The Exiles (20 page)

“It is not finished.”

“No, but I see what it’s going to be.”

The painting was little more than a sketch, but already the strong lines were clear. Its subject was one of the large statues of an angel that had always intrigued Chantel.

“Why did you decide to paint an angel?” she asked.

“I am very interested in angels.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I can’t say, but I believe in them strongly. I believe everyone has his own angel. I think there’s a verse in the Bible that says something like that. In any case, it pleases me to think that there is a strong, mighty angel looking over my shoulder, always ready to help me when I get into trouble. As a matter of fact”—he smiled and leaned forward—“I think maybe one or two angels were watching over us in that cemetery.”

“What a nice thought!”

“Yes. There’s much evil in the world, but there is much good, too.”

At that point Clarice brought in a huge tray, accompanied by Marie with the silver coffeepot. The two women laid out an excellent meal—poached eggs, fresh bread, butter straight from the dairy, currant jelly, and slices of savory ham. When it was all on the table, Gaspard said, “I have an odd habit of saying thank you to God before every meal.”

“It’s not odd at all,” Chantel replied.

She bowed her head, and Gaspard said with enthusiasm, “Our good God, everything comes from You, so I am thanking You for this wonderful food and for the hospitality that I have found. Bless this house and all that are in it. Amen.”

“Amen,” Chantel said. “You must be a devout believer then.”

“Not at all,” Gaspard said. “Perhaps I shall be one day.”

“You’re not a Christian?”

“I am sad to say that I am not—but I will be one day. I think the Lord is after me, and one day He will catch me.”

Chantel laughed. “What an odd thing to say. You should be pursuing God, not the other way around.”

They ate their breakfast, and more than once Chantel was struck at the strong resemblance she found between Yves Gaspard and her father. She studied him surreptitiously. He was fine looking, although not typical. His hair was longer than most men’s, but she found this attractive. He had traveled much in Europe and over the United States and told stories both humorous and informative.

“Well, where is your home, Monsieur Gaspard?”

“Please, could we not call each other simply Chantel—which is a lovely name indeed!—and Yves?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Good. My home is in New Orleans.”

“And your family?”

“My parents are living, but I am the only surviving son.” He had been drinking coffee laced with chicory, and now he held the tiny, fragile piece of china in his hand and rolled it slowly around. It looked very small between his fingers.

She noticed that his hands were long and strong looking but not bulky.
The kind of hands an artist ought to have,
she thought.

“I am a disappointment to them I am afraid, Chantel.”

“Why in the world would you say that?”

“They expected more of me.” He hesitated, and a sadness seemed to cross his face. “My family was prominent at one time. It still is socially, I suppose, but my father had unfortunate business reverses, so that all we have left now of what was once a sizable fortune is a fine house, old and rapidly going downhill for lack of means to repair it and keep it up.”

“Well, that is sad. But your painting—surely they’re not disappointed that you’re an artist.”

“I’m afraid they are.” Yves sipped the coffee, and his smile was somewhat sardonic. “You have heard tales of starving young artists, I suppose. Well, you’re looking at one now, Chantel.”

“You haven’t sold any paintings?”

“Very few. It is a very competitive world, the world of art. People buy according to name, not according to beauty. When one has a name, it is very simple. No matter what you paint people will buy it. But for those of us who are on the outside it is difficult.”

“But I’m sure you’re a great painter.”

“That makes two of us who think so.”

“But really. I can tell from that one painting you have talent.”

“Talent is not the most important thing in art.”

Chantel stared at him with surprise. “It isn’t?”

“Oh, no, indeed! Shall I tell you what is the most important thing in the life of an artist? I think of any artist—painter, sculptor, singer.”

“Yes,” Chantel said, leaning forward. “What is it?”

“It is—timing. You see, if I paint a beautiful picture, and I take it to a show and exhibit it, if it so happens that a wealthy man or woman goes by and sees it and likes it and buys it, they buy it because they’re there. If they were not there, it would not be bought. When this happens often enough, time after time, the artist becomes famous. No, Chantel, it is not talent that counts the most. Talent is important, but you know who I think of as the greatest artist who ever lived?”

