Read Online Claude & Camille: A Novel of Monet by Stephanie Cowell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Cowell
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when Claude came down for coffee. Shortly after, he heard a door open above and the two sisters descended, still adjusting the pins in their hair. Annette looked as if she had a headache. “Rain,” she observed.
“It may clear,” said Frédéric, looking from the window to the sideboard, which held the plate of potatoes and onions.
All of them drank their coffee and ate their bread with few words, half watching Frédéric paint an onion. Camille rested her hand on the table and Claude, who sat next to her, noticed how closely her fingernails were bitten. She looked toward the wet window. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she said dreamily. “So I went out. It was a little like being at my grandmère’s in the country the way the wind shook the trees. I was looking at the moon.”
“I wish you hadn’t!” replied her sister irritably. “You shouldn’t go walking alone; Mother wouldn’t approve.”
“She wouldn’t approve of anything about our being here,” Camille said. Her sudden joyful laughter rang brightly against the hanging pots and saucepans.
Claude began to make a neat pile of the bread crumbs near her plate. He said in a low voice, “Mademoiselle, you know I saw you one time before I came into your uncle’s bookshop. You were in a train station with your mother and sister. You wore a blue hat with a veil. It was four years ago. I sketched your picture and that’s how I remembered.”
Her face was quite close to his; he could see the few freckles on her nose and how the loose strands of hair danced against her cheek. He could smell the powder she used on her body. Her eyes were hazel. “Oh, did you?” she murmured. “How odd! Sometimes wonderful things can happen and we don’t know anything about them, perhaps never.”
T HE SUN CAME out shortly; they had sun for three more days and rain for two more. Then Claude hurt his leg and spent one rainy day sullenly in bed with his leg elevated and Frédéric painting him. The girls left on the sixth day, wishing them well.
After the coach rolled away, he limped to the kitchen with Frédéric to drink the rest of their coffee and watch the rain through the tree branches. He thought over the week. In spite of difficulties, he had accomplished a lot with his painting. Dinners, however, had been more discreet. Perhaps the older sister had reprimanded the younger.
The only sound was that of the innkeeper polishing the stove.
“Lovely, weren’t they?” Claude remarked. “Flirtatious and at the same time not to be touched in any way. What a pity!”
“It’s always that way with girls of their class. I told you. They don’t unfasten their collar buttons before marriage.”
Claude rubbed his leg. He said, “I’ll write them in Paris when I need them to model again, though I almost wish I didn’t have to: the older one’s chatter of china and silver patterns for her marriage puts me to sleep. What a thought that when a girl looks at us, she is thinking of what silver we can’t afford! I suspect the younger one really prefers other things but won’t quite say it.” Claude rearranged the bread crumbs between the table cracks as he had done some days before. There was only a swallow of his coffee left in his bowl.
He felt Frédéric’s silence and asked, “What about you, cher ami? Something’s been on your mind since yesterday. I saw you got a letter.”
Frédéric pushed away the bowl and unfastened his top shirt button; he leaned back his head and swallowed. “It’s all merde . Word came from the medical school: I failed my examination again worse than ever before. Damn it, Claude! I don’t want to be a doctor; I never did. All I want to do is paint. I need to go home and tell them.”
Claude exclaimed, “We’ve all been waiting for you to come to this decision! You’ll manage them. Do you want me to go with you?”
Frédéric stood up. “No, go back to Paris and finish the painting. We can’t live with you until you do.
“It may clear,” said Frédéric, looking from the window to the sideboard, which held the plate of potatoes and onions.
All of them drank their coffee and ate their bread with few words, half watching Frédéric paint an onion. Camille rested her hand on the table and Claude, who sat next to her, noticed how closely her fingernails were bitten. She looked toward the wet window. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she said dreamily. “So I went out. It was a little like being at my grandmère’s in the country the way the wind shook the trees. I was looking at the moon.”
“I wish you hadn’t!” replied her sister irritably. “You shouldn’t go walking alone; Mother wouldn’t approve.”
“She wouldn’t approve of anything about our being here,” Camille said. Her sudden joyful laughter rang brightly against the hanging pots and saucepans.
Claude began to make a neat pile of the bread crumbs near her plate. He said in a low voice, “Mademoiselle, you know I saw you one time before I came into your uncle’s bookshop. You were in a train station with your mother and sister. You wore a blue hat with a veil. It was four years ago. I sketched your picture and that’s how I remembered.”
Her face was quite close to his; he could see the few freckles on her nose and how the loose strands of hair danced against her cheek. He could smell the powder she used on her body. Her eyes were hazel. “Oh, did you?” she murmured. “How odd! Sometimes wonderful things can happen and we don’t know anything about them, perhaps never.”
T HE SUN CAME out shortly; they had sun for three more days and rain for two more. Then Claude hurt his leg and spent one rainy day sullenly in bed with his leg elevated and Frédéric painting him. The girls left on the sixth day, wishing them well.
After the coach rolled away, he limped to the kitchen with Frédéric to drink the rest of their coffee and watch the rain through the tree branches. He thought over the week. In spite of difficulties, he had accomplished a lot with his painting. Dinners, however, had been more discreet. Perhaps the older sister had reprimanded the younger.
The only sound was that of the innkeeper polishing the stove.
“Lovely, weren’t they?” Claude remarked. “Flirtatious and at the same time not to be touched in any way. What a pity!”
“It’s always that way with girls of their class. I told you. They don’t unfasten their collar buttons before marriage.”
Claude rubbed his leg. He said, “I’ll write them in Paris when I need them to model again, though I almost wish I didn’t have to: the older one’s chatter of china and silver patterns for her marriage puts me to sleep. What a thought that when a girl looks at us, she is thinking of what silver we can’t afford! I suspect the younger one really prefers other things but won’t quite say it.” Claude rearranged the bread crumbs between the table cracks as he had done some days before. There was only a swallow of his coffee left in his bowl.
He felt Frédéric’s silence and asked, “What about you, cher ami? Something’s been on your mind since yesterday. I saw you got a letter.”
Frédéric pushed away the bowl and unfastened his top shirt button; he leaned back his head and swallowed. “It’s all merde . Word came from the medical school: I failed my examination again worse than ever before. Damn it, Claude! I don’t want to be a doctor; I never did. All I want to do is paint. I need to go home and tell them.”
Claude exclaimed, “We’ve all been waiting for you to come to this decision! You’ll manage them. Do you want me to go with you?”
Frédéric stood up. “No, go back to Paris and finish the painting. We can’t live with you until you do.
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