Girl in the Afternoon (17 page)

“Your indiscretion is unacceptable!” he shouted.

Aimée took a bold step toward him. The low hum inside her, the subtle buzz, had risen like a swarm of mosquitoes, and she felt the force of her adrenaline. “It was only a painting,” she stated.

Auguste strode to the other side of the room. At the very least Aimée could feign humility. The slightest look of remorse would have made him feel better. It was outrageous, the shameless iniquities committed by the women in his house. He'd been so good to them, given them every freedom, and they'd done nothing but humiliate and betray him.

“This is done!” He made a large sweeping motion with his arm. “Your painting, it's done. I will no longer support it. I should have known better in the first place. It's no profession for a woman.”

His hair stood on end as he ran his hand through it. He knew he was acting rashly, without an intelligent plan, but his life had shattered out of his control, and he could no longer see a clear way forward. He was not a cruel man. He loved his children. He had sent Jacques away
because
he loved him. It was the only thing he could do. With Aimée it was different. He had a choice, and he was well aware he might be making the wrong one.

“Did you hear me?” he shouted, his body pitched forward, his fists clenched, but his daughter just stood defiant, with her silent, impenetrable stare.

Aimée felt the blood in her veins, and a rush in her ears. Her maman's anger all these years suddenly made sense to her, the flying, smashing objects, the ferocious screaming.

“It's for your own good.” Auguste was breathing hard. “You have no sense of men's true intentions. That little situation with Édouard could only have ended one way.” He latched his fists behind his back, his eyes roaming the room, the walls of paintings and shelves of books. Why couldn't Aimée see that it was no life for a woman to be shut up with her painting and nothing else? It was one thing for male artists—they were like a pack of animals, alternately ridiculing and protecting each other through the chaos and madness. Women artists lacked the camaraderie of men. They were alone in it. And, clearly, this was no life for a woman.

He gave a quick nod. “You will marry,” he said, calmer now. “It may not be an ideal gentleman, but I will make sure he will have the means to care for you.”

Her papa's presumptions infuriated Aimée. It was as if she should have no say in her life. “I will not marry,” she said steadily.

He reeled toward her. “You will do as I say! Do you hear me?” He raised his fist as if to strike her, but Aimée didn't move or cower. In a mad rush he snatched a penknife that lay on the table, and with one swift motion he leaped to the canvas propped on the easel and slashed the knife through it.

“There,” he said, immediately feeling ridiculous, petulant. This, more than anything else, seemed to get a rise out of Aimée. The expression on her face made him think she would have preferred he hit her.

A burning sensation ran from the center of Aimée's body to the top of her head as she stared at the jagged gash torn through her meticulously painted pile of books. When she looked away, the low-burning fire, the bookshelves, the tables and chairs appeared with a distinct outline, everything sharp and clear as if she'd sketched her life in around her.

She looked back at her papa. He was breathing heavily. His face was bright red, and his hair stood on end, but he no longer looked angry. There was a stillness between them, a sense of defeat on both sides. Aimée stared back at the slashed canvas and thought about how life was like a painting. There were certain rules to follow, but mostly a lot of choices to make, where to draw a line, where to add a bit of shadow, or a bit of light. And whether you followed the rules or not, whether it was beautiful or hideous, at some point you had to step back and accept what you'd created.

Auguste dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the table. “You will marry,” he said, his voice stripped of bravado. “You have no choice.”

Turning, he strode from the room.

*   *   *

Madame
Savaray witnessed the entire thing from the hallway. She'd been in the parlor reading the last chapter of Balzac's
Le Père Goriot,
when the front door slammed. Putting her book down, she'd risen from her chair—a simple movement of the legs that was getting more and more difficult—and stepped into the hallway just in time to catch Auguste dragging Aimée up the stairs.

She didn't trust her son any more than she trusted Colette these days, and she did not feel the least bit guilty spying outside the studio door, especially not after witnessing his outrageous behavior. Destroying a perfectly good piece of artwork in a moment of passion was a dramatic gesture she would have expected from Colette, but not from her son, and she had a mind to tell him so.

She waited at the top of the stairs, wondering, as she watched Auguste slam the door, if all the worst characteristics of Colette had rubbed off on him.

“It's childish to slam doors,” she said, moving in front of him. “Not to mention it alerts the servants and sets them gossiping. And I'd say they don't need any more of that right now.”

“What do you want?” Auguste was in no mood for a scolding from his maman.

“That was atrocious.” She gave a quick nod at the studio door.

“Why are you skulking around anyway?” He went to step around her, but his maman stepped with him.

“I would not make accusations where they are not warranted. I do not skulk. And I may be the only woman left in this house willing to speak with you. I believe it is in your best interest to listen.”

Auguste crossed his arms and slumped forward. His body ached in more places than he cared to admit, and the solid, reasonable way his maman was looking at him made him want to bury his face in his hands. “What is it then?” he asked.

Madame Savaray could see her son's exhaustion and pain, and a well of sadness pooled down where she'd once carried him, now a grown man with graying hair. “You had better think this through.” Her voice was firm, but with a wisp of softness. “We're all suffering over the loss of Jacques. But I am well aware that there was nothing else you could have done. The boy was not your son. No one would have expected you to pretend otherwise.”

Auguste pulled his arms apart and held a hand to his forehead. He did not want to be reminded of Jacques. He wanted to go to his room.

“Now this business with Aimée, on that I cannot agree with you. Her painting is an asset to all of us.” Madame Savaray rested a hand on her son's arm. “My dear boy, marrying her off will solve nothing. She does not have the spirit to withstand a loveless marriage. It will destroy her.”

Auguste drew his hand over his eyes and down his face, pulling at his rough, unshaven chin. “She was posing nude for Édouard. What exactly do you suggest I do about that?”

