“My sister can be hired, of course,” said Sebastian.
“I know! Why don’t we have an auction, now, here?” Picasso suggested. “Delphine will paint the secret portrait of the highest bidder.”
“No, no, that would be . . . I’d be very uncomfortable,” I said.
“Please, Delphine, do agree. We’re all so bored,” Madame pleaded. “You’ll make the money, of course, and I’ll match it and donate the same amount to my orphanage in town.”
“I couldn’t,” I demurred.
Madame implored, “Not even for the poor little girls?”
My brother was looking at me, exhilaration in his eyes. The more I did, the more famous I became, the better it was for his reputation. And now there was the added benefit of even more money.
“I’ll start,” Picasso said, without waiting for me to acquiesce. “Fifteen thousand francs.”
I knew that at the time, Ambroise Vollard was getting close to one hundred thousand francs for one of Picasso’s paintings. My mother’s were selling for twenty-five thousand. At parties in New York, I got twenty-five dollars for the evening, which had seemed like a fortune, since my rent for the whole month at the studio was only sixty dollars.
One American dollar was worth twenty-five francs in 1925. Picasso’s offer of fifteen thousand francs was six hundred dollars. A fortune. I was stunned by the amount.
“Sixteen thousand francs,” said Jules.
“Seventeen thousand,” offered Yves Villant.
“Eighteen thousand,” said Mathieu.
I shuddered. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might bid. What would I do if he won? I couldn’t draw him again.
“Twenty thousand,” said Picasso, with a devilish laugh.
“Twenty thousand two hundred,” said Jules.
“Twenty one thousand,” offered Picasso, jumping again, hoping, it seemed, to end it.
But, to my surprise, Mathieu bid five hundred francs more. There was a lull in the back-and-forth, and then Picasso stunned us all by bidding five thousand more.
I didn’t think he wanted the portrait as much as he wanted to win. I was just relieved that Mathieu hadn’t continued bidding. The idea of putting the blindfold on again for him frightened me.
“Once we’re done with our dinner, let’s begin,” Picasso said.
“Oh, good, a show!” Madame said, clapping. “Anna, let’s add to the excitement. You’re clairvoyant. Can you see what Delphine will see? Write it down, and we’ll seal it in an envelope and take bets on whether you guessed correctly.”
“I don’t think any of Monsieur Picasso’s secrets will be revealed,” she said.
“And why is that, Anna?” Madame asked.
“I can’t be certain of the reason, only the outcome.”
“And what outcome do you see?” I asked.
She shook her head and continued staring at me. “I’m not quite sure. Only that there won’t be a portrait of Picasso.”
“She’s right. There won’t be. Because I’m outbidding him,” Eugène said. “Thirty-five thousand francs!”
No one said a word. The room was utterly silent.
Finally, Madame broke the silence. “The orphans will be most appreciative, Eugène.” Then, as an afterthought, she looked at Picasso. “Will you best him, Pablo?”
He shook his head. “As much as I’d love to see Delphine’s portrait of me, I bow to Eugène’s generosity.”
I was frightened. The idea of painting Picasso’s portrait had intrigued me and challenged me as an artist. Even titillated me a little as a woman. It was impossible not to be curious about his reputation. But there was nothing about Picasso that scared me. I hadn’t sensed that his secrets would have disturbed me. But with Eugène, I wasn’t as sure. The aura around him was turning brown-black. The shadows were as dense as the ones I’d glimpsed when Gaspard had been talking about thousands of Cathars who had been slaughtered for believing in a different version of heaven and hell.
As we finished our main course, my anxiety increased. I didn’t want to do the portrait of Eugène but couldn’t think of how to get out of it. On top of the money Madame was paying us, this windfall would help Sebastian.
Dessert was served—a delicious tarte au citron—but I only pushed it around on my plate. Mathieu noticed and with one glance told me he was worried for me. But what could I do? All that money would solve my brother’s problem.
“I think you should do the drawing downstairs, here, where we all can watch,” Madame said.
I looked over at Sebastian to save me.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said. “Delphine doesn’t do her best work in a large crowd.”
“But you worked that way at the parties in New York,” Madame countered.
“Since then, she’s changed how she works,” he answered solemnly. “She prefers to work alone.”
“I think it would be best in the studio,” I said.
Eugène stood up. “That’s fine with me.”
As we left the dining room after dessert, Sebastian caught up with me. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m worried. The atmosphere in the house is darkening.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. “It’s too much pressure, isn’t it?”
“It is, but what can we do now? You should have stopped it when it started.”
We reached the staircase, where Eugène was on the steps watching us, waiting for us.
“Sebastian, why don’t you come, too? It will be more comfortable for your sister if you are there.”
Chapter 46
The drawing session commenced fifteen minutes after I’d left both men on the steps, requesting a bit of time to prepare my sketch pad and pencils.
“Eugène, why don’t you have a seat here?” I motioned to a chair. “And Sebastian, over there.” I pointed to another.
Eugène sat down and fidgeted for a moment while I explained what I’d be doing and asked if he had any questions. He said he didn’t. He continued to be restless, which bothered me. His aura was darkening to an even deeper muddy hue, and I didn’t spend as long as usual learning his face. I wanted to get the session over with as quickly as I could.
I put on my blindfold and immediately began to draw. As usual, not knowing what I was sketching, unclear of the images that emerged from the shadows in the darkness of the silk.
From across the room, I could still sense Eugène’s discomfort. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes, fine.”
After a few more minutes, I felt Sebastian shift in his chair behind me. It was subtle, but the air around him moved. His cologne wafted toward me. It was unusual for him to become disturbed during a session. Trying to ignore his tension, I kept at my work, starting a second drawing and then a third.
After ten minutes more, I laid down my pencil, took off my blindfold, and studied my work.
“These images are all so familiar,” I mused out loud.
I’d drawn similar sketches once. I was sure of it. But when? And then I remembered. These were almost identical to the drawings I’d done of Thérèse Bruis almost five years ago.
Before I could stop him, Eugène was up off his chair, and looking at what I’d drawn.
“So it is you!”
“What do you mean?”