I thought of my grandmother, whom I loved so very much. Who was going to be released from the sanatorium soon. Could I bring her back here if La Lune inhabited my body? And Julien? If I saved him this way, would he ever forgive me?
Did that matter? Even if he never spoke to me again, he would be somewhere on this earth, alive, and that would be enough. To know that his talent would thrive, that his heart would love, that he would survive would be enough. And I— At least I would not spend the rest of my days feeling guilty that he had died defending my honor, which deserved no such sacrifice.
I touched the brush to the centuries-old canvas, and I painted in La Lune’s unfinished lips. Stroke by stroke, adding the silky paint to the full, petulant lips that had been waiting for this for so many hundreds of years. I was meticulous. I lifted the brush. Applied the dab of paint. Repeated the process. One dab and then another.
I saw I’d smeared paint on my middle finger, and the sight of it frightened me. Paint made out of blood. Blood that would bring the painting to life and bind her to the painter.
It had to be this way. From the moment I stepped into this house when I was fifteen and again this January, I was not strong enough to withstand La Lune any more than the women in these other portraits had been. I was at her mercy. A force more powerful than time.
I thought about my own journey.
Coming here. Meeting Julien. The beginning of loving him. Meeting Cousin Jacob and his death. Then my grandmother’s illness. My anger at seeing Charlotte singing at the opera. The fire. The horrible incident on the Eiffel Tower. Benjamin finding me in Paris and the terrible duel. All these events orchestrated by La Lune so Julien and I would both be free to be with each other. This was what she needed. To find a host who, unlike the other women in these portraits, was talented enough to paint, capable of love, and strong enough to withstand the witch’s presence. A woman who would allow La Lune to incubate and live out her needs, to be an artist, to love and be loved back. With Julien—or, if he walked away, with someone new.
My brushstrokes were so fine they were invisible, and as I painted, I saw the lips become fresh, red, living lips. When I finished, I stood there on the steps, holding the palette and the brush and listened as La Lune began to speak and give me the instructions that I needed to bring her to life so she could save Julien.
Chapter 42
And so we come to end of the story. I survived that night, and so I will finish the tale.
Weeks had passed. My grandmother was living in the apartment on rue de la Chaise, I was living in Maison de la Lune. It was the end of May. Is there any more beautiful season in Paris than the spring? Julien and I were strolling by the Seine, on our way to celebrate a new commission he’d just received to build a hotel on Boulevard Raspail. As we passed a newspaper kiosk, something caught my lover’s attention.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the journal devoted to the arts: Chronique des Arts et de la Curiosité.
On the front page near the bottom was a headline:
CONTROVERSY AT THE SALON
BY ROGER MARX
Julien picked up the paper, threw some coins down on the vendor’s tray, and pointed to an illustration beside the headline. It was a drawing of my painting. Standing side by side, our shoulders touching, we read the article together.
Sleeping Cupid, painted by a heretofore unknown young artist from America who has been studying at the école des Beaux-Arts and atelier of Gustave Moreau, has raised temperatures and excited tempers at this year’s Salon. The provocative painting, which many call pornographic, has won a second prize in a jury headed by Monsieur Moreau himself, who defended his student’s painting by saying it was no more graphic or disturbing than a hundred paintings of nude women that are admitted to the Salon every year.
“Why is a man’s nudity more lewd than a woman’s? This is a mythological god, in love with his wife, executed in a marvelous style by an up-and-coming artist of whom we all expect great things. That the artist is a woman, and the academy’s first female student, just makes this prize all the more important.”
“There are laws over this kind of salacious art,” said Hector Previn, one of the judges who resigned in protest during the juried show. “Look at the lust on the sleeping god’s face. That’s not art. This painting is pornography.”
The painting went on to . . .
Julien had raced ahead of me, and I hadn’t caught up when he grabbed me by the hands.
“Darling, you have been awarded a second prize by the Salon.” He swung me around. “How marvelous.” And then he grabbed me and kissed me, lifting me up.
“You will be hailed as the finest woman painter in Paris. The first to attend the école. The bravest. The first to win a prize. Your paintings will be sold in galleries. All of Paris will want to buy one. In parlors and boudoirs your creations will hang on the walls, and people will marvel and ask, Who is this woman? Who is Sandrine Verlaine?”
I kissed him. Full on the lips, there on the Quai. I could smell the amber and honey and apple scent that was his alone. His arms were so strong. Was he as strong?
“No,” I said.
I was watching his clear, evergreen eyes now, watching to see how he was going to feel about what I had to tell him. For it was time to tell him. I had no excuse to wait any longer.
Julien loved me and I him. My confession would not, could not, change that. We were bound to each other in a deep and abiding way because of what we had gone through and what we were willing to go through for each other. Our appetites, our passions, our goals were in harmony, and we were solidly on the same path toward the future.
“No, mon cher Julien. They will not be asking about Sandrine Verlaine. They will be asking about me. The woman who signed that painting. The woman who painted it. La Lune.”
Author’s Note As with most of my work, there is a lot of fact mixed in with this fictional tale.
Belle époque Paris is painted as close to the truth as the story allowed. There was in fact a very strong occult moment in France during the time, and there is a large body of literature written about the sometimes frightening and wild cults, believers, and experimenters. The nightclubs all existed as I describe them, as did the streets, restaurants, cafés, sights, Dr. Blanche’s clinic in Passy, and all the stores, including the fabulous Sennelier art supply store, and the Librairie du Merveilleux, owned and run by Pierre Dujols. The école des Beaux-Arts is still one of the finest art and architecture schools in the world, and women were not allowed to attend until 1897—though in my novel I move that date forward three years. The painter Gustave Moreau was a teacher there in 1894, and Henri Matisse was one of his prize pupils. The art world and anecdotes about now famous painters and the école’s salon are all based on source materials. Last but not least, Jews, especially Kabalists, do hold exorcisms to banish dybbukim and various kinds of demons, and the ceremony portrayed in this novel follows the ancient laws.
I am especially indebted to my researcher, Alexis Clark, who saved me from hours of going down the wrong path and gave me insights and facts into the world of Belle époque Paris and her artists, which allowed me to spend more time in my imagination than in the library and online.
Acknowledgments
For the fourth time and with even more gratitude, huge thanks to my terrific editor, Sarah Durand, who helped me bring this novel to life. And to Sarah Branham, who so graciously inherited it and gave it such a thoughtful polish.
To my wonderful publisher and dear friend Judith Curr, whose faith in me is not only reassuring but always inspiring.