فصل 04

4

Paris, 1912

Mademoiselle!

I glanced up from the display of gloves, and closed the glass case over them, the sound swallowed by the huge atrium that made up La Femme Marchés central shopping area.

Mademoiselle! Here! Can you help me?

I would have noticed him even if he hadnt been shouting. He was tall and heavy set, with wavy hair that fell around his ears, at odds with the clipped styles of most of the gentlemen who came through our doors. His features were thick and generous, the kind my father would have dismissed as paysan. The man looked, I thought, like a cross between a Roman emperor and a Russian bear.

As I walked over to him, he gestured towards the scarves. But his eyes remained on me. In fact, they stayed on me so long that I glanced behind me, concerned that Madame Bourdain, my supervisor, might have noticed. I need you to choose me a scarf, he said.

What kind of scarf, Monsieur?

A womans scarf.

May I ask her colouring? Or whether she prefers a particular fabric?

He was still staring. Madame Bourdain was busy serving a woman in a peacock-feather hat. If she had looked up from her position at the face creams, she would have noticed that my ears had turned pink. Whatever suits you, he said, adding, She has your colouring.

I sorted carefully through the silk scarves, my skin growing ever warmer, and freed one of my favourites a fine, feather-light length of fabric in a deep opalescent blue. This colour suits nearly everybody, I said.

Yes … yes. Hold it up, he demanded. Against you. Here. He gestured towards his collarbone. I glanced at Madame Bourdain. There were strict guidelines as to the level of familiarity for such exchanges, and I wasnt sure whether holding a scarf to my exposed neck fell within them. But the man was waiting. I hesitated, then brought it up to my cheek. He studied me for so long that the whole of the ground floor seemed to disappear.

Thats the one. Beautiful. There! he exclaimed, reaching into his coat for his wallet. You have made my purchase easy.

He grinned, and I found myself smiling back. Perhaps it was simply relief that he had stopped staring at me.

Im not sure I – I was folding the scarf in tissue paper, then ducked my head as my supervisor approached.

Your assistant has done sterling work, Madame, he boomed. I glanced sideways at her, watching as she tried to reconcile this mans rather scruffy exterior with the command of language that usually came with extreme wealth. You should promote her. She has an eye!

We try to ensure that our assistants always offer professional satisfaction, Monsieur, she said smoothly. But we hope that the quality of our goods makes every purchase satisfactory. That will be two francs forty.

I handed him his parcel, then watched him make his way slowly across the packed floor of Pariss greatest department store. He sniffed the bottled scents, surveyed the brightly coloured hats, commented to those serving or even just passing. What would it be like to be married to such a man, I thought absently, someone for whom every moment apparently contained some sensory pleasure? But – I reminded myself – a man who also felt at liberty to stare at shop girls until they blushed. When he reached the great glass doors, he turned and looked directly at me. He lifted his hat for a full three seconds, then disappeared into the Paris morning.

I had come to Paris in the summer of 1910, a year after the death of my mother and a month after my sister had married Jean-Michel Montpellier, a book-keeper from the neighbouring village. I had taken a job at La Femme Marché, Pariss largest department store, and had worked my way up from storeroom assistant to shop-floor assistant, lodging within the stores own large boarding house.

I was content in Paris, once I had recovered from my initial loneliness, and earned enough money to wear shoes other than the clogs that marked me out as provincial. I loved the business of it, being there at eight forty-five a.m. as the doors opened and the fine Parisian women strolled in, their hats high, their waists painfully narrow, their faces framed by fur or feathers. I loved being free of the shadow my fathers temper had cast over my whole childhood. The drunks and reprobates of the 9th arrondissement held no fears for me. And I loved the store a vast, teeming cornucopia of beautiful things. Its scents and sights were intoxicating, its ever-changing stock bringing new and beautiful things from the four corners of the world Italian shoes, English tweeds, Scottish cashmeres, Chinese silks, fashions from America and London. Downstairs, its new food halls offered chocolates from Switzerland, glistening smoked fish, robust, creamy cheeses. A day spent within La Femme Marchés bustling walls meant being privy to a daily glimpse of a wider, more exotic world.

I had no wish to marry I did not want to end up like my mother and the thought of remaining where I was, like Madame Arteuil, the seamstress, or my supervisor, Madame Bourdain, suited me very well indeed.

Two days later, I heard his voice again Shop girl! Mademoiselle!

I was serving a young woman with a pair of fine kid gloves. I nodded at him, and continued my careful wrapping of her purchase.

