“I envy them, that’s all. They were so confident. So assured. I do hope I’ll make friends of my own at school.”
“Of course you will. Simply keep an open mind and a smile on your face and you’ll be awash in friends in no time.”
Chapter 8
Helena arrived at the academy early, that first morning, and dutifully queued for her carte d’étudiant, an horaire, and a shapeless artist’s smock that was far too large for her slight frame.
“Excuse me,” she called out, trying to catch the clerk’s attention. It was no easy task, given the general din in the room and crush of students, all just as eager to be done with their paperwork. “May I exchange this for another size?”
“One size, Mademoiselle. Next!”
Rather than make a fuss, and possibly incur the enmity of everyone else in the queue, she retreated to the hallway, and then, finding it full to bursting with yet more students, ventured upstairs. Presumably the timetable she’d received, now rather crumpled, would include details of her classes’ locations as well as their times.
She walked to the end of the corridor, where it was somewhat less congested, and unfolded the horaire.
Mlle H. Parr—septembre 1924
lundi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
mardi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
mercredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
jeudi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
vendredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon
They’d made a mistake. In the school’s prospectus, the curriculum for intermediate students had included classes in watercolors, pastels, and oils. No sculpture, which had been a shame, but everything else had definitely been mentioned in the brochure. On her timetable, however, she was only enrolled in one two-hour drawing class each day.
“Oh, bother,” she muttered. Now she would have to go downstairs and brave the masses again.
“Is anything the matter?” asked a young man standing nearby. He was dressed in the shabby, informal way that amounted to a uniform among the artists of Montparnasse: a worn and none-too-clean coat, a wrinkled shirt with an open collar, and no hat whatsoever. He was also astonishingly good-looking, with beautiful green eyes and straight brown hair so long that it brushed his shoulders.
“I think there’s a mistake. I’ve only been signed up for the drawing classes, but I’m sure there—”
“Turn it over,” he said, smiling. “Voilà. There are the classes for October.”
Feeling terribly silly, she looked on the reverse of the page, and there it was:
Mlle H. Parr—octobre 1924
lundi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, pastels, salon B
mardi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, aquarelles, salon C
mercredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, pastels, salon B
jeudi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin, grand salon; 13 h à 15 h, aquarelles, salon C
vendredi, 10 h à 12 h, dessin à modèle vivant, grand salon
“Thank you. I was worried I’d have to go downstairs and join the queue again.”
“And that is a fate worse than death, hmm?”
“Nearly. How do you do?” she asked, remembering her manners. “I’m Helena Parr.”
“And I am étienne Moreau, and very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He had a lovely voice, his accent just noticeable enough to make everything he said sound charming. Smiling again, he shook her outstretched hand. “Shall we go in?”
Behind them, halfway down the corridor, students were streaming through a set of open doors. Her first class was beginning.
The grand salon was a large but not enormous room, and most of its space was taken up by sets of easels and stools, around forty in total. At its front was a low platform about five feet square and half as high. Light streamed in from a huge bank of windows; even on a dull day, she saw, the salon would be bright enough for work without artificial light.
Mr. Moreau took a spot on the left side of the salon, near the back, and she sat next to him, her heart pounding. She had never been given to attacks of nerves before, so why was she so anxious now?
“Courage,” her new friend whispered, using the French pronunciation. “And put on your smock. We’re using charcoal today, and you don’t want to ruin your clothes. Shall I help you roll back the sleeves?”
“I think I can manage, but thank you.”
“Excuse me, but is this seat taken?” A young woman, American by her accent, now stood by the last stool and easel in their row.
“It isn’t—please do take it.”
“Thank you so much. I galloped nearly all the way here,” she said, rummaging through her handbag, “and I was late all the same.” Finding a handkerchief, she patted invisible drops of perspiration from her brow. “Thank heavens I got here in time. Oh—you’re wearing your smock. I’d better put mine on, too. I wish it wasn’t so big.”