After Innocence (29 page)

Male voices sounded, approaching. Sofie glanced up the street and saw three young men strolling towards them, immersed in a heated conversation. She sighed, facing the four-story building again. She could not stand on the street forever, and if worst came to worst, Paul would ask her to return at another time.

Then one of the men said, “But,
mon ami,
his palette is too light, and his talent is strictly for shading—he has no conception of form! Unlike you,
mon ami.”

Sofie whirled, her heart pounding; the young men were discussing art!

“He understands form very well,
cher Georges,”
retorted the darkest man in the group, a man very close to Sofie in age. “Amigo mío, it is you who fails to truly understand form!”

Sofie wished that she knew who they spoke about—and how she wished to participate in their conversation. Suddenly her gaze collided with the first speaker, Georges, who stopped abruptly in his tracks. “Ah,
petite amie,
are you lost? Can I be of service?”

His grin was both bold and charming, his eyes blue, and with his dark hair, Sofie froze, reminded painfully of Edward. Before she could reply, Mrs. Crandal wedged herself between Sofie and the young men. “Miss O’Neil does not need your services, young man!”

The three young men looked at one another and broke into grins.
“Pardonnez-moi,”
Georges bowed, winking at Sofie.

But he was not Edward, and Sofie felt a wave of sadness engulfing her. He was a Parisian, and he and his friends were somehow connected to the art world, a world Sofie was here to become a part of. How she wanted to talk to them. She had dreamed of this for years. “I—I am looking for Monsieur Verault,” she managed, her heart beating rapidly as she stepped past a furious Mrs. Crandal.

Georges’s eyes widened. “Old man Verault?
Vraiment?”

Sofie nodded, aware now that all three men stared at her with new interest.

“Come,
petite,
you are not French and you stand amidst your bags.
Vous êtes américaine?”

Sofie nodded. “In New York Paul Verault was my instructor.”

“Ahh—la belle américaine est une artiste?”

“Bien sûr
,” she whispered, while Mrs. Crandal gripped her elbow as if to jerk her away.

Georges grinned at her widely, then cupped his hands and startled Sofie by shouting loudly up at the building. “Monsieur Verault, Monsieur Verault, come out, monsieur—you have a charming guest!”

Sofie blanched, then met Georges’s twinkling gaze and dimpled grin and had to smile. And suddenly she heard Paul exclaim from above, “Sofie?!”

Sofie looked up to see Paul staring down at her, incredulous, from an open window on the second floor. “Sofie!”

Sofie gripped her hands, worried now, as he disappeared from sight. “Oh, dear,” she said to herself.

“Oh,
ma pauvre,
he does not know you are coming?” Georges grinned, unrepentant. “Forgive me,
ma petite,
my heart will be broken if I have gained your eternal disfavor,” he cried, a hand splayed wide on his chest.

Sofie had to smile again. He was somewhat raggedly dressed, his tweed overcoat very worn, his knees patched, and he was certainly a tease, but his charm was irresistible—in a way, he still reminded her of Edward. As soon as she realized that, she froze, her smile gone, briefly stricken with anguish.

Would it always be that way? A brief reminder and she would be undone?

“Sofie,” Paul cried from behind her.

Sofie whirled, saw his eager face, and flew into his amis.
“Bonjour,
Paul,” she cried. And although she had never called him anything but Monsieur Verault before, suddenly it was appropriate.

He embraced her briefly, then kissed her on both cheeks. “Ahh, I knew you would come!” he cried. “Welcome to Paris!”

Upstairs, Paul had a two-room flat. Sofie quickly learned that he lived alone—that his wife had died several months ago. “I am sorry,” she whispered, stricken.

They were seated at his small dining table, which was in the kitchen, the kitchen actually being a corner of the flat’s largest room, which served as both a parlor and art studio. A single worn couch and low table were for guests, while a large easel dominated the room, a drawing table behind it. A small bedroom opened up on the room on the other side of it. The bedroom door was open, and Sofie saw that the chamber contained a small bed and a single bureau. However, above the bed was a large window, and the view of the tree-lined square below, filled with vendors, cafés and pedestrians, was charming.