But he didnt wait. I have urgent need of another scarf, he announced. The woman took her gloves from me with an audible tut. If he heard he didnt show it. I thought something red. Something vibrant, fiery. What have you got?

I was a little annoyed. Madame Bourdain had impressed on me that this store was a little piece of paradise the customer must always leave feeling they had found a haven of respite from the busy streets if one that had elegantly stripped them of their money. I was afraid my lady customer might complain. She swept away with her chin raised.

No no no, not those, he said, as I began sorting through my display. Those. He pointed down, within the glass cabinet, to where the expensive ones lay. That one.

I brought out the scarf. The deep ruby red of fresh blood, it glowed against my pale hands, like a wound.

He smiled to see it. Your neck, Mademoiselle. Lift your head a little. Yes. Like that.

I felt self-conscious holding up the scarf this time. I knew my supervisor was watching me. You have beautiful colouring, he murmured, reaching into his pockets for the money as I swiftly removed the scarf and began wrapping it in tissue.

Im sure your wife will be delighted with her gifts, I said. My skin burned where his gaze had landed.

He looked at me then, the skin around his eyes crinkling. Where are your family from, you with that skin? The north? Lille? Belgium?

I pretended I hadnt heard him. We were not allowed to discuss personal matters with customers, especially male customers.

You know my favourite meal? Moules marinière with Normandy cream. Some onions. A little pastis. Mmm. He pressed his lips to his fingers, and held up the parcel that I handed him. À bientôt, Mademoiselle!

This time I dared not watch his progress through the store. But from the flush at the back of my neck, I knew he had stopped again to look at me. I felt briefly infuriated. In St Péronne, such behaviour would have been unthinkable. In Paris, some days, I felt as if I were walking the streets in my undergarments, given how Parisian men felt at liberty to stare.

You have an admirer, remarked Paulette Perfumes.

Monsieur Lefèvre? Be careful, sniffed Loulou Bags and Wallets. Marcel in the post room has seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph. Talk of the devil. She turned back to her counter.

Mademoiselle.

I flinched, and spun around.

Im sorry. He leaned over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. I didnt mean to frighten you.

I am far from frightened, Monsieur.

His brown eyes scanned my face with such intensity – he seemed to be having an internal conversation to which I could not be privy.

Would you like to look at some more scarves?

Not today. I wanted … to ask you something.

My hand went to my collar.

I would like to paint you.

What?

My name is Édouard Lefèvre. I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you could spare me an hour or two.

I thought he was teasing me. I glanced to where Loulou and Paulette were serving, wondering if they were listening. Why … why would you want to paint me?

It was the first time I ever saw him look even mildly disconcerted. You really want me to answer that?

I had sounded, I realized, as if I were hoping for compliments.

Mademoiselle, there is nothing untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a chaperone if you choose. I merely want … Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind long after I leave La Femme Marché. I wish to commit it to paper.

I fought the urge to touch my chin. My face? Fascinating? Will … will your wife be there?

I have no wife. He reached into a pocket, and scribbled on a piece of paper. But I do have a lot of scarves. He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a felon, before I accepted it.

I didnt tell anybody. I wasnt even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and took it off again. Twice. I spent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons why I should not go.

The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As I walked, I debated with myself.

If your supervisors hear that you modelled for an artist, they will cast doubt on your morality. You could lose your job!

He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St Péronne. The plain foil to Hélènes beauty.

Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could not refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle …

But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow myself this one experience?

The address he had given me was two streets from the Panthéon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway, checked the number and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow staircase until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably his. I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the door.

A vast room was flooded with light. One wall was bare brick, another almost entirely of glass, its windows running shoulder to shoulder along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing chaos. Canvases lay stacked against each wall jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on every surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of glowing colour. There were canvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates of half-finished food. And everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine, mixed with oil paint, echoes of tobacco and the vinegary whisper of old wine dark green bottles stood in every corner, some stuffed with candles, others clearly the detritus of some celebration. A great pile of money lay on a wooden stool, the coins and notes in a chaotic heap. And there, in the centre of it all, walking slowly backwards and forwards with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur Lefèvre, dressed in a smock and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the centre of Paris.

Monsieur?

He blinked at me twice, as if trying to recall who I was, then put his jar of brushes slowly on a table beside him. Its you!

Well. Yes.

Marvellous! He shook his head, as if he were still having trouble registering my presence. Marvellous. Come in, come in. Let me find you somewhere to sit.