“Rembrandt?”

“Naturally you would think so, but I think not. It was probably someone who had far more talent than Rembrandt, but he was trapped in a place where he could never develop his talent. The timing was wrong. He was born in the wrong place at the wrong time. A farmer, perhaps, and his hands grew rough with handling a plow and grubbing with a shovel, so he never painted. But he would have been greater than Rembrandt if he had had Rembrandt’s chances.”

“I’m sure your work will sell. I will buy your angel painting myself when it’s finished.”

“Good.” Yves smiled, and his dark eyes flashed. “I will charge you five times what it is worth.”

After breakfast they went out to sit on the porch, and he admired what he could see of the plantation. “I love the country. It’s so beautiful here. But I’ll try to get out of your way as soon as possible.”

“Nonsense. You must stay until you are fully recovered. And you must finish the picture of the angel. Then I will buy it.”

“Well, I don’t know what you think about this fellow, but I do not think he is good for Chantel.”

Marie and Simon were sitting in their kitchen finishing up their evening meal. Simon stared at his wife, then took a long pull at his glass of wine. He licked his lips and set the glass down. “He seems to be a good enough fellow.”

“He’s been here a week, and he is strong enough to go,” Marie said firmly. “But he doesn’t.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I think Chantel is smitten with him. He’s fine looking and has good manners, but he has no money.”

“He’s fine looking, no doubt of that. As to his talent, I know nothing of such things.”

“If he were good, he would be making money. Chantel told me herself—although she didn’t mean to—that he is poor and his family has nothing.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two legs, and studied his wife. “You worry too much.”

“You men, you have no sense whatsoever! Don’t you know she’s a beautiful young girl with a fortune? And what is he? Poof! He is a nobody! A pauper. A painter who drinks too much.”

“How do you know he drinks too much?”

Marie sniffed and stared at him with disgust. “All painters drink too much! Artists, they are not good people. They are immoral.”

Simon laughed and reached across the table and captured her hand. He held it tightly, though she tried to pull it away. “And how many artists have you known?”

“I have read about them, and everyone knows that they are immoral.”

“I do not know it.”

“You know nothing about men and women!”

Simon squeezed his wife’s hand and grinned at her. “I knew enough to get me a fine wife.”

Marie frowned, then suddenly her face broke into laughter. “You always know how to get around me, but I am right. You will see.”

“She’s a young girl. Naturally she likes to be admired.”

“She should marry someone like Francis Taubin.”

“Why, he’s the dullest man I’ve ever met!”

“But he has a good plantation and lots of money. Romance is very fine out in the moonlight, but when the bills come due, what good is it?”

“Perhaps Gaspard will be going soon.”

“I hope so. It would be better for Chantel if he did.”

At the moment when the Bientots were speaking, Chantel and Yves were at the river. He liked to paint at sunset, and now the last colors were fading. Chantel watched with admiration. She had never found a man so interesting.

The breeze was warm, and from time to time the surface of the water echoed with the splash of a fish. Chantel watched as a turtle crawled out on a log and stretched his head out as if seeking food. She watched him until finally he went into the water with a
kerplunk!

“It’s getting late. You can’t see to paint.”

“I know, but it’s going well. Funny about painting. One day you’re doing well, and the next day you can’t start again. You’ve lost it.”

“It’s going to be a good painting, isn’t it?”

“Who knows? You paint a bad painting the same way you paint a good painting.”

Chantel came over to stand beside him. He had started a picture of the bayou and had centered on a great blue heron. The bird, of course, was not there now, but he had been drawn in, and he would come last, Yves had said. But he had caught something of the late afternoon in a Louisiana bayou. The sky overhead was just beginning to grow dark, and the huge cypress trees lifted themselves out of the water, dangling bundles of Spanish moss like huge birds’ nests. “It’s a good painting,” she said. “You got it just right.” She watched the even strokes of his brush and finally said, “I may want to buy this one, too.”

