Moonlight Over Paris(57)

Helena was so stunned she could only stare, openmouthed, at her aunt. Surely Agnes wasn’t suggesting—

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not your mother. I won’t condemn you for doing as I did at your age.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“Would you consider it?” Agnes pressed.

“No! I don’t know . . . perhaps? But what if he doesn’t want me? He’s only ever kissed me the one time, and that was weeks ago.”

“Perhaps he is waiting for you, hmm? In any event, you don’t have to decide anything today. Remain his friend, or become his lover—the only thing that truly matters is your own happiness. That, my dear, is the mark of a modern woman.”





Chapter 21


January was a miserable month, cold and perpetually rainy, and Helena began to think she might never be warm again. It felt like months since she’d seen the sun, and with the dawn of each gray day she found her spirits wilting, inch by inch, their only prop the satisfaction she found in her work and the company of her friends.

Nearly every Saturday she, étienne, and Mathilde went to dinner at Chez Rosalie. Helena always invited Sam, but his editor had been keeping him busy with writing assignments, and he’d only been able to join them once in the weeks following Christmas.

Her aunt was absent, having departed for a long stay in Antibes, and without her animating presence the great house on the quai de Bourbon felt awfully cold and lonely. Agnes had taken Hamish with her, and Helena was surprised by how much she missed her walks along the Seine with the little terrier. There really was nothing like a dog to make one feel as if one mattered to the world.

It was as well that she had precious few distractions, since her preparations for the Salon des Indépendants consumed her waking hours. Although there was no guarantee that the Salon organizers would accept her or any other student’s work, Ma?tre Czerny was a member of the placement committee, and this, étienne assured her, was a virtual guarantee of their each having at least one piece admitted.

The ma?tre had instructed them to prepare no more than three works of art, in any medium, for his inspection, and he would make the final decision on which to submit for consideration. This had kept Helena awake for more hours than was good for her: how to guess what would appeal most to her teacher, and thereby win a place in the Salon? Whether she cared for a given piece was immaterial; what Ma?tre Czerny liked was key. And he was a difficult man to please, even on those rare days when he was in a tolerably amiable mood and didn’t shout himself hoarse before lunchtime.

Since Christmas she’d been occupied with a series of paintings based on her drawings from Les Halles, and she’d begun to believe she might, one day, be capable of producing a grander piece—a painting that incorporated all the clamor, noise, filth, beauty, misery, and despair that she’d witnessed in her few hours at the market. But she was a slow painter, especially when working in oils, and she would never be able to finish such a painting in time for the Salon.

So instead she was focusing on a character study of the farmer’s wife, but there was something missing, some animating spirit, from the preparatory drawings she had executed so painstakingly. In her mind’s eye she could see the woman so clearly, see the way she’d brimmed over with life and joy despite her hardships, but time and again Helena wasn’t able to capture her memories with charcoal and paper. The drawings were flat, hopelessly so, and she was running out of time. The opening reception, or vernissage, for the Salon des Indépendants was set for April 25, little more than three months away, and her other completed works were simply not good enough.

There was also the matter of Jean-Fran?ois d’Albret, who had not forgotten her promise to dine with him. Just after Christmas he’d sent her a letter, which she had rather shamefully ignored; but it was followed by another, then another, and on two separate instances he had also sent her flowers. Each posed the same question: when will you be free for an evening of dinner and dancing?

Yesterday she’d received a petit bleu from Sam with the news that he was busy working on a story and once again couldn’t come to dinner at Rosalie’s on Saturday night. She had sat on the end of her bed for a good half hour, simply staring at his untidy handwriting that she now deciphered so easily. And then her gaze had fallen on her dressing table and the pile of messages from Mr. d’Albret, all unanswered, and she had decided she might as well give in and go to dinner with him.

She’d written out a response, posted it straightaway—and had immediately regretted it. The man, after all, had been a complete bore at her aunt’s party the month before. What did she expect? That he would magically be transformed into an agreeable and interesting person?

His response arrived first thing the next morning, the expensive stationery smelling faintly of eau de cologne.

17 January 1925

My dear Lady Helena,

You cannot imagine the delight with which I opened your message. I had begun to fear that my pleas were falling on barren ground, so it is with the utmost pleasure that I accept your invitation to dinner this very evening. I will collect you at eight o’clock. Until then, please be assured of my sincere regard and heartfelt good wishes, for I remain,

Your devoted servant,

Jean-Fran?ois d’Albret


It was a perfectly polite and proper response, although his choice of words was perhaps more flowery than she would have liked. She’d bristled at his suggestion that she had issued the invitation, but he was writing in a foreign language, after all, and it would be unfair to parse every word of the message.