The Girl Behind The Fan (Hidden Women) (32 page)

‘Debauchery is not quite like the smallpox,’ I laughed.

Christine did not laugh with me.

‘My brother loves you with all his heart and for that reason he is prepared to throw away everything to be with you. Believe me, Mademoiselle du Vert . . .’

‘Call me Augustine . . .’

‘Mademoiselle du Vert, believe me, if my brother follows through his silly plan to run away with you, he will lose everything. It goes without saying that my father will disown him. His poor fiancée will be left humiliated. And my sister and I will have to abandon all hope of making our own decent marriages.’

She sniffed into a handkerchief.

‘Surely not . . .’

‘You know I speak the truth. But I know I cannot expect you to be swayed by the news that our father would be devastated and my own heart would be broken. For there is a man I love as dearly as you love my brother and he in return loves me ardently. He has asked for my hand but should you allow Remi to cause a scandal, my beloved will have no choice but to let me go.’

I reached out for her hand, hoping to show her that I cared very much.

‘It cannot be as serious as that,’ I said.

Christine Sauvageon glared at me.

‘My beloved is a good man from a good family. I would not have him sully their name by association with . . .’

‘With me?’

I sat back in my seat. I was beginning to like Christine Sauvageon less and less. Having seemed so modest and shy at first, suddenly she was a tigress.

‘But if my predicament and those of my sister and Remi’s blameless fiancée do not move you, then for pity’s sake, consider the consequences for Remi himself. At this moment, he can think of nothing other than a future filled with happiness for the pair of you, but imagine how your lives will be, in a couple of years’ time, when the initial glow of love begins to wane.’

I began to protest.

‘For all women know that our charms will not be with us for ever. No sooner have we reached the peak of our beauty than it begins to fade. Imagine then, how happy Remi will be, when you are old, to live with you in a cottage, working at some menial job to support you and your children.’

‘He would not have to work at a menial job. He would be painting.’

‘Painting whom? Do you think the Duc De Rocambeau will give you and Remi his blessing? Do you think he will make you a dowry? If you leave de Rocambeau for Remi, he will do his utmost to ruin my brother. He will ensure no one ever commissions a painting by Remi again.’

‘I am not going to take a thing with me,’ I said. ‘So de Rocambeau will have no reason to come after me and no reason to try to hurt your brother.’

‘You honestly believe that leaving your jewels will be enough to calm the Duc’s rage? He will be humiliated and he will humiliate Remi in turn. Remi will find he has no customers and he will be unable to paint. If he is unable to paint, he will be unhappy. Desperately so. You know I speak the truth.’

I was assailed by the memory of Remi complaining he could not paint through that cold winter six years earlier as surely as if Pierre had opened a window and let a frozen blast in.

‘Augustine, if you love my brother, you must release him of the obligation to be with you. As much as he loves you, he loves his art more. Yes, most of all he loves his art. You cannot ask him to choose you above painting. Please, Augustine.’

Suddenly, she fell to her knees in front of me and grasped both my hands, holding them tightly as she continued to beseech me. I knew she was thinking largely of her own stake in my dilemma – the effect on her own marriage prospects – and who could have blamed her? I knew what it was like to love.

‘I cannot leave here until I have your promise.’

The passion of her pleading set me coughing. I had been coughing quite often in the week leading up to her visit, but now it was uncontrollable. I felt as though my ribs were breaking with the force of it. Christine had to release my hands so that I could cover my mouth.

She looked about to find a glass of water. I shook my head at her. Water would not stop this cough. When I took my handkerchief away from my mouth, I saw the blood spots. Christine saw them too. Her eyes widened in horror. We did not need to discuss their significance.

‘A moment of happiness for a lifetime of discontent,’ she said at last.

‘I think you had better leave,’ I said. I pointed towards the door.

After Christine Sauvageon had gone, I asked Pierre to call for a doctor. I had access to the best medical care in Paris; the Duc took my health almost as seriously as that of his horses. The doctor arrived within the hour. I described my symptoms and he listened to my chest. He examined the inside of my mouth, my ears and my eyes. He prescribed some poultices and bed rest so that when Remi arrived to continue with the painting that afternoon, Pierre had to tell him I could not receive him.

The turn in my health was not the only reason I could not see him. Much as Christine Sauvageon’s words had hurt me, I knew I could not dismiss her logic out of hand. If, in that moment, I did not care whether the entitled little mademoiselle was able to marry her true love, her insistence that the Duc would ruin Remi haunted me. Remi lived to paint. Long before he met me, he had chosen art as his true mistress. Without the ability to support himself by painting, he would be miserable and he would hate me for it.

And if the doctor was right, then what point was there in asking Remi to give up anything on my behalf? The signs all pointed towards consumption, the disease which had taken my mother. Despite the doctor’s best ministrations, I could suddenly feel the shadow of death upon me. ‘A moment of happiness for a lifetime of discontent.’ Christine Sauvageon’s words rang in my ears.

After a while, I asked Pierre to bring me my small writing case. He set it up next to the bed and I began to write the most difficult letter of my life.

Chapter 47

I cried as I wrote to my lovely Remi. My dear, flawed, cowardly Remi. Once upon a time, we might have built a life together, he and I. When I was well and he was not so used to luxury. Perhaps I should have fought for him then. I should have walked out to Guerville in my tattered old boots and made his father see that whatever he had heard, I was a decent woman, worthy of his son’s love and his family’s respect. But I had taken a different fork in the path and Remi had not had the faith to pursue me after Elaine sent him away. We had missed our moment and now I must let him go for ever.

