I ducked to avoid a bottle and made my way through the scrum towards him. The street girls were laughing and catcalling in a corner. The
patron
was shouting and wringing his hands, the fight spilling out onto the street now, tables crashing. There was not a man in there who wasn’t throwing punches – indeed, they had all embraced the prospect of pitched battle with such relish that I wondered if it was a fight at all.
‘Édouard!’
And then I spied Monsieur Arnault in the corner by the piano. ‘Oh, Monsieur Arnault!’ I yelled, as I fought my way over to him, holding up my skirts as I trod over the bodies and the upturned chairs. He was sliding along a banquette, evidently hoping to make his way to the door. ‘Two charcoal sketches! The women in the park? You remember?’ He glanced at me and I mouthed the words: ‘You owe Édouard for two charcoal sketches.’ I crouched, one hand raised to protect my head and used the other to pull the IOUs from my pocket, flicking through them and ducking to avoid a shoe. ‘Five francs for the two, it says here. Yes?’
Behind us, someone screamed as a tankard hit a window, smashing it.
Monsieur Arnault’s eyes were wide with fear. He peered swiftly behind me, then scrabbled in his pocket for his wallet. He peeled off the notes with such haste that I discovered later he had given me two francs too many. ‘Take it!’ he hissed, then bolted for the door, his hat pressed to his head.
And there we had it. Eleven – no, twelve francs. Enough to keep us going.
‘Édouard,’ I called again, scanning the room. I could just make him out in the corner, where a man with a ginger moustache, like a fox’s brush, was swinging vainly at him, as Édouard held him by the shoulders. I put my hand on his arm. My husband looked at me blankly, as if he had forgotten I was there. ‘I have the money. We should go.’
He didn’t seem to hear me.
‘Really,’ I said. ‘We should go now.’ He dropped the man, who slid down the wall and felt in his mouth with a finger, muttering something about a chipped tooth. I had hold of Édouard’s sleeve now, pulling him towards the doors, my ears ringing with the din, fighting my way through the men who had come in from outside. I cannot believe they had any idea what the fight was about.
‘Sophie!’ Édouard pulled me backwards sharply as a chair swung in a great arc before my face, close enough for me to feel the disturbance it created in the air. I cursed with fright, and blushed that my husband had heard me.
And then we were outside in the evening air, onlookers gazing in at the windows, through cupped hands, the distant sound of shouting and breaking glass in our ears. I stopped by the empty tables and brushed my skirts down, dislodging splinters of glass. Beside us a bloodied man sat on a chair, holding his ear with one hand, and smoking contemplatively with the other.
‘Shall we go and eat, then?’ I said, smoothing my coat and glancing up at the sky. ‘I think it may rain again.’
My husband pulled at his collar, then ran his hands through his hair, letting out a short breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’m ready for some food now.’
‘I must apologise for cursing. It was not very ladylike.’
He patted my hand. ‘I did not hear a thing.’
I reached up to pull a wooden splinter from the shoulder of his coat, and flicked it away. I kissed him. And arm in arm we walked briskly towards the Panthéon, the sound of the gendarmes’ clanging bell echoing over the Paris rooftops.
I had moved to Paris two years previously, and had lived in lodgings behind the rue Beaumarchais, as did all shop girls who worked at La Femme Marché. The day I had left to be married, all the girls lined up on my corridor and cheered and banged saucepans with wooden spoons.
We were married in St Peronne, and in the absence of my father I was given away by Jean-Michel, my sister’s husband. Édouard was charming and generous, and behaved like the perfect groom for the three days’ celebrations, but I knew how relieved he was to escape the provincial confines of northern France and make his way swiftly back to Paris.
I cannot tell you how happy I was. I had never expected to love, let alone marry. And I would never have admitted as much in public but I loved him with such a passion that I would have stayed with Édouard Lefèvre even if he had not wanted to marry me. In fact, he had so little time for convention that I had assumed it would be the last thing he wanted.
But it was he who had suggested marriage.
