Floats the Dark Shadow (14 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Mysteries abound

~ Charles Baudelaire

RISING on her toes, Theo looked down the long central passageway to the entrance to the Bazar de la Charité. The double doors were the only way in, so Mélanie and Carmine should be easy to spot—if only the crowd didn’t keep blocking her view. Her height gave her little advantage over the top hats of the boulevardiers and the plumes and gargantuan bows ascending from the hats of the ladies. Ordinary Parisians mingled with the fashion-plate extravaganzas, thrilled to see members of Tout Paris that they had only read about in the society pages. Even sweeter, the elite were playing at being saleswomen and waitresses in the booths of their favorite charities.

Theo had arrived early to secure a place in line for the cinema demonstration—a line already long in front of her and getting longer and longer behind. Just then, she saw Mélanie making her way through the throng. Her friend looked exquisite in a dotted Swiss dress foaming with ruffles. Tiny flounces cascaded down the skirt, growing ever larger and ending in a huge flounce. What a challenge that would be to paint! Would it be too trite?
‘Woman in a White Dress’
was a genre unto itself. Would it be possible to paint a portrait of Mélanie that wasn’t too pretty? Maybe Theo should try that for next year’s Salon, completely dazzling, completely sincere prettiness! But could she capture the ambition and anxiety lurking behind the huge doe eyes?

“How wonderful!” Mélanie squeezed in beside her, magically unrumpled by the crowd, black hair serenely coiled in a perfect chignon. She wore some unusual scent, white flowers blooming beside a shady forest pool. At her throat, a Wedgewood cameo of the virgin huntress Diana seemed the perfect image for the fragrance. “Look—there is even a Gothic cathedral!”

Together they admired the faux medieval interior of this year’s Bazar de la Charité. Not long ago this was an empty lot near the Champs Élysées. The promoters had erected a huge wooden structure and created a quaint village inside it. High overhead, the painted canvas ceiling suggested a cloudy sky. Gauzy streamers drifted down from above and festoons of paper lilacs and roses bloomed in a lush imitation spring.

“I can tell you want to paint it, Theo!”

“Perhaps I only want to imagine painting it.” Theo laughed. She shifted, trying to imagine different vantage points. She did love the fanciful mix of historical village and strolling men and women in modern dress, but she had never tried such an ambitious interior. “I meant to bring my sketchbook, but I was afraid of being late and ran off without it.”

“You can come back tomorrow,” Mélanie said. “But where would you draw without getting jostled?”

“Maybe near the entrance—with you on one side and Carmine on the other?” Theo suggested. “We could trade places and protect each other’s drawing arm.”

“It’s a good idea, yes, if you like modern scenes.”

“But you wish to evoke the purity of the Ideal.” Theo pressed her hand to her heart.

“Oh, you make me sound so silly.” Mélanie laughed then said very seriously, “I do want images that inspire, that resonate with history.”

“You did
le grand art
perfectly for the Salon and they all but slapped you.” Theo felt renewed anger for her friend.

“Honorable mention is hardly a slap,” Mélanie replied, but her voice was subdued. “If it didn’t receive a medal, something must have been lacking.”

Mélanie had painted Cassandra. The canvas was of modest size, but great intensity. In the foreground, the scorned prophetess wept alone on the battlements of Troy. Her grief, her despair, were palpable, not theatrically staged gestures. The sunset sky glowed in muted hues of gold and bronze, streaked with forbidding clouds of charcoal grey. Shadow draped the prophetess like a shroud. A dying glory, the sun sank beneath the horizon in streaks of blood red and royal purple. Far below, the dark horde of the Greek army pretended to depart for their ships. Isolated, the tiny Trojan horse waited on the plain. The strong diagonals of the composition created an unsettling effect, mysteriously predicting the reversal of fortune. Tomorrow, the miniscule figures, no bigger than ants, would rule Cassandra’s world.

“Don’t let them make you doubt yourself,” Theo said with quiet fury. “Yours was better than the grand prize winner.”

Shrieks of panic rose behind the curtain hiding the cinema presentation. Mélanie looked at Theo in alarm. Then came a burst of relieved laughter. Everyone in line relaxed. Soon, a group of dazed looking people emerged from behind the curtain and went through the turnstile, and another group was admitted.

“Where is Carmine?” Mélanie tried to peer through the crowd. “She is always late just because she thinks punctuality is bourgeois.”

“She’s never late to class—just everything else,” Theo laughed. “Oh! I see a hat that must be hers.”

“Bonjour!”
Carmine Dougnac hailed them as she made her way through the throng.

“Oh my!” Mélanie exclaimed when the parting crowd gave a better view of Carmine’s chartreuse plaid dress and latest hat, an elaborate creation of emerald green straw, lime green plumes, black netting, and purple roses.

Theo laughed. They were an odd assortment, the three best women in Theo’s first class at the Académie Julian. Carmine was already a professional. She painted delightfully bizarre animals—horses riding bicycles, monkeys at the roulette table, a daring young cat on a flying trapeze. She preferred to amuse and provoke, but she also made oodles of money with her sentimental pet portraits. Her printmaker father had paid for her classes at the Académie Julian to improve her skill—even though women were charged double for the same lessons.

“
Mes petits choux-fleurs!”

