noticed a sheet of blue stationery in the mail slot. “Dear Monsieur Monet,” it said in neat handwriting. “I could come for one week only if I can bring my sister as chaperone. We regard it as an adventure and hope it will be of help to you and further the cause of art. Sincerely, Camille-Léonie Doncieux.” The other side of the paper had a few words crossed out. He thought they said, “My dear love,” but it did not matter, for they were not for him.
F ONTAINEBLEAU WAS AN ancient royal forest that artists had discovered more than a generation before. Claude wandered about until he found the place he wanted to paint, then set up his easel and a small canvas to begin to capture the leafy beech trees in the foreground and the background that he would need for his picture of picnickers. Later in the studio he would repaint everything on a very large canvas that no one in next spring’s Salon could possibly ignore.
He had taken places in a rustic inn that catered to artists: two tiny rooms in the attic for himself and Frédéric, and one lovelier and larger room for the girls to share. Everything was ready when Frédéric arrived a few days later. He had brought his paints and easel, hoping to have time to work himself.
That night they smoked their pipes outside the inn in the warm air, waiting for the Doncieux sisters to arrive by coach from the local train. The young women did not come on the first coach or the second. Already it was ten o’clock at night.
“They’re not coming!” Claude said. “It’s all over for me.”
“They’re coming. There’s one more coach.”
“I bet you a pack of tobacco they don’t.”
“I bet you your future prize in the Exhibition they do.”
Claude leapt up from the stone bench to pace the dirt road. A faint lamp glow was coming closer, illuminating the trunks of oaks. The horse stopped, the door opened, and two tall girls wearing bonnets and struggling with large wicker trunks cautiously put their feet on the step to descend. Both men ran forward to help and nearly toppled the luggage.
“We nearly couldn’t get away,” the girls cried, their words tumbling over each other. “And we’re so dreadfully tired! Did you get the hatbox?” He had a feeling they had been arguing on the way, and indeed when he and Frédéric carried the bags upstairs and closed the door, he heard the muffled intense voices.
H E ROSE VERY early and descended the stairs with his paint box. The sisters’ door was firmly closed, and no sound came from within. “Are the young women who came last night still here?” he asked the innkeeper’s wife as she came toward him carrying clean linen, and she replied, “Bien sûr! But of course! One of them has already walked in the garden; she’s below with her coffee. It will be a fine day, monsieur.”
Camille-Léonie Doncieux was standing by the window, two hands holding her coffee bowl; she held the curtain back just a little with her shoulder and was gazing out at the flowers. She turned to him with a smile and said cheerfully, if a little shyly, “Good morning, monsieur!”
“Good morning, mademoiselle.”
She put her coffee bowl on the table and gave him her bare hand.
She was young indeed and very lovely; hers was a strong, almost classical Grecian face with full eyebrows, beautiful eyes, and a strong nose. Neither was she too slender, he noted appreciatively: a full bosom pressed against the bodice of her blue and white striped dress. He had had the impression before she turned that she had been waiting for someone; under her outer restraint he sensed a certain anticipation that something she would like was hurrying toward her.
He felt a strong frisson of attraction and immediately frowned at himself. She must be only a model to me or I won’t do well, he thought.
He heard skirts on the stairs as her sister, Annette, descended, still looking half asleep. Frédéric came down shortly after and drank his coffee hastily. The four of
F ONTAINEBLEAU WAS AN ancient royal forest that artists had discovered more than a generation before. Claude wandered about until he found the place he wanted to paint, then set up his easel and a small canvas to begin to capture the leafy beech trees in the foreground and the background that he would need for his picture of picnickers. Later in the studio he would repaint everything on a very large canvas that no one in next spring’s Salon could possibly ignore.
He had taken places in a rustic inn that catered to artists: two tiny rooms in the attic for himself and Frédéric, and one lovelier and larger room for the girls to share. Everything was ready when Frédéric arrived a few days later. He had brought his paints and easel, hoping to have time to work himself.
That night they smoked their pipes outside the inn in the warm air, waiting for the Doncieux sisters to arrive by coach from the local train. The young women did not come on the first coach or the second. Already it was ten o’clock at night.
“They’re not coming!” Claude said. “It’s all over for me.”
“They’re coming. There’s one more coach.”
“I bet you a pack of tobacco they don’t.”
“I bet you your future prize in the Exhibition they do.”
Claude leapt up from the stone bench to pace the dirt road. A faint lamp glow was coming closer, illuminating the trunks of oaks. The horse stopped, the door opened, and two tall girls wearing bonnets and struggling with large wicker trunks cautiously put their feet on the step to descend. Both men ran forward to help and nearly toppled the luggage.
“We nearly couldn’t get away,” the girls cried, their words tumbling over each other. “And we’re so dreadfully tired! Did you get the hatbox?” He had a feeling they had been arguing on the way, and indeed when he and Frédéric carried the bags upstairs and closed the door, he heard the muffled intense voices.
H E ROSE VERY early and descended the stairs with his paint box. The sisters’ door was firmly closed, and no sound came from within. “Are the young women who came last night still here?” he asked the innkeeper’s wife as she came toward him carrying clean linen, and she replied, “Bien sûr! But of course! One of them has already walked in the garden; she’s below with her coffee. It will be a fine day, monsieur.”
Camille-Léonie Doncieux was standing by the window, two hands holding her coffee bowl; she held the curtain back just a little with her shoulder and was gazing out at the flowers. She turned to him with a smile and said cheerfully, if a little shyly, “Good morning, monsieur!”
“Good morning, mademoiselle.”
She put her coffee bowl on the table and gave him her bare hand.
She was young indeed and very lovely; hers was a strong, almost classical Grecian face with full eyebrows, beautiful eyes, and a strong nose. Neither was she too slender, he noted appreciatively: a full bosom pressed against the bodice of her blue and white striped dress. He had had the impression before she turned that she had been waiting for someone; under her outer restraint he sensed a certain anticipation that something she would like was hurrying toward her.
He felt a strong frisson of attraction and immediately frowned at himself. She must be only a model to me or I won’t do well, he thought.
He heard skirts on the stairs as her sister, Annette, descended, still looking half asleep. Frédéric came down shortly after and drank his coffee hastily. The four of
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