a hurry.”
“And when aren’t you?”
He sniffed the air. “Patchouli. Don’t let your daughters wear it. That perfume makes every floozy in Montmartre smell like rancid pork rind.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate your kind advice. I have some Brie left from lunch, soft but not too runny—just the way you like it.”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
She leveled a look of exasperation at him. “You can’t forget to eat. You’re such a beanpole it breaks my heart. It won’t take but a minute. Sit.”
He lowered his aching body into a chair. It was amusing to watch her ratcheting herself around in the small space behind the counter to work at the stove. Nature had blessed Camille with a rotundity that was ample advertisement for her cheeses and omelettes.
“I know why you came in,” she said, her back to him. “It’s because now that things are more difficult, with your arm I mean, you’ve decided to take me seriously and marry one of my daughters.” She turned around with a broad grin on her face. “Which one do you want? Marie, the seamstress, or Annette, the shoe shop girl? Either one would be a big help to you,” she said in a singsong voice. “It’s my dearest hope. Not because you’ll secure her a prosperous future, mind you—you’re a painter first, last, and always.”
“Then why?”
“Because you’re so irritatingly lovable. Bohemian to the core, but someday you’ll outgrow that, and then you’ll be a proper husband, as solid as a paving stone.” She set down a heel of bread, a plate of cheese, and a café crème on the tin-topped table. “Stop rubbing your nose like that. It’s a bad habit. It makes you look like a bundle of nerves. Who’s the painting for?”
• 20 •
L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
“Anybody. Would you hang it and see who might come along and
want it?”
“Anything for you.” She glanced at it. “So sweet. They remind me of my girls when they were that age. How much should I say?”
“If someone offers fifty francs, take it.”
“Forty?”
“Take it. Even thirty. It’s only a study, but don’t say that.”
Camille chuckled. “Just think. Me, an art dealer.” Her hand rested a moment on her motherly bosom before slinging wide her arm, the fl esh under her upper arm jiggling. “La Galerie de la Crème.”
“I like it. I could paint a sign for you. Crème de la Crème. ”
He finished the cheese and café, kissed her round cheeks, and ducked out the door. “Au revoir, ma reine de la crème.”
He left her laughing and jiggling at the doorway.
By God, he deserved a better showcase for his work than a little neighborhood kitchen. And he’d get one too, in the Palais des Champs-
Élysées where the Salon was held. He was not destined to end his days as a nobody.
Up the stairs to his studio to change into the gray pin-striped suit his father had tailored for him seven years earlier. He wanted it to last forever now that his father had passed away. He remembered his father’s insistence on the highest-quality fabric, and his careful fi tting. Putting it on was like donning another self for Madame Charpentier’s salon, proper and elegant, someone whom his father would be proud of.
Onward to the Louvre. He bumped into people who looked aghast
at his face, swerved into the street around slow walkers, dodged omnibuses, darted in front of mounted gendarmes. Pain shot down his leg.
The Louvre, the Louvre.
On the way, he rang the buzzer at the office of the Gazette des Beaux-Arts to ask its director, Charles Ephrussi, a friend and collector, to pose.
No one answered. He left a note.
He headed toward the river, passing the spot where his family used to live and have their tailor shop, next to the Roman well. As a child he loved to touch its smooth stones and imagine life in Paris so many cen-
• 21 •
S u s a n V r e e l a n d
turies ago. Gone. Medieval Paris gone too. Razed to lay out Baron Haussmann’s grand
“And when aren’t you?”
He sniffed the air. “Patchouli. Don’t let your daughters wear it. That perfume makes every floozy in Montmartre smell like rancid pork rind.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate your kind advice. I have some Brie left from lunch, soft but not too runny—just the way you like it.”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
She leveled a look of exasperation at him. “You can’t forget to eat. You’re such a beanpole it breaks my heart. It won’t take but a minute. Sit.”
He lowered his aching body into a chair. It was amusing to watch her ratcheting herself around in the small space behind the counter to work at the stove. Nature had blessed Camille with a rotundity that was ample advertisement for her cheeses and omelettes.
“I know why you came in,” she said, her back to him. “It’s because now that things are more difficult, with your arm I mean, you’ve decided to take me seriously and marry one of my daughters.” She turned around with a broad grin on her face. “Which one do you want? Marie, the seamstress, or Annette, the shoe shop girl? Either one would be a big help to you,” she said in a singsong voice. “It’s my dearest hope. Not because you’ll secure her a prosperous future, mind you—you’re a painter first, last, and always.”
“Then why?”
“Because you’re so irritatingly lovable. Bohemian to the core, but someday you’ll outgrow that, and then you’ll be a proper husband, as solid as a paving stone.” She set down a heel of bread, a plate of cheese, and a café crème on the tin-topped table. “Stop rubbing your nose like that. It’s a bad habit. It makes you look like a bundle of nerves. Who’s the painting for?”
• 20 •
L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
“Anybody. Would you hang it and see who might come along and
want it?”
“Anything for you.” She glanced at it. “So sweet. They remind me of my girls when they were that age. How much should I say?”
“If someone offers fifty francs, take it.”
“Forty?”
“Take it. Even thirty. It’s only a study, but don’t say that.”
Camille chuckled. “Just think. Me, an art dealer.” Her hand rested a moment on her motherly bosom before slinging wide her arm, the fl esh under her upper arm jiggling. “La Galerie de la Crème.”
“I like it. I could paint a sign for you. Crème de la Crème. ”
He finished the cheese and café, kissed her round cheeks, and ducked out the door. “Au revoir, ma reine de la crème.”
He left her laughing and jiggling at the doorway.
By God, he deserved a better showcase for his work than a little neighborhood kitchen. And he’d get one too, in the Palais des Champs-
Élysées where the Salon was held. He was not destined to end his days as a nobody.
Up the stairs to his studio to change into the gray pin-striped suit his father had tailored for him seven years earlier. He wanted it to last forever now that his father had passed away. He remembered his father’s insistence on the highest-quality fabric, and his careful fi tting. Putting it on was like donning another self for Madame Charpentier’s salon, proper and elegant, someone whom his father would be proud of.
Onward to the Louvre. He bumped into people who looked aghast
at his face, swerved into the street around slow walkers, dodged omnibuses, darted in front of mounted gendarmes. Pain shot down his leg.
The Louvre, the Louvre.
On the way, he rang the buzzer at the office of the Gazette des Beaux-Arts to ask its director, Charles Ephrussi, a friend and collector, to pose.
No one answered. He left a note.
He headed toward the river, passing the spot where his family used to live and have their tailor shop, next to the Roman well. As a child he loved to touch its smooth stones and imagine life in Paris so many cen-
• 21 •
S u s a n V r e e l a n d
turies ago. Gone. Medieval Paris gone too. Razed to lay out Baron Haussmann’s grand
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