Theo wondered yet again why “little cauliflower” was a French endearment as her friend kissed them on each cheek with a cheerful smack. Carmine could make Theo feel positively polished sometimes. She was so earthy, so brash. Small and sturdy, like the roan pony Theo had loved in childhood, she was just as feisty. Her olive skin and brown hair had a rosy cast, like her name. Even her eyes were a ruddy chestnut brown.

Carmine adjusted her tip-tilted
chapeau
. “I wore a wide brim today, the better to slice through the crowd.”

“I love this one!” Theo said. “The purple roses are so decadent.”

“And I love your new painting!”

“What is it? I must see it,” Mélanie said eagerly.

“Le Moulin de la Galette,” Theo told her, “but transformed by storm clouds.”

Carmine spun her fingers like pinwheels. “Bold.”

“Not too bold, I hope?” Mélanie teased.

Carmine rolled her eyes. Theo laughed. “So bold no one will buy it!”

“Don’t you care?” Mélanie asked plaintively.

“I don’t need to,” Theo said. “I just finished a portrait for which I’ve been paid a fortune—in croissants.”

“Better than gold.” Carmine grinned at her.

“Now remember, this is a charity event.” Mélanie became all earnestness again. “We must each be sure to give something.”

“There are a hundred and fifty charities to choose among. I’m sure I’ll find at least one worth a franc.” Carmine grinned. “Though the boutiques will beckon to my purse.”

“Any purchase goes to charity. There is a school for the blind with many orphaned students. I have ten francs for that. They teach those with musical talent to play the organ,” Mélanie said primly. Then her face brightened. “Monsieur Braille taught there. Do you know he adapted his system from a secret spy code that soldiers used to read in the dark of night?”

“What a marvelous bit of history.” Theo smiled. “They shall have a donation from me. When we have finished, let’s have a cozy tea at Ladurée.” She loved the salon’s gilded interior.

“Or, supper if the line does not move faster,” Mélanie said plaintively.

“This is the most modern exhibit. Everyone must see it.” Carmine gave her wicked smile. “All two thousand of them.”

The line crept forward as another set of people went through the turnstile. As they drew closer the deep blue of the curtains made the hidden interior all the more alluring.

“Theo, did you read the
Petit Journal
yesterday—the editorial on suffrage?” Carmine lifted her brows in provocative challenge.

“Did I read about the superior wisdom of France compared to the United States?” Theo retorted. “Did I discover that French women live under a rule of benign order, unlike the profound disorder in the state of Colorado where women serve on juries and are free to vote?”

“What of your state?” Carmine asked. “Are they so enlightened?”

Anger tightened Theo’s back and sharpened her voice. “The amendment failed in California last year.”

“Did you march in the street to protest?” Carmine asked her.

“It failed after I left, but yes, I marched to promote it.”

“Then you are truly French!” Carmine laughed then became vehement. “The women of France fought in the Revolution—we led the march on Versailles! Again, in the Commune, we joined the struggle for liberty. Are we not worthy of equal rights and privileges?”

“You cannot want the vote.” Mélanie looked truly appalled. “Politics is the man’s world, as home is the woman’s. If she enters into masculine troubles, how can she create a haven for sheltering those she loves?”

“If she has no choice, then she’s just a servant in her supposed domain,” Theo protested. “Controlling your money, owning property, having a vote, it’s all necessary to being a person, not just some decorative attachment, a pretty bauble.”

Mélanie shook her head. “I wouldn’t want the vote. Let men deal with sordid politics.”

“I want a say in just which stupid, sordid idiot runs my world,” Carmine declared.

“If you feel that women belong in the home, why did you apply to the École des Beaux-Arts?” Theo challenged. Mélanie’s impeccable technique had just earned her a place within those sacred walls. She and two other women were the first ever admitted. It was the fulfillment of a dream for Mélanie, who lived a quiet and all too proper life with her widowed mother.

“Artistic skill befits a woman as well as a man. Women cannot expect to outdo men at the pinnacle of their skill, but they can still strive for excellence,” Mélanie said stiffly.

“They promised to admit women almost a year ago,” Carmine said, “then danced around in circles—with us still on the outside. They have opened their doors at last, but do not fool yourself. You will not be given classes equal to the men’s, no matter what they say.”

“We share the oral lecture classes,” Mélanie said defensively. “Of course anatomy is segregated. But we will have the same models—we will simply study them independently. They have promised.”

“Have they kept their promise?” Carmine asked pointedly.

“…Not yet. No male nudes have been permitted. But classes have barely begun.”

Carmine huffed, but Theo forestalled further arguing. “It’s a beginning, at least.”

Finally, they passed through the turnstile into the dimly lit room behind the curtains. Their host briefly explained the system while his assistants readied the machine. “Monsieur Joly has improved upon the kinetograph of Edison and the innovations of the brothers Lumière, giving our machine greater smoothness. No longer is just one person at a time able to view the magic world of cinema. This entire audience will experience the wonder of our films,” he proclaimed proudly. “The
Cinématographe
Joly is a most marvelous creation—a camera, a printer, and a projector all in one!”

The mechanism operated something like a sewing machine, shuttling the slotted film through the teeth of the projector. “Up and down, in and out, move and pause,” their host chanted, his hands moving as if pushing fabric under a needle. Theo almost laughed, but the man was so serious she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. When she tried for a closer look at the intriguing machine, the projectionist and his assistant blocked her. Their host pointed at the screen. “Attention! Three magical films for your viewing pleasure—each almost a minute!”