J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #3)
Katy Regnery
PROLOGUE
August 30, 1939
Marseille, France
“You are…exquisite,” sighed Monsieur Montferrat, peeking at her from one side of the canvas before hiding behind it once again. “Magnifique.”
“Merci,” said eighteen-year-old Camille Trigére softly, wishing she could flex her arms and roll her neck to get the kinks out.
A bead of sweat that started at the nape of her neck swerved around her collarbone to rest precariously on the tip of her left nipple. It was hot this summer. Merde, but it was hot.
Still, to be immortalized by a famous painter like Pierre Montferrat was an honor for a very new and inexperienced portrait model like Camille. A hundred years from now, when she was long gone, this portrait, which Monsieur had titled Les Bijoux Jolis, would hang on someone’s wall, somewhere in the world.
Immortalité.
It was worth a moment’s discomfort to live forever.
“Do not move. Not even an inch,” said Monsieur Montferrat, pulling at the gray goatee on his chin as he stood to admire her, a glass of muddy-gray water in his hand. “I must refresh the water.”
She watched until he had left the small studio, then stretched her arms over her head eagerly, massaging the feeling back into her hands. For over four hours, she’d held the same pose of “young nude wearing emerald necklace” and she was tired, damn it.
Casting her eyes toward the open doors that led to a small terrace, she wondered if her old friend, and new lover, Gilles Lévy, was already waiting downstairs to walk her home. The sun was quite low. It must be after four.
Camille and Gilles had known each other forever, growing up in the same neighborhood and attending the same synagogue throughout their shared childhood. Lately, the France of their early years was shifting, however, with conservatives and socialists that Camille’s father had once considered mainstream now speaking out against the Jews of Marseille and aligning their politics with worrisome new ideas filtering into France from Germany.
The shift was subtle—Camille saw it in the way that Monsieur Ragout had stopped taking Jewish piano students this summer, too busy for one more student, though very little lesson music wafted down from his third-floor studio on Rue Saint-Dominique. In Camille’s own life, the shift had been slightly less subtle and infinitely more personal: Monsieur Montferrat, upon meeting her in July, had commented, “How curious! You don’t have the look of a Jewess.”
His initial inspection had made her uncomfortable enough to reconsider the monthlong modeling job, but she’d accepted despite misgivings. Although her father would skin her alive if he found out what she’d been doing every day, she hoped to make enough money to run away to Paris with Gilles this September. He had a second cousin willing to share his deux pièces with the young lovers. Struggling artist Gilles said they’d find work at a local café during the day, and every night he would paint her in the moonlight before sweeping her off to bed to make love until dawn.
When Monsieur Montferrat slipped back into the room, Camille’s arms and hands were perfectly in place, though her smile may have been a bit more dreamy.
“It’s almost five,” he said, flicking a glance at the terrace doors regretfully. “I suppose you have to go soon.”
“Oui, Monsieur. Gilles will be here at five. How much longer today?” asked Camille politely as the artist stood at his canvas, surveying his work.
After several long moments of staring at the portrait, he looked up at her and sighed. “We’re finished.”
Camille sat up immediately, grabbing her chemise and panties from under the divan and wiggling into them, always self-conscious of her naked form when Monsieur Montferrat was finished painting. She shrugged her light-blue cotton dress over her head, smoothing the clothing back into place, relieved that she was fully covered once again.
“Shall I come again tomorrow?”
Monsieur Montferrat raised an eyebrow as he smiled sadly at her, slipping around his painting carefully to take his place behind her. Gathering her black hair in her hands, Camille lifted it off the back of her neck and stood still, waiting for him to unclasp the necklace so she could go.
His rough fingers rested on the damp skin of her neck. “Do you know what’s happening in the world, belle Camille?”
“Monsieur?” she murmured, surprised by the distressed tone of his voice.
“Madness,” he cursed softly. “The world is going mad, petite.”
Camille liked Monsieur Montferrat.