One of the kitchen maids had told Auguste. A rosy thing who said she didn't mean to be disrespectful, but he ought to know her sister had gone to sit for Édouard and she had seen Aimée posing,
in the flesh
. Her sister—this maid reassured Auguste—would
not
be taking her clothes off, so he needn't worry about any indecency there.

For some reason, Madame Savaray was not surprised. It was unacceptable, yes, but a misstep easily put behind them. Certainly not worth all the fuss Auguste was making.

“I daresay, it's not Édouard's fault,” Auguste continued. “It's all a woman's meant for in that business. I don't know why I ever thought otherwise.”

Madame Savaray shook her head. “There are perfectly respectable women artists.”

“Well, Aimée is not one of them.” He put a hand on his maman's shoulder and gently moved her aside. “My mind is made up,” he said, and he trudged heavily down the stairs.

*   *   *

When
Madame Savaray went into the studio, Aimée was kneeling on the floor, her dress pooled out as if the fabric had melted around her. She looked childlike, sitting like that, Madame Savaray thought, sighing deeply as she arranged herself in a chair. The tragedy of everything seemed impossible to get past and made her feel weaker than usual.

“Your papa won't do it,” she said, “keep you from painting; he can't.”

Aimée twirled a paintbrush between her thumb and finger. “Of course he can,” she said. “And he will.” When her papa ruined her painting she realized it was not an empty threat like the ones he often screamed at her maman. Something in his voice was different. This one he'd keep. “He wants me as bored and idle as Maman. I imagine he thinks I'll be begging him to marry me off then.”

Madame Savaray did not like Aimée's tone. The very least her
petite-fille
could do was show a little humility. “Marriage isn't the worst idea,” she said. “Getting out of this house might be your only chance at a normal life. A decent husband, even if you don't love him, can work out. I didn't love your
grand-père,
and he certainly never loved me. Not in the way one would expect from a husband, but we respected each other.”

Between her fingers, the bristles of Aimée's brush felt as soft and damp as the nose of a kitten. “I can't marry,” she said, her voice thin. “I'm pregnant.”

Madame Savaray clasped her hands and her pulse quickened as if her heart understood it had come upon a crisis before her mind could catch up. She felt the emotional vigilance she'd kept up through the loss of Jacques give way to crippling sorrow. Looking at Aimée's delicate, curved back and her long, white neck, the disgrace Madame Savaray should have felt for her
petite-fille
turned to hopeless disappointment. There was no use standing up for the girl now. If there had been a chance of turning Auguste around, it was gone. This was a transgression he would never forgive.

“Get off your knees,” she said, quiet but firm. “You will sit up properly and tell me exactly how this happened.”

Aimée released her fingers, and the brush rolled and dropped to the carpet. She stood up, light-headed and very thirsty. She walked feebly to the table along the far wall and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. The water slipped cold and clean down her throat, and the chill of it spread through her chest. She imagined it spreading all the way to her womb and chilling this thing inside her that had so suddenly shifted her strength to impotence—a strength she was beginning to wonder if she'd ever had in the first place. She walked to the divan, feeling as if she'd left a piece of herself trailing behind, like a loose thread. Maybe, if she kept walking, she would unravel into nothing.

Aimée—her voice neutral and flat—told her
grand-mère
how she found Henri, how they painted Leonie together. It seemed a long time ago now. She told her what happened the day she went to his apartment unexpectedly. Madame Savaray listened with tightly clasped hands, her knuckles white, her lips a straight, disapproving line.

It was not until Aimée got to the part about Édouard that Madame Savaray stood up. She did not sit back down. She had been certain the child was Henri's. Madame Savaray gripped the back of the chair and looked at the hollows under Aimée's eyes, like darkened half moons. The girl deserved a harangue of reproof, but all Madame Savaray could muster was, “A married man, of all things!”

A knot tightened along Aimée's shoulder blades. She hadn't felt guilty about that. Not one bit.

Madame Savaray released her grip on the chair, shifting her eyes over the paintings on the wall: a wide, gray river, a hunched old man, a stone building, blue skies, clouds, water. It made no difference now which paintings were entered into the Salon de Paris, or whether Aimée got a new commission, or if there was any interest from dealers. None of it made any difference.

It unnerved Aimée, watching her
grand-mère
gumming her lips and twisting her hands with a look of full-blown panic. She had always imagined her
grand-mère
as having an endless reserve of calm endurance.

Aimée went to her and took her hand. It was soft and rippled with veins. “Sit down,” she said, smoothing her fingers over the frail bones.

“No, no. I need to move. I feel very unsettled.” Madame Savaray pulled out of Aimée's grasp and walked the length of the room.

Until now, Aimée had blamed Henri for throwing her into Édouard's arms, Édouard for abandoning her, and now her papa for ruining her life. But watching her solid, honorable
grand-mère,
Aimée realized this was her own doing. She hadn't turned out like her
grand-mère;
she was more like Colette, a sinful, self-indulgent woman.

Pausing at the far wall, Madame Savaray stared ahead for a minute.
This will end badly,
she thought.
There's no way around it
. Gathering herself, she turned, sharply, standing as she used to when dealing with her husband on matters of great importance. “How long have you been in this condition?”

Aimée tugged on her shoulder, digging her fingers into the taut, wiry muscles. “A couple of months.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have a little time yet.”

“Time for what?”

“To figure out exactly what we are to do.”

“I don't see that there is anything we can do.”

“One can always do something. The thing we will not do is
tell
anyone.”

“You won't tell Papa or Maman then?”

“Of course not.” Madame Savaray gave a sharp gesture with her arms as if pushing away the air in front of her. “We will go down to dinner,” she said, as if hitting on a solution. “It's imperative we maintain some semblance of order. We will sit and eat as if nothing were out of the ordinary.”