Worst of all? It was impossible to hide from the ma?tre in a class of twelve. He took notice of her now, but only to lavish upon her the disdain he’d once reserved for Daisy.
“Again, Mademoiselle Parr. Again you make of your paint une pagaille upon your palette. I must conclude that you wish to paint with mud, or perhaps you wish to depict mud? En tout cas you are hopeless.”
At lunch and after class each day, étienne and Mathilde were endlessly patient, never complaining when she needed help working up her paints. From them she learned when to make the paint lean by thinning it with white spirits, and when to fatten it with linseed oil. At Mathilde’s suggestion she altered her brushwork, for the delicate manner she’d used with her watercolors led only to a bumpy mess of impasto on the canvas. At étienne’s direction she used fewer colors, combining them as needed on her palette.
“Monet often used only five or six,” he explained. “Here—I’ve given you yellow ochre, golden ochre, viridian, vermilion, cobalt blue, and chalk white. These are all you need.”
In the peace of the studio, helped by her friends, and freed from the simmering contempt of the ma?tre, she worked up several small canvases that showed some promise. Back in the grand salon, however, with the ma?tre pacing back and forth, muttering and tearing at his hair, her newfound knowledge and competence drained away like so much dirty bathwater.
“I need a rest,” she told étienne and Mathilde as they left class one afternoon; Daisy had gone home after the morning session. “It’s only been a week and my head is spinning.”
“It’s the fumes from the paint,” étienne said teasingly. “We’ll open a few more windows.”
“Ha. I need more than fresh air.”
“I wonder if perhaps you might like some company?” Mathilde asked. “I, too, feel in need of a short vacation from the studio.”
“I should like that very much. I was thinking of taking a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens, but if you—”
“No, that would be most pleasant.”
They bid adieu to étienne, who was going directly to the studio, and set out for the gardens. Walking side by side, they shared a comfortable silence, rather as if they were old friends who had already disclosed every possible thought, opinion, and secret to one another, and were simply content to be together.
The Luxembourg Gardens were dormant and rather sad at this time of year, but they were quiet, a rarity in a modern city like Paris, and their cool beauty was exactly the tonic that Helena needed after the combustible atmosphere of Ma?tre Czerny’s class.
They walked north to the Musée du Luxembourg, and then, wordlessly agreeing that its paintings could wait for another day, made their way over to the Grand Bassin, and then to the playground. Finding a bench, they sat and watched as beautifully behaved children, their faces gravely dignified, waited their turn for a ride on the garden’s carousel.
“My daughter loves to ride the carousel,” Mathilde said quietly. “Although we have not come here in a while.”
“You have a daughter? I mean . . . I feel as if I ought to have known.”
“Her name is Marie-France. She is almost ten years old.”
“Do you have a photograph of her?”
“Not here. But I may have . . . let me see . . .”
Rummaging through her bag, Mathilde extracted a sketchbook and handed it to Helena. “There—that drawing. That is my daughter.”
“She’s very pretty. Is her hair as dark as yours?”
“Yes. And it is just as straight. It will not hold a curl, no matter what I do.”
“What color are her eyes?”
“Green, like my husband’s.”
Helena didn’t say a thing, just held her breath and waited for Mathilde to continue.
“His name is Antoine. We have been married for twelve years. He was gassed during the war, and he lost his right arm, too. He cannot work, not any more. He does what he can, but . . .”
“It must be very hard for you both,” Helena said, taking care to keep any trace of pity from her voice.
“We live with my parents. They own a café in the eighteenth arrondissement. I work there in the evenings.”
“That is why you aren’t able to come out with us . . . ?”
“That, and Marie-France. I like to be there for her supper, and to put her to bed.”
Helena thought of the tuition she had paid for her own year at the academy, a not inconsiderable sum, and the money she had spent on paints and canvas and other art supplies over the past months. “How is it that you’re able to attend the academy? I don’t mean to pry, but it’s—”
“I had an uncle. He never married, was fond of me . . . he saw how I loved to draw when I was in school. He encouraged me always. When he died last year, he left me a small legacy. He asked that I use it for art school. I had a term at the école des Beaux-Arts, but I hated it there. So I tried again.”