UCIEN THREW OPEN THE WORN PLANK DOOR, REVEALING A LONG, OPEN, whitewashed interior filled with sunlight from a large skylight. Particles of dust, or perhaps flour, chased one another through the sunbeams in faerie maelstroms. Bags of flour and sugar were stacked near the door. An old, disused easel covered in dust stood at the far end of the room.
“My father put in a skylight,” said Lucien. “And look, there’s plenty of room for you to pose.”
Juliette joined in his enthusiasm, squeezed his arm and kissed his ear. “It’s perfect. Private, and with plenty of sunlight. You can pose me like that Manet you took me to see.”
“Olympia,” said Lucien. “A masterpiece, but you are much prettier than Manet’s model, Victorine. He painted her for Luncheon on the Grass, too. Both masterpieces. Monet and Degas are trying to get the State to buy them from Madame Manet for the Louvre. If Manet had a model like you, France would go to war to get those paintings, I promise you.”
She slapped his arm playfully. “I think it is the painter, not the model. Will you paint a masterpiece of me? Shall I undress?”
Lucien felt the storeroom suddenly get very warm and his collar very itchy. “No, my sweet, we can’t start today. I need to clear out these supplies, sweep. My paints and easel are at the other studio. I need to move the fainting couch down from the apartment upstairs to pose you on so you’ll be comfortable.”
“Will we both be comfortable on it?”
“I—we—I can start tomorrow. Will you be ready in the afternoon?”
“I’m ready now,” she said. She leaned into him for a kiss. He leaned back to avoid it. There was no place he wanted to be more than lost in her embrace, but not now, in the doorway of a storage shed, with the sound of footsteps coming from the bakery.
“We need to go now,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her out of the way so he could close and lock the door. As he turned the key, he said, “There’s a narrow passage between the buildings to the square. Only boys use it, but it’s wide enough for a determined thief, too.”
When they stepped back into the bakery Mère Lessard was standing by the bread board, her arms crossed over her bosom, her jaw jutting out so she might sight accurately down her nose at her son.
“Maman!” said Lucien.
“You made your sister cry,” said Mère Lessard. “She is upstairs weeping like you slapped her.”
“I didn’t slap her.”
“A grown, married woman, weeping like a little girl. I hope you are proud of yourself.”
“I did nothing, Maman. I’ll speak to her.” Then he composed himself, shaking off the prickly lust from a moment ago and plunging forward into the fiery recrimination coming from his mother. “This is Juliette. She’s going to model for me, and I need to use the storage shed as a studio.”
“Enchanté, Madame Lessard,” said Juliette, again with a suggestion of a curtsy.
Mère Lessard said nothing for a moment but raised an eyebrow and regarded Juliette until Lucien cleared his throat.
“Is this the Juliette who broke your heart and sent you on a drunken binge? The Juliette who nearly killed you and the rest of us for having to do your work for you? That Juliette?”
Lucien really hadn’t thought out the idea of getting Juliette through the bakery in the middle of the day, so excited had he been by the promise of seeing sunlight on her naked body.
“The same,” said Juliette, stepping forward. “But I’ve changed.”
Lucien nodded furiously to affirm she had changed, although he wasn’t sure how.
“Lucien is my only and my ever now,” said Juliette. She pulled Lucien to her by his tie and kissed his cheek.
For some reason, Lucien thought of the Crucifixion, when Christ looks down upon the Roman soldiers and prays, “Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.”
Madame Lessard’s eyebrow of recrimination worked its full circuit of rising and falling, like a drawbridge to
“My father put in a skylight,” said Lucien. “And look, there’s plenty of room for you to pose.”
Juliette joined in his enthusiasm, squeezed his arm and kissed his ear. “It’s perfect. Private, and with plenty of sunlight. You can pose me like that Manet you took me to see.”
“Olympia,” said Lucien. “A masterpiece, but you are much prettier than Manet’s model, Victorine. He painted her for Luncheon on the Grass, too. Both masterpieces. Monet and Degas are trying to get the State to buy them from Madame Manet for the Louvre. If Manet had a model like you, France would go to war to get those paintings, I promise you.”
She slapped his arm playfully. “I think it is the painter, not the model. Will you paint a masterpiece of me? Shall I undress?”
Lucien felt the storeroom suddenly get very warm and his collar very itchy. “No, my sweet, we can’t start today. I need to clear out these supplies, sweep. My paints and easel are at the other studio. I need to move the fainting couch down from the apartment upstairs to pose you on so you’ll be comfortable.”
“Will we both be comfortable on it?”
“I—we—I can start tomorrow. Will you be ready in the afternoon?”
“I’m ready now,” she said. She leaned into him for a kiss. He leaned back to avoid it. There was no place he wanted to be more than lost in her embrace, but not now, in the doorway of a storage shed, with the sound of footsteps coming from the bakery.
“We need to go now,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her out of the way so he could close and lock the door. As he turned the key, he said, “There’s a narrow passage between the buildings to the square. Only boys use it, but it’s wide enough for a determined thief, too.”
When they stepped back into the bakery Mère Lessard was standing by the bread board, her arms crossed over her bosom, her jaw jutting out so she might sight accurately down her nose at her son.
“Maman!” said Lucien.
“You made your sister cry,” said Mère Lessard. “She is upstairs weeping like you slapped her.”
“I didn’t slap her.”
“A grown, married woman, weeping like a little girl. I hope you are proud of yourself.”
“I did nothing, Maman. I’ll speak to her.” Then he composed himself, shaking off the prickly lust from a moment ago and plunging forward into the fiery recrimination coming from his mother. “This is Juliette. She’s going to model for me, and I need to use the storage shed as a studio.”
“Enchanté, Madame Lessard,” said Juliette, again with a suggestion of a curtsy.
Mère Lessard said nothing for a moment but raised an eyebrow and regarded Juliette until Lucien cleared his throat.
“Is this the Juliette who broke your heart and sent you on a drunken binge? The Juliette who nearly killed you and the rest of us for having to do your work for you? That Juliette?”
Lucien really hadn’t thought out the idea of getting Juliette through the bakery in the middle of the day, so excited had he been by the promise of seeing sunlight on her naked body.
“The same,” said Juliette, stepping forward. “But I’ve changed.”
Lucien nodded furiously to affirm she had changed, although he wasn’t sure how.
“Lucien is my only and my ever now,” said Juliette. She pulled Lucien to her by his tie and kissed his cheek.
For some reason, Lucien thought of the Crucifixion, when Christ looks down upon the Roman soldiers and prays, “Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.”
Madame Lessard’s eyebrow of recrimination worked its full circuit of rising and falling, like a drawbridge to
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