He seemed bigger, his body clearly visible through the fine fabric of his shirt. I stood clutching my bag awkwardly as he began clearing piles of newspapers from an old chaise longue until there was a space.

Please, sit. Would you like a drink?

Just some water, thank you.

I had not felt uncomfortable on the way there, despite the precariousness of my position. I hadnt minded the dinginess of the area, the strange studio. But now I felt slighted, and a little foolish, and this made me stiff and awkward. You were not expecting me, Monsieur.

Forgive me. I simply didnt believe you would come. But Im very glad you did. Very glad. He stepped back and looked at me.

I could feel his eyes running over my cheekbones, my neck, my hair. I sat before him as rigid as a starched collar. He gave off a slightly unwashed scent. It was not unpleasant, but almost overpowering in the circumstances.

Are you sure you wouldnt like a glass of wine? Something to relax you a little?

No, thank you. Id just like to get on. I … I can only spare an hour. Where had that come from? I think half of me already wanted to leave.

He tried to position me, to get me to put down my bag, to lean a little against the arm of the chaise longue. But I couldnt. I felt humiliated without being able to say why. And as Monsieur Lefèvre worked, glancing to and from his easel, barely speaking, it slowly dawned on me that I did not feel admired and important, as I had secretly thought I might, but as if he saw straight through me. I had, it seemed, become a thing, a subject, of no more significance than the green bottle or the apples in the still-life canvas by the door.

It was evident that he didnt like it either. As the hour wore on, he seemed more and more dismayed, emitting little sounds of frustration. I sat as still as a statue, afraid that I was doing something wrong, but finally he said, Mademoiselle, lets finish. Im not sure the charcoal gods are with me today.

I straightened with some relief, twisting my neck on my shoulders. May I see?

The girl in the picture was me, all right, but I winced. She appeared as lifeless as a porcelain doll. She bore an expression of grim fortitude and the stiff-backed primness of a maiden aunt. I tried not to show how crushed I felt. I suspect I am not the model you hoped for.

No. Its not you, Mademoiselle. He shrugged. I am … I am frustrated with myself.

I could come again on Sunday, if you liked. I dont know why I said it. It wasnt as if I had enjoyed the experience.

He smiled at me then. He had the kindest eyes. That would be … very generous. Im sure Ill be able to do you justice on another occasion.

But Sunday was no better. I tried, I really did. I lay with my arm across the chaise longue, my body twisted like the reclining Aphrodite he showed me in a book, my skirt gathered in folds over my legs. I tried to relax and let my expression soften, but in that position my corset bit into my waist and a strand of hair kept slipping out of its pin so that the temptation to reach for it was almost overwhelming. It was a long and arduous couple of hours. Even before I saw the picture, I knew from Monsieur Lefèvres face that he was, once again, disappointed.

This is me? I thought, staring at the grim-faced girl who was less Venus than a sour housekeeper checking the surfaces of her soft furnishings for dust.

This time I think he even felt sorry for me. I suspect I was the plainest model he had ever had. It is not you, Mademoiselle, he insisted. Sometimes … it takes a while to get the true essence of a person.

But that was the thing that upset me most. I was afraid he had already got it.

It was Bastille Day when I saw him again. I was making my way through the packed streets of the Latin Quarter, passing under the huge red, white and blue flags and fragrant wreaths that hung from the windows, weaving in and out of the crowds that stood to watch the soldiers marching past, their rifles cocked over their shoulders.

The whole of Paris was celebrating. I am usually content with my own company, but that day I was restless, oddly lonely. When I reached the Panthéon I stopped before me rue Soufflot had become a whirling mass of bodies, its normally grey length now packed with people dancing, the women in their long skirts and broad-brimmed hats, the band outside the Café Léon. They moved in graceful circles, stood at the edge of the pavement observing each other and chatting, as if the street were a ballroom.

And then there he was, sitting in the middle of it all, a brightly coloured scarf around his neck. Mistinguett, her associates hovering around her, rested a hand possessively on his shoulder as she said something that made him roar with laughter. She stood out with her dazzling smile and the rose covered head dress as if she had been drawn more brilianty than anyone else.

I stared at them in astonishment. And then, perhaps compelled by the intensity of my gaze, he looked round and saw me. I ducked swiftly into a doorway and set off in the opposite direction, my cheeks flaming. I dived in and out of the dancing couples, my clogs clattering on the cobbles. But within seconds his voice was booming behind me.

