Luncheon of the Boating Party (6 page)

“Ask me for a job as professor of Chinese or inspector of cemeteries—

something at least that has nothing to do with your profession—then I can help you. But if I suggested a painter as a curator of a museum, I’d be laughed out of offi ce.”

He broke into a chuckle for politeness’ sake.
Zut!
Such a fool he was.

Madame Charpentier strode toward him, her derrière wagging be-

hind her, with the newly arrived couple in tow.

“Auguste, I present Monsieur and Madame Beloir.”

Late middle age, genuine smiles, impeccably dressed, the wife

overjeweled, the husband’s eyes asymmetric, interesting. Typical pleasantries—have wanted to meet you, followed your work in the Salon, liked what we’ve seen, believe in you—compliments
de rigueur
before warming up to the question.

“We were quite taken with the portrait of Marguerite and her children showing the room, and we’d like to have you paint ours, showing our salon similarly, one of the two of us, and another of our daughter and her fi ancé.”

“As a wedding gift to them,” the wife said.

“Very nice.” Auguste sensed a plum.

“The wedding party will be at our estate, so we would like four murals as well,” Monsieur said.

“Depicting four views of our villa.” The wife’s face was full of dewy-eyed hope.

“That’s quite a request. When is the wedding?”

“October first,” Monsieur said. “We realize there isn’t much time.

You’ll be our guest as soon as you are free to come. That is, as soon as your arm is healed. This is not the place to discuss a fee, but be assured you will be paid handsomely.”

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Tempting. A solution to his money problems for the moment. But

the painting he’d just persuaded himself to undertake hung in the balance. His conviction that now was the time wavered. Only seven or eight Sundays of good northern light. His obligation to support the group. The critics waiting like open-jawed lions for him to fall back to safe commissions. Pouncing on him for small ambitions. Betraying his talent. Stalling his growth with well-hammered shackles. But Madame Charpentier’s solicitude for him endangered if he declined. Her continuing sponsorship threatened. All that against the pressure to make this the masterpiece that would declare to the world that he didn’t need to do commissioned portraits, didn’t need Madame Charpentier’s good will. Was he ready for that?

“Where is the villa?” he asked.

“On a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. Near Cézanne in Aix.”

His hope crushed. Impossible to do both. He saw the painting of his heart shrivel.

“I’m sure it’s beautiful. It would be a delight to paint in the South of France. I’ll let you know before I leave today.”

Madame Charpentier was at his elbow. “Pardon me for intruding, but I want you to meet Mademoiselle Cécile-Louise Valtesse de la Bigne.”

“Excuse us,” he said to Monsieur and Madame of the South.

Madame Charpentier drew him aside. “I had to interrupt when I

saw you hesitate,” she whispered. “If you decline such a prize, you’ll be labeled as persnickety. Who will make you an offer then?”

That could mean she wouldn’t recommend him to others. Declining was a rebuff to her.

Madame curled her index finger at the young lady in yellow. He

watched her pop up off the sofa, fluff up the frothy cascade of white tulle at her neckline, and sashay toward him. An egg souffl é topped with meringue.

“Cécile, this is Pierre-Auguste Renoir, my court painter,” she

quipped. “Auguste, may I present Cécile-Louise Valtesse de la Bigne?”

“
Enchanté,
mademoiselle. You have quite a formidable name. A bit weighty for such delicate shoulders to bear.”

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The name smacked of invention, or purchase. Or, worse, it could have been pirated from the last son of a noble family who lost more than the name under the swift separation of the guillotine. He imagined her grandfather to be the
cordoneur
who pulled the cord that released the blade, and picked up the name as it fell.

“Most people call me Circe.”

“Ah, the enchantress who turned Ulysses’ men into swine. I shall have to struggle against such vulgar tendencies in this refi ned company.”

“Auguste has the gift of being all things to all people without surrendering his own individuality,” Madame Charpentier said.

“Don’t lionize me, madame, or I might be forced to compete with those stone lions that are ready to devour me every time I come here.”

