Moonlight Over Paris(20)
She walked to the end of the corridor, where it was somewhat less congested, and unfolded the horaire.
Mlle H. Parr—septembre 1924
lundi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
mardi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
mercredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
jeudi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
vendredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
They’d made a mistake. In the school’s prospectus, the curriculum for intermediate students had included classes in watercolors, pastels, and oils. No sculpture, which had been a shame, but everything else had definitely been mentioned in the brochure. On her timetable, however, she was only enrolled in one two-hour drawing class each day.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered. Now she would have to go downstairs and brave the masses again.
“Is anything the matter?” asked a young man standing nearby. He was dressed in the shabby, informal way that amounted to a uniform among the artists of Montparnasse: a worn and none-too-clean coat, a wrinkled shirt with an open collar, and no hat whatsoever. He was also astonishingly good-looking, with beautiful green eyes and straight brown hair so long that it brushed his shoulders.
“I think there’s a mistake. I’ve only been signed up for the drawing classes, but I’m sure there—”
“Turn it over,” he said, smiling. “Voilà. There are the classes for October.”
Feeling terribly silly, she looked on the reverse of the page, and there it was:
Mlle H. Parr—octobre 1924
lundi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, pastels, salon B
mardi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, aquarelles, salon C
mercredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, pastels, salon B
jeudi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, aquarelles, salon C
vendredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin à modèle vivant, grand salon
“Thank you. I was worried I’d have to go downstairs and join the queue again.”
“And that is a fate worse than death, hmm?”
“Nearly. How do you do?” she asked, remembering her manners. “I’m Helena Parr.”
“And I am étienne Moreau, and very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He had a lovely voice, his accent just noticeable enough to make everything he said sound charming. Smiling again, he shook her outstretched hand. “Shall we go in?”
Behind them, halfway down the corridor, students were streaming through a set of open doors. Her first class was beginning.
The grand salon was a large but not enormous room, and most of its space was taken up by sets of easels and stools, around forty in total. At its front was a low platform about five feet square and half as high. Light streamed in from a huge bank of windows; even on a dull day, she saw, the salon would be bright enough for work without artificial light.
Mr. Moreau took a spot on the left side of the salon, near the back, and she sat next to him, her heart pounding. She had never been given to attacks of nerves before, so why was she so anxious now?
“Courage,” her new friend whispered, using the French pronunciation. “And put on your smock. We’re using charcoal today, and you don’t want to ruin your clothes. Shall I help you roll back the sleeves?”
“I think I can manage, but thank you.”
“Excuse me, but is this seat taken?” A young woman, American by her accent, now stood by the last stool and easel in their row.
“It isn’t—please do take it.”
“Thank you so much. I galloped nearly all the way here,” she said, rummaging through her handbag, “and I was late all the same.” Finding a handkerchief, she patted invisible drops of perspiration from her brow. “Thank heavens I got here in time. Oh—you’re wearing your smock. I’d better put mine on, too. I wish it wasn’t so big.”
Helena smiled at her, and was about to say something reassuring when she realized that a man had entered the salon and was standing at the front. Rather than ascend the stage, however, he stood next to it, his expression impossible to read.
He was middle-aged, perhaps in his early fifties, and was dressed more like a banker than an artist, with a collar and tie and rather old-fashioned coat. His hair, which he wore swept back off his brow, was less conventional, for it was dark and wavy and fell almost to his shoulders, and he had a carefully trimmed Vandyke mustache and beard. She wasn’t sure if he was handsome, or merely striking. Either way, he wasn’t the sort of man one ignored.
He waited, his demeanor unchanging, until the room was entirely silent, and only then did he speak.
“I am Fabritius Czerny. I expect one-quarter of you, perhaps as many as a third, to flee by the end of this week. I make no apologies. This is a difficult course of study, and far beyond the talents of many here today. If you find the work I give you too challenging, you are free to withdraw from the course, or you may wish to join our class for beginners.”
His voice was soft and low, and only lightly accented. Under different circumstances, Helena might even have thought it beautiful.
“I will be blunt: I am not a pleasant person. I am not, as the Americans among you might say, ‘a nice guy.’ I am not here to be your friend or your mentor, and I have no interest in your thoughts or opinions.