star on the skyline, the lighthouse on the pier
The cup of fine crystal
Which over my shoulder I tossed nonchalantly
All brimming with wine
~ Jean Moréas
SILENCE lingered like an indrawn breath, then applause rose in the Crypt de la Passion.
Still feeling dazed by the whispered song, Theo joined in the clapping. When the sound faded, Paul gave her a ghoulish grin and settled back in his chair—bored again or needing to appear so. Averill smiled, amused at their impromptu duet. It was well after midnight and Theo bit the inside of her lip to stifle a yawn. She hated looking gauche.
The musicians quickly put away their instruments and came to join their guests. Casimir entrusted his instrument to another violinist, then strolled toward them. Theo offered her hand and he clasped her fingers, lifting them to his lips. The aristocratic flair of his gestures never failed to delight and amuse her. Releasing her hand, the baron nodded to Paul then gave Averill the charming, lop-sided smile that made him look closer to twenty than thirty. She seldom had an impulse to paint Casimir. He was almost too polished to be interesting—the gleaming curl of his hair, the impeccable suits, the ironic arch of an eyebrow. A complete work of art in himself. But sometimes she wanted to capture his golden smile, radiant as sunshine. Theo knew the boyish appeal could be intentionally disarming. The baron had a dangerous side. He had fought duels. Not the usual theatrical Parisian duels of smoke and gesture, but ones in which he’d wounded, even crippled, his opponent.
“Most of the musicians were from the Opéra, but they permitted a few ardent amateurs like myself.” A graceful movement mimed the stroke of a bow over violin strings. Though Casimir sometimes wrote poetry, his true interest was music. He had composed a few delicately sinister pieces to accompany Averill’s poems. “Were you amused?”
“Absolutely,” Averill said.
“Intermittently,” Paul conceded.
Casimir laughed. “From you, Noret, that is high praise.”
“ La Danse Macabre was especially poetic,” Theo offered.
“Especially challenging, too,” Casimir replied. “And what of your challenge, Theodora? Did you submit the pretty portrait to the Salon de Champs de Mars?”
“No. It was not good enough.” Theo lifted her chin proudly. She knew the Revenants would approve, for they’d damned the portrait with faint praise—all but Paul. First he’d said that it was bourgeois. Since Paul called Monet and every other great Impressionist bourgeois, that had seemed a back-handed compliment. Almost. Then he’d said, “Imitation Cassatt.” That truth was the death knell.
“Bravo!” Paul exclaimed now.
“That took courage, Theo.” Averill’s eyes searched hers.
She looked away. “Yes, it did.”
“It was a charming work,” Casimir allowed. “The Salon would have accepted it.”
“They’d have awarded it an Honorable Mention,” Paul chortled. “The Salon would dote on such a feminine presentation.”
Theo wanted to smack him, needling her about it now, heedlessly jabbing both her art and her femininity. Theo knew she was far from the petite, curvaceous, submissive ideal of French womanhood. Averill’s horrific father criticized her endlessly and made her feel defiant. Her own father offered soft-spoken advice and made her feel uncouth. Theo bit her lip. Paul was not the problem. Theo was still torn within herself. She looked back to Averill, seeing the concern in his eyes. Heknew she was thinking of her father.
Anger, resentment, gratitude spun like juggler’s balls inside of Theo. As always, gratitude outweighed the rest. For twenty years Phillipe Charron had not known she existed. He could have continued to pretend she did not. Instead, he’d rescued her from her defiant poverty and brought her to Paris. Having lived on crumbs, she knew all too well the value of his support. He would be disappointed, even angry, that she had not
The cup of fine crystal
Which over my shoulder I tossed nonchalantly
All brimming with wine
~ Jean Moréas
SILENCE lingered like an indrawn breath, then applause rose in the Crypt de la Passion.
Still feeling dazed by the whispered song, Theo joined in the clapping. When the sound faded, Paul gave her a ghoulish grin and settled back in his chair—bored again or needing to appear so. Averill smiled, amused at their impromptu duet. It was well after midnight and Theo bit the inside of her lip to stifle a yawn. She hated looking gauche.
The musicians quickly put away their instruments and came to join their guests. Casimir entrusted his instrument to another violinist, then strolled toward them. Theo offered her hand and he clasped her fingers, lifting them to his lips. The aristocratic flair of his gestures never failed to delight and amuse her. Releasing her hand, the baron nodded to Paul then gave Averill the charming, lop-sided smile that made him look closer to twenty than thirty. She seldom had an impulse to paint Casimir. He was almost too polished to be interesting—the gleaming curl of his hair, the impeccable suits, the ironic arch of an eyebrow. A complete work of art in himself. But sometimes she wanted to capture his golden smile, radiant as sunshine. Theo knew the boyish appeal could be intentionally disarming. The baron had a dangerous side. He had fought duels. Not the usual theatrical Parisian duels of smoke and gesture, but ones in which he’d wounded, even crippled, his opponent.
“Most of the musicians were from the Opéra, but they permitted a few ardent amateurs like myself.” A graceful movement mimed the stroke of a bow over violin strings. Though Casimir sometimes wrote poetry, his true interest was music. He had composed a few delicately sinister pieces to accompany Averill’s poems. “Were you amused?”
“Absolutely,” Averill said.
“Intermittently,” Paul conceded.
Casimir laughed. “From you, Noret, that is high praise.”
“ La Danse Macabre was especially poetic,” Theo offered.
“Especially challenging, too,” Casimir replied. “And what of your challenge, Theodora? Did you submit the pretty portrait to the Salon de Champs de Mars?”
“No. It was not good enough.” Theo lifted her chin proudly. She knew the Revenants would approve, for they’d damned the portrait with faint praise—all but Paul. First he’d said that it was bourgeois. Since Paul called Monet and every other great Impressionist bourgeois, that had seemed a back-handed compliment. Almost. Then he’d said, “Imitation Cassatt.” That truth was the death knell.
“Bravo!” Paul exclaimed now.
“That took courage, Theo.” Averill’s eyes searched hers.
She looked away. “Yes, it did.”
“It was a charming work,” Casimir allowed. “The Salon would have accepted it.”
“They’d have awarded it an Honorable Mention,” Paul chortled. “The Salon would dote on such a feminine presentation.”
Theo wanted to smack him, needling her about it now, heedlessly jabbing both her art and her femininity. Theo knew she was far from the petite, curvaceous, submissive ideal of French womanhood. Averill’s horrific father criticized her endlessly and made her feel defiant. Her own father offered soft-spoken advice and made her feel uncouth. Theo bit her lip. Paul was not the problem. Theo was still torn within herself. She looked back to Averill, seeing the concern in his eyes. Heknew she was thinking of her father.
Anger, resentment, gratitude spun like juggler’s balls inside of Theo. As always, gratitude outweighed the rest. For twenty years Phillipe Charron had not known she existed. He could have continued to pretend she did not. Instead, he’d rescued her from her defiant poverty and brought her to Paris. Having lived on crumbs, she knew all too well the value of his support. He would be disappointed, even angry, that she had not
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