The afternoon crept by in glacial fashion, with little for Helena to do beyond fret and pace. At four o’clock she began to get ready, and by half past four she was ready to depart.
As she said good-bye to Agnes and walked north across the Pont Louis-Philippe, Helena found herself wishing that she had planned to meet up with étienne or Mathilde, for they would understand and likely be just as nervous, too. It was too late for a change of plans, however, for she’d no idea where either friend was that afternoon. There was nothing for it but to get on the Métro and see for herself where her painting had ended up.
Helena had never been on the Paris underground trains, but as a frequent tram rider she had a good idea of what was expected. The station entrance was only a few minutes’ walk away, its distinctive Art Nouveau canopy and sign quite impossible to miss. She sprung for a first-class ticket, which was ten centimes dearer than a second-class fare, and descended to the westbound platform.
The Metro didn’t seem terribly different from the Underground back home, which she’d used often; her parents hadn’t minded, just as long as she’d had a footman or maid with her. Nearly every wall was tiled in white, which helped to brighten the dimly lit halls and corridors, and scores of eye-catching advertising posters lined both sides of the platform.
She didn’t have long to wait for a train, and though it was near the end of the workday and the second-class carriages were becoming crowded, there were plenty of empty seats in the first-class carriage she boarded. It was odd to sit by a window and see only darkness beyond, and if she were bothered by enclosed spaces it might have been disturbing; as it was, the relative quiet and solitude of her journey was exactly what she needed.
Porte Maillot was at the end of the line, at the border between Paris proper and Neuilly-sur-Seine, and the station was all but empty as she climbed the stairs to the exit. Blinking a little in the late afternoon sun, she looked around, trying to find her bearings, and then descended again to the ticket hall to ask for directions to the Palais de Bois.
Fortunately it wasn’t far, just a short walk across the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, and as the afternoon was warm and sunny this final part of her journey helped to further steady her nerves.
She’d been furnished with one ticket by virtue of her membership in the Société des Artistes Indépendants, the only prerequisite for inclusion in the Salon, and this she handed to a waiting attendant in return for the exhibition catalog.
Pausing just inside the entrance, she searched through the catalog for her name, an easy enough task given that artists were listed alphabetically by surname. She found it on page 242.
Parr (Helena), née à Londres (Angleterre)—Anglaise—51, quai de Bourbon, 4e.
2602—Femme de fermier—600 fr.
It was far from her best work, and she knew it, but it was too late to change her mind. At least Ma?tre Czerny had deemed one of her paintings good enough for inclusion in the Salon, and she could now say she’d had her work displayed at an exhibition in Paris. That was something, after all.
The one other time she’d seen her name in print had been the announcement of her engagement in the Times more than a decade before. It was strange and wonderful to read her name, her true artist’s identity and not the triple-barreled dynastic surname she’d always thought rather pretentious, and below it to see the title of a painting that she had created—and even a price. Six hundred francs was a great deal of money for a work by a totally unknown artist, but perhaps someone, apart from Aunt Agnes, might like the portrait enough to buy it.
She edged a little farther into the exhibition hall, rather surprised at how modest it was compared to the luxuriously decorated Grand Palais, where the Salon had been held the year before. The building had the air of something temporary, and while she was uncertain of its history it felt rather like a remnant of a past exposition or world’s fair.
Approaching an interior wall, she was surprised to discover that it consisted of nothing more than a wooden frame covered in burlap. The light was wonderful, however, with many clerestory windows and skylights, and the paintings had been arranged sensitively, with a reasonable amount of space between the canvases.
It came as no surprise when, upon entering the first large room of the exhibition, she found her own face staring back at her. étienne’s portrait of La femme dorée had been given a wall of its own, and as it was by far the largest canvas in the room, and arguably the most striking, it was attracting a great deal of attention.