Moonlight Over Paris (12 page)

“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.”

“How do you manage it all?” Helena asked. “I can scarcely keep my head above water, and I only have to take care of myself.”

“I don't really have a choice, do I? It's not so very hard. Of course there are days when I am very tired, but then I remember how fortunate I am. My husband returned from the war,
though many did not. I have a roof over my head, enough to eat, family to share my work. I have a child who is happy and healthy. I am a very fortunate woman, am I not?”

Mathilde stood, the same soft smile upon her face, and turned to look down at Helena. “Shall we be on our way?”

Helena returned her smile gratefully. Given what she had just learned, she wouldn't have been surprised if Mathilde had hated her and Daisy on sight. Her friend carried so many burdens, and unlike Helena she never complained about them—she didn't even whine about Maître Czerny.

“Where would you like to go now?”

“Would you mind if we visited the cathedral? It's on the way home for both of us, is it not?”

“It is.
Allons-y,
then.”

Walking north, Helena and Mathilde continued until the Seine was before them and they were facing the grassy prow of the Île de la Cité. They bore east for half a mile, to the narrow Pont au Double, which led them across to the busy forecourt of Notre-Dame Cathedral.

Long ago, she knew, the church's great west façade had been brightly painted, though she couldn't recall if the colors had been stripped away or had simply faded over the centuries. She tried to imagine what the cathedral would have looked like six or seven hundred years earlier, when its stonework had mimicked the stained glass of its windows. Modern eyes would find it jarring, no doubt, but it must have suited medieval tastes.

Helena hadn't returned to Notre-Dame since her first exploration of Paris in early September, but it promised peace, and sanctuary of a sort, as well. With Mathilde leading the way, they slipped inside, dodging the tourists and their guides.
They paused to make certain that Mass was not being said, then walked down the nave toward the high altar.

As they neared the transept, Helena bent her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the worn marble floor. She passed the first row of chairs and walked a yard or two farther, until she was at the center of the crossing. Only then did she turn to the right and raise her face to the jeweled radiance of the south rose window.

She had first visited Notre-Dame as a child, and she had overheard someone, possibly a guide, advising a fellow visitor to do the same. The beauty of the cathedral had moved her beyond words, and the light from the window sustained and nourished her even now. She would likely never achieve perfection in her own work, but someone else had, and the simple thought of this, of its possibility, comforted her beyond words or sense.

“Do you wish to stay here, or come with me to the chapel of St. Geneviève? I won't be long,” Mathilde whispered.

“You go. I'll sit here for a while.”

The choir had gathered, it seemed for a practice, and rather than linger before the altar Helena found a seat on the southern aisle of the nave. Sitting in the shadow of a looming pillar so high she could scarcely discern its terminus, she listened to the gathered voices, rising and falling, singing the same words in exquisite counterpoint:
Dona Nobis Pacem
. Give us peace.

She sat and listened, and presently she noticed a large plaque that had been affixed to a nearby pillar.

TO THE GLORY OF GOD

AND TO THE MEMORY OF

ONE MILLION DEAD

OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE

WHO FELL

IN THE GREAT WAR

1914–1918

AND OF WHOM THE

GREATER PART REST

IN FRANCE

A million dead across the empire, and millions more in Europe and beyond. How was she, or anyone else, to make sense of such numbers? Of such suffering?

Of those dead, how many had been artists? It wasn't the sort of thing that was summarized in war diaries and official histories, but many hundreds, even thousands, must have been artists like herself. They, too, had struggled and doubted themselves and wondered if they might be better suited to some other occupation. And now they were gone.

A year or so after the Armistice, she'd bought a book of poems by Wilfred Owen, who, she later learned, had been killed just before the end of the war. The poems had been difficult and troubling, raw in their beauty, and she'd read them over and over, using them to make sense of her own, pathetically insignificant sorrows.

“Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were,” he had written. Millions were dead, though they ought to have lived—ought to be working and loving and standing in the nave of Notre-Dame as the spangled light of the south rose window fell across their faces. Millions more, men like Mathilde's husband, had been left disfigured, maimed, and tormented.

What were her troubles, compared to that?

