Claude & Camille: A Novel of Monet Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Come down and meet my father. My aunt’s away tonight. We’ll have a meal of recriminations. Recriminations in the soup, the chicken, the salad, the cheese.”
    Frédéric changed his shirt and slipped in gold monogrammed cuff links. “The only reason these aren’t pawned yet is my grandfather just gave them to me,” he said with his lopsided grin. “Come on, Monet. I’m going to charm the hell out of your father. I’m sent on a mission here.”
    They descended the stairs, hands behinds their backs like lawyers. Frédéric Bazille did not walk shyly as he did into the art class but strode past the china hutch to shake Claude’s father’s hand, saying, “I am your son’s friend Frédéric Bazille from Montpellier. I am hoping you will extend your hospitality to me for a few days in your beautiful province.”
    Adolphe Monet studied the tall visitor with some bewilderment. “From Montpellier, monsieur?” he asked. “I have just read an article in the news journal that spoke of the scientist Bazille of Montpellier. Are you his son?”
    “I am, monsieur.”
    “And he has sent you to Paris to study art , monsieur?”
    “I study art only in my leisure hours, monsieur. I am a medical student; my family intends me to be a physician.”
    The three of them took their seats and shook out their napkins. Adolphe Monet poured the wine, and when the soup had been served, he said with a sigh, “Your father’s fortunate in you, Bazille, if I may say so. Medicine’s an honorable profession. My younger son wants to do nothing in life but paint clouds. Seven years in the army will make him a little more realistic. I also expect your serious studies will be a good influence on him.”
    “Do you want me to study medicine also, Father?” Claude asked. “After my years as a soldier are done?”
    “You know what I mean, Oscar.”
    “Yes, I suppose I must. What I want is not important.” Claude stared angrily at his wineglass until it wavered for him and he felt Frédéric kick him under the table.
    “I don’t think you understand, monsieur,” Frédéric said, his spoon poised neatly above his soup bowl. “Claude influences me. He’s the best of all of us. You must buy his freedom from the army. You must continue to support him. The world will later thank you. He’s a genius.”
    Adolphe Monet stared at him. “The world will thank me!” he exclaimed, throwing down his napkin. “You looked like a sensible fellow. A genius! He’s a dreamer! He’ll serve his seven years and make his own way in the world as I did. Landscapes and girls! Oscar, you’ll drive me to an early grave.”
    T HREE HOURS LATER both young men had thrown off coats, ties, and vests and sat on their beds in Claude’s room in their shirts and trousers, a wine bottle on the table in front of them. They were drunk, and two empty wine bottles had already rolled under the bed. The clock downstairs struck eleven, and outside, the harbor city slept.
    Claude said, “So your family’s old? Respected?”
    “Both. I come from generations of men of great achievement, city fathers, benefactors of good public causes such as hospitals and the poor.”
    “That was kind what you said! I’m not better than the rest of you.”
    “You are. You have an uncompromising vision. I want to paint, but my style’s not free like yours. I wish I were like you.”
    “Don’t wish to be like me. If my friends think I’m any good, they’re almost the only ones.”
    “My mission was to get you back. I may have failed. I’ll be skinned alive with a dirty palette knife.”
    Claude stared down at his glass and then out the dark window. “Wind’s rising,” he said moodily. “A storm’s coming; I feel it. I always used to lie here when storms came after my mother died and wish the house would blow away to the harbor. Now you know how pleasant it is here. I bet you never have to compromise, Frédéric.”
    Frédéric frowned. “On the contrary; I do. Do you think I