Daughter of Deceit (34 page)

Well, perhaps I shall go again. I do find all those Roman relics quite fascinating.

I am still at the house. Please tell Robert I feel ashamed about keeping on there, but I am so comfortable and the Crimps don’t really want me to go. They don’t like caretaking, as they say. They’ve been used to a household where things are going on. I know I don’t make much difference, but
I’m there, and they are always interested in what’s happening at the theatre. So I just linger on.

Try to find out from Robert whether he really thinks I ought to go. But really, it does seem rather unnecessary and it means a lot to me to be able to stay here.

I expect I shall soon be working again. I hope so. I shan’t see any more weekends at Leverson in that case.

Well, I thought I ought to let you know that I had been there and seen them. Perhaps I’ll see
you
sometime. Are you making plans?

Oh, dear Noelle, I do hope that things will go right for you …

The letter fell from my hands.

So, she had been there. She had seen Roderick and Charlie and Lady Constance. They had been sad, she said.

Dear Roderick. What was he thinking of now? Would he forget me in time? I knew I should never forget him.

I found peace and a certain amount of contentment sitting in that studio, gazing across the city while Gerard du Carron worked on my portrait.

I seemed farther away from the past than I had been since tragedy had first struck me. It seemed as though once again a way of escape was opening out before me.

I was seated on a chair with the light falling full on my face while Gerard stood at his easel. Sometimes he talked while he worked; at others he lapsed into silence.

He told me about his childhood at La Maison Grise, how he had always loved to be in the north tower. He had sketched from an early age; he had been deeply interested in pictures.

“I used to study those in the picture gallery. I would be up there for hours at a time. They always knew where to find me. They thought I was a strange child. And then suddenly I knew I wanted to paint.

“Life was smooth and comfortable. My father was a quiet man… a fine man. I wonder what would have happened if he had lived. If … one is always saying if. Do you say it, Noelle?”

“Constantly.”

“Why are you so sad?”

“How do you know I am sad?”

“You try to hide it, but it is there.”

“You know about my mother?”

“Yes. I know of her sudden death. Robert was very fond of her, and that is why you are here. He promised her he would look after you. It is for that … and of course because he is very fond of you. Does it hurt to speak of her?”

“I am not sure.”

“Try it, then.”

So I talked of her. I told him about our life, of the productions, the dramas and Dolly. I kept recalling incidents and found that I could laugh at some, as I had at the time.

He laughed with me.

He said: “It was a tragedy … a great tragedy.”

Madame Gamier would come, and the kitchen was full of noise. I fancied she thought the noise was necessary to show how hard she was working. She was a little resentful of me at first, but after a few days she was more amicable. We had both had our pictures painted, and that made a bond between us.

She told me that hers was going into some exhibition. People would come and look at it and perhaps buy it.

“Who would want me hanging in their salons, mademoiselle?”

“Who would want me?”

She had a habit of nudging me and bursting into laughter. She brought in bread, milk and such things, for which I discovered she overcharged outrageously. I had suspected this because of the cupidity I had seen in her eyes in the portrait. I had put it to the test and found it to be true. I was impressed by Gerard’s perspicacity.

I said to him one day: “Do you know Madame Gamier cheats you over the food?”

“But of course,” he said.

“And you don’t tell her so?”

“No, it’s a small matter. I need her to bring the food. So let her
have her little triumphs. It brings her satisfaction. She thinks how clever she is. If she thought I knew, she would lose that satisfaction. Is there not a saying in English, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’?”

I laughed at him.

I used to go into the kitchen when the morning sitting was over and prepare a meal, which we would share. Angele sometimes called and we would go back together. She was staying in Paris with me. Robert had had to go back to La Maison Grise to deal with some business on the estate. I knew Marie-Christine was put out because we had gone away without her. She would have liked to accompany us, but Mademoiselle Dupont had said lessons must not be further interrupted.

I sometimes stayed at the studio for the afternoons. Often when we were lunching together, people would call. I was beginning to know some of Gerard’s friends. There was Gaston du Pre, a young man from the Dordogne country. He was very poor and was fed mainly by the others. He often appeared at mealtimes and shared what was being eaten. Then there was Richard Hart, son of a country squire from Staffordshire, whose lifelong ambition had been to paint. There were several others, chief among them Lars Petersen, the most successful of them all, since he had achieved some fame through his portrait of Marianne.

He dominated the company on all occasions, partly because he was more successful than the others and partly because of his ebullient personality.

It was a lighthearted life and, after a few days, I felt myself caught up in it. I awoke every morning with a feeling of pleasure. I was enjoying the experience as I had not expected to enjoy anything again.

I looked forward to my little skirmishes with Madame Garnier. I had refused to allow her to continue to overcharge on her purchases, and pointed out the discrepancies to her. She would look at me, her little eyes screwed up to make them even smaller. But she respected me. I imagined her theory was that if people were stupid enough to allow themselves to be cheated, they deserved what they got. So there were no real hard feelings.

I liked to make the meal and often brought in the food. She did
not object to this, for there was no profit to be made now, and it enabled her to do less work and to leave earlier. So even though I had spoilt her profitable enterprise, I had made life easier for her in other ways.

