"MIREILLE ANGE!" I exploded into the foyer. "MIREILLE!" I prowled the halls, throwing doors wide as I went.
Christine materialized, blanching at the undisguised fury on my face. I took the stairs three at a time and she flitted along behind.
"MIREILLE ANGE!" I bashed Miri-ange's bedroom door open.
"Erik, privacy…" Christine reminded me.
"Bugger that; she's got no need of privacy while she's under my fucking roof."
"Erik!"
"Christine. Where the devil is my daughter?" I demanded frostily.
"I suppose next door," she offered timidly. "Erik, what's–"
"WHY THE HELL DON"T YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, WOMAN?" I roared, leaving her speechless. I turned toward Chagny, leaving Christine puzzling in my wake. As I approached, youthful laughter billowed from the terrace overlooking the garden.
"MIREILLE ANGE!" I thundered, plowing through the shrubbery.
Stunned silence greeted me. Masson and some willing-tit on the divan, scrambling to disengage; Liselotte and a red-bearded, tousle-haired bear, at whom I fired a passing death stare; a troupe of shaggy boys and bed bunnies--artsy types; and my little treasure, my ruined princess…my fallen angel.
"Papa?" As her mother said, butter wouldn't melt in the child's mouth.
Look at you, I thought; all big-eyed innocence. I couldn't collect enough breath for another holler. "A word. Home. Now." I panted, turning for home. I didn't check to see that she followed me; she'd bloody well follow me, by God.
Christine awaited us on the front steps, skirts clutched in her hands. I reckon she'd had her ear cocked for blood-curdling screams and was ready to initiate a rescue. "Erik, darling…" she bustled alongside, suddenly the obsequious little wife.
"Save it, Christine. MIRI-ANGE!" Christine clapped her hands over her ears, cringing as Miri-ange rushed into the parlor.
"Here, Papa," she breathed dutifully. Right, you little viper; you belong on the stage. Well, you've played your doting old daddy for the last time.
"Sit down."
"Erik–"
"Get out, Christine." Two sets of identical blue eyes all but jumped from their sockets.
When she recovered herself, Christine ventured again. "Erik–"
"No. Out." I repeated, refusing to tear my gaze away from my daughter. Christine must've decided I'd finally lost all my marbles. She glanced helplessly at Miri-ange; What is it? I don't know, the girl shrugged in silent reply. Christine departed wordlessly.
Miri-ange sat, silently bewildered. She didn't have long to wait; I was in no mood for preliminaries. My arm felt caught in a vise; I squeezed back.
"Let me see your right leg."
Her brow crinkled, eyes darted. Extending her foot, she raised her skirt about five inches. I cackled like my former self and she dropped her skirt, astonished. "Papa, you're frightening me!"
"Indeed? That won't do," I waved off her feeble display. "I want to see your angel kiss."
Her mouth fell open; her eyes flashed confusion, irritation, fear. "What do you mean? No!" she cried, gathering her skirt in protectively.
I cackled again. "Come along now, I bathed you, dressed you; why am I the only man in Paris who can't see?"
"Papa!" she leapt to her feet, mortified. Hot tears threatened both of us. I turned half away, fingered a worn spot on the desk blotter absently.
"I saw Bal Masque," I confessed. God, help me catch my breath in this interminable silence. When nothing was forthcoming from my Angeline, I pressed. "You know it?"
"Yes."
"What? I can't hear you–"
"I said yes!"
I nodded and turned around, almost as an experiment to see if my little girl still looked the same to me; she did, strangely enough. "You know M Renoir."
Silence.
"Mireille, you answer me now."
"It isn't how it looks, Papa."
"Ohhhh, please no," I groaned, "That has to be the tritest, most over-worked phrase; I beg of you, don't disappoint me in this, too. How long have you been taking your clothes off for him?"
"You make it sound so sordid!" she despaired.
"Oh, it's perfectly sordid; make no mistake. Just because he's a famous artist, and his studio isn't a squalid little garret, it's still DISGUSTING!"
She cringed.
"How long have you been taking your clothes off for him? Who else? I thought it was an artist you wanted to be, not a–"
"Stop, Papa! I don't take my clothes off for anyone but Auguste."
"Auguste?" I raised my eyebrow. "That sounds cozy." Her eyes sparked just like Christine's. "Don't you glare at me like that, Miss. You think it makes you a good Catholic girl because you let only one fellow--not your husband, not even your goddamned intended, mind you–look at your cootchie?"