She would not despair. She would make the most of this
chance to study, to learn, and she would remember to look up and see the beauty that surrounded her.

Presently she felt a hand on her arm. It was Mathilde, her eyes aglow with sympathy and understanding.

“Shall we go?” Helena whispered, and her friend nodded in reply.

Outside again, they stood blinking in the afternoon sun.

“I didn't—” Helena began.

“I'm sorry,” Mathilde said.

“I didn't lose anyone. I don't want you to . . . that is, I was engaged, and he was wounded, but we broke things off. He did, that is. He was in love with someone else.”

At this, Mathilde shrugged ruefully. “So you are sad for him, but not because of him.”

“I suppose so. Him, and other men I knew. I wanted to say . . .”

“Yes?”

“I am very glad to have you as my friend. Thank you for coming along with me today.”

“It is nothing. I was glad of a chance to talk with you. All the same, I must be on my way. My family will be waiting.”

“Shall I see you at the studio tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.” Mathilde kissed Helena on both cheeks, her face a little flushed, and disappeared into the crowds milling about the cathedral forecourt.

And then, for it was late in the day, and Hamish would be wanting his walk, Helena, too, went home.

H
elena's life had settled into a comfortable, and comforting, rhythm. On Monday mornings she woke at seven, had a hasty breakfast of café au lait and toasted
tartine
with marmalade, took Hamish on a walk around the perimeter of the island, turning up her collar against the late November chill, and set off for school.

Lunch was shared with her friends in their studio. Mathilde had brought in an old percolator, which produced murky but sustaining cups of coffee, and Madame Benoît had kindly lent them a mismatched set of cups, plates, and cutlery. Daisy and Helena contributed cheese, dried sausage, and ham from their kitchens at home—Agnes's cook was invariably generous—and they all took turns paying for a fresh baguette at the boulangerie at the corner.

Daisy always offered Louisette something, but the woman refused to accept even a glass of water. It must have been incredibly boring for the woman, sitting there hour after hour as she did, but Helena found it hard to muster even a scrap of sympathy for someone so uncongenial in spirit.

After lunch, it was back to the studio for another hour or
so, then home. Helena preferred to walk, but on cold or rainy days she would take the tram up the boulevard St.-Michel. As soon as she was home, she took Hamish out for a second time, since the extra exercise was good for both of them, and then dined with her aunt.

The exception to her routine was Sam, for she could never be sure when she might see him. Not only did he work odd hours, but he also was prone to disappearing for days on end, she assumed because of some story or another he was writing. Despite this, she'd managed to meet up with him half a dozen times, though they hadn't again bared their souls as they'd done that rainy evening in his garret room.

His first
petit bleu
had arrived the morning after their dinner at Rosalie's.

                    
Dear Ellie—Woke up sneezing. Hope you're all right after our run through the rain. Menzies down the hall lent me his kettle and gave me a packet of tea. Said it will cure whatever ails me. Is he a liar? If not, how do I make a decent cup of tea? I know you have strong feelings on the subject. Sam

                    
Dear Sam—A proper cup of tea can cure even the worst case of the sniffles. As I don't recall seeing a teapot in your room, you may brew your tea one cup at a time. Measure one teaspoonful of tea leaves into the bottom of your mug, fill the mug with freshly boiled water, let the tea steep for five minutes (a few minutes more if you like it very dark), and add a drop or two of milk and some sugar if you must have it sweet, though honey is better if you have a cold. The tea leaves should settle to the bottom of the mug, but if they are bothersome you can decant the tea into a fresh mug. I do hope you feel better soon. Regards, Helena

                    
Dear Ellie—The tea experiment was successful. I added honey and a slug of bourbon. Slept like a baby afterwards. Thanks for the instructions. Sam

                    
Dear Sam—You added spirits to tea? Where I come from that is very nearly sacrilege. I've heard that some Americans drink their tea cold—in my opinion a perversion of an otherwise perfect beverage—but your approach is nearly as bad. Shame on you! (Though I am very glad to know you are feeling better.) Regards, Helena

This coming Saturday they were planning to meet for dinner at Chez Rosalie with Étienne, and possibly Mathilde, too, if she could be spared from work at her family's bar.