Paul had served them steaming café au lait and a fresh pastry he had bought just that morning. “My dear Sofie, if you must know, I had not seen Michelle in nearly ten years, had not lived with her as a husband in twice as long as that. I am very sorry that she is gone, do not mistake me, but in truth, we were strangers, united only by the fact that we have one son, who is happily married with two children in Beauborg.”

Sofie said nothing; what could she say? She was aware of Mrs. Crandal’s stony silence. Her glance took in Paul’s flat again. Although it was drably furnished, she understood why he had chosen this apartment, for the parlor windows had an incredible view of the windmills on the hill above, and the sunlight streaming into the apartment made it bright and airy. She wondered what he worked on at the easel. “I did not know you worked, Paul.”

His smile was twisted. “The reason I left Paris in the first
place,
ma petite,
was that I wished to teach students like yourself, but here the Academy controls art, or very nearly so, and they find my methods unacceptable. As I cannot teach officially, only privately when I am so fortunate, I find myself working again.”

Sofie knew that art was strictly controlled in France. “But the independents have done well recently, have they not?”

“Atlh, yes, thanks to great dealers like Paul Durand-Ruel and my friend André Vollard, who dared to defy the Salon, to buy rejected artists like Degas and Cézanne before they became admired and known, giving them a livelihood and the means to continue their work.”

Sofie leaned forward. “Paul, Durand-Ruel’s son bought three of my canvases in New York just before I left.” But the memory was tainted, for Edward Delanza was attached to it—and always would be.

Paul did not see her sudden spasm of grief; he was thrilled. “Oh,
ma petite,
how happy I am for you! Describe the works.”

Sofie described the paintings and told him that
A Gentleman at Newport Beach
had already sold. “Monsieur Jacques is most interested in continuing to see all that I do,” she told him. “He is very eager to acquire more figural studies in the same vein as
A Gentleman.”

“I am overjoyed,” Paul said, refilling her coffee cup, “but keep in mind that many great artists struggled for many years before becoming successful, and then they were in their middle age.”

“I am very aware of that.”

“And who is this Edward you have referred to—the one who brought Jacques Durand-Ruel to see your work?” Paul asked.

Sofie could not quite decide what to say, and a tense silence followed Paul’s question. Both Mrs. Crandal and Paul were staring at her—she had to say something. Her mouth formed a smile. She hoped she would not cry. “Edward is—was—a friend.”

“I see,” Paul said, regarding her far too closely.

it was the pregnancy. Suzanne had told her that when she herself had carried Sofie, she had been an emotional wreck.
Sofie wondered if she might discreetly dab at the corners of her eyes. Then Paul handed her a linen handkerchief, and it was no longer necessary to be discreet.

Sofie wiped her eyes and heard herself add, “He modeled for
A Gentleman.
”

Paul turned to Mrs. Crandal. “More coffee?”

The woman stood. “Sofie is overtired, as you can see. I am exhausted myself. It is time for us to leave. You may continue your visit another day.”

Sofie found herself standing as well. “Mrs. Crandal is right. I have been selfish, dragging her all over Paris so we might see one another again.” She smiled at Paul. “Besides, we have imposed long enough.”

Paul took her arm and walked her to the door. “You are not an imposition and you never will be. You will come tomorrow,” he said firmly. “I know everyone who is involved in art in any way here in Paris. You must begin to meet the artists, the students, the teachers, and the dealers. And of course, we must find you an atelier and a master.”

Sofie felt a rush of warmth for this man who had been her teacher for three years and who was now her friend. “Perhaps you can help me in another way, as well. Mrs. Crandal must return to America, and I need a companion.”

Paul nodded. “There are many young women who would be delighted to earn money in your employ, Sofie. I will think on it.”

“She must be of high moral character,” Mrs. Crandal interjected sharply. “No bohemian, sir. She must be a companion, a chaperon, and a lady’s maid.”

Paul nodded again, gravely.

Sofie stood on tiptoe and kissed his bearded cheek. Their gazes met in silent understanding. “Until tomorrow, Paul.
A demain.
”

The next few weeks flew by. Sofie took in the sights of Paris as any tourist would do while settling comfortably into her pension. Paul found Sofie an atelier. It was a large single room, airy and filled with light, perfect for an artist to work in, and of course, it was on the Butte.
Mrs. Crandal disapproved. But then, she disapproved of everything, it seemed.

