Girl in the Afternoon (12 page)

Colette had intended to fluster Madame Morisot, who just looked puzzled.

“I presumed you knew he was,” Madame Morisot said. “Aimée was in the doorway of his studio not two hours ago when I rode past.”

It was Colette who was flustered. She sucked in a breath, recovered herself, and said, “Of course. How silly of me to forget.”

“It's the heat.” Madame Morisot patted her arm. “Send my regards to Monsieur Savaray,” she said, retreating into the lace shop.

Colette quickly got in a cab. “Rue Saint-Pétersbourg,” she ordered, clutching the packages in her lap as the carriage lurched forward.

*   *   *

It
happened much slower than Aimée could have imagined, but Édouard knew how to make love to a woman.

There was something in the mix of humility and arousal, in the move from guarded friendship to shameful intimacy that made for a hesitant, uncertain beginning. There was no frenzied discarding of clothes or desperate groping, just tentative, cautious movements that allowed for the shedding of a waistcoat, a cravat, the dropping of a skirt and the peeling away of a corset.

When Édouard kissed her it was not with a rapid, probing tongue like her first kiss with Henri, but a slow, slippery wetness that moved from her mouth to her breasts, his firm, sure lips leaving her nipples distended and misshapen, making their way along her belly, then farther down, his beard scratchy and strangely sensual.

More than anything else it was the surprise of her own body, the unearthly sensations that sprang up and then fell away as he touched her in places she'd never dared touch herself. There was a moment of stunning embarrassment when he gently pressed her knees open, moving his hand between her legs, and she felt her vulnerability slipping away under the expert pressure of his fingertips. When he finally lowered himself on top of her, there was a moment of pain, and then an inexpressible expansiveness.

At times she thought she might faint, engulfed in the noise of the trains, the rumble of the room, the heat, and the smell of Édouard that was distinct and indescribable, a mix of smoke and citrus and turpentine, but also something pungent and all his own. Then the raw strangeness of his body, of this receiving and giving over, would bring her back as intensely as if someone had pressed smelling salts to her nose.

The tenderness, the delicacy of it, almost brought her to tears.

Aimée didn't open her eyes until it was over. Édouard's body lay relaxed and heavy on top of hers, his breath quick and hot on her neck. Slowly, the ceiling came into focus, the narrow beams, the gilt molding, and the roofed gallery with its open arches.
Olympia
hung on the wall opposite them, just above Édouard's shoulder, and it seemed to Aimée that the nude model was smirking at her.

Édouard rolled off of her, right off the divan, and lay on his back breathing heavily. Aimée realized how exposed she was, stretched out in this sunny room, but she didn't try to cover herself.

If she had done it for love it might have been worth it, but she wasn't sure why she'd done it at all. The worst of it was she had taken immense physical pleasure in the act. To think one could find that sort of pleasure without love seemed to make it more sinful, so she lay there trying to stir up a sense of remorse, when what she really felt was languid satisfaction.

She heard Édouard rise off the floor and begin to move around the studio. Eventually, she smelled burning tobacco.

When she sat up, he was fully dressed, sitting in a chair a few feet away with a drawing board across his knees, a pipe held between his teeth, and a pencil in his hand. He smiled at her with such lighthearted kindness it made Aimée think that what should have been a shocking situation, was really very simple and uncomplicated. This was just what it looked like. There was nothing more, or less, to it. And the way Édouard was looking at her told her that he knew this too, that it would never be anything more, or less, than what it was right now.

He took his pipe out of his mouth and let a puff of smoke curl from his lips. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll attach no importance to this.” Which she took as his chivalrous way of saying it need not be mentioned to anyone. “Even though it was eye-opening, yes?” He spoke as if about a painting.

Aimée diverted her eyes.

“Thought I'd catch you in a rare, restful moment.” He tapped his pencil against the edge of the drawing board. “But if you'd rather not, I won't. I know how much you detest sitting still.”

“It's quite all right. I would like to sit for you.”