Gerard was very amused when I told him of this, and I found I was laughing a good deal.

Most of all, I enjoyed the sitting periods when we talked.

Our friendship grew fast, as it does in such circumstances, and I began to think that life would be dull when the portrait was finished.

One day, when he was working, he said: “There is something else which makes you unhappy.”

I was silent for a few moments, and he stood watching me, his brush poised in his hand. “Is it … a lover?” he asked.

Still I hesitated. I could not bear to talk of Roderick. He was quick to interpret my feelings.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am inquisitive. Forget I asked.”

He returned to the canvas, but after a short while, he said: “It is not good today. I can work no more. Let us go out and I will show you more of the Latin Quarter. I am sure there is still much you do not know.”

I understood. My mood had changed. It seemed that Roderick was close to me. I had lost my serenity.

As we came out into the street, the atmosphere enveloped me and raised my spirits a little. There was a smell of hot baking bread in the air, and from one of the houses came the sound of a concertina.

We went into the Church of St. Sulpice, and walked through the little streets with their shops containing rosaries and images of the saints.

“We call it St. Sulpicerie,” he told me.

He showed me the house in which Racine had died. Then he took me to the Place Furstenberg, where Delacroix had had his studio.

“He’s only recently died,” he said, “but his studio has become a shrine. Do you think one day people will come along to my studio and say: ‘Gerard du Carron lived and worked here’?”

“I
am sure it will be, if you are determined to make it so.”

“You believe, then, that we have the power to do what we want with our lives?”

“We have circumstances to contend with. Who of us knows what tomorrow will bring? But I do believe we have the power in us to overcome adversity.”

“I am glad you feel like that. It is a wonderful creed … but not always easy to follow.”

We came to a cafe with gaily coloured awnings, under which tables were set.

“Do you need refreshment?” he asked. “Perhaps not. But it would be pleasant to sit here. I find it soothing to the spirit to watch the world pass by.”

So we sat and drank coffee and watched the people while Gerard amused himself—and me—by speculating about their lives.

There was an old man walking painfully with the help of a stick. “He has led a merry life,” said Gerard. “And, now he is coming to the end of it, is wondering what it was all about. Ah! The matron with the shopping bag full of goods; she is congratulating herself that she has beaten down the prices of the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, little knowing that, being aware of her methods, they have put the prices up before she arrived.”

Two young girls came along, arm in arm, giggling. “Dreaming of the lovers they will have,” said Gerard. “And there are the lovers. No Paris street can be complete without them. They are unaware of anything but each other. And there is the young girl with her governess, dreaming of freedom when she will no longer need a governess. The governess knows that time is not far off and her heart is heavy with apprehension. Where will she find her next post?”

“I can see what you mean about knowing your subjects. Would you like to paint some of these people?”

“Most of them. Though some show too obviously what they are. I look for those with a touch of mystery.”

We bought some pate and took it back to the studio. Gerard
produced a bottle of white wine and we sat on the couch and drank it with the pate.

“I believe,” said Gerard, “that you are getting a taste for
la vie boheme.”

“Perhaps I was born into it.”

“I think that may be so. That is why you have taken to it. My mother is a little shocked by the way I live. She cannot understand why I do not return to La Maison and live what she calls the life of a country gentleman.”

“That would not suit you in the least,” I said.

After a short pause, he said: “You are less sad now.”

“You have cheered me up.”

“So our little jaunt was just what you needed?”

“Yes. And I can’t think why I should want to hide the truth from you.”

“I should like to know, of course.”

“It was like this: Your Uncle Robert and a man called Charlie were two of my mother’s greatest friends. She was always surrounded by people. They came and went. But there were three of them who were always around: Robert, Charlie and the producer Dolly. When my mother died, Charlie insisted on taking me to his home. He had a son, Roderick. I had met Roderick and knew him quite well before my mother’s death. She did not know of our meetings. They were not exactly secret, but I had not mentioned them. Charlie had promised my mother that he would always look after me if need be, and he took me to his home. Roderick and I fell in love. We were going to be married. Then Charlie told me that I was his daughter and so Roderick and I were brother and sister.”

He was looking at me in amazed horror.

“And so,” he said, “that was the end …”

I nodded. “That is why I am sad. After the shock of my mother’s death, I wanted to start again. I know I could have done so … with Roderick. You see, my mother and I were so close. We had always been together. I could not imagine a life without her … and then … with Roderick, it seemed there was a chance.”

He moved closer to me and put an arm round me.

“My poor, poor Noelle, how you have suffered!” he said.

“We were saying we have to accept the blows life gives us … but we do have the power to rise above them … if only we can find it.”

“You are right. We have to do this. And we can … I am sure we can.”

“I did not want to talk of this to anyone.”

“But you were right to talk to me. I understand. You see, I have lost my wife.”

He stood up suddenly and went to the window.

Then he turned and said: “The light is still good. I could work for a while. It will make up for playing truant this morning.”

Then came the day when the portrait was finished. I was sad to think that period was over. There would be no more sittings, no more intimate conversation, no longer an excuse for me to go to the studio every day. There was no doubt that it had been a stimulating experience.

I studied the portrait while Gerard watched me with a certain apprehension.