“Goodness, no. At first I just swept the floors and tidied up, and after a bit I graduated to sitting with the men and holding their hands while the plaster impressions were made of their faces. It’s a very uncomfortable process, and I think it helped them to know someone was nearby.
“After a while, I began to experiment with some paints at home. I’d look in the mirror and then copy what I saw as exactly, and finely, as possible. Once I was certain I could do it, I showed Mrs. Ladd, and she let me help with the painting after that. I was especially good at eyes.”
“What were the masks made of?” Helena asked, fascinated by her friend’s story.
“Copper, hammered very thin, with a layer of enamel paint on top. They were held on with spectacles, even if the wearer didn’t normally need them, because that helped to make the entire mask look more lifelike. At a distance, you wouldn’t realize they were masks—that’s how good they were.”
“But how did working at the studio lead to Louisette?” Helena pressed, still not understanding.
“There was one patient, an American officer, and he and I became friends. He was so nice, you know. Just the nicest man. He’d lost an eye, and the occipital bones around it had been crushed, but he was still very handsome. At least, I thought he was handsome. We . . . well, we danced together, the day the war ended, and I so hoped . . .”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, in the end. I came down with Spanish flu, and spent nearly a month in bed. By the time I’d recovered, Mrs. Ladd had decided to return to Boston and the studio wasn’t taking on any new commissions. And Captain Mancuso had gone back to America.”
“I still don’t understand why your father felt the need for Louisette.”
Daisy’s voice, already faint, faded to a whisper. “Daniel—Captain Mancuso—went home, or I suppose he was sent home, while I was sick with the flu, and I had no way of finding him. I asked my father for help, but he got very upset. He said it was wrong of me to ask, and that I should just forget about Daniel.”
“Oh, Daisy,” Helena said, and gave her friend a handkerchief so she might wipe her eyes.
“And then, almost right away, Daddy hired Louisette. For his ‘peace of mind,’ he said.”
“It is rather odd,” Helena ventured. “Does he know that you dislike her? Won’t he consider someone else?”
“No. He says I’m meant to dislike her. That she’s there to protect me, and not to be my friend.”
“I thought my parents were strict, but this is terrible. Perhaps we can find a way . . .”
But Daisy was shaking her head. “I’m used to her now, and she can’t stop me from spending time with you and étienne and Mathilde. Only Daddy can do that, and ever since your aunt sent him that letter he hasn’t complained once about the studio or my going out from time to time. So, you see, I can’t really complain.”
HELENA CERTAINLY DIDN’T have cause to complain about anything, for her life in Paris was perfect in nearly every respect. The exception, the single stone in her shoe, was oil painting, for her initial elation at having been chosen for Ma?tre Czerny’s elite class was slowly dissolving into despair.
The difficulty lay in the gulf between her expectations and reality. Back in Antibes, happy in her little studio overlooking the sea, she had imagined that learning to paint in oils would be a straightforward affair, though naturally demanding. It would simply require patient application on her part, and practice would eventually make perfect.
She had assumed that she would have a natural flair for painting in oils. She could not have been more wrong.
Squeezed from the tube, gleaming and fresh on her palette, the oils were gorgeous, like little puddles of melted jewels. Every time, admiring them, she believed. This time the paint would behave. This time the colors would remain true. This time she would create something worth saving.
She failed. Again and again, she failed. The paints, so bright and perfect and new, turned dull at the touch of her brush, and the more she worked at them the worse they looked. Around her, the other students worked so confidently; some, like étienne, had been painting in oils for years. She was the only one who struggled. She alone was left to flounder with the desperation of an upended tortoise.
And always, always, the voice of the ma?tre, strident, methodical, and unrelenting.
“Fat on lean. Thick on thin. Warm on cold. Engrave these words on your heart—have them tattooed into the skin over your hearts—and forget everything else. These are your commandments. These are the laws I compel you to follow.”
She tried, harder than she’d ever tried at anything, but they were commandments, not habits, and they left her head so crammed full of technique there was no space left for inspiration. There were moments, rare ones, when she figured out the how, but the canvases she then produced were mannered, stiff, and lifeless.