Daughter of Deceit (32 page)

I
was enchanted by Paris—that
city of gardens and bridges, dark alleyways and wide boulevards, whose turbulent history seemed to be encapsulated in its ancient buildings and monuments.

I wanted to see everything, and both Robert and Angele were delighted and proud to show me.

I was overwhelmed by the majesty of Notre Dame. It exuded the past. Robert said what a tragedy it had been that during the Revolution the mob had sought to destroy it.

“Fortunately Napoleon came to power just in time to prevent its being broken up and sold,” he added with satisfaction. “And then Louis Philippe, before his abdication twenty years or so ago, he did much to restore the old magnificence and necessary work has been done.”

I could have spent hours there, absorbing the ancient ambience, dreaming of the past, of St. Denis, its first bishop, who had become the patron saint of France, or Peter Abelard and his love for Heloise.

We walked a great deal. One must walk to see Paris. We visited the Louvre; we sat in the Tuileries; we spent hours in Les Halles; we crossed the Pont Neuf, the oldest of all the bridges, and I was
both fascinated and repelled by the decorations on the parapets. Those grotesque masks would remain in my memory forever.

Robert was very interested in the work of Haussmann, which he said had changed the face of Paris in the last few years; the work had been necessary after the vandalism of the people during the Revolution. Robert was quite clearly proud of his city, and he enjoyed showing it to me. I noticed how he delighted in my admiration, which I did not have to assume. I had always been intrigued by big cities. I suppose it was because I had been born and bred in one of the largest. I had loved London, but my desire to be back there was smothered by persistent memories. Paris I could enjoy without reservation, from Montmartre to the Rue de Rivoli, from Montparnasse to the Latin Quarter. I could revel in it all.

I would return to the house exhilarated.

“You are incapable of fatigue,” said Robert.

“It is because everything I see stimulates me.”

“I knew you should come to Paris,” commented Angele. “We waited too long.”

Marie-Christine was at my side most of the time. She was developing a new interest in the city.

She said: “I’ve already seen most of this before, but with you it’s like seeing it afresh.”

There came the day when we called on Gerard.

As I expected, he lived in the Latin Quarter. I was in a state of high expectation when we set out. I had been hoping for some time to pay this visit, and wondered why it had already been postponed on two occasions.

We were to arrive at three o’clock.

I noticed a certain tension in both Robert and Angele. Marie-Christine had changed, too. She seemed a little remote. I wondered why the prospect of a visit to Gerard should have this effect on them all.

We made our way along the Boulevard St. Germain, past the church of that name. I knew it had been built here on the site of a Benedictine abbey as long ago as the eighth century, but the present church, which now replaced it, dated back only to the thirteenth.

The studio was at the top of a tall building. We had to climb a great many stairs to reach it. The last flight brought us up to a door on which was a card bearing the name “Gerard du Carron.”

Robert knocked and the door was opened by a man—Gerard himself. I recognized him at once from the picture I had seen in the gallery.

He cried:
“Ma mere, mon oncle et ma fille!”
He turned to me, smiling, and went on in English: “And you must be Mademoiselle Tremaston. Welcome to my studio.”

We were ushered into a big room. There were several large windows and a fanlight in the sloping roof. The room contained a couch, which was probably a bed by night, some chairs, a table on which stood an array of tubes and brushes, and there were two easels, and canvasses stacked against the wall. It was the room of an artist. Glass doors opened onto the roof, which was flat, and the view across Paris was spectacular.

“How good of you to call on me,” said G6rard.

“We wanted to come before,” Angele told him. “We thought you might be busy. How are you, Gerard?”

“I am well, and there is no need to ask you. You look radiant. How is my daughter?”

“Learning English,” Marie-Christine told him. “And I can speak it very well.”

“That’s excellent.”

“Noelle … Mademoiselle Tremaston, is teaching me. I’m teaching her French. We’re both a lot better than we were.”

“That is indeed good news,” he said. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Tremaston, for being so instructive to my daughter.”

I smiled. “The benefits are mutual.”

“I can hear you have succeeded very well already. Your French is charming.”

“Unmistakably English,” I said.

“Well, therein lies its charm. Now, my dear family, refreshments, I think. I shall give you coffee.”

“And I shall make it,” said Angele.

“Chere Martian,
I am not really so helpless as you imagine me
to be, but perhaps I should not leave my guests. So if you would be so good.”

Angele went through a door to what I presumed to be a kitchen. Robert and I were given chairs, while Marie-Christine sat on the couch.

“This is a real artist’s studio,” said Marie-Christine to me. “There are lots like it in Paris.”

“Not lots,
chere enfant,
” said Gerard. “Some, it is true. I like to think I was lucky in acquiring this.” He had turned to me. “It’s ideal, really. The light is magnificent, and don’t you think the view is inspiring, Mademoiselle Tremaston?”

“I certainly do,” I assured him.

“You look over Paris without effort. I can tell you, there are numerous artists in this city who would give a great deal to have such quarters.”

“There are other artists here in this place,” Marie-Christine told me.

“Artists abound,” said Gerard. “This is the Latin Quarter and Paris is the centre of the arts, you know. And it is here where artists forgather. Day and night they congregate in the cafes, talking of the great things they are going to do … always, alas,
going
to do.”