Édouard grinned. “What would people say? Aimée Savaray in the nude? You'd never be able to step out in society again. Not to mention you're an awful model. Unless, of course, you can prove the contrary?”

“The nude you'll have to dispose of.” Aimée was surprised at how calm she sounded. More surprising was how calm she felt, how settled. “But I would like to try sitting for you again.”

Édouard set his drawing board on the table. He tipped his pipe over a ceramic dish, emptying the spent tobacco before walking over to Aimée and cupping her chin in his palm.

“I suppose I don't need to ask your parents' permission this time,” he said, running his thumb softly along her jawbone.

“I suppose not.”

“Will this be my only chance at a nude then?” He lifted her face and looked as if he might kiss her again.

“No,” she said without hesitation.

Édouard did not kiss her. Instead he reached for her stone necklace where it lay on top of her discarded dress. It was clear from the deliberate way he picked it up that he had been the one to remove it, and Aimée couldn't believe she hadn't noticed. Édouard slipped it over her head, went back to his chair, and picked up his drawing board.

“The last time we tried this I squandered an unfortunate amount of money on a dress rental,” he said. “It never occurred to me to have you simply take it off. But you wouldn't have back then, would you?”

She shook her head.
I wouldn't have yesterday,
she thought.

“How do I know you'll sit still and not drive me to frustration?”

It would be different this time, she told him, and he saw in her face that it would. There was something that had not been there before, a melancholy, but also a spark, and he liked this new version. It gave her complexity.

 

Chapter 14

Colette ordered the carriage to stop directly across the street from Édouard's.

On the ride over she'd been trying to work out why Aimée would lie about going to his studio. She'd allowed Aimée to sit for him precisely because Aimée wasn't the full model he preferred. Although, come to think of it, he'd painted an awful lot of the Morisot girl, and she was skinny as a twig. Regardless, Colette was certain Aimée was not in danger of attracting Édouard's attention. If he had not seduced
her, Colette,
ten years ago, when she was at her most beautiful, there was no chance for Aimée.

Then why had Aimée deceived them all summer about being at the académie? Colette drew the carriage window closed, leaving a small crack through which to peer, her curiosity setting off a tremor of excitement as she waited in the sweltering heat.

It seemed hours before the studio door opened and Aimée stepped out, her hat shielding her face. Édouard stood in the doorway, and Colette noticed immediately that he was not wearing his cravat, or waistcoat, and that the top button of his shirt was undone.

Furious, she wriggled in her seat, straining to see around a carriage passing in front of her. How dare Édouard seduce her daughter. How dare Aimée let him. How dare they lie. By the time Colette's view was unobstructed, Aimée was halfway down the block and Édouard stood watching her go. Colette reached forward and slid open the carriage window. “Drive on,” she ordered, envy blistering through her. As the carriage started down the street she changed her mind. “No, turn around. Go back.”

The carriage made a swift turn down a side street and back around to the rue Saint-Pétersbourg.

The door to Édouard's studio was shut.

“Slow down!” Colette cried, and the driver pulled the horses to a walk, the great beasts tugging at their bits and tossing their heads with impatience. Within a few minutes she spotted her daughter's hat. “Stop!” She rapped the end of her sunshade on the edge of the open window. “Let me out.”

Colette hurried, following Aimée as she turned off the rue Saint-Pétersbourg onto the Place de Clichy, a woman with a handcart full of cabbages nearly knocking her into the street as she rounded the corner. Up ahead she could see her daughter's shiny satin dress slipping through the crowds like the scales of a fish. It was not often Colette got a chance to observe her daughter unnoticed. People reveal all sorts of things when they don't think anyone is looking.

She followed at a distance, ready to duck into a doorway if Aimée turned around. But Aimée never turned. She strode with determination, weaving through the foot traffic, not stopping for anything, and Colette found this reassuring. A girl in love wandered, strolled with her thoughts. There was nothing dreamy or languid about Aimée's movements, and this put Colette's mind at ease. She should not have jumped to such dramatic conclusions. This heat was enough to make any man discard his waistcoat and cravat.

