Moonlight Over Paris(41)

“I was, I suppose. Perhaps it was a good thing. No one was able to teach me how to hate.”

He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. “My heart is full to bursting. I am very glad you are my friend.”

“I feel the same way,” she said, and they walked on through the night, until they were crossing the Seine and she was almost home.

“I have decided that I must paint you,” étienne announced, just as they stepped off the Pont St.-Louis. She was so surprised that she stumbled, and would have fallen if not for his arm around hers.

“Me?”

“Yes. You are a beautiful woman. I must paint you.”

“I’m flattered, but I . . .”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve had my portrait painted, but it was something I did for my parents. And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way the artist looked at me. As if he were cataloging all my flaws, and trying to think of how best to conceal them.”

“Then he was an idiot, for I look at you and I see only perfection,” étienne said. “It would be a pleasant experience for you. I am certain of it.”

They were at her aunt’s door. “May I think on it a little more?” she asked, still certain she would say no, but not wishing to upset or offend him, not after all they had shared.

“Of course. I shall kiss you good night now.” He deposited a chaste salute on her cheek. “Fais des beaux rêves, ma belle. And thank you.”





Chapter 16


With the beginning of December came winter, and rain, and afternoons so overhung with gloom that Helena could scarcely recall the feeling of sunshine on her face. Even in the studio, with its great bank of windows, the light was dull and gray, and most afternoons began with étienne standing on a stool to hang lanterns from hooks in the ceiling beams. The lamp oil smelled awful, and the light from the lanterns was pretty feeble, but it was enough to keep them working until five o’clock most days.

Since natural light was so precious, Helena and her friends set to work as soon as they arrived after class, only breaking for coffee once the sun had set for good. They would sit around the stove, warming their hands with their cups, and talk of the work they’d done or the difficulties they were encountering with one piece or another, and in those few minutes she was as content as she’d ever been.

They ought not to have become friends, for they were as different as four people could be, and at another time, or in another place, they might instead have got on like chalk and cheese. Yet she looked forward to seeing them, enjoyed their company, and trusted their opinions. In only three months, she’d forged a deeper bond with these three friends than she had with any of her acquaintances from London.

One Monday afternoon, Mathilde had just poured their coffees when étienne held high his cup and shushed them all to silence. “I propose a toast. It is the first of December, which means we have survived three months at the Académie, and—”

“A record for you, is it not?” asked Mathilde, a rare smile animating her face.

“It is indeed. I only lasted at the école des Beaux-Arts for ten weeks. All the more reason to toast our three months of friendship and hard work.”

They tapped their cups together carefully, so as not to spill any of the scalding coffee.

“In five months we’ll be done,” Helena mused. “What do we receive at the end of the course? I never thought to ask.”

“I’ve no idea,” said étienne. “Likely a certificate of some sort. Useful for lining birdcages, but not much else.”

They laughed at this, which made him suggest other, even more vulgar uses for their Académie Czerny diplomas, and only when everyone had lapsed into a happy silence did Helena unburden herself.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

“It isn’t bad news, is it?” asked Daisy worriedly.

“Not at all. It’s only . . . my aunt has issued another invitation. To all of you.”

“But that’s marvelous,” said étienne.

“I’m not so sure. She’s holding a dinner party, and I think she’s invited half of Paris. It will be a terrible crush.”

This didn’t seem to faze him one bit. “All the better. When is it?”

“A little less than a fortnight, Saturday the thirteenth. Daisy—do you think your father will object?”

“I hope not. I’ll see if I can ask someone to stay with him that evening. Just so he isn’t lonely.”

“I suppose he’ll make you bring Louisette.”

“He will, but she can sit in the kitchen with the chauffeurs. I won’t let her spoil the party for me, or for any of you.”

Mathilde hadn’t responded, not verbally at least, but her expression was strained. “Will it be difficult for you to get away?” Helena asked.

“No. It is only that I don’t have anything to wear, not for a formal dinner party,” Mathilde said uncertainly. “Your aunt and her friends are sure to be, ah . . . I don’t know the idiom in English. Elles vont se mettre sur leur trente et un. étienne . . . ?”

“Dressed to the nines, I think.”

“Yes, I suppose they will,” Helena admitted. “But you’re French. You could wear a burlap sack and still look chic.” She hesitated, not wishing to offend her in any way. “Would you allow me to lend you one of my frocks? As one friend to another? As sisters do?”