The Witch of Painted Sorrows

Chapter 15

“The modeling here is heavy, Mademoiselle Verlaine. And too light here.”

“Yes, I see.”

Monsieur Moreau stood beside me, studying my canvas. Per the assignment, I’d been painting the female nude posing on the podium, but in my composition had positioned her in blue-black darkness. Lurking in the shadows, I’d sketched in some of the angelic creatures I’d seen hovering over the tombstones in the cemetery. One of them, a male with wings, was about to swoop down on her.

“You’ve lost some of the figure’s dimensionality, and she’s too flat around the calves and ankles. But I’m pleased to see a style emerging.” He stepped back and peered at my painting from another angle. “Yes, it’s an interesting and atmospheric vision.” He looked away from the canvas to me. “You are impatient, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I think I am.”

“ ‘Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near’?” he said, quoting the well-known Andrew Marvell poem. “You’re young and have years of painting ahead of you. What is your rush?”

I couldn’t tell the maître that I had another life and that I might not be able to remain in Paris for long enough to soak up all the knowledge he had to impart. Just that morning my grandmother had shown me yet another telegram from Mr. Lissauer. This one coming only a week after the last.

According to the lawyer, Benjamin had hired a detective agency to find me. Once again I mentally retraced my steps. Had I left any clues in Southampton? My passage to Calais couldn’t have been recorded; I had paid for my ferry ticket with cash, not a bank note, and had not been asked to offer any form of identification. But surely there were people who’d seen me on the boat. Or on the train from Calais to Paris later that day. Would they be able to identify me if shown my portrait?

No, I might not be able to stay and study with Moreau indefinitely. I might not have years of painting ahead of me. Nothing was certain; events were unfolding and changing so rapidly that I couldn’t be sure the center, as I knew it, would hold. But I couldn’t say that to my teacher, so instead I said: “I am trying to make up for all the time I lost after my accident when I couldn’t paint.”

“Understandable,” Moreau said, “but may I suggest you slow down while in class. Improved technique will lead to refinement of style.”

“I’ll try, of course.”

“If you want to increase our time together, you might think about joining my atelier. Is that something that you would like to do?”

“I would be honored.”

Moreau only asked a few students to join him at his studio, and I had only dared to dream I’d be invited into the inner circle that included Desvallières, du Gardier, Matisse, Rouault, and Maxence.

“We meet two nights a week, and the work we do there is a commitment in addition to what we do in our classes here. The address is 14 rue de la Rochefoucauld.” He was about to move on. Then turned back. “The Old Masters had a very specific technique using a strong contrast between light and dark to give the illusion of three-dimensionality… I see that seventeenth-century chiaroscuro in your work, and I like it. I didn’t think they were teaching that at the art school in New York. Very few painters still use it. Is it part of the regular curriculum?”

I was stumped. I had no idea. I had to come up with an answer. He was waiting. “Not usually, no. When I tried to copy techniques I’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum in the Caravaggios my father and I enjoyed so much, my teacher gave me special instruction.”

It was a lie. But what else could I have said? I wasn’t aware of how I’d learned anything that I was able to do with paints and brushes on canvas. Yes, Cherubino and La Lune had employed chiaroscuro to give their paintings depth, but how could I have learned it from artists who’d been dead for over two centuries?

“You’re a very exciting student, Mademoiselle. Your compositions are still slightly awkward, your color sense could be more refined, but your vision is provocative and very curious. You show great promise.”

He walked away, and I picked up my brush and continued working on the woman’s form. Why was I so afraid of the future? I could write Mr. Lissauer and ask him if there was a way to start divorce proceedings while I remained in France. Regardless of the social stigma, there was no question I needed to end my marriage. If I could sell my father’s house in Newport and the mansion on Fifth Avenue, both of which had been left to me directly, I’d have more than enough money to remain in Paris, buy a small house, and have my own studio. Like Mary Cassatt, Sandrine Jeanette Verlaine could be an American painting in Paris. Once I had my own home, I wouldn’t need my grandmother’s help or even her consent to live my own life the way I wanted.

Our conversations since the funeral the previous week had been stilted. She was convinced I was troubled, hated that I had taken up drawing, was certain I was being affected negatively by being in Paris, and wanted me to consult with her cousin the rabbi.