Cécile-Louise looked at his cap. “It was generous of you to leave off
working
for this occasion.”

He put it behind his back. “Only to see you, a buttercup of beauty.”

“Madame tells me your paintings have been in the Salon. How lovely to be in the Salon. Wasn’t it lovely, Marguerite, when monsieur’s painting of you was hanging in the place of honor? The only way for me to be in the place of honor is if you’d paint me, monsieur. You’re getting to be quite well known.”

She turned from side to side, showing off her figure. “I hope you don’t like profiles.” She lifted her chin and turned her head. “I detest them.

They’re so skimpy. Why have half a face when you can have the whole picture?” She framed her face with her hands. “Don’t you agree?”

Now he knew to trust his first impression. The mouth was the

problem.

“Renoir!” Someone slapped him on the right shoulder. He winced.

“My God, Raoul. I thought you were mayoring Saigon for the Re-

public.”

“I was, winning them over with champagne. I ordered the best. Ship-loads of it. Paid for it myself. The prestige of France hung in the balance.

Voilà! Les enfants de la Patrie sont victorieux,
” he sang under his breath to the tune of “La Marseillaise.” “Nothing more to do, so I came home.”

“Are you free? That is, have you any commitments?”

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“Commitments to pleasure, my good man. My boats, my horse rac-

ing, and, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle”—his eyebrows sprang

up—“my ladies.”

“In that order?”

“On most days, at least for now. The regatta’s coming up.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I’m on a pension for injuries under the Empire.”

Auguste cuffed him on the chest. “Good for you!”

The moment of decision.

What if Monsieur and Madame Beloir turned out to be disagree -

able? He’d kick himself for making the safe decision and wasting the good summer light on the Seine by doing portraits. But if the Chatou painting turned out to be a disaster, his reputation would plummet, his confidence would crumple, and he’d kick himself for declining the offer. Southern light was magical, according to Cézanne. He could paint with him there. He’d never been to the South of France. Painting new motifs might satisfy his restlessness. But the motif of the terrace he was building in his mind would be hugely satisfying.

The man of genius has not yet arisen.
It was more than just proving Zola wrong. It was a matter of self-respect. Of respect for his own development. If he abandoned the Maison Fournaise painting, how would he think of himself?

As a coward!

“I have a little project, Raoul. Excuse us,” he said to Cécile-Louise, who pulled her shoulders back at the affront.

He drew Raoul away, toward Ellen Andrée, and noticed that Raoul’s lurching gait was more pronounced now. “Ellen, a delight to see you.

May I present the Baron Raoul Barbier, cavalry officer, war hero, states-man, bon vivant?”

“We’ve just met.”

“Good. I was quite taken with your pantomime of the ferryman’s

daughter in the Folies-Bergère,” Auguste said.

“It was only a
divertissement.
”

“Ah, but how you played it! Charming. Gambetta should make the

government subsidize the Folies instead of the Comédie-Française.”

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“I disagree. A national theater for the classics is far more deserving than the popularist entertainments at the Folies.”

Her small lips came together primly, definitively, a perfect fi t. He patted her cheek. “I wasn’t serious.”

He beckoned to Jules Laforgue and spoke to the three of them, Jules, Raoul, and Ellen, in a low voice. “I have a project that might happily involve the three of you, if you consent. A painting for which I need about a dozen people to model. At Chatou, the Maison Fournaise. Do you know it?”

He could hardly believe what he was saying. Twenty-four hours ago he would have shouted across the room to Monsieur and Madame Beloir,
Yes, yes! The South of France. I’ll do it. Give me an hour to pack.

“I know La Maison Fournaise,” Cécile-Louise said, gliding up to them.

Sacrebleu!
Ears to match her mouth.

“It’s a pretty setting by the river,” Cécile-Louise said. “I insist on being there too. Marguerite, don’t you agree that I should be?”

Madame Charpentier drew in her double chin. “It would be nice if you consented, Auguste.”

He felt the room spinning. Or was it his brain? “This isn’t a group portrait. It’s a scene, a moment in modern life.”