We had been together a little under three months when Hans Lippmann visited his studio one afternoon (I was washing our clothes, as Édouard had forgotten to put by any money to pay his laundress). Monsieur Lippmann was something of a dandy and I had been a little embarrassed that he saw me in my house garments. He walked around the studio, admiring Édouard’s latest works, then paused in front the painting he had done of me on the evening of Bastille Day, when he and I had first revealed our feelings for each other. I remained in the bathroom, scrubbing away at Édouard’s collars, trying not to be embarrassed that I knew Lippmann was looking at a picture of me in my underclothes. Their voices dropped for a few minutes and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Eventually curiosity overcame me. I dried my hands and walked out into the studio to find them gazing at a series of sketches Édouard had done of me sitting by the large window. Monsieur Lippmann turned and, after the briefest of greetings, asked if I would I model for him too. Fully dressed, of course. There was something fascinating about the angles of my face, something about my pale skin, he said. Didn’t Édouard agree? Why he must do – he had seen it himself. He laughed.
Édouard didn’t.
I was about to say yes (I liked Lippmann: he was one of the few artists who treated me as an equal), but I saw Édouard’s smile tighten.
‘No. I’m afraid Mademoiselle Bessette is far too busy.’
There was a brief, awkward silence. Lippmann gave us an amused glance.
‘Why, Édouard, we have shared models before. I merely thought that –’
‘No.’
Lippmann looked at his feet. ‘If you say so, Édouard. A pleasure to meet you again, Mademoiselle.’ He tipped his hat to me and left. Édouard did not wish him goodbye.
‘You funny thing,’ I said to him later. He was in the tub, and I was kneeling on a cushion behind him, washing his hair. He had been quiet all afternoon. ‘You know I have eyes only for you. I would have worn a nun’s habit for Monsieur Lippmann if it meant keeping you happy.’ I poured a jug of water slowly over the back of his head, watching the suds slide away. ‘Besides, he’s married. Contentedly so.
And
he’s a gentleman.’
Édouard was still silent. Then he turned his whole body abruptly, so that a slew of water went over the side of the tub. ‘I need to know you are mine,’ he said, and his face was so anxious, so miserable, that it took me a moment to speak.
‘I am yours, you fool.’ I took his face between my hands and kissed him. His skin was wet. ‘I have been yours since the first time you came to La Femme Marché and bought fifteen ridiculous scarves in your determination to see me.’ I kissed him again. ‘I was yours from the moment you told Mistinguett I had the best ankles in Paris, after she tried to humiliate me because I wore clogs.’ I kissed him again. He closed his eyes. ‘I was yours from the moment you drew me and I realized nobody else would ever look at me like you do. As if you saw only the best of me. As if I was someone more magnificent than I knew.’
I took a towel and tenderly rubbed the moisture from his nose and eyes. ‘So, you see? There is nothing to fear. I am yours, Édouard, utterly and completely. I cannot believe you would doubt it.’
He looked at me, and his big brown eyes were steady and oddly determined. ‘Marry me,’ he said.
‘But you always said –’
‘Tomorrow. Next week. As soon as we can.’
‘But you –’
‘Marry me, Sophie.’
So I married him. I never could deny Édouard anything.
The morning after the fight at Bar Tripoli, I slept late. We had become giddy with our riches, eaten and drunk too much, and stayed awake until the small hours, lost in each other’s bodies, or in fits of giggles as we remembered Dinan’s outraged expression. I raised my head blearily from the pillow, and pushed my hair from my face. The small change that had been on the table was missing: Édouard must have gone for bread. I became dimly aware of the sound of his voice in the street below, and let my memories of the previous evening flow and recede in a happy blur. Then, when he did not sound as if he were coming upstairs, I pulled a robe around me and went to the window.
He had two baguettes tucked under his arm and was talking to a striking blonde woman in a fitted dark green coat-dress with a broad-brimmed fur hat. As I looked down, her gaze slid up to me. Édouard, following it, turned and lifted a hand in greeting.
‘Come downstairs,
cherie
. I want you to meet someone.’
I did not want to meet anyone. I wanted him to come upstairs and for me to wrap my legs around him and smother him in kisses as we ate. But I sighed, pulled the robe around me, and walked downstairs to the front door.
‘Sophie, this is Mimi Einsbacher. An old friend of mine. She has bought several paintings, and posed for some of my life drawings too.’
Another? I thought absently.
‘Congratulations on your marriage. Édouard gave me … no clue.’
There was something about the way the woman looked at me when she said this, her flicker of a glance towards Édouard, that made me uneasy.