I refused. Her theories about me were rubbish. I was certain that when I told him, Julien would agree. Being possessed by a demon was a nonsensical concept invited by overactive imaginations. But Julien wasn’t there to concur. He’d left the day of my cousin’s funeral to travel to his hometown of Nancy to oversee several suites of furniture his uncle was creating for a house on the exclusive Avenue Hoche in the 8th arrondissement.

When the class ended that day, a few of the students whom I had gotten to know invited me to join them at the café around the corner. Since my grandmother would be dining with the count and I’d told her I was spending the evening with my imaginary visitor from America, I was free.

At La Palette our group included Gaston Billet, who was gentle and quiet but painted boldly and with fervor; Maurice Soubrelle, an aesthete and intellectual who frustrated Moreau with questions that our teacher said were better left to critics than creators; and Serge Mouton. I had the hardest time with Serge, who was often lewd and always smelled of beer, but his paintings were glorious and full of colors that made me want to get lost in them. I never could reconcile his personality with his beautiful canvases. He was two different people-the artist who was a marvel and the man who was often appalling and unappealing.

“Lillian’s skin today glowed like a peach,” Gaston said when we were seated and the wine had been served. He was blond and had pale blue eyes that he blinked a bit too often.

“She’s the toast of the art school,” Maurice said. He was a bit of a dandy, always dressed better than everyone else, and wore a lemon-scented pomade in his hair. “But very aloof,” he added.

Serge laughed. “That’s putting it mildly.” A big man, he took up more space than anyone else. I was surprised he didn’t break the wineglass when he touched it.

It was a strange phenomenon, but when I was dressed in my art school garb, the others weren’t circumspect with me the way they would have been had I been in a dress and all the finery that went with it. I was one of them, a fellow artist, and it made me fearless. Freedom, when you’ve never really known it, is exhilarating. I found it liberating not to wait for someone to help me with doors or offer to carry my packages, and to be able to say anything I pleased without worrying about being considered unladylike.

“Don’t worry, when we get to male models, we’ll tease you, too, Sandrine,” Gaston said.

“Do you prefer them fair or dark?” Serge asked.

“As long as they don’t look like you, I’ll be happy,” I answered.

They laughed.

“You prefer someone handsome then?” Maurice joked at Serge’s expense, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Tomas,” Gaston said. “That’s who she’ll like.”

“No, she’ll go for Alexander,” Serge said.

“Why Alexander?” I asked.

Gaston told me: “Serge is attempting humor. Alexander is an ancient man, about eighty, with a long Methuselah beard and a cane.”

“I hope Moreau keeps Lillian a bit longer,” Maurice said.

“Yes, yes, she’s quite an eyeful. But it’s clear she’s not interested in artists,” Serge told me.

“So you’ve all tried?” I asked.

“We all have,” Serge said. “She may look hot, but when it comes to art students, she’s a cold fish.”

“Maybe it’s just that you all have cold hands,” I said, and rubbed my palms together as if to start a fire.

After more laughter, more wine, and a plate of cheese, the conversation turned to our work and our teacher.

“You know what the author Huysmans wrote about Moreau, don’t you?” Maurice asked me.

I told him I didn’t.

“He called him an extraordinary and unique artist and said he was ‘a mystic locked up in the middle of Paris in a cell.’ And that nothing from everyday life penetrates that cloister.” Opening his sketchbook, he riffled through the pages. “I have more of the quote: ‘Thrown in ecstasy, he sees the resplendent fairy-like visions, the apotheoses of other times.’ ”

“Some say he’s our greatest living painter,” said Gaston. “You’ll see if you join the atelier. He has two hundred paintings he’s working on at one time.” Gaston paused. “He’s changed since his wife died.”

“They were never married,” Maurice corrected.

“No one knows very much about her,” Serge said. “But Gaston is right. Since she died, he’s become even more obsessed with painting Orpheus and Eurydice.”

“How poignant that he keeps painting the story of soul mates over and over,” I said.

“There’s a rumor that he is part of a secret society,” Maurice whispered.

“Who in Paris isn’t part of a secret society?” Gaston said, and then quaffed what was left of his wine.

“I heard he met with Delacroix when he was younger,” Maurice continued. “And Delacroix was linked with the secret Angelic Society made up of artists who received visions of angels who aided them in their art. It’s always been rumored Delacroix introduced and inducted Moreau into the society.”