Mademoiselle!

I could not ignore him. I turned. He looked for a moment as if he were about to embrace me, but something in my demeanour must have stopped him. Instead he touched my arm lightly, and motioned me towards the throng of people. How wonderful to bump into you, he said. I began to make my excuses, stumbling over my words, but he held up a great hand. Come, Mademoiselle, it is a public holiday. Even the most diligent must enjoy themselves occasionally.

Around us the flags fluttered in the late-afternoon breeze. I could hear them flapping, like the erratic pounding of my heart. I struggled to think of a polite way to extricate myself, but he broke in again.

I realize, Mademoiselle, that shamefully, despite our acquaintance, I do not know your name.

Bessette, I said. Sophie Bessette.

Then please allow me to buy you a drink, Mademoiselle Bessette.

I shook my head. I felt sick, as if in the mere act of coming here I had given away too much of myself. I glanced behind him to where Mistinguett was still standing amid her group of friends.

Shall we? He held out his arm.

And at that moment the great Mistinguett looked straight at me.

It was, if Im honest, something in her expression, the brief flash of annoyance when he held out his arm. This man, this Édouard Lefèvre, had the power to make one of Pariss brightest stars feel dull and invisible. And he had chosen me over her.

I peeped up at him. Just some water, then, thank you.

We walked back to the table. Misty, my darling, this is Sophie Bessette. Her smile remained, but there was ice in her gaze as it ran the length of me. Clogs, one of her gentlemen said from behind her. How very … quaint.

The murmur of laughter made my skin prickle. I took a breath.

The emporium will be full of them for the spring season, I replied calmly. They are the very latest thing. Its la mode paysanne.

I felt Édouards fingertips touch my back.

With the finest ankles in all Paris, I think Mademoiselle Bessette may wear what she likes.

A brief silence fell over the group, as the significance of Édouards words sank in. Mistinguetts eyes slid away from me. Enchantée, she said, her smile dazzling. Édouard, darling, I must go. So, so busy. Call on me very soon, yes? She held out her gloved hand and he kissed it. I had to drag my eyes from his lips. And then she was gone, a ripple passing through the crowd, as if she were parting water.

So, we sat. Édouard Lefèvre stretched out in his chair as if he were surveying a beach while I was still rigid with awkwardness. Without saying anything, he handed me a drink and there was just the faintest apology in his expression as he did so, with – was it really? – a hint of suppressed laughter. As if it – they – were all so ridiculous that I could not feel slighted.

Surrounded by the joyful people dancing, the laughter and the bright blue skies, I began to relax. Édouard spoke to me with the utmost politeness, asking about my life before Paris, the politics within the shop, breaking off occasionally to put his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and shout, Bravo! at the band, clapping his great hands high in the air. He knew almost everybody. I lost track of the number of people who stopped to say hello or to buy him a drink artists, shopkeepers, speculative women. It was like being with royalty. Except I could see their gaze flickering towards me, while they wondered what a man who could have had Mistinguett was doing with a girl like me.

The girls at the store say you talk to les putains of Pigalle. I couldnt help myself I was curious.

I do. And many of them are excellent company.

Do you paint them?

When I can afford their time. He nodded at a man who tipped his hat to us. They make excellent models. They are generally utterly unselfconscious about their bodies.

Unlike me.

He saw my blush. After a brief hesitation, he placed his hand over mine, as if in apology. It made me colour even more. Mademoiselle, he said softly. Those pictures were my failure, not yours. I have … He changed tack. You have other qualities. You fascinate me. You are not intimidated by much.

No, I agreed. I dont believe I am.

We ate bread, cheese and olives, and they were the best olives I had ever tasted. He drank pastis, knocking back each glass with noisy relish. The afternoon crept on. The laughter grew louder, the drinks came faster. I allowed myself two small glasses of wine, and began to enjoy myself. Here, in the street, on this balmy day, I was not the provincial outsider, the shop girl on the lowest-but-one rung of the ladder. I was just another reveller, enjoying the Bastille celebrations.

And then Édouard pushed back the table and stood in front of me. Shall we dance?

I took his hand, and he swung me out into the sea of bodies. I had not danced since I had left St Péronne. Now I felt the breeze whirling around my ears, the weight of his hand on the small of my back, my clogs unusually light on my feet. He carried the scents of tobacco, aniseed, and something male that left me a little short of breath.

