Moonlight Over Paris(74)
Helena had never been on the Paris underground trains, but as a frequent tram rider she had a good idea of what was expected. The station entrance was only a few minutes’ walk away, its distinctive Art Nouveau canopy and sign quite impossible to miss. She sprung for a first-class ticket, which was ten centimes dearer than a second-class fare, and descended to the westbound platform.
The Metro didn’t seem terribly different from the Underground back home, which she’d used often; her parents hadn’t minded, just as long as she’d had a footman or maid with her. Nearly every wall was tiled in white, which helped to brighten the dimly lit halls and corridors, and scores of eye-catching advertising posters lined both sides of the platform.
She didn’t have long to wait for a train, and though it was near the end of the workday and the second-class carriages were becoming crowded, there were plenty of empty seats in the first-class carriage she boarded. It was odd to sit by a window and see only darkness beyond, and if she were bothered by enclosed spaces it might have been disturbing; as it was, the relative quiet and solitude of her journey was exactly what she needed.
Porte Maillot was at the end of the line, at the border between Paris proper and Neuilly-sur-Seine, and the station was all but empty as she climbed the stairs to the exit. Blinking a little in the late afternoon sun, she looked around, trying to find her bearings, and then descended again to the ticket hall to ask for directions to the Palais de Bois.
Fortunately it wasn’t far, just a short walk across the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, and as the afternoon was warm and sunny this final part of her journey helped to further steady her nerves.
She’d been furnished with one ticket by virtue of her membership in the Société des Artistes Indépendants, the only prerequisite for inclusion in the Salon, and this she handed to a waiting attendant in return for the exhibition catalog.
Pausing just inside the entrance, she searched through the catalog for her name, an easy enough task given that artists were listed alphabetically by surname. She found it on page 242.
Parr (Helena), née à Londres (Angleterre)—Anglaise—51, quai de Bourbon, 4e.
2602—Femme de fermier—600 fr.
It was far from her best work, and she knew it, but it was too late to change her mind. At least Ma?tre Czerny had deemed one of her paintings good enough for inclusion in the Salon, and she could now say she’d had her work displayed at an exhibition in Paris. That was something, after all.
The one other time she’d seen her name in print had been the announcement of her engagement in the Times more than a decade before. It was strange and wonderful to read her name, her true artist’s identity and not the triple-barreled dynastic surname she’d always thought rather pretentious, and below it to see the title of a painting that she had created—and even a price. Six hundred francs was a great deal of money for a work by a totally unknown artist, but perhaps someone, apart from Aunt Agnes, might like the portrait enough to buy it.
She edged a little farther into the exhibition hall, rather surprised at how modest it was compared to the luxuriously decorated Grand Palais, where the Salon had been held the year before. The building had the air of something temporary, and while she was uncertain of its history it felt rather like a remnant of a past exposition or world’s fair.
Approaching an interior wall, she was surprised to discover that it consisted of nothing more than a wooden frame covered in burlap. The light was wonderful, however, with many clerestory windows and skylights, and the paintings had been arranged sensitively, with a reasonable amount of space between the canvases.
It came as no surprise when, upon entering the first large room of the exhibition, she found her own face staring back at her. étienne’s portrait of La femme dorée had been given a wall of its own, and as it was by far the largest canvas in the room, and arguably the most striking, it was attracting a great deal of attention.
She came a little closer, but rather than push to the front, to stand by her friend, she hovered at the edge of the crowd, a little nervous that someone would recognize her as étienne’s model. But no one made the connection, much to her relief, not even when étienne beckoned her to his side.
He had never looked more handsome, or more happy, and she prayed that tonight would be the moment when her friend received the acclaim he was due. A glass of champagne in his hand, a half-wilted gardenia in his buttonhole, he embraced her dramatically and managed to spill most of his drink down the front of her frock.
“Désolé, ma belle—but it is champagne, and champagne never leaves a stain.”
“I’m so proud of you. Just look at the admirers. People are standing ten deep to catch a glimpse of the extraordinary portrait by étienne Moreau.”
“I disagree—it is you they have come to see. The most beautiful woman at this exhibition. Have you found your painting yet?” he asked.
“No. This is as far as I’ve got.”
“Me, too. Do you want me to come with you?”
“Of course not. You stay here and enjoy your success. I’ll look for Mathilde’s, too.”
“Come back as soon as you’ve found it. Promise?”
“I promise. Though it might take a while.” She flipped to the back of the catalog and held it open for his inspection. “There are more than thirty-five hundred paintings on display here. Wish me luck!”