“She’s the toast of the art school,” Maurice said. He was a bit of a dandy, always dressed better than everyone else, and wore a lemon-scented pomade in his hair. “But very aloof,” he added.
Serge laughed. “That’s putting it mildly.” A big man, he took up more space than anyone else. I was surprised he didn’t break the wineglass when he touched it.
It was a strange phenomenon, but when I was dressed in my art school garb, the others weren’t circumspect with me the way they would have been had I been in a dress and all the finery that went with it. I was one of them, a fellow artist, and it made me fearless. Freedom, when you’ve never really known it, is exhilarating. I found it liberating not to wait for someone to help me with doors or offer to carry my packages, and to be able to say anything I pleased without worrying about being considered unladylike.
“Don’t worry, when we get to male models, we’ll tease you, too, Sandrine,” Gaston said.
“Do you prefer them fair or dark?” Serge asked.
“As long as they don’t look like you, I’ll be happy,” I answered.
They laughed.
“You prefer someone handsome then?” Maurice joked at Serge’s expense, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Tomas,” Gaston said. “That’s who she’ll like.”
“No, she’ll go for Alexander,” Serge said.
“Why Alexander?” I asked.
Gaston told me: “Serge is attempting humor. Alexander is an ancient man, about eighty, with a long Methuselah beard and a cane.”
“I hope Moreau keeps Lillian a bit longer,” Maurice said.
“Yes, yes, she’s quite an eyeful. But it’s clear she’s not interested in artists,” Serge told me.
“So you’ve all tried?” I asked.
“We all have,” Serge said. “She may look hot, but when it comes to art students, she’s a cold fish.”
“Maybe it’s just that you all have cold hands,” I said, and rubbed my palms together as if to start a fire.
After more laughter, more wine, and a plate of cheese, the conversation turned to our work and our teacher.
“You know what the author Huysmans wrote about Moreau, don’t you?” Maurice asked me.
I told him I didn’t.
“He called him an extraordinary and unique artist and said he was ‘a mystic locked up in the middle of Paris in a cell.’ And that nothing from everyday life penetrates that cloister.” Opening his sketchbook, he riffled through the pages. “I have more of the quote: ‘Thrown in ecstasy, he sees the resplendent fairy-like visions, the apotheoses of other times.’ ”
“Some say he’s our greatest living painter,” said Gaston. “You’ll see if you join the atelier. He has two hundred paintings he’s working on at one time.” Gaston paused. “He’s changed since his wife died.”
“They were never married,” Maurice corrected.
“No one knows very much about her,” Serge said. “But Gaston is right. Since she died, he’s become even more obsessed with painting Orpheus and Eurydice.”
“How poignant that he keeps painting the story of soul mates over and over,” I said.
“There’s a rumor that he is part of a secret society,” Maurice whispered.
“Who in Paris isn’t part of a secret society?” Gaston said, and then quaffed what was left of his wine.
“I heard he met with Delacroix when he was younger,” Maurice continued. “And Delacroix was linked with the secret Angelic Society made up of artists who received visions of angels who aided them in their art. It’s always been rumored Delacroix introduced and inducted Moreau into the society.”
“Does the society still exist?” I asked.
“Are you interested in joining?” Gaston asked.
“From the looks of your work you already belong,” Serge added under his breath.
I blushed then, which I hated. None of the other students blushed when given compliments. I resolved to accept commendations the way men did. Why did women think they had to be demure when they were praised?
“I could use a little angelic intervention,” Serge said, “to help me get into the Salon. I wasn’t accepted last year. But with Moreau as my teacher, I have a better chance this year.”
“Why does having him as a teacher help?” I asked.
“Because Moreau is on the acceptance committee,” Maurice said.
Every student at the école and thousands of artists in Paris—from all over France, in fact—had been working toward the goal of having a painting accepted into the 1894 Salon de la Société des Artistes Fran?ais for longer than I had even been in the city. Academic-quality paintings took several months to achieve, and submissions were due at the end of March.
“What did Moreau say about your esquisse?” Gaston asked me. “As you might imagine, the advice he gives about a painter’s sketch is invaluable.”
“I haven’t done a sketch to show him. Even if I knew what I wanted to paint, there’s just not time. And there are so many restrictions to what the Salon would accept from a woman.” I shrugged.
“You’re fast, though. At least try,” Gaston said. “Moreau encourages us to submit portraits, figure studies, or history paintings. You’re excellent with nudes, which take the least amount of time, and a woman can submit a female nude.”
Some secret part of me soared hearing him say that. Second-class medals, third-class medals, and honorable mentions were given out, in addition to the most prestigious Prix de Rome, but with over ten thousand paintings being submitted and less than half making the first cut, just being accepted was a feat. What would it be like to achieve that?
“Don’t encourage her, Gaston. Less competition for us,” Serge said.
Gaston laughed. “You only wish you could compete with her.”
We’d reached the end of the bottle of wine, and Serge suggested we move on to a bistro a few blocks away on Saint-Germain that served the best soupe à l’oignon in all of Paris.
It was there, a half hour later, just as the waiter was putting our food on the table, that I noticed the door open and a group of three men enter. One of them was Julien. He must have gotten back from his trip.
I watched as the ma?tre d’ seated them inside toward the back.
“Do you know them?” Serge asked me.
“One looks familiar, but I’m not sure. Why, do you know them?”
“The gentleman with the gray beard is Monsieur Cingal, the architect. He teaches at the école, so perhaps you recognize him from seeing him there. I don’t know who the other two are.”
“But of course,” I said, and spooned some of the hot, fragrant soup. It was delicious: brown and buttery with a crisp layer of cheese on top that had just the right bite to it.
So that was Cingal, Julien’s prospective father-in-law. I glanced over at their table, trying not to bring any attention to myself. Cingal and Julien interacted much like father and son. And why not? Julien had known his father-in-law-to-be for over ten years, first as his student, then his apprentice, and now his partner.
Examining Cingal’s features, I tried to imagine them feminized and picture what his daughter would look like. But his nose was too big, his chin too square, and his brow too heavy.
As I ate and talked, I kept casting glances over at Julien’s table. I paid less attention to how many times my wineglass was filled than I ought, and before long began to hatch a plan that a more sober soul might not have dared.
Julien had told me his apartment was in one of Monsieur Cingal’s buildings and that his mentor and his family resided there also. If I followed them, I might find out where Julien lived. Where she lived. And once I knew that, I could return during the day, wait for her, and see her. See what my rival looked like. What she was made of. Learn better how to fight her for what I’d come to realize I wanted to wrest from her grip.
So when Julien and Cingal paid their bill, I threw some coins on the table and told my fellow students that it was time for me to leave and hurried out.