Yves turned and smiled. “I’ll just stay here and paint pictures of the bayou, and you can buy them all.”

Chantel smiled back at him. It pleased her that she had to look up. It made her feel small and fragile—a rare thing for her. “I wish we could do that.”

He began to clean his brushes, and as he was gathering them all together, she said, “Why have you never married, Yves?”

“I’m too romantic.”

“Too romantic! But that’s a good thing.”

“Well, my parents wanted an arranged marriage. In fact, they tried that several times. One of their choices was a very beautiful woman. Well, not beautiful, but pretty enough. But she hadn’t a brain in her head. I can’t talk about bonnets all my life.”

“No, I suppose not.” She saw he was finished, and she turned to take one last look at the river. “I hate this river,” she said quietly.

“Hate it? Why, I think it’s beautiful.”

“Well, I suppose it is, but—” She broke off and then turned and walked away from him. She folded her arms and looked down at the ground.

She was surprised when he came up behind her and turned her around. “What’s the matter?”

She hesitated but something kept her going. “It’s my mother and my sister. They drowned in this river.”

Yves looked at her for a moment, then drew her over to a huge cypress that had fallen. “Sit down,” he said. Sitting down next to her, he put his arm around her and said, “Now, tell me about it.”

Chantel did not like to talk about her loss, but she found the weight of his arm comforting and his silence also. He did not interrupt until she had told the whole story.

He whispered huskily, “I’m so sorry, little one.”

“Little one?” She turned and looked at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “No one ever called me that. I’m too tall.”

“No, you’re not too tall.” He pulled her up and said, “You’re just as high as my heart.”

Chantel could not speak for a moment, then she finally whispered, “What a sweet thing to say.”

“I probably read it in a poem. But it’s true enough. Don’t worry about your height. You will marry, and you will have a husband and children, and they will fill your life.”

“I doubt that I’ll ever marry.”

“Yes, you must marry. I hate to see a woman wasted.” He leaned down suddenly and kissed her, just a light kiss, but it was on the lips. It shocked her and at the same time gave her a sense of security and comfort. “Just stay away from starving artists like me.”

“If I do marry, it will be because I love a man. Money doesn’t matter.”

Yves suddenly laughed and then shook his head. “I must talk to your stepmother—or this lawyer friend you have mentioned. You’re too innocent to be left alone.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are. There are selfish men who would love to find a girl like you with beauty and money.” He reached out and put his hand on her cheek. It felt warm and strong, and she covered it with her own. “But I will help you,
mon chère.
Bring all your sweethearts to me, and I will tell you if they are worthy or not.” He laughed and then shook his head. “Come. I’m hungry. Let’s go home and get something to eat.”

As they made their way home, Chantel could not help replaying the scene in her mind.
You’re just as high as my heart.
No one had ever said anything poetic or beautiful to her before.
Even if he did get it from a poem,
she thought as they made their way homeward,
it was a beautiful thing to say.

Chapter seventeen

Neville had been laboring over a particularly knotty case, struggling with the stacks of paper spread out on his desk. He stared at the date on his calendar—August 5—then ran his hand through his hair. Finally, in desperation, he grabbed it and seemed to try to lift himself out of his chair. “Blasted idiots! Why do they have to take this thing to court?” he muttered.

Finally an interruption came when Jenkins, his clerk, stuck his head in the door. “Miss Fontaine to see you when you have time, sir.”

“Why, send her in at once,” Neville said. His face brightened, and getting up from his desk, he walked around it. He greeted Chantel warmly, and when she put her hands out, he took them and held them. “Thank heaven you’ve come,” he said. “I’m about to go crazy.”

“I’m so glad to see you, Neville.”

“When did you get into town?”

“Just last night. It was very late, but I’ve come to take you out to lunch.”

“Good! I’m starved.”

“I have a friend I want you to meet.”

“Oh, who is that?”

“Come along, and I will tell you on the way.”

Neville left the office, and as soon as they were outside and in the carriage, he got the full story of Yves Gaspard.