“One day they will talk about the great things they have done,” I said.

“Then they will be too grand to live here, or to frequent such cafes. They will do that elsewhere. So you see, there will always be talk of what they are going to do.”

Angele called: “Gerard, I can’t find enough cups.”

He smiled in my direction. “You will excuse me.” He went into the kitchen. I heard their voices.

“Chere Maman,
you always think I am starving.”

“This chicken will last you a little while. It’s all ready to be eaten; and I have brought a
gateau
to go with the coffee.”

“Maman,
you spoil me.”

“You know it worries me to think of you … living like this. I wish you would come home. You could paint in the north tower.”

“Oh … it is not the same. Here I am with my own kind.

There is only one place for a struggling painter to be, and that is Paris. Are we ready? I will carry the tray. You bring that magnificent
gateau. “

He set the tray on the table, pushing aside the tubes and brushes. Angele cut the cake and handed it round.

Gerard said to me: “My mother thinks I am on the verge of starvation. In fact, I live very well.”

“You can’t live on art,” said Angele.

“That, alas, appears to be true, and I can’t think of anyone here who would not agree with you. Tell me, what have you been doing in Paris?”

We talked about our sightseeing.

“It is all so fresh to Noelle,” said Robert. “It has been a delight to show her round.”

“It has been wonderful,” I said.

Marie-Christine put in: “This
gateau
is delicious.”

“And your home was in London?” asked Gerard of me. “We have an Englishman in our community here. You see, we live a sort of communal life. We all get to know each other. We meet in cafes and in each other’s apartments. Almost every night we are fraternizing somewhere.”

“Talking about the wonderful pictures you are going to paint,” said Marie-Christine.

“How did you guess?”

“Because you just told us. All you are
going
to do. That is what you talk about in cafes.”

“It stimulates us. Yes … they all must come to Paris.”

“I hope you will show Noelle some of your work,” said Robert. “I am sure she would like to see it.”

“Really?” he asked, looking at me.

“But of course I should like to.”

“Don’t expect anything wonderful, something like Leonardo, Rembrandt, Reynolds, Fragonard or Boucher.”

“I should imagine you have a style of your own.”

“Thank you. But is it your natural politeness which makes you show such eagerness to see my work? I would not wish to take
advantage of your gracious manners and bore you … which might well be the case.”

“How can I know how I shall feel until I see it?”

“I tell you what I will do. I will show you a few, and if I detect signs of boredom, I will desist. How is that?”

“It sounds a good idea.”

“First tell me how long you intend to stay in France.”

“I am not sure.”

“We hope for a long time,” said Angele.

“I am going to insist that she stay,” said Marie-Christine.

“It would be a tragedy to miss your English lessons.”

“Is that Madame Gamier still looking after you?” asked Angele.

“Oh yes, she is.”

“The kitchen floor needs cleaning. What does she do here?”

“Dear old Garnier. She has a wonderful face.”

“Have you been painting her?”

“Of course.”

“I think she is quite repulsive.”

“You do not see the inner woman.”

“So, instead of cleaning … she has been sitting for you?”

He turned to me. “You were saying that you wished to see some of my pictures. I will begin with Madame Garnier.”

He took one of the canvasses and set it on an easel. It was the portrait of a woman—plump, merry, with a certain shrewdness about her mouth and more than a touch of cupidity in her eyes.

“It’s certainly like her,” said Angele.

“It’s very interesting,” I said. Gerard was watching me intently. “One feels one knows something about her.”

“Tell me what,” said Gerard.

“She likes a joke. She laughs a great deal. She knows what she wants and she is going to get it. She is somewhat cunning and is going to make sure she gets more than she gives.”

He was smiling at me, nodding his head.

“Thank you,” he said. “You have paid me a very nice compliment.”

“Well,” said Angele, “I have no doubt it suits Madame Gamier
very well to sit in a chair smirking instead of getting on with her work.”

“And it suits me very well,
Maman. “

I said: “You promised to show us more of your pictures.”

“I feel less reluctant after your verdict on this one.”

“Surely you have no doubts of your work,” I said. “I should have thought an artist must have complete belief in himself. If
he
does not, will anyone else?”

“What words of wisdom!” he said with a touch of mockery. “Well, here we are. This is the
concierge.
And here is a model whom we use sometimes. A little conventional, eh? Here is
Madame la concierge.
Too accustomed to sitting … not quite natural.”

I thought his work very interesting. He showed us some scenes of Paris. There was one of the Louvre and another of the Tuileries, a street scene and one of La Maison Grise, including the lawn and the nymphs in the pond. I was slightly startled when, turning over the canvasses, he revealed a picture of Moulin Carrefour.

“That’s the mill,” I said.

“It’s an old one … painted some years ago. You recognized it.”

“Marie-Christine took me there.”

He turned it against the wall and showed me another picture, of a woman at a stall in the market. She was selling cheese.

“Do you sit in the street and paint?” I asked.

“No. I make sketches and come back and work on them. It is not really satisfactory, but necessary of course.”

“You specialize in portraits?”

“Yes. The human face interests me. There is so much there … if one can find it. So many people try to conceal that which would be most interesting.”