‘
Enchantée, Mademoiselle
,’ I said, and held out my hand. She took it as if she were handling a dead fish.
We stood there, studying our feet. Two road sweepers were working on opposite sides of the street, whistling in tandem. The drains were overflowing again, and the smell, teamed with the amount of wine we had consumed the previous evening, made me feel suddenly queasy.
‘You will excuse me,’ I said, backing into the doorway. ‘I am hardly dressed for company. Édouard, I will light the fire and put the coffee on.’
‘Coffee!’ he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. ‘So very good to see you, Mimi. I will come – sorry,
we
will come and see your new apartment soon. It sounds marvellous.’
He was whistling as he came up the stairs.
While Édouard shed his outer clothes, I poured him a cup of coffee and climbed back into bed. He put a plate between us, broke me off a piece of bread and handed it to me.
‘Did you lie with her?’ I didn’t look at him as I spoke.
‘Who?’
‘Mimi Einsbacher.’
I have no idea why I asked him this; I had never done such a thing before.
He gave a slight shake of his head, as if it were of no consequence. ‘I may have done.’ When I said nothing he opened an eye and looked at me gravely. ‘Sophie, you know I was not a priest before I met you.’
‘I do.’
‘I am just a man. And I was alone for a long time before we met.’
‘I know this too. I would not wish you to be any different from the way you are.’ I turned and kissed his shoulder lightly.
He reached out and pulled me to him, letting out another great sigh of contentment. His breath was warm on my eyelids. He slid his fingers into my hair and tilted my head back so that I was looking at him. ‘My darling wife. You need only remember this: I never knew happiness until I knew you.’
What should I care for Mimi and her ilk? I thought, as I dropped my bread and slid my leg across him, breathing in his scent, taking possession of him yet again. They were no threat to me.
I almost convinced myself.
Mimi Einsbacher just happened to be passing as we came out of the studio the following Wednesday (I was rushing to
la poste
to send a letter to my sister); it made sense for Édouard to have breakfast with her. What was the point in him eating alone? And then again, two days later. It was a cold November day, and Édouard was placing my good felt hat on my head as I pulled open the huge oak door that led onto rue Soufflot. I was laughing and batting away his hands. ‘You have it back to front! Édouard! Stop! I will look like a madwoman!’ His great hand rested on my shoulder where it met my neck. I loved the weight of it.
‘Why, good morning!’ Mimi was dressed in a mint green cape and fur stole. Her waist was pulled in so tightly that I suspected her lips were blue under the red stain. ‘What a happy surprise!’
‘Madame Einsbacher. How fortunate we are to see again you so soon.’ My hat felt suddenly skewed and ridiculous on my head.
‘Mimi! How delightful.’ Édouard released my shoulder, bent his head and kissed her gloved hand. I protested inwardly at the sight, and then chided myself: Don’t be childish. Édouard chose you, after all.
‘And where are you off to this brisk morning? Back to the post office?’ She held her bag neatly in front of her. It was crocodile skin.
‘I have an appointment in Montmartre with my dealer. My wife is off to buy us some food.’ I turned the hat around on my head, wishing suddenly I had worn my black one. ‘Well, I might,’ I said. ‘If you behave yourself.’
‘See what I endure?’ Édouard leant forwards to kiss my cheek.
‘Goodness. She’s very hard on you, I am sure.’ Mimi’s smile was unreadable.
Édouard wrapped his muffler around his neck, surveying the two of us for a moment. ‘You know, you two should get to know each other. It would be good for Sophie to have a friend here.’
‘I am not without friends, Édouard,’ I protested.
‘But all your shop friends are busy during the day. And they live over in the ninth. Mimi is someone you could meet for coffee when I’m busy. I hate to think of you alone.’
‘Really.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’m quite content in my own company.’
‘Oh, Édouard is quite right. You don’t want to be a drain on him, after all. And you are hardly familiar with his circle. Why don’t I accompany you? As a favour to Édouard. I’d be delighted.’
Édouard beamed. ‘Marvellous!’ he said. ‘My two favourite ladies, taking a jaunt. I’ll wish you both good day then. Sophie,
chèrie
, I’ll be home for dinner.’
He turned and walked off in the direction of rue St Jacques.