Sam's
petit bleu
arrived on Friday morning, not long after dawn.

                    
Ellie—Have been called away on assignment. Not back until Sunday
P.M.
Promise me you'll take a taxi home on Saturday, or have Étienne walk you. Sorry for short notice. Sam.

It was kind of him to worry, but she wasn't so silly as to walk home alone, especially since it was getting dark by seven o'clock. She scribbled out a reply and posted it on the way to school.

                    
Dear Sam—Not to worry. Will be prudent. I forgot that it was your Thanksgiving yesterday. Do I wish you Happy or Merry? We shall dine on roast chicken when I next see you and pretend it is turkey. Regards, Helena

She and her friends spent Saturday morning and afternoon in the studio, though Daisy had to leave before lunchtime. Her
father was feeling poorly again, and though Helena admired her friend's devotion to her parent she now suspected that Dr. Fields was in the habit of exaggerating his ailments as yet another way of keeping Daisy under his thumb.

Mathilde, who was needed at the bar after all, departed at five, leaving Helena and Étienne to continue on to the restaurant alone. Dinner at Chez Rosalie was never a drawn-out affair, for no money was to be made from diners who had eaten their fill, no matter how much the signora adored them. In less than an hour they had finished, paid, and were strolling north on the boulevard St.-Michel. Helena would have been content to simply walk and wander, but Étienne wanted wine and coffee, in that order, and of a better quality than Rosalie served.

“Her food is delightful, but the wine . . .” He shuddered in his oh-so-French way.

They found a table in one of the nameless cafés of the boul' Mich', as Étienne called the street, and settled in with a five-franc bottle of Burgundy and a
café express
for Étienne. A single coffee in the morning kept Helena feeling energized for most of the day; how her friend was able to consume the stuff at such a late hour, and in such a strong form, never ceased to amaze her.

“You'll never sleep, you know.”

“I will. And the wine is a soporific. I'll sleep like the dead.”

“It's very bad for you.”

“I am fine. There is no need to fuss over me.”

“That's what friends do. And you never talk of your family—who takes care of you?”

A flash of pain twisted across his face, and she wished she could snatch back her words. “You do, and Mathilde,” he said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “You are all I need.”

“Is your family in Paris?”

“No.”

“But you—”

“You, Hélène—you never talk of
your
family. Only your aunt Agnes, and from time to time your sister. You never speak of your life in England, or your family there. Are you estranged from them?”

“Not at all. I'm very fond of my parents and siblings. I've three sisters and one brother, and nearly a dozen nephews and nieces between them. I write to Amalia every week, and my mother nearly as often.”

“So why am I convinced the scarlet fever is not all that brought you here? There is something in your manner, you know, when you speak of home. And you are very adept at changing the subject when it comes to speaking of the war.” He swallowed a gulp of wine, his eyes never leaving her face. “I wonder . . . did you lose someone, perhaps?”

She could have lied, told him he had an overactive imagination, but what would that serve? She knew she could trust him.

“In a manner of speaking . . .”

“I
knew
it.” He really did have the look of a cat that had learned how to open a birdcage.

“It's hard to hide anything from you.”

“I am very observant. That is why I am a great artist.”

“And such a humble man,” she teased. He made a face, refilled both their glasses, and waited for her to tell him everything.

“I don't like to talk of it. It happened so long ago. I was . . . I was engaged. I cared for Edward, but I wasn't in love with him. I didn't know him well enough.”

“What happened to him?” Étienne asked softly, carefully.

“He was taken prisoner. For months, we thought he was dead. And then he came home, and he'd lost a leg, and he was different. We all knew it, but no one said anything, not at first.”

“Did you break it off?”

“No, of course not. I'd never have done that to him. He was struggling, and so unhappy, but I didn't know how to help. I don't think he wanted me to help him. It went on for months, and then he came to see me one day and broke the engagement, just like that. He told me that I was too good for him and that we would make one another unhappy.”

“Was he right? Would you have been unhappy with him?”

“I think so. He married someone else not long after. I think he was in love with her all along.”

“Ma pauvre
Hélène.”