“All the better. I am, I must say, a modern woman.”

Ellen rolled her eyes. “I’ll be happy to help you,” she said, “just so you don’t paint me as an absinthe-sotted waif like Edgar Degas did.”

“No, Ellen. I’m not a
fl âneur
making harsh observations on society.

It will just be a joyful moment in a beautiful day.”

“My mother saw Degas’ painting and hasn’t trusted me since. I said I was acting. ‘All the worse,’ she said, ‘elevating make-believe depravity to art.’ ”

“This one she will love, I promise you.”

“When would you like us?”

“Sunday, at noon, for luncheon on the terrace. Several Sundays.”

“Oh.” Ellen’s face clouded. “I’ll have to leave by five or six. I have performances on Sunday nights.”

“We’ll have you off in good time. If you’d like to go boating before lunch, I’ll make sure there are rowing yoles saved for you.”

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“I’ll sail there from Argenteuil,” the baron said, “and take you out for a boating party. My new sloop,
Le Capitaine,
flies faster than wind.”

Auguste felt a sinking in his chest at this threat to Gustave at the helm of his
Iris.
“A thoroughbred of the river, I’m sure.”

“Or maybe I’ll use
Nana
and keep you in suspense about
Le
Capitaine.
”

“It will be a privilege to be in on a painting of yours from the start,”

Jules said.

Auguste gave his thanks and Madame Charpentier drew him aside

behind an enormous dahlia plant in a Chinese jardiniere and whispered, “You’ve made your decision, then.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to leave it for me to tell them?”

“No. I’ll tell them.”

“You must ask Jeanne to be in it. Her cachet will smooth the way into the Salon.”

“I already have, though I doubt that she’ll pose. She hated my full-length portrait of her.”

In a flash of memory he saw the shimmering white gown with a

train, the white satin slipper peeking out from her hemline, her white-gloved hands holding a handkerchief, her lips parted sensuously—

every detail an injury to him now.

“How could she hate it? It’s a masterpiece.”

“She said it would do nothing for her reputation.”

“She would have liked it well enough if it had been hung where

Sarah Bernhardt’s was.”

“The truth is, she’s left me for more academic painters. They’ll present her identifiably in her theatrical roles to advance her career, something I wouldn’t do. I’m not an advertiser.”

“Left you? Completely? In all ways?”

“I thought you, all-wise and all-knowing woman of society, would already know.” Auguste brushed his left palm down his pant leg as though smoothing a wrinkle. “When a lady and I go our separate ways, it’s been my custom to paint her one last time, and give it to her as a
souvenir
d’amour.
She condescended to let me, but then she didn’t even want it.”

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Madame’s quiet, sudden intake of breath gave him a fl eeting consolation.

She patted his cast. “Perhaps a word from me might bring her

around—to model for you, I mean. This Sunday, you say?”

Renoir nodded. “I’d be much obliged.”

“That means, of course, that you will take Cécile-Louise too.”

His head snapped up to see her eyes, hard as the diamonds at her throat.

“No.”

“You’re rejecting two of my offerings? Auguste, you’re middle-

aged now.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about a cheese.”

“You’ve been labeled as a philanderer, running with one model after another. If you persist in this profligate life, you’ll be called worse things.

Marriage is the most crucial social institution in France today, to re-people the Republic—”

He guffawed at the leap in her conversation.

“And if you’re seen much longer in your perverse denial of the call of the Republic, no amount of beautiful paintings will touch the walls of the Salon or the drawing rooms in the better quarters. Find someone, Auguste. Fall in love and marry.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to be in love, but marriage is something else completely.”

He saw himself in Madame Charpentier’s eyes, nearing forty and

already brittle in his bones, his forehead as high as the grand boulevards were wide, still trying to charm women a decade or two younger. Pathetic, maybe. But a philanderer? He refused to accept that.

“I’m urging unmarried women to marry also, so they won’t fall to the province of the
demi-monde.
If Jeanne has truly left you, then consider Cécile-Louise. She is full of money, and owns a mansion on Île Saint-Louis.”