When Love Rides Out by Helen McCabe

Author:Helen McCabe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AudioGO
Published: 2002-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Sylvie stood back and surveyed her marble horses critically. She had ordered one of their servants to place the ladders against the scaffolding, in a position where she could continue the fine work upon the horses’ curling manes with the flat chisel she was holding. The tool was used for cutting the sharpest details.

She was swathed in her working apparel, which consisted of a jacket, fastened with hooks and eyes and a cream-coloured petticoat dress, which should have had paniers, but had not, because a domed hoop was an impossible appendage for climbing ladders.

Indeed, her simple clothes gave her the appearance of a servant girl rather than a young lady of quality. She had tucked her auburn locks under a mob cap, which was tied with ribbon under her chin.

She was ready for work and not for visitors. “Sylvie, they’re magnificent!” cried Elise, who had been watching the unveiling.

“You think so?”

“I know a real artist when I see one,” complimented Elise. “You have managed such wonderful lines - so delicate like Goujon’s, but strong as well. The nostrils and ears are quite exquisite.” Sylvie thrilled with pride. “Did you use a model?”

“Poor old Pelotte.” Both laughed merrily. There was nothing in Sylvie’s fine tableau to suggest a sign of the dear old piebald.

Sylvie hitched up her skirts further and set her foot on the ladder The servant, holding it, had been ordered to avert his eyes at her ascent and, soon, she was standing high up on the platform.

“Be careful, dear,” called Elise. Madame seated herself below and began to sketch from notes.

Then she began to prattle on about last night’s dancing and, of course, the marquis. “I am quite sure Yves will arrange an invitation to Versailles for you, Sylvie. And, perhaps, an audience with Louis himself. His Majesty is such a sweet-faced boy and has the most expressive eyes I have ever witnessed. I would dearly like to paint him in his ceremonial robes…”

While she was speaking, Sylvie concentrated on cutting through a streaked plane of marble and drawing out yet another delicate curl with her chisel.

She was so wrapped up in her work that she did not notice Elise’s hurried rise from her chair, nor her graceful curtsey to the small band of courtiers, who had entered the studio quietly and, now, stood watching Sylvie.

“Well, Yves,” murmured Le Duc, “Hercule’s labours over the Augean stables could not have been as seriously undertaken. What beauty!”

“I told you that the tableau was fine, Monsieur,” whispered Yves.

“You have pointed out Mam’selle Berthaud’s talents most certainly,” he quipped. “Will you make her aware of our presence, Madame Baptiste? But, softly. I would not want her surprised at such a height.” His eyes danced merrily.

“Sylvie,” called Elise. Sylvie! We have visitors!”

“Oh!” She was quite shocked to see the small knot of gentlemen gazing up at her. She dared not curtsey in case she fell.

Yves stared upwards and his warm gaze rested on her slight form, swathed in classic cream. “I’m sorry, Monsieur,” she called, recognising Le Duc.

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