Part Nine: Andante
An outside observer the next morning would have had no difficulty deducing who had come off worst the night before. While Jack's cheek still bore the red imprint of Phryne's hand, already giving way to bruising over the cheekbone, Phryne herself was barely able to use her left hand and limping slightly from the stiffness in her left knee. The guard's grip had left its mark on her upper arm, and Jack's had left similar traces on her wrists. She felt Jack's gaze on her as she dressed and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder in a way she knew he liked. As she had known he would, he tightened his arms around her and leaned into her with a sigh, and for a long moment she let him hold her there before she leaned back slightly and met his gaze.
"Now," she said briskly, "that's enough moping. We still have a murder to solve, Inspector."
He smiled down at her with the warmth and affection that last night she'd been so desperately afraid she'd lost. "We do indeed. What's our first stop? Dolly Wilde?"
Phryne gave a throaty chuckle. "Madame Barney holds her weekly salon on a Friday night: I doubt either of them will appreciate visitors before noon today. Why don't we wander down to Montparnasse, and then take the metro out to see Veronique? I can telephone her so she'll know to expect us, and I'd love to show you some of my old haunts. We can meet Dolly for dinner, and with a bit of luck by this evening some of the girls will have answered our telegrams and we'll have some solid leads to follow up on."
...
"If you were demobbed in Paris I'm surprised you never visited Montparnasse," Phryne remarked as they crossed the Seine. A pained expression crossed Jack's face.
"I've always been more inclined to seek consolation in a bottle than a brothel, Miss Fisher," he admitted in a tight voice. "I managed to bestir myself to visit a few of the sights while I was here, but beyond that I barely looked beyond the bottom of my glass."
There was so much suffering in those few words, so much mental anguish, that she hugged his arm as tight as she could and laid her head upon his shoulder as they were walking even though it was uncomfortable and threw her soundly off balance. After a moment she heard him draw a deep breath, apparently suppressing his memories by sheer force of will, and he withdrew his arm from hers in order to wrap it around her shoulders.
"But I'm assuming there's more to Montparnasse than vice, given how much time you spent there," he remarked more briskly.
"There is indeed, Inspector," she replied at once, forcing her own tone to lightness since that appeared to be what he wanted. "Montparnasse is the heart of the artistic community. The rents are low and artists, as you know, are seldom wealthy. There's an art dealer here, Sardou, I want to visit. He has an excellent eye and I've bought from him in the past." She paused and cast him a sideways look, deciding he needed distraction. "It was Sardou who tracked down 'Woman in Peignoir' for me."
Jack didn't respond immediately. That painting, that painting, was seared irrevocably into his memory along with his first memory of the taste of her lips and the dawning realisation that he no longer disliked her, no longer regarded her as a nuisance, or even as an object of desire, but that he was falling for her, falling hard and fast and with little hope of stopping before he fell to his own destruction. Memories of that painting had fuelled many an illicit daydream since, right up until the day Phryne had flung herself down her stairs and into his arms and turned all those dreams into wondrous reality. In an instant the black cloud of memory which had oppressed him to varying degrees almost since the moment they had arrived in Paris lifted, and while he knew it would return he welcomed the respite with all his heart. But he only swallowed hard and asked
"What was it actually like, being an artist's model?"
Phryne had not missed one nuance of his reaction and smiled, pleased with the success of her strategem. "Honestly? Cold, uncomfortable, and incredibly boring." He glanced down at her and raised a sceptical eyebrow, and she laughed. "Sitting or lying in the same position for hours, with no clothes on, in a barely heated room, surrounded by men who are so completely enamoured with their art that they're barely aware that you aren't a vase of flowers or a bowl of fruit. Not nearly as exciting as people make it out to be."
...
While there wasn't a clearly defined line of demarcation to indicate exactly when they entered Montparnasse, Jack nonetheless had little difficulty in realising when they made the transition. It was something in the way the buildings became just a little shabbier, the streets just a little narrower, the people just a little stranger. Phryne steered them towards an art dealership on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, where the dealer's eyes widened with recognition before he, much like Gerard Morin, ran to clasp Phryne's hands and kiss her cheek.
-Miss Fisher, it has been too long!-
-Sardou. It's a pleasure to see you again. It has indeed been a long time. How is business these days?-
-Ah,- Sardou shook his head sadly, -it is not good, Miss, not good at all. The Americans, they are selling up and heading back home. So many works available, and at such reasonable prices, but where is the market that will buy them from me? But I suppose you are selling too?-
-Actually, I'm here to buy.- Phryne suppressed a grin at the expression on the dealer's face. Evidently he had been hoping to purchase paintings from her at far less than their true value, and instead had betrayed himself into having to sell for less than he might otherwise have made. -Others may have their troubles, but I'm fortunate enough to be able to buy now, while the market is favourable. Tell me, what do you have at the moment by de Lempicka and Picasso?-
-Well, we have a few works...- Sardou shook off his disappointment and resumed his customary manner. -And a couple of lovely Renoirs as well. I seem to recall you had a fondness for Renoir?-
Phryne chuckled slightly. -Not me, but my father. But let me see them; perhaps a peace offering would be a wise idea.-
Sardou raised an eyebrow at that, and Phryne remembered herself. -Oh, of course.- "Jack," she switched to English, "do come and meet M. Sardou." And then, when he didn't respond, "what are you looking at over there?"