Women were not allowed to attend L’Ecole des Beaux-Arts, but many of the instructors there gave private lessons to females in their own ateliers. Paul recommended her to several masters. Sofie delayed making an appointment for an interview. She still had no desire to work. Every day she went to her studio, but could do no more than stare at her canvas.

Sofie woke up one morning, both surprised and relieved because she had no morning sickness for the first time in months. Thankfully it had never been severe, anyway, and during the transatlantic crossing, Mrs. Crandal had thought her illness to be seasickness. Sofie slipped from the quilts piled up on the bed—the old Parisian buildings had poor heating and were freezing cold at night. She started when she realized that the first snow of the year had fallen and that the narrow cobbled street outside her bedroom window was blanketed in white. So were the gabled rooftops across the street, and the awnings over the shops below. It was a beautiful, fairy-tale morning. The lie-Saint-Louis had never been more picturesque.

But Sofie was not smiling as she got up and washed her face and hands, using a small porcelain bowl and a pitcher of frigid water left on her night stand for just that purpose. Christmas was around the corner. The idea made her sad. And somehow it was even frightening. She had never spent Christmas alone before.

She wondered where Edward would be for the holiday, and whom he would share it with. She grew sadder. The raw stabbing of grief was sudden and intense.

Shaking off the despondency that was trying to settle like a heavy shroud upon her, Sofie braided her hair and dressed in her no-nonsense uniform of a white shirtwaist and a navy blue skirt. Both items of clothing were becoming tight. Sofie wrapped a large paisley shawl about herself, as much to hide the slight bulge of her tummy as to ward off the cold. As always, she joined Mrs. Crandal and several other pensioners downstairs for a light breakfast consisting of coffee and croissants. Then she told Mrs. Crandal that
she was off to work. It was a fabrication, unless something had changed between last night and that morning.

As Sofie left the pension, Mrs. Crandal sharply reminded her that she must hire a companion soon. Mrs. Crandal was scheduled to leave for New York in another week. She wanted to be home for Christmas, and Sofie did not blame her. As important, Sofie’s condition would soon become obvious to the other woman. She was three months pregnant. Suzanne had stressed many times that Mrs. Crandal had to leave before she guessed the truth.

Sofie walked two blocks to the Rue des Ponts, where she flagged down a hansom. Suzanne’s desire to cloak her pregnancy in secrecy was understandable, but nonsensical. Eventually the world was going to find out. Before Sofie had left home, Suzanne had reiterated that she must give her baby up for adoption, and Sofie had again flatly refused. Suzanne had been adamant. Sofie could not return to New York with a child. Sofie had yet to think it out carefully, but she did intend to return to the city as an unwed mother, for she was not giving her child away, not ever. Suzanne might be afraid of scandal, but Sofie was not.

The hansom crossed the Seine. Sofie was now familiar with the pretty sight of the heart of Paris as she awoke in the mornings. Unlike New York, the pace was slower and more leisurely here. And now that she was there, the idea had been born that she did not have to return to New York at all. She could remain in Paris as so many American artists did. After all, there was nothing for her in New York except for her family, and surely they would come to visit her when the baby was due, perhaps even every year.

Sofie squeezed her eyes shut. She must not think about the father of her child, who was in New York—and who had no idea that he would soon become a father. She must not consider the question that kept trying to haunt her at steady intervals. She must not feel guilty for the fact that she was carrying his child without his knowledge.

Sofie was relieved when the hansom halted in front of Paul’s apartment building. She had decided to skip going to her own atelier completely. She paid the driver and was
surprised when Paul stepped out of the building and met her on the street. He was clad in a warm woolen coat and sturdy black boots.
“Bonjour. petite.”
He beamed, kissing her cheek. “Where are your gloves?” he scolded, pulling off his own woolen mittens. “Put these on before your lingers turn blue.”

Sofie accepted, secretly pleased to be fussed over. “Paul, you are going out?”

“Only with you. I have had an idea, and there is someone I want you to meet.”