I’ll cable Papa.”

“Cables cost money.”

“I can’t help it. Even with a cable, there’s not much time. Today is Thursday; payment is due Monday.”

“Maybe you should start with M. Duran this summer.”

“Cousin Effie, he said to come next Monday! By next summer he won’t remember who I am!”

They walked on in silence. And then Effie made one of her brave, fantastical flights. “I’ll just have to withdraw a hundred francs from my account at the bank tomorrow to cover the first month.”

“But you can’t! That’s yours,” protested Jeanette, genuinely shocked.

“To do with as I please,” said Effie. “And it will only be a loan; your father is sure to repay me.”

Every prudent scruple about money ever instilled in Jeanette, every ounce of family feeling told against taking advantage of Cousin Effie’s straitened means; and for the rest of the day, she resisted. But once the offer had been made, no other solution suggested itself no matter how much more they talked. After supper, back upstairs in their cold room, Jeanette sat on a chair at the window, twisted around to rest her chin on her forearms across the back of her chair. She searched the street and rooftops as if another answer might lie out in the darkness.

“I wonder what I have that a pawnbroker would give me a hundred francs for. Nothing. And even if I wanted to go to a moneylender, I wouldn’t know how.”

“Mr. Dolson would,” said Effie, with a chuckle. “He could probably supply you with names, addresses, and warnings against the worst screws.”

“You think I should—?”

“Hush, now; of course not. I didn’t mean
ask
him.”

Jeanette said nothing but only continued to stare out the window.

“Let me tide you over a few days, Jeanette,” said Effie. “I have a lot invested in your success.”

A tear came to Jeanette’s eye. “Has the adventure worked out for you, Cousin Effie? The whole thing, I mean—coming to Paris?”

“How can you even ask after today?”

“But what if I don’t succeed?”

It was Effie’s turn to pause. The deep, protective shadows in the room invited confidences. When she spoke, her words came almost in a whisper: “It will still have been worth it to me. I have come back to life. When Polycarpus died, I thought all I had left to look forward to was endless years of helping in the Hendricks’ nursery and waiting on Cousin Maude. You may think running errands for Mrs. Renick is much the same—”

Jeanette shifted in her chair. Privately, she did.

“—but there’s all the difference in the world. Mrs. Renick treats me as a friend. She thanks me and never criticizes. And I could say no to her any time I wanted and walk out of her house and still be in the most beautiful city in the world. And there’s the McAll Mission and the church. I suppose I should think of New York City as home now, but it never really was. Anyway, I want to be here in Paris on the day when you have a picture in the Salon—you and Miss Richardson and Mlle. Borealska.”

Jeanette sobbed into her forearm for a moment and then crossed the room to lay her face across Effie’s lap. She was also half frightened by the strength of her own desire. “I’ve never wanted something so much in all my life,” she said.