It was a painting of Phryne, and it had captured his attention the moment he walked through the door. It was not a nude, nor was it particularly modern in style. Instead, it showed Phryne in the full blossom of her youth, her cheeks rosy with health and vitality, her hair, still long, cascading in a glossy mass over one shoulder. She was seated in a garden and it appeared to be spring, presumably the spring of 1919 or 1920. She was not looking at the artist but instead gazing slightly upward and to one side, her eyes sparkling and her lips curved in the mischievous smile he knew so well. If Sarcelle's nude had made him want to ravish her and Toupie's photograph had made him want to hold her close and protect her, this painting made him want to sweep her, laughing, into his arms and dance the night away with her, and kiss her until they were both breathless.
-Ah, yes,- Sardou remarked as they joined him before the painting. -Edouard l'Anglaise. Not exactly avant garde, but he does have a certain nostalgic charm. And he did capture you so perfectly, Miss. You like it then, sir?-
"Uh..." Jack looked uncertainly to Phryne. He had been too distracted to attend to the conversation and hadn't even realised he was being addressed until he heard the final 'Monsieur.'
-This is my fiancé, Jack Robinson. From the look on his face, I would say the painting is very much to his liking. How much is it?-
The dealer hesitated. Miss Fisher had been a very loyal customer, as well as being an artists' model and a member of the English upper class, and he had benefitted from her patronage of his establishment. He had never done her any favours when it came to prices, but neither had he ever cheated her. But now he was torn. He knew when a buyer wanted a work, and he could see that for her fiancé's sake Miss Fisher wanted that painting very much. Under normal circumstances that alone would be enough to see him add twenty percent to his starting price. But he also had a great affection and respect for the fierce, beautiful girl who had blossomed into a woman of refinement and elegance, if no less beauty and ferocity, and that, conversely, made him want to reduce the price for her sake. -Perhaps, Miss, you can select your other paintings, and we can discuss prices at the end?-
-An excellent idea.-
...
"Why did you buy it?" Jack asked, after she had finalised her purchases and given instructions on which works were to be shipped back to Melbourne and which to London.
"What do you mean?" Phryne seemed genuinely puzzled.
"It's hardly your usual style. Even I recognise Impressionism when I see it, and you've always favoured more modern works."
"But you liked it," Phryne countered, then laughed lightly. "Jack, you stood there staring at it practically the entire time we were in the shop. It's not just my tastes that matter any more. You liked it. You liked it more than anything else in Sardou's entire collection; you barely even glanced at the rest of Sardou's collection. And art isn't just about what's fashionable at any given moment, or what's valuable, or what the critics say. It's about your feelings, the way you respond to a piece. And the way you responded to Edouard's painting..." She trailed off, then resumed more softly. "You loved that painting, Jack, so why shouldn't you have it?"
...
When she had returned to Paris after her second husband's death, Veronique Sarcelle had eschewed the artistic milieu of Montparnasse in favour of a quiet street in an outer arrondissement. René Dubois had made a handsome profit from the art of his wife's first husband, and upon his death – and thanks to Detective Inspector Jack Robinson's robust assertions that that death really had been a tragic and unanticipated accident – she had inherited enough money to live in modest comfort for the rest of her days. She had hired a housekeeper and lived quietly, taking coffee in the local cafés, walking in the nearby parks, and painting delicate watercolours in her airy first-floor studio. Under such circumstances the emotional scars left by René's abuse had inevitably begun to heal, and the elegant, well-dressed woman who greeted Phryne and Jack was very different from the worn, abused creature whom they had farewelled in Melbourne a year before.
-Phryne!- She kissed her younger friend's cheeks.
-Veronique! You look so well.-
-Thank you. And Inspector Robinson.- Jack sensed her slight hesitation and spoke in a gentle tone, taking her hand in his and lifting it to his lips for a gallant kiss.
"Madam Sarcelle. It's good to see you again."
-And you as well. But please, can I offer you a drink? Coffee? Something stronger?-
Their luncheon was both delicious and enjoyable, even if the conversation was somewhat restricted due to the necessity of Phryne's translating all but the simplest of statements and sentiments. Even so, Phryne somehow managed to turn the fear and upset of the night before into an amusing anecdote which served to allay the concern she had observed in Veronique's eyes as she first took in her bruises, and the meal passed in good humour. It was a relief to both of them to see Phryne's old friend looking so well and happy after so much sorrow, and they left feeling distinctly uplifted.