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Authors: Stephanie Cowell
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ring as if appraising it; Claude had heard she was to be married in the autumn.
When dessert was served, Frédéric exclaimed, “How can it be you’ve never modeled before?” He sat back boyishly, his thumbs in his suspenders, smiling happily, surveying the girls. “You’re both beautiful and sweet. Tenderhearted, I would say.”
Annette shook her head, pushing her wineglass away a few inches and then surreptitiously drawing it back. Her voice was now just the slightest bit unsteady. “Camille’s the one who’s tenderhearted! Why, if she likes someone, she gives everything.”
The younger sister flushed. “Really, it’s not so. But how odd we’ve been to the Louvre many times and not seen each other. Paris is so big. You see someone interesting and then they are gone, gone. I’ve seen faces and remembered them always. I wonder sometimes what I’ll do with my life. I have so many plans.”
“What plans?” Frédéric asked seriously.
“Oh, well, plans!” she said, flushing.
Claude was now so tired he could hardly follow the conversation. In addition, Camille kept changing for him: he recalled her in the train station and then the book shop and now here she was across the table from him in an inn kitchen in Fontainebleau, her eyes a little unfocused for the wine. He struggled for words and managed to ask Annette, “But if you are to be married so soon, mademoiselle, why did you come here?”
Annette raised her hand to tuck in any loose strands from her hair. We regard it as an adventure , the note of acceptance had said. “To chaperone my younger sister, of course! Bien sûr! She came home the day you asked her, monsieur, saying we must go, we must go, and I couldn’t let her go alone.” Ah, he thought. Camille wanted to come and so she did, and left behind her passionate letters. But to whom were they written?
Annette drank delicately and dropped her voice. “Camille is also expected to become engaged by summer’s end; actually my betrothed and hers know each other well.”
Camille’s face became serious. “Yes,” she replied. “Monsieur is a dear man, very kind. I didn’t expect my sister and I to find husbands so close together, but she’s engaged and will marry first.”
L ATER IN HIS narrow room he heard them below wishing each other goodnight and then Frédéric’s footsteps as he mounted to his own attic room. Claude put out his lamp and lay in the dark, his mind still seeing the heavy green trees of the painting, the little white flowers, the people moving languidly as if time had stopped and they would be there forever with Annette’s arms raised to unpin her hat and Camille in a white dress, leaning forward, offering a plate.
The opening of the inn door below woke him. He felt for his watch and read the hour by the moonlight: nearly one. He could hear Frédéric snoring through the wall. Claude rose in his nightshirt to look out the window.
Camille was standing alone on the path in the white light of the moon.
What was she doing down there by herself? He thought to call out and run down to her, but what then? He must maintain some distance between them, and though he so much wanted to go to her, he only bit his lip as she turned away and walked toward the woods, her pale dress disappearing around the bend. Now he regretted his decision. Should he run after her? He doubted anyone would come to disturb her, but still he was not certain she should be out alone.
I’ll go after her in ten minutes if she’s not returned, he thought. He slipped back into bed, his eyes on the hands of his pocket watch. The wind blew the tree branches a little, and out of exhaustion, he slept. When he woke he still held his watch, which read half-past nine in the morning. Light usually woke him, but today rain was beating relentlessly against the window. Merde! They would have to work in the kitchen without any real light at all.
Frédéric was painting a still life of vegetables at his own easel
When dessert was served, Frédéric exclaimed, “How can it be you’ve never modeled before?” He sat back boyishly, his thumbs in his suspenders, smiling happily, surveying the girls. “You’re both beautiful and sweet. Tenderhearted, I would say.”
Annette shook her head, pushing her wineglass away a few inches and then surreptitiously drawing it back. Her voice was now just the slightest bit unsteady. “Camille’s the one who’s tenderhearted! Why, if she likes someone, she gives everything.”
The younger sister flushed. “Really, it’s not so. But how odd we’ve been to the Louvre many times and not seen each other. Paris is so big. You see someone interesting and then they are gone, gone. I’ve seen faces and remembered them always. I wonder sometimes what I’ll do with my life. I have so many plans.”
“What plans?” Frédéric asked seriously.
“Oh, well, plans!” she said, flushing.
Claude was now so tired he could hardly follow the conversation. In addition, Camille kept changing for him: he recalled her in the train station and then the book shop and now here she was across the table from him in an inn kitchen in Fontainebleau, her eyes a little unfocused for the wine. He struggled for words and managed to ask Annette, “But if you are to be married so soon, mademoiselle, why did you come here?”
Annette raised her hand to tuck in any loose strands from her hair. We regard it as an adventure , the note of acceptance had said. “To chaperone my younger sister, of course! Bien sûr! She came home the day you asked her, monsieur, saying we must go, we must go, and I couldn’t let her go alone.” Ah, he thought. Camille wanted to come and so she did, and left behind her passionate letters. But to whom were they written?
Annette drank delicately and dropped her voice. “Camille is also expected to become engaged by summer’s end; actually my betrothed and hers know each other well.”
Camille’s face became serious. “Yes,” she replied. “Monsieur is a dear man, very kind. I didn’t expect my sister and I to find husbands so close together, but she’s engaged and will marry first.”
L ATER IN HIS narrow room he heard them below wishing each other goodnight and then Frédéric’s footsteps as he mounted to his own attic room. Claude put out his lamp and lay in the dark, his mind still seeing the heavy green trees of the painting, the little white flowers, the people moving languidly as if time had stopped and they would be there forever with Annette’s arms raised to unpin her hat and Camille in a white dress, leaning forward, offering a plate.
The opening of the inn door below woke him. He felt for his watch and read the hour by the moonlight: nearly one. He could hear Frédéric snoring through the wall. Claude rose in his nightshirt to look out the window.
Camille was standing alone on the path in the white light of the moon.
What was she doing down there by herself? He thought to call out and run down to her, but what then? He must maintain some distance between them, and though he so much wanted to go to her, he only bit his lip as she turned away and walked toward the woods, her pale dress disappearing around the bend. Now he regretted his decision. Should he run after her? He doubted anyone would come to disturb her, but still he was not certain she should be out alone.
I’ll go after her in ten minutes if she’s not returned, he thought. He slipped back into bed, his eyes on the hands of his pocket watch. The wind blew the tree branches a little, and out of exhaustion, he slept. When he woke he still held his watch, which read half-past nine in the morning. Light usually woke him, but today rain was beating relentlessly against the window. Merde! They would have to work in the kitchen without any real light at all.
Frédéric was painting a still life of vegetables at his own easel
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