In front of a gray stone building on the rue de Calais, Aimée came to an abrupt stop. Colette shrank back, watching Aimée stare at a series of high windows. Colette couldn't see her daughter's expression, but she noticed the unyielding way Aimée held her body, her shoulders pulled forward, her hands pressed together as if compacting herself down to a smaller size. Aimée took a step toward the open carriage entrance, and then, as if suddenly changing her mind, turned swiftly and continued down the street.

Curious as ever, Colette watched until Aimée was out of sight and then walked briskly to the building, stepping through the entrance into a dank, narrow courtyard. There were apartments on all sides, windows in three directions, but the windows Aimée had been staring at were straight ahead. Cautiously, Colette moved up the flight of stairs at the back of the building.

This was where she expected to find Aimée's lover, some destitute, sorry artist. Maybe he was very old, or very young. The idea of her daughter having a secret lover delighted Colette. Aimée must have hidden him because she knew Auguste would never consent to this sort of marriage. Of course she'd pretend to be shocked; she'd tell Aimée this must never get out. They'd both agree not to tell Auguste, certainly not Madame Savaray. Aimée would need to be married off quickly now, if it wasn't already too late.

Colette was, in no way, prepared for Henri. He never even came to her mind. Which, later, she decided was foolish—she should have known, suspected at least.

Conversely, Henri was certainly not prepared for Colette. After Leonie left he'd fallen asleep in the bright sunshine with his pants rolled to his knees, his sleeves to his elbows, and his shirt open.

The knock woke him. He stumbled to the door, wiping drool from his cheek, not fully awake, dreading that it might be Aimée, but also hoping for her.

Henri and Colette stared at each other, both with looks of incredulity. Henri buttoned his shirt and rolled his sleeves down, glancing behind him for his cuff links.

After a terrible silence, Colette said, “So, here you've been.” When Henri didn't answer she extended her hand, slack at the wrist, and said, “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

Without taking her hand, Henri stepped aside and held the door open.

Colette dropped the rejected hand to her side, gave him a light smile, and handed him her sunshade. Her guard was down, and her guard was rarely down. She did not remove her hat. She would stay for a minute, make some excuse, and go.

She looked around, grateful, at least, to see that Henri was a grown man in a real apartment, however modest. Sometimes in her memory he was still a little boy, and that disturbed her.

She pretended to take an interest in his work, but she had never been good at subtlety. “Where did you go? How did you survive?” she said, staring at a landscape without really seeing it.

“Here and there. I got by.” Henri stayed near the door, a tremor of anger beating through him as he imagined Aimée betraying him to Colette.

“And Aimée found you? Or did you find her?” Colette turned to him.

Henri's eyes darted to the floor where the edge of Colette's dress, scattered with pale flowers, met the cool, dark wood. “She found me,” he said quietly. “I didn't want to make trouble. I meant to leave it alone.”

“And yet, you stayed in Paris?” Colette picked up a small canvas from the table and set it back down. “Well, then,” she said. “What do we do with you now?”

Henri kept his eyes on the floor.

Colette walked over to him. At the very least, he could look at her. “Auguste will find out you're here, eventually. Especially if Aimée keeps coming around.”

“I don't think she'll come around anymore,” Henri said.
Meek and pathetic,
Colette thought.

“You've hurt her again, have you? Let me guess.” Colette pointed to the nude propped on the easel, her own jealousy rising at the image of that bold, beautiful woman. “It was with her.” She recognized Leonie immediately.

Henri didn't answer. His heart was beating very fast. Colette was right. He had hurt Aimée again. She had every right to be furious with him, to betray him to her parents. She owed him nothing.

Colette reached around Henri for her sunshade. Since the atelier, a kind of frenzy had been rising in her. She felt completely out of sorts. This was a dangerous situation. How she proceeded mattered very much. Henri was here now, and had to be dealt with. Best that she be the one to bring him back to Auguste.