leaving him, and he felt tired.
Dusk was falling as they rowed back in silence. In the park again, he walked on by her side without a word, his hat low on his forehead. Every way he looked the paths turned under the heavy, hanging trees, and small clumps of flowers seemed to cup and hold the last of the day. Now a lamplighter had climbed his ladder to ignite a flame, which shone down on the empty bandstand.
She took his arm. “May I tell you something?” she said softly. “I think I can tell you things! I’ve always felt in my sister’s shadow; she always tells me what to do. Everyone at home thinks I’m not fit to make my own decisions about my life, but I’m perfectly fit. They worry about me; they say I’m moody. Women have such a short time to bloom, you know. Your portrait of me is the way I am inside: mysterious. You saw me inside. Do you think I’m silly?”
“No,” he said.
She spoke on, almost to herself. “They want to keep me in a little box, but it’s really so unnecessary. I don’t miss Lyon at all except for my widowed grandmère . I love it here. You’re from Normandy, right? From Le Havre? Do you miss it?”
“I do, so much! I miss the boats and the smell of the sea; I miss the country, and yet if I want to make a name for myself I must do it in Paris. I’d like to return to the country one day when I make my fortune. I’d like to live outside Paris in one of the little villages. I want desperately to have a garden.”
Claude felt the day slipping from him. It had been such a lovely adventure, but it would be put away and forgotten until a moment years later when he was old and something would remind him: the smell of the air, a lamplighter, the darkening trees above on a long walk. She would drift away, and the Salon would continue for a time and then be taken down and he would hear of the marriage of this lovely girl who wanted and would have beautiful things.
He said abruptly, “It’s late. I’ll take you home.”
The horses wearily pulled the omnibus through the city until Claude descended with her near the bridge, walking toward the seventeenth-century houses of the Île Saint-Louis. It’s almost done now, he thought. A minute more and she’ll disappear down the street into one of those formidable dwellings and be gone.
He took her arm and, as they leaned on the bridge railing over the Seine, suddenly demanded, “Camille, how much do you really like your old fiancé?”
“He’s not old. He’s very nice. He’s kind, a true gentleman.”
“Is he? Well …”
Claude drew her toward him and kissed her mouth. To his amazement she did not pull away but pulled him against her, her arms about him, returning his kiss. I am dreaming this, he thought. I am dreaming it.
She whispered against his lips, “I don’t want to go home to my family. I want to go home with you.”
He felt the shock of her words and his sudden, intensely rising desire. He thought, Is she willing? Can she be truly willing? He slipped his fingers through an opening in her dress buttons and felt the silk and whalebone of her corset. He undid another button and a corset hook. Now she will push me over the bridge rail into the river, he thought, but she did not. As his fingers moved down to her hardened nipple, she kissed him more deeply, pressing against him. At any moment all we are wearing will fall away, he thought, and be carried down the river to the sea: her cloth buttons, my vest …
He said, “Are you sure, dear?”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” she whispered.
He took her hand and they ran across the bridge. Several times he turned to her and they kissed again. They hailed a carriage and clasped each other tightly on the leather cushions that smelled of cigars and other lovers. Mon Dieu , he thought, don’t let this moment melt away!
In his building on the rue de Furstenberg he almost pulled her up the stairs, fumbling with his studio key in the lock. Who the hell is here? he thought.
Dusk was falling as they rowed back in silence. In the park again, he walked on by her side without a word, his hat low on his forehead. Every way he looked the paths turned under the heavy, hanging trees, and small clumps of flowers seemed to cup and hold the last of the day. Now a lamplighter had climbed his ladder to ignite a flame, which shone down on the empty bandstand.
She took his arm. “May I tell you something?” she said softly. “I think I can tell you things! I’ve always felt in my sister’s shadow; she always tells me what to do. Everyone at home thinks I’m not fit to make my own decisions about my life, but I’m perfectly fit. They worry about me; they say I’m moody. Women have such a short time to bloom, you know. Your portrait of me is the way I am inside: mysterious. You saw me inside. Do you think I’m silly?”
“No,” he said.
She spoke on, almost to herself. “They want to keep me in a little box, but it’s really so unnecessary. I don’t miss Lyon at all except for my widowed grandmère . I love it here. You’re from Normandy, right? From Le Havre? Do you miss it?”
“I do, so much! I miss the boats and the smell of the sea; I miss the country, and yet if I want to make a name for myself I must do it in Paris. I’d like to return to the country one day when I make my fortune. I’d like to live outside Paris in one of the little villages. I want desperately to have a garden.”
Claude felt the day slipping from him. It had been such a lovely adventure, but it would be put away and forgotten until a moment years later when he was old and something would remind him: the smell of the air, a lamplighter, the darkening trees above on a long walk. She would drift away, and the Salon would continue for a time and then be taken down and he would hear of the marriage of this lovely girl who wanted and would have beautiful things.
He said abruptly, “It’s late. I’ll take you home.”
The horses wearily pulled the omnibus through the city until Claude descended with her near the bridge, walking toward the seventeenth-century houses of the Île Saint-Louis. It’s almost done now, he thought. A minute more and she’ll disappear down the street into one of those formidable dwellings and be gone.
He took her arm and, as they leaned on the bridge railing over the Seine, suddenly demanded, “Camille, how much do you really like your old fiancé?”
“He’s not old. He’s very nice. He’s kind, a true gentleman.”
“Is he? Well …”
Claude drew her toward him and kissed her mouth. To his amazement she did not pull away but pulled him against her, her arms about him, returning his kiss. I am dreaming this, he thought. I am dreaming it.
She whispered against his lips, “I don’t want to go home to my family. I want to go home with you.”
He felt the shock of her words and his sudden, intensely rising desire. He thought, Is she willing? Can she be truly willing? He slipped his fingers through an opening in her dress buttons and felt the silk and whalebone of her corset. He undid another button and a corset hook. Now she will push me over the bridge rail into the river, he thought, but she did not. As his fingers moved down to her hardened nipple, she kissed him more deeply, pressing against him. At any moment all we are wearing will fall away, he thought, and be carried down the river to the sea: her cloth buttons, my vest …
He said, “Are you sure, dear?”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” she whispered.
He took her hand and they ran across the bridge. Several times he turned to her and they kissed again. They hailed a carriage and clasped each other tightly on the leather cushions that smelled of cigars and other lovers. Mon Dieu , he thought, don’t let this moment melt away!
In his building on the rue de Furstenberg he almost pulled her up the stairs, fumbling with his studio key in the lock. Who the hell is here? he thought.
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