Page 13 of The Girl You Left Behind
This time I dared not watch his progress through the store. But from the flush at the back of my neck I knew he had stopped again to look at me. I felt briefly infuriated. In St. Péronne, such behavior would have been unthinkable. In Paris, some days I felt as if I were walking the streets in my undergarments, given how Parisian men felt at liberty to stare.
•••
“You have an admirer,” remarked Paulette (Perfumes), when he arrived again days later
“Monsieur Lefèvre? Be careful,” sniffed Loulou (Bags and Wallets). “Marcel in the post room has seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph.” She turned back to her counter.
“Mademoiselle.”
I flinched, and spun around.
“I’m sorry.” He leaned over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I am far from frightened, monsieur.”
His brown eyes scanned my face with such intensity.
“Would you like to look at some more scarves?”
“Not today. I wanted... to ask you something.”
My hand went to my collar.
“I would like to paint you.”
“What?”
“My name is Édouard Lefèvre. I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you could spare me an hour or two.”
I thought he was teasing me. I glanced where Loulou and Paulette were serving, wondering if they were listening. “Why... why would you want to paintme?”
It was the first time I ever saw him look even mildly disconcerted. “You really want me to answer that?”
I had sounded, I realized, as if I were hoping for compliments.
“Mademoiselle, there is nothing untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a chaperone, if you choose. I merely want... Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind long after I leave La Femme Marché. I wish to commit it to paper.”
I fought the urge to touch my chin.My face? Fascinating?“Will... will your wife be there?”
“I have no wife.” He reached into a pocket and scribbled on a piece of paper. “But I do have a lot of scarves.” He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a felon, before I accepted it.
•••
Ididn’t tell anybody. I wasn’t even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and took it off again. Twice. I spent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons I should not go.
The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As I walked, I debated with myself.
If your supervisors hear that you modeled for an artist, they will doubt your morality. You could lose your job!
He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St. Péronne. The plain foil to Hélène’s beauty.
Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could not refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle....
But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow myself this one experience?
Any day after 2:00P.M.,the note had said. The address was two streets from the Panthéon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway, checked the number, and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow staircase, until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably his. I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the door.
A vast room was flooded with light. One wall was bare brick, another almost entirely of glass, windows running along its length. The first thing that struck me was the astonishing chaos. Canvases lay stacked against each wall; jars of congealing paintbrushes stood on every surface, fighting for space with boxes of charcoal and easels, with hardening blobs of glowing color. There were canvas sheets, pencils, a ladder, plates of half-finished food. And everywhere the pervasive smell of turpentine—mixed with oil paint, echoes of tobacco, and the vinegary whisper of old wine. Dark green bottles stood in every corner, some stuffed with candles, others clearly the detritus of some celebration. A great pile of money lay on a wooden stool, the coins and notes in a chaotic heap. And there, in the center of it all, walking slowly backward and forward with a jar of brushes, lost in thought, was Monsieur Lefèvre, dressed in a smock and peasant trousers, as if he were a hundred miles from the center of Paris.