“Does the society still exist?” I asked.

“Are you interested in joining?” Gaston asked.

“From the looks of your work you already belong,” Serge added under his breath.

I blushed then, which I hated. None of the other students blushed when given compliments. I resolved to accept commendations the way men did. Why did women think they had to be demure when they were praised?

“I could use a little angelic intervention,” Serge said, “to help me get into the Salon. I wasn’t accepted last year. But with Moreau as my teacher, I have a better chance this year.”

“Why does having him as a teacher help?” I asked.

“Because Moreau is on the acceptance committee,” Maurice said.

Every student at the École and thousands of artists in Paris-from all over France, in fact-had been working toward the goal of having a painting accepted into the 1894 Salon de la Société des Artistes Français for longer than I had even been in the city. Academic-quality paintings took several months to achieve, and submissions were due at the end of March.

“What did Moreau say about your esquisse?” Gaston asked me. “As you might imagine, the advice he gives about a painter’s sketch is invaluable.”

“I haven’t done a sketch to show him. Even if I knew what I wanted to paint, there’s just not time. And there are so many restrictions to what the Salon would accept from a woman.” I shrugged.

“You’re fast, though. At least try,” Gaston said. “Moreau encourages us to submit portraits, figure studies, or history paintings. You’re excellent with nudes, which take the least amount of time, and a woman can submit a female nude.”

Some secret part of me soared hearing him say that. Second-class medals, third-class medals, and honorable mentions were given out, in addition to the most prestigious Prix de Rome, but with over ten thousand paintings being submitted and less than half making the first cut, just being accepted was a feat. What would it be like to achieve that?

“Don’t encourage her, Gaston. Less competition for us,” Serge said.

Gaston laughed. “You only wish you could compete with her.”

We’d reached the end of the bottle of wine, and Serge suggested we move on to a bistro a few blocks away on Saint-Germain that served the best soupe à l’oignon in all of Paris.

It was there, a half hour later, just as the waiter was putting our food on the table, that I noticed the door open and a group of three men enter. One of them was Julien. He must have gotten back from his trip.

I watched as the maître d’ seated them inside toward the back.

“Do you know them?” Serge asked me.

“One looks familiar, but I’m not sure. Why, do you know them?”

“The gentleman with the gray beard is Monsieur Cingal, the architect. He teaches at the École, so perhaps you recognize him from seeing him there. I don’t know who the other two are.”

“But of course,” I said, and spooned some of the hot, fragrant soup. It was delicious: brown and buttery with a crisp layer of cheese on top that had just the right bite to it.

So that was Cingal, Julien’s prospective father-in-law. I glanced over at their table, trying not to bring any attention to myself. Cingal and Julien interacted much like father and son. And why not? Julien had known his father-in-law-to-be for over ten years, first as his student, then his apprentice, and now his partner.

Examining Cingal’s features, I tried to imagine them feminized and picture what his daughter would look like. But his nose was too big, his chin too square, and his brow too heavy.

As I ate and talked, I kept casting glances over at Julien’s table. I paid less attention to how many times my wineglass was filled than I ought, and before long began to hatch a plan that a more sober soul might not have dared.

Julien had told me his apartment was in one of Monsieur Cingal’s buildings and that his mentor and his family resided there also. If I followed them, I might find out where Julien lived. Where she lived. And once I knew that, I could return during the day, wait for her, and see her. See what my rival looked like. What she was made of. Learn better how to fight her for what I’d come to realize I wanted to wrest from her grip.

So when Julien and Cingal paid their bill, I threw some coins on the table and told my fellow students that it was time for me to leave and hurried out.

It was foolhardy, I knew. I wasn’t even sure where they were going or how they were going to get there. What if they took a carriage, and I was left in some neighborhood I didn’t recognize? What if it was unsafe?

But as it turned out, they walked and never left the 6th arrondissement. After crossing Saint-Germain, they strolled down rue de Tournon toward the Luxembourg Gardens and then into the gardens themselves, traversed a diagonal path and exited on rue de Fleurus.

