Life proceeded apace at Chagny/Rouen.
Miri-ange dabbled with paints and pastels. I helped her however I could, but naturally, she surpassed me technically within a year of picking up a pencil–all my children are bloody brilliant; no bragging, just facts. Inevitably, she decided that she needed to surround herself with artsy types. So, most days she packed up her supplies and off she went to Monmartre; God help me and my ancient heart. In short order, our home was inundated with young Bohemians and their, ah, models.
Ultimately, Etienne could no longer bear her 'willful unconventionality', but there was nothing for it. She'd taken to tempera, charcoal and canvas like Masson had taken to the violin. I felt sympathy for the boy; he'd been a devoted suitor to her, and a chaste one besides, according to Raoul's sources. (He kept me apprised of all the gossip concerning young noblemen; after all, we both had girls coming of age.) But in the end, Etienne and Miri-ange realized what Christine and I had known all along; our daughter was out of his league.
Masson mourned Annemarie rather longer than I'd hoped, but in the end Miri-ange and her artsy tribe came to his rescue. To describe Masson as a child in a candy shop does not even approach it. I took to pressing nutritious meals on him at every opportunity. If I could have died of envy, I would have done; shameless hussies plumping for my boy, lurking in corners…literally.
"Daroga, do you suppose one can die of screwing too much? I'm worried about--"
"Hm. I'd think the system would begin to shut down before he could do himself that much damage," he mused.
"Obviously you don't remember being nineteen," I groused.
"As if you do. You're just worrying because you've nothing to worry about."
"Nothing to–" I sputtered. "I beg your pardon?! My son is being drained of all his vital fluids! Miri-ange is being pursued by artists, for God's sake! And what about Carmen; she's just at that age!"
"Carmen will tell them all to go to the devil, Erik; don't you worry about that. What've you got against artists all of a sudden?"
"Well, it's nothing but lounging around with naked women, isn't it? And they all need haircuts. Why don't boys get haircuts anymore?"
"Just as I suspected; you're jealous."
-0-0-0-0-
Gaston and I gradually managed a rapprochement. I didn't take him into my confidence anymore, but we made each other laugh and it wasn't right having a smoker without him. He added some of his writer friends to the cultural milieu at Chagny/Rouen; the place was constantly abubble intellectually and artistically. It was everything I could have wished for my children, and I was grateful to Gaston for his contribution to that atmosphere, as well as for his friendship. We never discussed his manuscript again.
Christine waylaid me just as I was escaping next door for a liquid debauch.
"Something tells me I'm for it, Angel; am I for it?"
"Look at you, acting as if butter wouldn't melt in your scheming mouth," she fumed. "Get in here!" She dragged my spindly carcass into the parlor. I tried to look as innocent as possible; should have been simple since I had no idea what I'd done to step in it, but that would have meant underestimating Christine's ability to blame me for absolutely everything: flood, famine… "Tell me you did not agree to fencing lessons for Carmen." Christine's arms were crossed; her toe was tapping; what would you have said?
"I did not agree to fencing lessons for Carmen."
"Really?"
"Really what?"
"You really didn't agree?"
"Uh, you told me to tell you I did not agree–"
She whacked me. "You're irredeemable!" She was not amused.
"I hope we're not going to do the 'Girls don't take fencing lessons' drill, Angel," I worried.
"I don't want to hear that I'm a hypocrite, Erik, I warn you."
"I won't tell you you're a hypocrite. I'll tell you how enthralling your eyes are, throwing sparks…"
"Leave off my bottom, you!" She squirmed like a piglet.
"Why? I'm sober…" She caught my wrists and wrapped her arms around me; I was trapped. "This is nice," I admitted agreeably.
"Erik, just give me a straight answer for once. I don't want Carmen to have fencing lessons; why did you tell her yes?"
"Because telling her–or any of your daughters–no, does not work. Where's the harm in her joining the musketeers' lessons?"
"She's already an Amazon!"
"That's your fault, Angel."
"She'll never get a husband!"
"Some men like Amazons…You're sort of an Amazon, and you've managed two husbands so far." Even though my hands were imprisoned, I was able to make valiant attempts at her lips, cheeks, and neck.
"This is a lost cause, as usual," she muttered ruefully, freeing my wrists.
"Oh, goody."
-0-0-0-0-
"Where the hell have you been?" Raoul demanded. "It's half-eleven!"
"Sorry; I was detained for questioning. Glad to see you started without me; and I'll thank you to remove that salacious grin," I sniffed.
"You in trouble?"
"Is the Pope Catholic? Fencing lessons for Carmen," I explained.
"I knew it. So…did you change her mind?"
"Nope; just my luck, so far," I admitted, pouring a cognac.
Raoul frowned as he proffered the humidor. "I just don't…how is it that an ancient troll gets laid more than me?"
"Substance over style, my boy," I puffed smugly. "Whoa, exquisite!"
"Mm. Honduras; wherever the hell that is."
"You're not really pouting, are you? Come along now; how many models have you plumbed since Miri-ange has gone Boho? I haven't had any strange in…uh…er…"
"Anci."
"Oh. Yeah." I drained my drink and went for another. "Let's change the subject."
"Alright!" Comte Pinky; attention span of a flea. "I've heard about a scandalous exhibit; all the best artists. You know; the stuff that doesn't get in the public shows. Want to go?"
Reza, Raoul and I met Gaston and his friend, Alain Chartier. Chartier was some philosopher type, who, small world, also knew Christine's friend's godson, Bertrand. If it sounds incestuously muddled, it is. Anyway, we met at the coffeehouse for food, popped in briefly on the green fairy, and then it was off to look at naughty paintings.
There was a delectable pencil sketch of a girl in a bathtub I rather fancied, and some modern looking stuff–maybe I'm getting old, but I was hard pressed to pick out the girl's parts, much less get a thrill from them. If that's the way art is going, they can let me out at the curb, thanks.
So we strolled around, sipping sherry and offering muttered opinions like proper pretentious art critics until we came to the piece de resistance. There was a tremendous crowd around the painting; we actually had to stand off making small talk before we could wind our way through clusters of artsy types gasping 'extraordinary' and comparing it to Courbet's L'Origine du monde.
It was called Bal Masque, ironically enough, and it was a very dark piece of work, literally; all dark except the model's luminescent flesh and hair. She might have been standing in a closet, a feeling reinforced by the long, narrow dimensions of the canvas. Odd for Renoir, master of light that he was, to paint something so dark, but then…it was undeniably erotic. The girl stood with her back to us, one knee resting on a black-draped something; her face visible only enough to hint at the black-feathered mask. She leaned forward, a black-gloved hand reaching between her legs to shield her sex. The entire feeling was one of this girl being enveloped by a conscious, living darkness, trapped between the moonlight and her lover, a formless shade. I was struck–unsettled?--by the way the long dark gloves and stockings made her torso seem to float unsupported. My eyes traced the line of her silvery hip…there, just above the stocking…
"Excuse me." I shoved some anonymous gawker.
"Now, see here…"
He might have continued berating me; I didn't hear. I crouched before the painting; closer. My eyesight is as good as ever, but…I had to be sure. A rosy dove, just taking flight…I'd not seen it in years. We used to tell Miri-ange it was an angel's kiss on her thigh.
The room turned hot and close. "Raoul." I reached for him blindly, unable to tear my eyes away; then the darkness reached out from the painting and enveloped me too.