the one addressed to him, using the ragged letter opener that hung from a string on a nail. He read it several times. Half an hour later he was still sitting on the stairs, flushed and breathless.
Claude went with his friends on the opening day of the spring Salon to see his work hung. They looked for the paintings for half an hour until they discovered both twenty feet above them, just under the ceiling, where little could be seen of them at all.
A party of men and women pushed past them on the way out of the room, knocking into them. “It’s not a failure,” Auguste cried above the noise. “Come back here, Monet! At least you got in. That’s more than the rest of us can say. Success takes a long time.”
“I haven’t got a long time,” Claude cried as he strode out under the great arched entrance. “I’ve got six more damn months of money from home and then I’ll have to find a doorway to sleep in.”
Auguste threw his arm around Claude’s back as they walked. “Look, Claude!” he said. “Start planning for a submission next year. Never mind painting seascapes and shores for now, even though they’re the best around. Paint beautiful women and paint a big canvas. If you do it well enough, the world will notice you. Find some models. You’ll do it. We’ll help.”
F OR HOURS HE wandered alone. When he was troubled, he always sought refuge in the streets and by the river. Sometimes he saw everything; other times he saw nothing. Dusk was falling when he entered the bookshop on the rue Dante near the Sorbonne; the window lamp had been lit and an elderly cat was sleeping on a French encyclopedia. The hand-painted hanging sign read Libraire Doncieux.
A young woman was seated behind the desk. She was so absorbed in writing a letter that she did not hear him come in. Her thick, brownish-red hair, which was secured demurely in a topknot on her head with combs and a heavy black velvet bow, glistened in the light of the desk lamp. She wore a little gold cross against the high lace collar of her dress, and she bit her lip as she wrote.
“Bonjour , mademoiselle,” he said.
She raised her face. It was the veiled girl he had seen in the train station on his way to join the army nearly four years before.
Claude was so startled that his heart began to beat a little faster. She was looking at him oddly now. “Bonjour , monsieur,” she said in a clear, sweet voice. “May I help you?”
“I merely came to look.”
“Very well. D’accord.”
“Do you carry any secondhand books?”
“Some, in the box against that wall.”
A few customers came in as he browsed the shelves, glancing back at her secretly several times. She was so much lovelier than he remembered her because she was real. There was a sort of warmth from her as from the earth on a summer day. He felt it drift across the shop and cause the titles of the books to blur before him.
The customers departed, and he heard the rapid scratch of her pen again until it stopped. The silence was potent. She called, “Je suis desolée , monsieur! I’m sorry, but we’re closing in a few minutes.”
He pulled an old book from a box and walked toward her with it. She looked at the title and smiled. “Birds of Central France,” she said. “That will be two francs, monsieur.”
Now the day was ending outside and the bookshop grew darker. Behind her was a staircase leading to the upper shelves and then above to he did not know where. He had the odd sensation that she would go up those steps, her skirts trailing, and disappear as she had before.
He said, “What’s up there?”
“Books people seldom buy, and above that, my uncle’s rooms. He’s rather the black sheep in my family to own a shop like this, but I like it.”
“I’ve shopped here before. I’ve not seen you here until now.”
“My uncle’s not well, poor thing! I’ve come to help for a few days. My parents don’t let me do too much because I’m just eighteen, but this time they
Claude went with his friends on the opening day of the spring Salon to see his work hung. They looked for the paintings for half an hour until they discovered both twenty feet above them, just under the ceiling, where little could be seen of them at all.
A party of men and women pushed past them on the way out of the room, knocking into them. “It’s not a failure,” Auguste cried above the noise. “Come back here, Monet! At least you got in. That’s more than the rest of us can say. Success takes a long time.”
“I haven’t got a long time,” Claude cried as he strode out under the great arched entrance. “I’ve got six more damn months of money from home and then I’ll have to find a doorway to sleep in.”
Auguste threw his arm around Claude’s back as they walked. “Look, Claude!” he said. “Start planning for a submission next year. Never mind painting seascapes and shores for now, even though they’re the best around. Paint beautiful women and paint a big canvas. If you do it well enough, the world will notice you. Find some models. You’ll do it. We’ll help.”
F OR HOURS HE wandered alone. When he was troubled, he always sought refuge in the streets and by the river. Sometimes he saw everything; other times he saw nothing. Dusk was falling when he entered the bookshop on the rue Dante near the Sorbonne; the window lamp had been lit and an elderly cat was sleeping on a French encyclopedia. The hand-painted hanging sign read Libraire Doncieux.
A young woman was seated behind the desk. She was so absorbed in writing a letter that she did not hear him come in. Her thick, brownish-red hair, which was secured demurely in a topknot on her head with combs and a heavy black velvet bow, glistened in the light of the desk lamp. She wore a little gold cross against the high lace collar of her dress, and she bit her lip as she wrote.
“Bonjour , mademoiselle,” he said.
She raised her face. It was the veiled girl he had seen in the train station on his way to join the army nearly four years before.
Claude was so startled that his heart began to beat a little faster. She was looking at him oddly now. “Bonjour , monsieur,” she said in a clear, sweet voice. “May I help you?”
“I merely came to look.”
“Very well. D’accord.”
“Do you carry any secondhand books?”
“Some, in the box against that wall.”
A few customers came in as he browsed the shelves, glancing back at her secretly several times. She was so much lovelier than he remembered her because she was real. There was a sort of warmth from her as from the earth on a summer day. He felt it drift across the shop and cause the titles of the books to blur before him.
The customers departed, and he heard the rapid scratch of her pen again until it stopped. The silence was potent. She called, “Je suis desolée , monsieur! I’m sorry, but we’re closing in a few minutes.”
He pulled an old book from a box and walked toward her with it. She looked at the title and smiled. “Birds of Central France,” she said. “That will be two francs, monsieur.”
Now the day was ending outside and the bookshop grew darker. Behind her was a staircase leading to the upper shelves and then above to he did not know where. He had the odd sensation that she would go up those steps, her skirts trailing, and disappear as she had before.
He said, “What’s up there?”
“Books people seldom buy, and above that, my uncle’s rooms. He’s rather the black sheep in my family to own a shop like this, but I like it.”
“I’ve shopped here before. I’ve not seen you here until now.”
“My uncle’s not well, poor thing! I’ve come to help for a few days. My parents don’t let me do too much because I’m just eighteen, but this time they
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