said I might in compensation for …” She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“You were writing passionately to someone and I interrupted you.”
“I have passionate words to say.”
“Ah, do you?” Claude could see from the quality of her dark wool dress and the real gold cross about her neck that she was not one of the harried Parisian shopgirls struggling to buy a pretty pair of shoes but some daughter of the petite or even haute bourgeoisie whose father had plenty of income. She likely spent most of her days drawing a little or playing the piano or deciding what she would wear. He knew that if she really looked at him, she might see a somewhat shabby young man who had just endured a moment of tremendous disappointment and who, under his slight bluster, was deeply sad.
He walked home by gaslight and then through the studio into his room, where he stared again at the sketch on his wall, which he had made of her when he had first seen her. Marvelous—but what could it mean for him? He locked his door and lay down on the bed with his copy of Birds of Central France lying open on his chest.
His mind was not still, though. Ideas for paintings moved in the dark room before him. He jumped up and flipped through his sketchbooks to find a rough sketch for a huge painting of picnickers under a tree. He had made it the year before and forgotten all about it, but now it came to life for him. The room changed: trees grew, people ate and drank on a picnic cloth, and everything was dappled by sunlight. And the girl in his drawing was in the middle of it.
H E WAS SWEATY and sensually excited; he tried to sleep and ended up making further sketches. His hopelessness of the day before was swept away. He was up by dawn, though he had hardly slept at all. He endured the hours until the shop opened. Suppose she was not there? For it was her face and figure and no other that he saw in the great painting he would make.
She was at the bookshop desk again, writing another letter, but when he came close she quickly turned it facedown. What was in it? It did not matter. He had nothing to do with her personal matters; he did not even know her. “Bonjour , mademoiselle,” he said in a more charming way than he had the previous day. “I did not mention this yesterday. Je suis peintre —I’m a painter.”
Her large brown eyes studied him, her hand over the turned letter. “Are you, monsieur?” she asked.
“I’m planning a huge picture of picnickers on the grass to be painted outside, en plein air , in the forest of Fontainebleau, a short train ride from Paris. I need a young woman to model. You’re very lovely. It would take a few weeks. I plan it for June. I would of course pay for your time and your lodging. Would you model for me?”
“But I am not a model, monsieur,” she replied demurely. “And I don’t know what my parents would say if I went from the city alone.” From her now downcast eyes, he could imagine exactly what they would say.
He flapped his hat against his trouser leg, keeping the other hand securely in his pocket. “I assure you I’ll ask nothing that could be considered immodest or offensive. You would be fully clothed; I would ask you to bring your loveliest dresses. As for my references, others can speak well of me. My family has a prosperous business in Le Havre. My best friend, also from a fine family, is coming to model. Look, here’s my address. Will you send word to me if you decide you can come?”
He walked home and through the studio, where his friends were painting, and threw himself on the bed. He wondered why she had been allowed to work in the bookshop, in compensation for what, and to whom she had been writing. She would not come, of course, and she was the one he wanted. He was uncomfortably aware of something about her that had haunted him since he had first seen her with the family.
But at twilight, when he was hurrying out to buy sausages before the shops closed, he
“You were writing passionately to someone and I interrupted you.”
“I have passionate words to say.”
“Ah, do you?” Claude could see from the quality of her dark wool dress and the real gold cross about her neck that she was not one of the harried Parisian shopgirls struggling to buy a pretty pair of shoes but some daughter of the petite or even haute bourgeoisie whose father had plenty of income. She likely spent most of her days drawing a little or playing the piano or deciding what she would wear. He knew that if she really looked at him, she might see a somewhat shabby young man who had just endured a moment of tremendous disappointment and who, under his slight bluster, was deeply sad.
He walked home by gaslight and then through the studio into his room, where he stared again at the sketch on his wall, which he had made of her when he had first seen her. Marvelous—but what could it mean for him? He locked his door and lay down on the bed with his copy of Birds of Central France lying open on his chest.
His mind was not still, though. Ideas for paintings moved in the dark room before him. He jumped up and flipped through his sketchbooks to find a rough sketch for a huge painting of picnickers under a tree. He had made it the year before and forgotten all about it, but now it came to life for him. The room changed: trees grew, people ate and drank on a picnic cloth, and everything was dappled by sunlight. And the girl in his drawing was in the middle of it.
H E WAS SWEATY and sensually excited; he tried to sleep and ended up making further sketches. His hopelessness of the day before was swept away. He was up by dawn, though he had hardly slept at all. He endured the hours until the shop opened. Suppose she was not there? For it was her face and figure and no other that he saw in the great painting he would make.
She was at the bookshop desk again, writing another letter, but when he came close she quickly turned it facedown. What was in it? It did not matter. He had nothing to do with her personal matters; he did not even know her. “Bonjour , mademoiselle,” he said in a more charming way than he had the previous day. “I did not mention this yesterday. Je suis peintre —I’m a painter.”
Her large brown eyes studied him, her hand over the turned letter. “Are you, monsieur?” she asked.
“I’m planning a huge picture of picnickers on the grass to be painted outside, en plein air , in the forest of Fontainebleau, a short train ride from Paris. I need a young woman to model. You’re very lovely. It would take a few weeks. I plan it for June. I would of course pay for your time and your lodging. Would you model for me?”
“But I am not a model, monsieur,” she replied demurely. “And I don’t know what my parents would say if I went from the city alone.” From her now downcast eyes, he could imagine exactly what they would say.
He flapped his hat against his trouser leg, keeping the other hand securely in his pocket. “I assure you I’ll ask nothing that could be considered immodest or offensive. You would be fully clothed; I would ask you to bring your loveliest dresses. As for my references, others can speak well of me. My family has a prosperous business in Le Havre. My best friend, also from a fine family, is coming to model. Look, here’s my address. Will you send word to me if you decide you can come?”
He walked home and through the studio, where his friends were painting, and threw himself on the bed. He wondered why she had been allowed to work in the bookshop, in compensation for what, and to whom she had been writing. She would not come, of course, and she was the one he wanted. He was uncomfortably aware of something about her that had haunted him since he had first seen her with the family.
But at twilight, when he was hurrying out to buy sausages before the shops closed, he
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