After they crossed the street, the two men proceeded down de Fleurus, stopping in front of number 6, a five-story building with lovely wrought-iron balconies and a slight undulation to the facade. Designed, but not overly so, it was elegant without being grandiose. Julien remained outside while Cingal disappeared inside. I waited a few doors down in the shadow of another building’s entrance. There were no gas lamps on my side of the street, only on theirs, and since Julien didn’t glance my way, I believed I was safe.

Was this the building where they lived? Why hadn’t Julien entered? Where had Cingal gone? I was imagining scenario after scenario when, after a few minutes, Cingal returned, a young woman on his arm.

In the lamplight, I could see her well enough for her countenance to disturb me. She was very lovely, with blond curls, full lips, and a feminine figure, and from the way she tossed her head, she was very used to being the center of attention.

I tried to imagine Julien touching her face the way he had touched mine. Kissing her the way he had kissed me. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t just because I was jealous. There was an iridescent aura about her that was evil. It made me uneasy and frightened for Julien. And for me.

Just like the creatures hovering above and living below the tombstones in the cemetery, the shimmer, I had no doubt, was real and a manifestation of dimensions never before accessible to me. But it was visible now for some reason I couldn’t comprehend.

The rabbi’s words echoed in my mind just then. You’re in touch with a troubled spirit, aren’t you? he’d said. She’s showing you her realm. We must find out why.

A carriage pulled up, and Cingal, his daughter, and Julien climbed inside. I watched as the horse trotted off, and was left standing on the street by myself. How was I to get back to my grandmother’s on my own? Unused to traveling alone in Paris at night, I walked to the corner and hoped that I’d find a carriage as easily as Cingal had. But there wasn’t one in sight. And so I began to trace my footsteps, back through the park, back toward rue des Saints-Pères.

There were no other pedestrians in the gardens. The pathways were dark. Figures seemed to lurk in the shadows. The wind rustling through bare branches sounded like footsteps. What was I doing? How foolish to have put myself in the position of being a helpless woman out alone after dark in a park. How would I be able to defend myself if attacked?

I looked straight ahead and kept my pace quick. While I walked, I distracted myself with thinking about Charlotte Cingal and the way she’d tilted her face to look up at Julien. How the light had skimmed her cheekbones and how fine her skin had been. How petite her feet and hands were.

My mother had been small like that, but I took after my father and my grandmother. Taller than most women, my shoulders slightly wider, my hands just a bit bigger.

My father used to say that he was glad that I wasn’t fragile, that fragile women never seemed to claim life. And that out of everything, that was what he hoped for me. That I would claim my life. I asked him once if my mother had, and he’d smiled and said she had, but he didn’t think it was the kind of life that would satisfy me.

Reflecting on my parents had distracted me further, not from the possible dangers lurking in the park but from a darker danger. But it would do no good pretending. I had to admit what I was thinking, even if it was only to myself.

I’d hated Charlotte Cingal the moment I’d seen her. As the carriage had pulled up, I’d imagined the horse suddenly rearing on his hind legs and coming down with his full force, knocking her to the ground and trampling her.

The vicious and violent image disturbed me. How could I have conjured such a scene in my head? Of course some jealousy was in order-but hatred and murderous rage?

The ugliness of my thoughts embarrassed me. And worried me a bit. I’d never had any kind of malevolent fantasy before. Not toward anyone. Even Benjamin, who had been such a curt and callous husband, had not engendered these kinds of thoughts. Not even when I discovered that he’d driven my father to his death.

From whence had this blackness in me sprung?

I was afraid I knew. And again the rabbi’s words came to me: You’re in touch with a troubled spirit, aren’t you? he’d said.

I had almost reached the rue Bonaparte exit when I realized that I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see anyone, but I was certain I’d heard footsteps. I stopped suddenly, spun around, and searched the shadows but saw no one. I began walking again and after a few seconds was sure I heard a twig crack, as if it had been stepped on. Should I turn around again? Or hurry out posthaste? Was someone following me? Had one of Benjamin’s detectives found me?

Hastening out of the park, I turned onto rue Bonaparte. Had someone watched to see what direction I’d take? If so, I couldn’t lead him directly to my grandmother’s apartment, so instead of heading directly toward Saints-Pères, I stopped in a café for an espresso and kept my eyes on the door. It didn’t appear anyone had followed me inside, and peering through the windows, I saw no one hiding in wait in any doorways.

