I nodded.
“And not just to flatter me so I make this decision in your favor?” He laughed, and we all joined in, although my laugh was so nervous it sounded more like a squeak.
“Yes.” Even though I was making this up as I went, I was telling the truth. “My father and I were both fascinated with mythology, legends, and fantasies. The imagination, my father believed, was humanity’s most powerful force. Our ability, he said, to create is what makes us great.”
It was true. It was what he believed—even though, I thought, he didn’t himself create anything other than a larger fortune than he’d started out with.
“So you want to peruse symbolism?” Moreau asked.
“Soft lights and pretty women are best left to the impressionists,” I said with a stridency that surprised even me. “I am interested in the search for the eternal truths in our ancient stories.”
Had I gone too far? I wasn’t trying to flatter him. These answers came unbidden from some deep wellspring of intention inside of me. But now I was afraid he would think I was just being politic.
As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I should wonder at the authenticity of your comments, but I think I believe you. I sense a passion in you. An almost frightening passion.”
A chill passed through me.
Moreau looked from me to Girraud. “I think I can find room in my class.” He turned back to me. “We meet on Saturdays and Wednesdays.”
I sputtered out a thank-you that I repeated twice, but he brushed my gratitude off with a gesture. “When there are no classes, I expect you to visit the Louvre along with my other students and copy the Old Masters like Poussin, Raphael, Rembrandt, Titian, and Watteau. One must learn the techniques of others before one strikes out on his own. Don’t waste your time with the moderns in the Luxembourg. There’s time for that. Only when you know all the rules can you begin to break them and find your own style, and that is the goal. Not to turn into one of these boring copyists, but to become an artist with a vision. I’m not an easy teacher, Monsieur Verlaine. If you don’t prove yourself, I will ask you to leave . . . If you do, I will invite you to join me at my studio on Sunday mornings where I offer more extensive critiques than I give in the atelier and to spend some afternoons painting alongside me.”
I thanked him. I was elated. I had been admitted to the finest art school in the world. I glanced over at Julien. He smiled back at me, clearly pleased that he had been able to help me.
“Excuse me,” I said, still imitating a man’s speech patterns and tone.
Girraud and Moreau both turned.
“I need to tell you both something, if you could spare just a few more minutes.”
I felt strange. Cold and warm at the same time. I smelled those faraway violets again, but this time they made me slightly nauseated.
“I need to explain who I am.” I was looking at Monsieur Moreau, but I could see Julien’s face, too, and I could read the apprehension there.
I was feeling the same fear he was. Part of me watched the scene from a distance, terrified, horrified. Another part of me wanted to laugh with delight at what I was about to do.
“I can’t attend the école like this,” I said as I reached up and pulled at the mustache, took off my hat, and shook out my hair. As I loosened the cravat, my fingers trembled.
“What are you doing?” Julien whispered as an appalled look contorted his face. “You are ruining the disguise.”
Julien had told me he and the admissions director were friends, having met when Julien attended the école, and that the director had proved himself a rebel who challenged the institution into readying itself for the upcoming new century. I was about to give him a chance to prove just how forward thinking he really was.
Both Moreau and Girraud watched in shock as I revealed myself to be a woman.
“Mon Dieu,” Moreau said, “I had no idea.”
Without shame, Monsieur Girraud examined my face. “I didn’t know. I saw . . . but . . .” He was flustered and confused, trying to make sense of the optical illusion that appeared before him.
Monsieur Moreau put his hand up to his chin as he, too, peered at me. Despite his obvious shock, I detected a bit of delight in his eyes.
“We have a policy,” Girraud said finally, and then turned to Julien. “We have a policy,” he repeated.
“You had a policy,” I said in my normal voice. “It’s 1894, Monsieur Girraud. In America art schools accept women.”
Julien took up the challenge. “You always talk about the future, Girraud. Now is your chance to do something about it. Break with tradition.”
“I’ll fit in,” I said, imploring him. “I’ll keep my hair cut short, dress like this. I won’t be a distraction but just another student.”
“I could never allow such a thing,” the admissions officer said as he shook his head vehemently.
“Why not?” I asked.
“You can’t make a change like that without consulting the directors, the professors—there are so many people who I would need to discuss this with.” Vexed, he threw up his hands.
“Really?” Julien smiled at his friend. “Is there an actual written rule about female students? I understood it was just another archaic assumption. Why not do it, Girraud? You both looked at her work, and you accepted her.”
“Her work does indeed show promise and skill.” Girraud glanced over at Moreau for affirmation.
The painter nodded. “Mademoiselle Verlaine—” He looked at me. “Is it still Verlaine?”
I nodded. “It is.”
“Mademoiselle Verlaine exhibits a certain force and passion that is unusual in either a man or a woman,” Moreau finished.
“There’s no doubt you have talent, Mademoiselle Verlaine,” Girraud said. “But we have a policy. Most of our fine painters offer private classes. Even Moreau does sometimes. Perhaps you would consider—”
“I don’t want to take private lessons. I belong here,” I cut him off.
“But why?”
“I know how much easier it would be to accept convention and take private lessons, but it won’t be the same. This is the greatest art school in the world. Nothing else will do.”
Moreau glanced from my face to my clothes and back to my face. “As long as your presence doesn’t turn my class into a circus, I have no objection.” He turned to the director. “Girraud, it’s high time we joined the modern world. Let’s take this on.”
“But can we manage the attention the decision will get?” Girraud was shaking his head in worry.
“You and Moreau will be heroes,” I said. “You will make history.”
Girraud was thinking it through, and when I saw excitement replace the concern in his eyes, I knew that I, Sandrine Verlaine, would be the very first woman to attend the école des Beaux-Arts.
Chapter 12
Outside on the street, I took a deep breath. Beneath the heavy jacket my shirt was soaked in perspiration, and my portfolio felt extremely heavy in my hand. As I shifted it, Julien tried to take it from me, but I resisted.
“What excuse do I have to give it to you? I need to be able to carry my own weight now, literally.”
“How’s this for an excuse? You broke your wrist, remember? You don’t need to put extra weight on it.”
I smiled and conceded. It was a relief to hand it off.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To that café.”
He pointed to the corner of rue de Seine and rue Jacques-Callot at a canopied café appropriately named La Palette.
It was a short walk, and we found a table by the window. Everywhere I looked, the walls were covered with paintings and drawings of palettes. I even spotted some actual three-dimensional ones signed by the artists who’d used them.