“It didn't hurt me. It didn't. They are happy together, from what I've heard. And she was nice to me, the one time we met. I don't blame either of them.”

“But . . . ?”

“But the gossip was
awful
. No one would believe that our parting was amicable. They assumed it was my fault. That I'd broken things off because of his missing leg. That I had done something to
deserve
being set aside.”

She took a sip of her wine, embarrassed at how her hand trembled. It had been so long since she'd allowed herself to think of that dark time, and still it upset her. “It has been so lovely to make friends here and not have to worry about any of it. I so dreaded it, that look in a person's eye—”

“I know what you mean. You are introduced to someone, and before you have even opened your mouth they have weighed you on some invisible scale, and found you wanting.”

“That's happened to you?” she asked incredulously. “How
could anyone not like you? You're kind, and generous, and you are very handsome, though I shouldn't say so.”

“Darling girl.”

“And you've always been so nice to me. Since the moment we met, just before our first class, you've been so kind.”

“Why wouldn't I be nice to you?” he asked, and though he smiled his eyes were sad. “You smiled at me, you were civil to me. Why would I not do the same in return?”

“Of course I was civil to you. Anyone would have been.”

He smiled again, his eyes even sadder, and kissed her cheek. “Do you remember last month, when I had a black eye?”

“You'd slipped on some wet leaves.”

He shook his head. “No,
ma belle
. I was set upon. I was walking with a friend; we'd been at Chez Graff, in Pigalle—”

Understanding dawned. “I've heard of it. My aunt said that's where the . . . well, where the homosexuals go . . .”

“Yes. And sometimes thugs who hate men like me. They call us
pédés
and they consider it a kind of sport to attack us.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, not wishing to embarrass him. How could anyone wish to hurt this gentle, kind man? It defied all understanding. She reached across the table and clutched at his hand.

“So you, ah . . . you prefer men to women?” she said, lowering her voice, fearful that someone might hear and say something unkind to him.

“Yes.”

“And your family?”

“Lost to me.”

“Oh, Étienne. I am so, so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. It is in the past.” He poured more wine into his glass.

“The man you were with, when you were attacked . . . is he your lover?”

“Not anymore,” he said, and there was a world of regret in his voice.

“What if you'd been badly hurt? I can't bear it.”

“And that is why I love you, my friend.”

The bottle of wine was empty. Étienne called for another
café express
and drank it down straightaway, though it was surely hot enough to burn his mouth.

“Let's be off,” he said. “Shall we walk on? I don't feel disposed to take the tram.”

“Yes, let's walk.”

They continued along the boulevard, the route so familiar to her, now, that she might easily have navigated her way home with her eyes closed. They walked arm in arm, and she was comforted by his closeness and steady warmth.

“I feel so silly. I ought to have understood,” she confessed.

“I don't have a sign attached to my lapel. Don't apologize.”

It then occurred to her that if she had failed to realize Étienne preferred men, she might have . . .

“Oh, Helena—your thoughts are written on your face. No, he is not homosexual.”

“I, ah, I wasn't thinking—”

“Your Sam. He is assuredly
not
homosexual.”

“Oh. Well. That's good to know,” she said, and though she didn't have any romantic designs on Sam she was unaccountably relieved.

“You know,” Étienne said, “your reaction surprises me. You do not appear to be disgusted or angry.”

“Why should I? It would be terribly hypocritical. I know
what it's like to be shunned, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.”

“You were very sheltered, were you not? When you were growing up.”

“I was, I suppose. Perhaps it was a good thing. No one was able to teach me how to hate.”

He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. “My heart is full to bursting. I am very glad you are my friend.”

“I feel the same way,” she said, and they walked on through the night, until they were crossing the Seine and she was almost home.

“I have decided that I must paint you,” Étienne announced, just as they stepped off the Pont St.-Louis. She was so surprised that she stumbled, and would have fallen if not for his arm around hers.

“Me?”

“Yes. You are a beautiful woman. I must paint you.”

“I'm flattered, but I . . .”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“I'm not sure. I've had my portrait painted, but it was something I did for my parents. And I didn't like it. I didn't like the way the artist looked at me. As if he were cataloging all my flaws, and trying to think of how best to conceal them.”