Moonlight Over Paris(25)
Agnes had arranged for the contents of the studio in Antibes to be set up in the garret, and in September, when the days had been long and mild, she’d been happy working there. In recent weeks, however, her makeshift studio’s failings had become all too apparent. It was cold, and would only get more so as winter approached; and the light that had seemed so abundant in the late summer was waning by the day.
Her friends were also desperate for studio space. étienne’s landlady had taken to complaining about the smell of turpentine and linseed oil, going so far to as warn him that he would be out in the street if he didn’t find another place to work. Daisy’s father, from what little she had said, disapproved of her “hobby” and discouraged her from practicing at all when she was at home. And Mathilde simply agreed that she, too, needed some room in order to work without distraction. What those distractions might be, Helena had no idea, and the Frenchwoman’s reserved, dignified manner discouraged curious questions.
Their mutual need for a studio soon became an obsession, although they never got very far with their discussions. The difficulty, as ever, was money. Studios, even grubby, rat-infested, and terminally damp ones, were expensive; and landlords, according to étienne, were disinclined to rent them to students who had no visible means of support beyond their art.
If she’d had enough money to rent a studio for them all, she’d have done so; but the allowance she received from her parents, though perfectly generous, didn’t stretch to such an expense. And there was no question of asking them for more, as they would never agree to such a proposal. “But we don’t know these people,” her mother would be sure to say. “We don’t know anything about them.” True enough, for Helena knew almost nothing about her new friends. She hadn’t met their families, hadn’t been to their homes, and couldn’t honestly say that anything they had told her was, in point of fact, true.
She considered dipping into the money her grandmother had left her, but to do so she would have to consult with her father’s solicitor, and he would be certain to tell Papa. Never mind that she was a grown woman and perfectly capable of deciding what to do with her own money. Papa would object, Mama would fuss, and she would be forced to admit the truth.
Agnes would have offered up the money for a studio without hesitation, but her aunt had already been far too generous. So she said nothing of her dilemma, and after dinner most evenings, sitting in the petit salon at home with her aunt, she avoided the subject of her classes at the academy, and instead talked about her new friends and their talents and interests. Before long Agnes was insisting that she invite them for dinner.
“I won’t take no for an answer, Helena. I simply won’t. In every one of her letters, your mother persists in asking me if I approve of your friends—but how can I answer if I haven’t met any of them? What if she should take it into her head that I’m hiding something? You know how she can be. No one is better than her at sniffing out a lie or half-truth.”
“Fine, Auntie A. I’ll ask them tomorrow.”
Agnes would charm them, she knew, but it still gave her pause. While she knew little of her friends’ lives, they knew even less about her. Would meeting her aunt, and seeing where she lived, change how they thought of her? It was all rather antediluvian, but she’d never been friends with ordinary people before. Her childhood friends had all hailed from the toploftiest branches of the aristocracy, just like herself.
None of those friends had proved faithful or true, however, and she had no reason to believe that étienne, Mathilde, or Daisy would be envious or jealous, or even disconcerted by her background. They would surely discover the truth one day, so better to be honest with them now.
She didn’t say anything until Friday, when they had gathered for lunch at a cheap and nameless café on the rue Delambre that was marginally less expensive than its grander cousins on the boulevard du Montparnasse. Rain was pelting down outside, as it had all morning, and after their one-franc meal of soup, bread, saucisson, and cheese they lingered over their coffees.
Helena had nearly finished her café crème, which she had almost learned to like, Daisy was lost in her thoughts, and étienne and Mathilde were smoking like chimneys, as usual. She hated the smell, which clung to her clothes for hours afterward, but since nearly everyone else in the café was smoking it didn’t seem right to ask them to refrain.
“You know I live with my aunt,” she said, after waiting for a pause in the conversation. “She is, ah . . . she’s keen to have all of you to dinner. Or to lunch on a Friday, if that’s better.”
“I’d love to meet her,” said Daisy, glancing at Louisette, who perched as grim as a gargoyle on a nearby chair, “but Daddy likes me to be home in the evenings.”
“I can’t manage dinner,” said Mathilde. “Lunch is better.”
“étienne?” Helena asked.
“I am at your disposal, my dear Hélène.”
“Shall we say next Friday? We can walk there after school.”
“Where does your aunt live?” asked étienne.
There was no way around it. “Her house is on the ?le St.-Louis.”
“A house, you say? Not a flat?”
The man was relentless. “Yes, étienne. An entire house.”
“Who is this aunt of yours?” Mathilde asked, her curiosity piqued.