Believing I’d lost my pursuer, if indeed I’d had one, I continued on home, imagining what Julien and Charlotte Cingal were doing right then. I saw them in the carriage. Her looking at him from under her eyelashes again. Him taking that tiny hand to help her down.

He had not told me the truth when he’d implied that he wasn’t in love with her. Of course he was. He’d only said that it was going to be a marriage of convenience so that I’d welcome him into my bed.

I envisioned the three of them walking into a luxurious restaurant with red velvet banquettes and golden wall sconces and glittering chandeliers that would give her skin an even more irresistible glow. He would not try to resist her. Why should he? She was his. He was going to marry her, and she was going to make him a good French wife. Looking resplendent in her lace and satin and pearls and diamonds. Being oh so good for his business and charming all his clients.

Hadn’t I done the same for Papa and Benjamin? It was only since coming to Paris that I had begun to think of that life with such disdain. And why? Because unwittingly my husband had shown me the danger of allowing the pursuit of the dollar to take over your life. Because all the effort I had put into behaving correctly and doing the right thing and being the proper sort of wife and daughter had not protected me. I’d been too dependent on my father and now was unprepared for a life without him. Charlotte Cingal was who I had been. Not who I needed to become. I was going to learn to be on my own, like my grandmother, making my own way, never being dependent on a man again.

But she was dependent, wasn’t she? Without men how would she live? Where would she be?

As I turned left on rue du Vieux-Colombier, I began plotting how I might meet Charlotte myself and discover who she really was under those Fragonard-pink cheeks and rose-colored lips. There was something rotten in her soul. I’d sensed it, and I would expose it, and Julien would sour on her like cherries tasted before their season.

The thought was so satisfying, I smiled to myself.

No! It was wrong of me to think this way. Where was this evil coming from? Why did it give me pleasure to indulge in these black thoughts? I had known Julien was engaged when I took him as a lover. Our affair was a temporary passing fancy. I had read enough and had enough female friends to know how these things worked even if I’d never indulged before. One did not take these dalliances seriously.

I opened the door to the porte cochère, crossed the courtyard, and entered my grandmother’s apartment.

In the grand parlor, a salon was in full bloom. My grandmother, ablaze with her fire opals and a dress of the same incendiary hue, sat surrounded by admirers. Gentlemen in fine evening clothes lounged as they drank champagne from sparkling crystal flutes or sipped brandy from large glasses engraved with Napoleon’s crown. Several young women served drinks or lit cigars, or flitted around the room, flirting. They were either blondes or brunettes; not one had red hair to compete with my grandmother’s. The women were clearly sophisticated and clever given the way the men hung on their every word. One girl in cobalt lace passed a tray of tidbits around. A gentleman sat at the piano, playing a Debussy etude.

My grandmother looked up as I stepped into the room. With a confused expression, she whispered something to the gentleman to her right, who got up and walked toward me. From across the room, she watched.

I’d never seen my grandmother regard me with such ambivalence, and it disturbed me. Had I made some mistake I wasn’t aware of? Had she expected me even though she’d told me that she was busy that night?

In a formal voice, the gentleman said: “Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

“Can you tell me who it was who invited you?” he asked.

Why was he asking me? Why was he peering at me as if sizing me up?

“Do you have an invitation?” he asked when I didn’t answer.

I shook my head. “No.”

And then I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror and realized with horror exactly what was wrong. My grandmother hadn’t recognized me. Of course she hadn’t. Why would she? I had forgotten that I was still dressed in my art school costume. I’d been at the École, then the café, and then had followed Julien. I’d never gone back to La Lune to change into my clothes, into my pretty dress and daintily heeled shoes. I was wearing men’s trousers, and my hair fell to my shoulders in easy waves. I had on a hat that cast shadows across my features.

“I would encourage you to leave then, without further ado, to avoid any unpleasantness,” the gentleman said as my grandmother continued to watch.

“Yes, yes, I…”

The man put his hand on my arm. “Now would be best.”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Just before I turned to go, I saw the expression on my grandmother’s face change from one of suspicion to one of fear. She’d recognized who I was. But she didn’t get up. She didn’t stop her friend as his hand tightened on my arm.

“Now would be best,” he repeated, and showed me out of my own house.