I felt pinpricks of shivers. That word again. It seemed to be following me.
“The opulence and the sensuality is powerful, but I still think you can go further to claim it. Our job,” he said, continuing, “is to see the world in all its storied wonder and synthesize it through our personal vision and then give it back to others on canvas. Look at Matisse, with his bold colors and the way he flattens out the figure. Or Rouault—” He was pointing across the room to his two favorite students. “They are painting their version of reality. Just as you are. What I am saying is that I want you to make this even more your own version. Exaggerate the things that interest you. Make the blacks blacker. Make the skin more luminous. Exploit the sensuality.”
After all those weeks of studying with Moreau, I suddenly completely and totally understood what he meant, as if a switch had been turned on in my head, and for the next four hours I painted in a wild frenzy.
At the end of the day, Moreau stopped by to see my progress. He stood watching me for several minutes. Then nodded. Once and again. Finally, he said just four words, and it felt as if I’d waited a lifetime to hear them.
“You have found yourself.”
I bowed my head.
“Now you are ready to give some thought to what you are going to submit to the Salon,” Moreau said.
“I didn’t think I was ready.”
“You might not have been before, but you are now. Your improvement has been remarkable. Truly remarkable.”
A few easels away, I saw Serge Mouton glance over at us.
“Do you have a suggestion?” I asked Moreau.
“I would never suggest a subject. This is one of the steps you must take on your own on your path to becoming the artist you are meant to be. Your choices at every juncture make a statement, and it is through those choices you will speak to us. Make a woman look like a statue, or make her look like a harlot. Paint the light as if it were healing and holy, or paint it as if it were flat and damning. Use the paint as harsh reality or as fantasy. Make red violent or as generous as a rose. Every choice speaks of who you are.”
I looked at the painting I was working on. What did it say about who I was?
Moreau seemed to be looking, too.
“Choose wisely and paint a sketch this week for us to consider. Many of my students work on the Salon submission all year . . . but your best work, Mademoiselle Sandrine, is not labored. Use your darks and your lights and your feelings, and paint me something. Make me some magic this week.”
“Don’t you think there is something curious about Mademoiselle’s work, Ma?tre?” Serge asked. He’d walked over and was standing to the right of Moreau. “Suspicious perhaps?”
Our teacher looked surprised by the interruption.
“Suspicious? What an odd choice of words. By all means, Monsieur, what do you think is suspicious?”
“These paintings are nothing at all like the paintings that Mademoiselle showed in order to be admitted to your classes. I saw those—we all saw them. These paintings, this style, everything she has created since she’s been with us has been markedly different. While she uses the same Renaissance-era chiaroscuro, the new paintings are looser and more contemporary.”
“Her style has changed, of course.” Moreau frowned.
“It’s more than just change,” he countered.
“What are you suggesting? And be careful, lest you make an accusation you can’t back up,” Moreau said.
Several of the students had stopped what they were doing and gathered around. The silence in the large high-ceilinged room was extreme. I was afraid they would all be able to hear my heart beating so loudly in my chest as my fear escalated as I waited to hear Serge’s accusation.
“I charge Mademoiselle Verlaine with using paintings that weren’t hers to gain entry to the école.”
Moreau looked from Serge to my canvas. He cocked his head. Studied my work.
“You are right in that her style is markedly different,” Moreau said.
I had just been invited to enter a painting into the 1894 Salon. Was that honor to be snatched from me so quickly? “Yes, different,” I said. “I’ve studied and grown under your tutelage, Monsieur Moreau.” My voice trembled—did they all notice?
“All that matters to me is this work—the painting you are doing now,” Moreau said.
I held my breath. Was it going to be all right? Was he dismissing Serge’s charge?
“But would you be so kind as to bring your admission paintings with you next week so that I can take a look. I don’t expect a problem. I have a feeling about you. I have faith in you. But an accusation has been made, and as distasteful as this is, investigate I must.”
Chapter 32
I walked home in tears, overwhelmed by a combination of exhaustion from what I’d painted that day, the excitement of the praise Moreau had heaped on me, and then the devastating allegation.
I was waiting at the corner to cross Boulevard Saint-Germain when a carriage stopped in front of me. There were two passengers in the back seat. Both men. One turned, looked right at me. He was backlit, his features indistinct, but . . . Was it Benjamin? Could it be? It had to be, didn’t it? The man next to him, even in profile, looked like William Lenox, his business associate, who I’d seen on the ship from New York to Southampton two and a half months ago.
I stepped back into the shadow of a storefront.
I hadn’t heard from Mr. Lissauer in days. Wouldn’t he have telegraphed if Benjamin had left New York? Yes, if he knew he’d left, but why would he? Mr. Lissauer didn’t work for the bank. He wasn’t privy to Benjamin’s whereabouts.
There was always the possibility that Benjamin’s presence in Paris, if it was Benjamin, might be a coincidence. Perhaps he was here on business.
I was grasping at straws, and I knew it. The most likely scenario was that, if this was Benjamin, his efforts to find me had succeeded at long last. Had there been papers revealing my grandmother’s identity in my father’s study? Or a record of a bank account with her name on it in one of his desk drawers? There had been no one to prevent Benjamin from searching through my father’s personal effects. He’d had months to sift through every file and slip of paper. If he was here, it was my fault for not being more vigilant before I left.
I strained to see into the carriage. Someone walking down the street passed in front of me, blocking my view. And then the horse trotted on. I remained frozen to the spot.
Had that been my husband? Had he recognized me? The man had not seemed to do more than give me a cursory glance. Why should he? I was wearing a man’s pants, coat, hat. My hair was short, and my face was hidden in shadows.
As I continued on, I convinced myself that the man in the carriage had not been my husband. It was my overactive imagination again. Hadn’t I thought I’d seen him at the Eiffel Tower? Hadn’t I been wrong that time? Benjamin was haunting me the way a problem you’ve put off confronting keeps creeping into your mind given any opportunity. Like the problem I’d brought home with me from class. One that I was not overthinking or exaggerating. Would Moreau be able to tell I wasn’t the artist who’d painted the works in my admissions portfolio? Was there something in those lines and brushstrokes to give me away? And if there was, what would the ramifications be? Was there anything I could do to prevent being found out?