"I suppose this isn't the best time to tell you we're lovers, then."
"CHRISTINE!"
I try to handle things myself and not drag Christine into them if I believe I can–and if it seems to be for the good of all concerned. This was not one of those times. I opened a bottle of Beaujolais for us and lit a cigar, ignoring Christine's stink-eye. Then I tried to bring my wife up-to-date on our baby's news. She was remarkably composed; I was quite proud of her, and pleased, as I wasn't up to dragging her tiny enraged frame off Miri-ange. When I'd delivered this delightful homily, Christine turned, bewildered, to her daughter. "But, Miri-ange, Pierre-Auguste Renoir? Isn't he your Father's age?"
"No, Mama; Auguste is sixty-one."
"SWEET SUFFERING CHRIST!" The wineglass flew from my hand as a bolt of pain seared from my chest to my fingertips. Christine rushed to comfort me. "There, Child; I'm fine. I just need to sit down," I choked.
"Miri-ange…you're only nineteen, Darling," Christine reminded her.
"But you were only twenty, Mama–"
"And she was married, do you hear?" I roared. "She certainly didn't strip for–" Christine patted my hand, encouraging me to calm myself.
"How do you know what she did?" Miri-ange's challenge was plain.
I scrambled upright as Christine cooed and soothed me. I heard the panic creeping into her voice as she pleaded with me to let it go. "Listen here, you alley cat! I know what I know, and I'm damned if I'll discuss your mother's maidenhead with you!"
"Erik," Christine whispered. She pressed against me with all her might, pinning me to the sofa. "Please go lie down; let me speak with her."
"She's–" I wanted to protest; if only I could breathe.
"I'm begging you," she gasped, her chin quivering as she stroked my cheek. Forced to relent, I left the parlor without a backward glance. When I paused at the foot of the staircase, I heard Christine hiss at Miri-ange. "What is wrong with you; will you kill him? Can't you see he's not well?"
So much for me shielding my Angel.
Upstairs, I dropped my clothes where I stood and slipped into bed. I adore cool, fresh sheets, even when they make me shiver. It was difficult to get comfortable. My arm no longer ached, but I still felt rather breathless. I couldn't find a way to embrace what I'd learnt that day; I wished I was younger, my mind more flexible. Miri-ange had taken a lover; forty-odd years older than she, and a married man as I recalled.
When a particularly awful event occurs, I've noticed that it's human nature to play mental games with the passage of time. We conduct little exercises like, If only I had not turned back to fetch my gloves, I would not have been in the midst of that accident, or If only I had been looking the other way, I would not have seen the thief. So it was with me in bed that evening. If only I had not bought her art supplies; if only she had been forced to elope with Etienne; irrational thoughts. How can I possibly keep you safe now, my baby? Safe; neither can I protect Christine. My whole life's been a failure.
-0-0-0-0-
I dozed after all.
"Erik." Christine's hand on my forehead. She looked ashen. "I've invited him."
"Christine," I croaked. My eyes pleaded with her to help me understand.
"She may be pregnant," Christine murmured, handing me a glass of water.
I couldn't utter a sound.
"I can't argue with her, Erik. If you could hear the things she's saying…it sounds as if they adore each other." She pressed her face to my neck; I nodded.
Confused and wounded, Christine and I had no idea what to do. Worst of all, this crisis saw us embroiled in the most protracted and agonizing disagreement I believe our marriage ever suffered. I wanted to tell Miri-ange that it was utterly impossible, love or not, and that if she saw Renoir again I would take it as a sign that she had decided to make her own way in the world.
Christine was horrified at this suggestion; she couldn't fathom turning a child away, and after all, she insisted, who's the hypocrite now, Erik? Wasn't I married when I came to you ? she demanded. Well, I had no answer for that. Miri-ange insisted it was love between her and Renoir, no matter he was married, so Christine felt we should to try extend the olive branch, as we'd done with Etienne. She wanted to invite Renoir to tea, god help me. She said we needed to see them together to lay our fears to rest. From there, I guessed, she thought we could take it a step at a time.
In the end I couldn't bear the anger and pain that lingered in the air between Christine and me. Our hearts were breaking for our little angel; I needed my darling wife's comfort more than ever, as she did mine. So I relented; we'd do it Christine's way.