Letters from Paris by Juliet Blackwell

Author:Juliet Blackwell [Blackwell, Juliet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-07-18T17:17:46+00:00

28

SABINE

Maurice is spending less time in the studio and more time in cafés and bars. When Sabine is not too bruised, he brings her with him. She sits by his side, a glass of Lillet in front of her. He prefers absinthe himself, but does not find it ladylike, so he orders her the sweet wine.

Though she remains quiet, Sabine cherishes these times. She loves to hear the people—men, mostly, but the occasional woman too—talk of philosophy and politics, of art and craft. Their words swirl in a confusing mélange over her head, but they hint at other worlds, other lands, other ways of thinking. She tries to remember the things they say, to keep the tidbits for when she is modeling and must remain still as the dead for hours at a time. She uses the time to consider the novel concepts, turning them over in her mind, inspecting, weighing them.

Often Maurice introduces her to famous or influential writers and artists: Edgar Degas, Émile Zola. Zola speaks very animatedly about something called the Dreyfus affair. The names flow over her; she has not heard of them. Maurice teases her for this, but the men seem unfazed, laughing at her naïveté. Sometimes they ask if she will model for them. Mostly, they ignore her.

One night a man named Jean-Baptiste Lombardi joins them. He smokes strong Gauloises cigarillos, and compared with the other men—content to talk over one another, shouting and proclaiming—he is subdued.

He startles Sabine by speaking to her directly, instead of through Maurice. Monsieur Lombardi smiles and tells her that he is free from the angst of the artist, because he is a mold-maker.

“He is a death mask maker,” booms Maurice.

Sabine’s eyes grow large at the idea. Still, she once saw Napoléon’s death mask in one of the museums Maurice took her to. She remembers thinking that this was a true representation of the emperor’s likeness, rather than the interpretation through the eyes of an artist. It felt closer to the truth, to the person he was.

As the men talk, Sabine studies the mask-maker under her lashes. His callused hands gesticulate as he talks. The nail beds are white with embedded plaster, the wrists thick. An ugly scar runs across his brow and continues onto his cheek. Sabine decides it is a miracle the blade did not pluck out his eye. His eyes . . . they are a beautiful blue, deep and cool as the lake in the woods outside her village.

“What about you, mademoiselle?” asks Monsieur Lombardi. His gaze is intent, focused on her. Making her blush.

“Me?” she responds, losing her breath.

“Yes, what do you think of the Impressionists? Has their time already gone? Shall they stand aside and make room for the Nabis?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know anything,” Sabine whispers.

“She is my little country mouse!” Maurice declares, in his cups. “La rate des champs!”

“But a country mouse knows many things,” says Jean-Baptiste. “Not the least is how to survive in the city, off the crumbs cast from the tables of the wealthy.

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