Moonlight Over Paris(81)

“As long as we are discreet, and bring it in quietly, I doubt we’ll have any trouble. If we do, we can say the frame needed to be reinforced, or something like that.”

“Do we have enough time?” Helena wondered.

“More than enough,” he answered. “The Salon is open late this evening, though we should try to get there soon, before the evening crowds arrive.”

In the end, the only difficult part of the procedure was fitting the painting, well wrapped in a clean dropcloth, in the back of her aunt’s car. Once at the Palais de Bois, they went straight to the room where Helena’s other painting was hanging, and where there was, fortunately, just enough space to hang Le train bleu without interfering with other artworks.

étienne vanished, having explained that he intended to speak to a few people about the painting, and before long a steady stream of people was entering the room and focusing their attention on Helena’s painting. It was agony to stand nearby and listen to their comments, but to her great relief nearly everyone seemed to like it.

“What are people saying?” étienne asked upon his return.

“Good things,” Helena whispered. “Flattering things. I wonder if—”

Mathilde grabbed at her arm, her attention fixed on the entrance to the room. Helena followed her gaze to the man who stood at the threshold, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

Ma?tre Czerny had arrived.

“LEAVE US,” HE barked at étienne and Mathilde, and they stepped back obediently, though étienne hovered within arm’s reach. Helena’s resolve wilted a little, for Czerny really did look very fierce, but then she remembered what he had said, and she straightened her spine and looked him in the eye.

He gestured at the painting. “This is your work?”

“Yes.”

“Why is this the first I’ve seen of it?”

“I was afraid you would not like it.”

“Yet you changed your mind. Why?”

“Because I no longer care if you like it,” she answered readily. “I may be monied, but I am not hopeless.”

Czerny winced, just a little, but he didn’t apologize. Instead he approached the painting and examined it closely, taking his time, the seconds lengthening into minutes.

“As your teacher, may I offer an opinion?” he said at last.

“You may.”

“This is good. I like it.”

“Thank you,” she said, in as gracious a tone as she could contrive.

“I will not deceive you with false praise, however. You are a good artist, but you will never be great. For that matter, neither will I. Few of us are touched by genius.”

“Not everyone can be Shakespeare,” she said, remembering her conversation with Sam.

“You English and your Shakespeare,” he said, and wrinkled his nose disdainfully. “You may not be a great artist, Mademoiselle Parr, but you are capable of creating imaginative and highly decorative work. You might wish to consider turning to commercial art—posters and book jackets, for instance. You ought to consider it.”

“Can one make a decent living with such work?” she asked, cringing at the vulgarity of her question. All the same, she had to know. Her future depended on it.

“Certainly you can. Would you like me to make some inquiries?”

She hated to ask him for anything, but it would be foolish to turn down his offer. “Yes, please. And thank you.”

“It is nothing. Good luck, Mademoiselle Parr.”

The instant he left the room, étienne and Mathilde were at her side, their expressions an almost comical mixture of curiosity and fear.

“What did he say?”

“I hope he wasn’t unkind . . .”

“He was fine. I am . . . I’ll be fine. I think I know what to do next.”

It wasn’t what she had expected, or hoped for, but she wasn’t going to turn up her nose at the ma?tre’s suggestion. He had shown her a way forward, a way to realize her dreams. A way to live independently, without recourse to her family’s money.

But first, she knew, she had to see Sam.

“I must go,” she told her friends. “There’s someone I must see. Thank you for everything.” She kissed them good-bye, and then ran from the Salon without a backward glance.

She had to tell him. She had to apologize and let Sam know that she had found her way—and so could he.

SHE HAD SENT Vincent home earlier, but rather than take the Métro now, she jumped in a waiting taxi and asked the driver to take her to the H?tel de Lisbonne. There was a good chance that Sam would still be home at that time of day, and if he weren’t she would simply take another taxi to his office.

No one challenged her as she walked through the hotel’s modest lobby and started up the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest, her hands clammy with nerves. She knocked on Sam’s door, lightly at first, and then harder when there was no reply.

“It’s Ellie. Please open the door if you’re there. I have to talk to you.”

A door opened down the hall, and a man poked his head out just far enough to stare at her. She recognized him—he was one of the other deskmen at the newspaper, though she couldn’t recall his name.

“Hello. I’m sorry for the noise,” she said.