The Montmartre Investigation Read Online Free PDF Page B

hair, which hung loose. On impulse Victor buried his face in the magnificent mane of red hair.
    â€˜Victor! You gave me a fright!’ cried the young woman. ‘I should wipe my brush on your shirt! Oh, it doesn’t matter, I wasn’t getting anywhere anyway.’
    She threw the corn and the laurel down beside a potted palm.
    â€˜I’m sick of still lifes!’
    Victor, sitting in a Tudor chair, watched her put the vase away in a sideboard, then turn back to her easel.
    â€˜Tasha, am I preventing you from fulfilling your potential?’
    â€˜Of course not, idiot, I’m just not up to it, that’s all! I’m incapable of distinguishing the incidental from the essential.’
    â€˜You’re overworking! Sometimes less is more; take a step back. What are you trying to prove?’
    â€˜Maurice Laumier says that…’
    â€˜Oh please! For pity’s sake! Forget about him! He has no originality; he thinks theory obviates the need for creation. Theory, theory, that’s all he talks about!’
    â€˜You really do hate him.’
    â€˜I despise what your Laumier stands for; there’s a difference. He paints by numbers and he calls that art. What he’s really interested in is making a sale.’
    â€˜First of all, he’s not my Laumier, secondly…’
    â€˜I’m right and you know it. Good grief! You don’t have to bow to fashion! Explore your interior universe, search what Kenji calls “the chambers of the soul”…Excuse me, I’m getting carried away, but perhaps you should take more interest in other aspects of life, in people.’
    â€˜Do you think so? That’s what Henri advocated…Come on, don’t look like that. You have no reason to be jealous; he’s just a kind friend, and he’s talented. I met him at the Salon des Indépendents 6 and…’
    â€˜I demand nothing of you, you are free.’
    â€˜Oh, stop it, Victor. Please don’t be childish; it’s becoming tiresome.’
    She knelt down before him, slid her fingers under his collar and caressed his neck. He relaxed, ecstatic to feel her so close.
    â€˜Isn’t it hot in here?’ she murmured, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘There now, I need to see the only male model that inspires me.’
    â€˜Now?’
    â€˜Just a quick drawing, there, on the sofa. Come on, take everything off.’
    She picked up a sketchbook.
    â€˜I’ll call it Monsieur Récamier in the Nude . Stay still.’
    She adjusted the position of his right arm across his chest. He embraced her, pulling her towards him, fumbling to unfasten her dress. The sketchbook slipped to the floor.
    â€˜Oh well, the light isn’t very good,’ she said.
    He kissed her on the nose, the forehead, the hair as she helped him to slip off her dress.
    â€˜Tasha, marry me; it would make everything so simple.’
    â€˜It’s too soon,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not ready; I don’t want children…Have you got any…?’
    He looked at her intensely, propped on one elbow, patted the pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a box of condoms.
    â€˜Victor, are you angry with me?’
    â€˜You know perfectly well that I always make an effort to be careful, even without protection.’
    He pushed a lock of hair back from her cheek.
    â€˜We’ll have to wait a little before we move on to the serious business and I advise you not to laugh,’ he murmured, clasping her to him.
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    A little later, as they lay together on the narrow sofa, he came close to confessing that he had rented the hairdressers’ shop.
    â€˜Tasha, I…’
    But she silenced him with a kiss. Everything ceased to exist, except her. He no longer felt the need to explain. Ideas, the future; nothing mattered. She stretched; she was happy. Her eyes were shining. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing.
    â€˜I adore you. But my back