Moonlight Over Paris(75)

She found Mathilde’s a quarter hour later, and to her relief it had been hung at eye level on a wall that was well lighted; her friend would be pleased. The painting, of children playing in a garden, was attracting some favorable attention, though nothing like the same level of excitement as étienne’s.

Finally, after the longest twenty minutes of her life, Helena ran her painting to ground. It had been hung high on the wall in one of the final rooms of the Salon, in a dark corner with very little light, and in the time she spent hovering at the room’s entrance not one person took a second look or even seemed to notice it.

It was silly to stay, not when there were so many other works to see and admire, so she forced herself to turn around and leave the farmer’s wife behind. It came as a great relief when, only two rooms along, she found the Murphys, standing among a small crowd of admirers who had come to see Gerald’s latest painting. It was the one of clockworks that he’d begun in Antibes the summer before, and was so enormous that it took up an entire wall.

“Helena! Look, Gerald—Helena is here.”

“Wonderful! We were looking for your painting, but no luck yet. Have you come across it?”

“Yes. It’s back that way, the second room on. It’s rather hidden, though. Luck of the draw, I suppose.”

“You should be very proud all the same,” Sara said loyally.

“Thank you. And congratulations, Gerald—I should have said so right away. I love the painting.”

“Thank you. We’ll see you later, won’t we? At the party?”

“Of course. I suppose I had better try to find my aunt. Until later, then.”

Not in any particular rush, she wandered back through the exhibition hall, trying to absorb what she saw, although the sheer volume of work made it difficult to take everything in. Helena was standing in front of a small canvas, a still life that combined pointillist techniques with Cubist perspectives, when she heard the familiar accent of Ma?tre Czerny.

She looked around, mentally preparing herself for a brief conversation with her teacher, but he was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she had been mistaken. But then he spoke again, and it really was his voice, only it was coming from the other side of the wall. A wall that was made of air and stretched burlap.

He was speaking in English, with a man who had a vaguely Australian accent, and they were commiserating with one another over the general laziness and ineptitude of art students. It was nothing she hadn’t already heard a hundred times. And then—

“Of course this year’s crop of students was the worst yet. Nearly all of them hopeless—apart from étienne Moreau. Did you see his work when you came in? Striking, very striking.”

“One out of how many?”

“Thirty to begin with, then a dozen or so by the end. I have to watch myself—can’t scare off all of them.”

“Understood, my dear Fabritius.”

“The monied and hopeless are there to support the poor and talented—we know it, even if they don’t.”

“As it has always been. One in a thousand, if that, has the talent to make a life of it. And yet we persevere.”

“If it hadn’t been for Moreau I’d have gone mad, I tell you. Impossible to manage, like the best ones, but I think he’ll go far.”

“And his fellow students?”

“I’ve forgotten their names already.”

They walked away, laughing gaily over Ma?tre Czerny’s last remark, and she simply stood and stared at the odd little still life before her until all she could see were meaningless, formless dots, and still the words turned and turned in her head.

Monied and hopeless. One in a thousand. Forgotten their names already.

It was far too hot inside. She would faint if she stayed where she was. So she walked to the nearest exit, skirting the main rooms, praying to escape before anyone she knew found her.

She burst through the first door she came across, gulping in great breaths of cooling air, and when she felt a little steadier she walked to a nearby bench and sat down.

All along, she had been wrong. When she had believed she was progressing, improving, she had been wrong. When she had thought she might, possibly, have some small amount of talent, she had been wrong.

When her friends had told her that her work was good, they had been wrong. They had been lying to her, out of kindness no doubt, but still—it had all been a lie.

And the year she had begged for? The year in Paris she’d been so certain would transform her life? It had been a twelvemonth of delusions, nothing more.

“There you are.”

She didn’t look up, couldn’t look up. Not him.

Not Sam, not now.

“Why are you here?” she asked dully.

“Why am I here? How can you ask such a thing? I’m here because of you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Something’s the matter. Did something happen in there?”

“Nothing happened,” she lied, and tried to remember what it felt like to smile. It was impossible, so she conjured up an approximation and pasted it to her face before turning to face him. “It was too warm inside.”

“I saw your painting. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ve all been looking for you—it’s nearly time to go to the Murphys’.”