Cold pinpricks crept up my arms and down my back.
“My house is holding on to its secret,” she said, “which is why I came here tonight. To talk to you. I’m quite desperate.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Madame Calvé has a proposition for you, Delphine,” my brother interjected.
I was startled. I’d been listening to her story so intently I’d forgotten his presence.
“I want you to come and paint a portrait of my house,” Madame said, leaning in toward me, her eyes pleading. They were the most enchanting eyes, I thought, and along with her voice, she was using them to hypnotize me.
“Please,” she whispered. “The Book of Abraham is concealed somewhere in the house. It has been since Richelieu secreted it there. I’ve tried everything to find it, and still the treasure eludes me.”
“I’m so sorry, Madame. I’m no longer doing any shadow portraits. And even if I were, they are of people, not chateaus.”
I glared at my brother. He’d ambushed me without warning. Set the trap and led me into it.
“Please? I told your brother I’ll not only pay for your time but also offer a generous bonus if you can find it.”
How could I escape this conversation? My shame, my fear, my frustration, my anxiety and indecision over my future as an artist were all coming to the surface here, with all these people around me. How could Sebastian have been so insensitive?
Looking for an excuse to get away, I scanned the room and noticed Henri Matisse. He caught my glance and smiled. Matisse was one of Maman’s oldest friends. They were both the same age and had studied with Gustave Moreau at the same time in Paris in the late 1890s, and they had remained close. Their styles could not have been more different. She created jewel-like fantasies; he painted bold still lifes and interiors that had a sensual looseness and freedom. For most of my life, he’d lived just the next city over, in Nice, and was at our house so often he’d become like an uncle to me. While I’d been away, his beard had started turning gray, and his round glasses appeared to have become thicker.
“I’m sorry. I’m really not taking commissions now. I do hope you’ll excuse me,” I said. “One of Maman’s friends needs to speak with me. I hope you enjoy the show.”
I was so grateful for the excuse to get away from her that when Matisse opened his arms to give me a hug, I threw myself into them.
“When will I be seeing your work hanging on these walls again?” he asked, after kissing me hello, his beard scratching my face in that familiar way that made me feel so welcome.
“I just—I just got back,” I stammered.
“In March. It’s June next week.” He held me at arm’s length and examined my face. “Too much sadness there.” He shook his head. “It’s not good to stay away from home for so long. We’re glad you’re back. Your beautiful maman was worried about you. Your brother has not been himself.”
“So I’ve been told,” I said, thinking about how angry I was at Sebastian for setting that trap. Why had he done that? Why was he so desperate to get me to paint? Surely he didn’t need the money; the gallery was obviously thriving.
Matisse took my arm and walked me outside onto the terrace, where he procured two glasses of champagne, one of which he handed to me. “Now, tell me, ma petite belle, why did you stay away so long? What really happened to you in New York?”
Other than my parents, Matisse was the only one who used that endearment. I wanted to answer his question—he’d always been so understanding and kind to me—but I couldn’t bear the thought of repeating my sad tale of woe.
“I painted my way into a nightmare,” I said.
“Too hard to talk about it?” he asked, with empathy in his eyes.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Well, I’m glad Sebastian went to retrieve you. We all missed you. You’ll have to come to the studio. There are some new cats you haven’t met. And a litter of kittens, if you’d like a companion.”
When I was little, my mother would take me with her when she went to visit him in his studio. A prankster, he always played tricks on me to make me laugh. And then, while he and Maman talked, he’d set me up with watercolors and paper and encouraged me to paint portraits of his cats.
Before the end of every visit, he’d give me a few lessons and an assignment to work on and bring with me the next time I came.
Every cat we ever had at our house over the years had come from a Matisse litter.
“Come see me next week. I would love to sketch you a little and listen to your tales of travails in New York City. I want to visit there one day. I think I would enjoy its energy and certainly its music. Is the jazz as exciting as they say?”
“It is, yes.” I smiled, remembering.
“I can’t get enough of its rhythm.”
“You should go; you’d love it. With all the skyscrapers, it’s nothing like Paris. You’ll walk around looking up, never at your feet.”
“Not seeing where you’re going.” He shook his head. “That could be dangerous, Delphine. Not to mention messy if a dog preceded you on your path.”
We both laughed.
“Well, even if you aren’t ready to show, tell me what you are painting.”
“I seem to be at an impasse.”
“Creativity takes courage, ma chère. Don’t punish yourself if you run out of bravery for a while. But at the same time, don’t forget that work cures everything.”
“But it was work that made me leave New York,” I said.
“And love as well?”
“More precisely, not love.”
“You know what I think? In love, the one who runs away is the winner. So you’ve done the right thing,” he said.
We were interrupted by a friend of Matisse who’d just arrived. I kissed the master good-bye and promised to visit soon.
Alone on the terrace, I watched the party going on through the glass doors. It was the perfect time to leave. Sebastian was busy entertaining and wouldn’t even notice. I walked back inside and headed toward the door. Just before I reached it, a hand gripped my wrist. I felt the force of the grasp before I could register to whom it belonged.
I turned. Madame Calvé’s eyes glittered intently. “Please,” she said in a low, pleading tone. “Consider my request. I’m afraid if I don’t find the book, someone else will. And in the wrong hands, it could be terribly dangerous. If it—” She broke off and shook her head, as if she was afraid to explain any further.
“I just can’t,” I said, and, without any other explanation, slipped out the door of the gallery into the cool, breezy night, which was suddenly much warmer than my skin.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see that beseeching look in her eyes. As I walked along the esplanade, watching the moon’s reflection dance on the gentle waves, I focused on its rhythm and considered how similar it was to the jazz that Matisse thought he needed to travel across the Atlantic to hear.