I did not want him to hate me, and yet that seemed to be the only way to cast him off right then. He must not make any foolish gesture to try to win me back. I was not so strong that I would be able to resist. If he let me shrug him off now, he might rescue his engagement, keep his commissions and go on to live a happy life as the artist he had always wanted to be. Christine Sauvageon could marry her man from a good family. Their little sister might make a match with a Duc as a wife and not a concubine.

But the most important thing was that Remi should always be able to paint.

I wrote . . .

September 17th, 1846

Dear Remi,

How lovely it has been to have you in my house these past few weeks. How exciting and romantic it was to make a plan to run away together. But also, how very foolish. Just a few days ago, I started to give the plan my proper consideration and could hardly believe what an idiotic notion I’d put into your head. You and I, together in a garret again? Even a cottage? However would we stand it?

The truth is that we are not the young lovers we once were. Life has changed us both. In some ways for the better, in other ways most definitely not. Back then, when we met, you were a sketch artist and I was a virginal housemaid. Now you are on the point of becoming a great painter and I am a notorious courtesan.

I would not have chosen to take this immoral path, but my position comes with compensations that I would find it too hard to give up at this stage in my life. I am writing to you from a bed piled high with silken pillows, dear Remi. A manservant has brought me this writing case and will soon return with my supper on a little silver tray. Once upon a time, I scrubbed until my hands were raw. Now I need never lift a finger except to ring a bell that will bring my own maid running to me at once.

And then there is the Duc. For all my complaints, I must admit to you that I have a great affection for him. He has been kind to me and through his kindness I have been able to have the sort of life I might only have dreamed of. If I were to leave him, he would be devastated. The poor soul is trapped in a hopeless marriage and I am the one comfort he has.

I am sure you will be surprised to get this letter but I must ask you not to try to make me change my mind. I have already thought long and hard about our situation and I cannot be persuaded. Please, think of me with kindness, Remi. I am sure that when you are married and surrounded by your beautiful children, you will appreciate that I was right.

Affectionately yours,

Augustine

How he would hate me when he read those words! How I hated myself, though I knew they were not true. But I could not tell him the real story, that I feared he would lose his livelihood for me and that after only a little time had passed, he would realise he had paid more than my love was really worth to him. I could not bear to be the one who robbed him of his dreams.

‘Should I wait for an answer?’ Pierre asked me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Please don’t.’

When the Duc arrived that evening, I pretended to be happy and well. He commented that I looked a little red around the eyes. I told him I thought perhaps it was the smell of the oil paints that had given me a reaction. I would be very glad when the painting was finished.

‘In fact,’ I said. ‘I don’t think there is any need for me to sit for the artist any more. He has only the folds of my skirt to finish now. The paint gives me a headache and what’s more, I am bored.’

‘The artist bores you?’

‘He talks about himself all the time,’ I said. ‘Please ask him to finish the portrait without me.’

Chapter 48

Twenty-four hours after Kat’s revelation, I had heard nothing from Marco, but reading about Augustine’s decision to let Remi go made something clear to me. Marco might well have come to a similar decision: that to ask me to be with him was too great a sacrifice. But I was not Remi Sauvageon.

I had to go to Venice again. If Marco was not going to engage with me remotely, then I decided I would stand in the courtyard of his house and shout at the top of my voice until he came downstairs and met me: face to face. I might have to stand in that courtyard for a year, but I would see him.

I wrote one more time before I booked a flight.

Marco,

I know that you were at the ball that night in February. I know that you were the man in the library. Bea surprised you. You panicked and left.

Bea told me about your injuries and she told me how she reacted to them. I hope you believe me when I say that had I got to the library first, things would have been very different. My feelings for you are from the inside out.

I want the chance to know you properly. Surely my persistence is proof enough of my sincerity? You’ve said some pretty unkind things to me in the past, Marco, but I’m still here and I’m still saying that I still want to know more. I don’t care if you’re not the man in those silly pictures on the Internet. It may have been those photos that first intrigued me, but it’s your mind, your intelligence and your humour that really hooked me in.

I’m coming back to Venice. I won’t be staying at the Bauer this time, since I’ll be travelling on my own money rather than yours. I’ve booked a little
pensione
in the Dorsoduro. I will be there from tomorrow morning until Saturday. That should give you plenty of time to find a minute or two to meet me alongside your ‘business’ commitments.

Please don’t say ‘no’. You were brave enough to find a way to bring me back into your life by getting me a job on your movie. Now, be brave enough to bring your feelings and your face out into the sunlight again.

Sarah

The next day was agony. On the one hand, I wanted Marco to write and tell me that my decision to go to Venice was the best news he had heard in years. On the other hand, I was comforted by the lack of response, because I did not really expect Marco to be delighted by my sudden insistence that he give me one more chance. In those circumstances, nothing was better than an outright refusal to see me.

Still, I don’t think twenty-four hours ever felt so long and then, when I got to the airport, I discovered that my plane was delayed. I sat right next to the scheduled gate, refusing even to risk getting myself a coffee in case I managed to miss the flight when it was finally called.

When the plane eventually boarded, almost two hours late, I found myself seated next to a handsome Italian man in perhaps his late thirties. He seemed keen to engage me in conversation. I told him that alas I had work to do, but really there was fat chance of that. I could think of nothing but Marco and the moment of truth that lay ahead of us. I opened a book and read the same page over and over again.