I dont know what it was. I had drunk little, so I could not blame the wine. Its not as if he were particularly handsome, or that I had felt my life lacking for the absence of a man.

Draw me again, I said.

He stopped and looked at me, puzzled. I couldnt blame him I was confused myself.

Draw me again. Today. Now.

He said nothing, but walked back to the table, gathered up his tobacco, and we filed through the crowd and along the teeming streets to his studio.

We went up the narrow wooden stairs, unlocked the door into the bright studio, and I waited while he shed his jacket, put a record on the gramophone and began to mix the paint on his palette. And then, as he hummed to himself, I began to unbutton my blouse. I removed my shoes and my stockings. I peeled off my skirts until I was wearing only my chemise and my white cotton petticoat. I sat there, undressed to my very corset, and unpinned my hair so that it fell about my shoulders. When he turned back to me I heard him gasp.

He blinked.

Like this? I said.

Anxiety flashed across his face. He was, perhaps, afraid that his paintbrush would yet again betray me. I kept my gaze steady, my head high. I looked at him as if it were a challenge. And then some artistic impulse took over and he was already lost in contemplation of the unexpected milkiness of my skin, the russet of my loosened hair, and all semblance of concern for probity was forgotten. Yes, yes. Move your head, a little to the left, please. he said. And your hand. There. Open your palm a little. Perfect.

As he began to paint, I watched him. He scanned every inch of my body with intense concentration, as if it would be unbearable to get it wrong. I watched as satisfaction inked itself on his face, and I felt it mirror my own. I had no inhibitions now. I was Mistinguett, or a street-walker from Pigalle, unafraid, unselfconscious. I wanted him to examine my skin, the hollows of my throat, the secret glowing underside of my hair. I wanted him to see every part of me.

As he painted I took in his features, the way he murmured to himself while mixing colours on his palette. I watched him shamble around, as if he were older than he was. It was an affectation – he was younger and stronger than most of the men who came into the store. I recalled how he ate with obvious, greedy pleasure. He sang along with the gramophone, painted when he liked, spoke to whom he wished and said what he thought. I wanted to live as Édouard did, joyfully, sucking the marrow out of every moment and singing because it tasted so good.

And then it was dark. He stopped to clean his brushes and gazed around him, as if he were only just noticing it. He lit candles and a gaslight, placing them around me, then sighed when he realized the dusk had defeated him.

Are you cold? he said.

I shook my head, but he walked over to a dresser, pulling from it a bright red woollen shawl, which he carefully placed around my shoulders. The light has gone for today. Would you like to see?

I pulled the shawl around me, and walked over to the easel, my feet bare on the wooden boards. I felt as if I were in a dream, as if real life had evaporated in the hours I had sat there. I was afraid to look and break the spell.

Come. He beckoned me forwards.

On the canvas I saw a girl I did not recognize. She gazed back at me defiantly, her hair glinting copper in the half-light, her skin as pale as alabaster, a girl with the imperious confidence of an aristocrat.

She was strange and proud and beautiful. It was as if I had been shown a magic looking-glass.

I knew it, he said, his voice soft. I knew you were in there.

His eyes were tired and strained now, but he was satisfied. I stared at her a moment longer. Then, without knowing why, I stepped forward, reached up slowly and took his face into my hands so that he had to look at me again. I held his face inches from my own and I made him keep looking at me, as if I could somehow absorb what he could see.

I had never wanted intimacy with a man. The animalistic sounds and cries that had leaked from my parents room – usually when my father was drunk – had appalled me, and I had pitied my mother for her bruised face and her careful walk the following day. But what I felt for Édouard overwhelmed me. I could not take my eyes from his mouth.

Sophie …

I barely heard him. I drew his face closer to mine. The world evaporated around us. I felt the rasp of his bristles under my palms, the warmth of his breath on my skin. His eyes studied my own, so seriously. I swear even then it was as if he had only just seen me.

I leaned forwards, just a few inches, my breath stilled, and I placed my lips on his. His hands came to rest on my waist, and tightened reflexively. His mouth met mine, and I inhaled his breath, its traces of tobacco, of wine, the warm, wet taste of him. Oh, God, I wanted him to devour me. My eyes closed, my body sparked and stuttered. His hands tangled themselves in my hair, his mouth dropped to my neck.

The revellers in the street outside burst into noisy laughter, and as flags flew in the night breeze, something in me was altered for ever. Oh, Sophie. I could paint you every day of my life, he murmured into my skin. At least I think he said paint. By that stage it was really too late to care.