and the leaves on the trees looked pathetic and limp.
Valentine was laid out for two days at the Maison du Mortuaire on Rampart Street. A stream of mourners, friends of my parents and grandparents, and my Avegno relatives filed past her tiny body, which was surrounded by white chrysanthemums. Rochilieu, who had come up from his plantation in Plaquemine, stood close to the casket with his arm around Mama. Once, a large glob of candle wax fell onto Valentine’s forehead, and Rochilieu tenderly scraped it away with his fingers. Just before the mortician closed Valentine’s casket, I placed the rosary Sister Emily-Jean had given me in my sister’s cold, lifeless hands.
By the time we returned to Parlange two weeks later, the last cane stalks had been cut and ground, and the sugar had been packed into hogsheads. To save freight charges, Grandmère had arranged for a speculator from Cincinnati to buy the sugar directly from her. Still, the crop did not yield a sufficient price to cover the plantation’s expenses. She had long ago sold her jewels and spent the money she had hidden in metal chests in the garden. After Grandmère paid the workers, there was little left. She had no choice but to ask Mama for a five-thousand-dollar loan, which Grandmère used to buy seed cane, repair the sugarhouse, and pay taxes.
No sooner was the last hogshead sold than Charles and Grandmère set to work repairing the ditches and fences, and laying the seed cane for next year’s crop. I helped in the mornings, listlessly pushing myself through the motions of hammering and hoeing—all the while dreaming of a reunion with Valentine in heaven.
In the afternoons, I sat for Julie. She was painting a portrait of Valentine, working from a daguerreotype that had been taken in Paris. I posed for the coloring of flesh, hair, and clothes. Every day after lunch, we went to Julie’s bedroom, which she had turned into a studio. Paints and brushes cluttered the dressing table; empty canvases leaned against the walls. Julie had removed the curtains so that light poured in, giving the mahogany furniture and gray walls a golden glow.
Julie posed me on a toile-covered fauteuil, wearing an old white chiffon dress of Mama’s that Alzea had cut down to fit me. With a palette in one hand and a brush in the other, Julie perched at the end of her chair and painted briskly with long, vigorous sweeps. Sometimes she’d take up her crutches and hobble around the room to see how the light looked from different perspectives.
My limbs ached from holding them immobile for long stretches, but I tried not to complain. We took breaks every hour, and sometimes we talked as Julie painted. I told her about Farnsworth, about Aurélie’s departure, about Mama’s bizarre concern that my skin was darkening, about Dr. Chomel and his Solution. I had used up my last jars before we left Paris, and my face had returned to its former luster.
“Mimi, you have the most beautiful skin. The way the light catches it—sometimes casting a pink glow and at other times a blue shadow—is just extraordinary,” said Julie. She held out a brushful of flesh-toned paint and squinted at me.
“Turn your head to the right, please. Ahh. Such a distinctive profile. You are a great beauty, chérie. ”
I knew I wasn’t pretty like Mama and Valentine. My nose was too long, my chin too pointed, my forehead too high, my lips too thin. Yet, even at eleven, I was starting to sense I had something better than mere loveliness. By some strange alchemy, my features had combined into a face of extraordinary interest. That was why men stared at me, why Aurélie and Julie called me beautiful.
It took Julie two months to complete Valentine’s portrait. When it was finished, Grandmère hung it over the parlor mantel—the first of Julie’s pictures to be displayed. Valentine is frozen for all time in front of a window overlooking the garden. Dappled sunlight filters in, casting lavender and gray shadows in
Valentine was laid out for two days at the Maison du Mortuaire on Rampart Street. A stream of mourners, friends of my parents and grandparents, and my Avegno relatives filed past her tiny body, which was surrounded by white chrysanthemums. Rochilieu, who had come up from his plantation in Plaquemine, stood close to the casket with his arm around Mama. Once, a large glob of candle wax fell onto Valentine’s forehead, and Rochilieu tenderly scraped it away with his fingers. Just before the mortician closed Valentine’s casket, I placed the rosary Sister Emily-Jean had given me in my sister’s cold, lifeless hands.
By the time we returned to Parlange two weeks later, the last cane stalks had been cut and ground, and the sugar had been packed into hogsheads. To save freight charges, Grandmère had arranged for a speculator from Cincinnati to buy the sugar directly from her. Still, the crop did not yield a sufficient price to cover the plantation’s expenses. She had long ago sold her jewels and spent the money she had hidden in metal chests in the garden. After Grandmère paid the workers, there was little left. She had no choice but to ask Mama for a five-thousand-dollar loan, which Grandmère used to buy seed cane, repair the sugarhouse, and pay taxes.
No sooner was the last hogshead sold than Charles and Grandmère set to work repairing the ditches and fences, and laying the seed cane for next year’s crop. I helped in the mornings, listlessly pushing myself through the motions of hammering and hoeing—all the while dreaming of a reunion with Valentine in heaven.
In the afternoons, I sat for Julie. She was painting a portrait of Valentine, working from a daguerreotype that had been taken in Paris. I posed for the coloring of flesh, hair, and clothes. Every day after lunch, we went to Julie’s bedroom, which she had turned into a studio. Paints and brushes cluttered the dressing table; empty canvases leaned against the walls. Julie had removed the curtains so that light poured in, giving the mahogany furniture and gray walls a golden glow.
Julie posed me on a toile-covered fauteuil, wearing an old white chiffon dress of Mama’s that Alzea had cut down to fit me. With a palette in one hand and a brush in the other, Julie perched at the end of her chair and painted briskly with long, vigorous sweeps. Sometimes she’d take up her crutches and hobble around the room to see how the light looked from different perspectives.
My limbs ached from holding them immobile for long stretches, but I tried not to complain. We took breaks every hour, and sometimes we talked as Julie painted. I told her about Farnsworth, about Aurélie’s departure, about Mama’s bizarre concern that my skin was darkening, about Dr. Chomel and his Solution. I had used up my last jars before we left Paris, and my face had returned to its former luster.
“Mimi, you have the most beautiful skin. The way the light catches it—sometimes casting a pink glow and at other times a blue shadow—is just extraordinary,” said Julie. She held out a brushful of flesh-toned paint and squinted at me.
“Turn your head to the right, please. Ahh. Such a distinctive profile. You are a great beauty, chérie. ”
I knew I wasn’t pretty like Mama and Valentine. My nose was too long, my chin too pointed, my forehead too high, my lips too thin. Yet, even at eleven, I was starting to sense I had something better than mere loveliness. By some strange alchemy, my features had combined into a face of extraordinary interest. That was why men stared at me, why Aurélie and Julie called me beautiful.
It took Julie two months to complete Valentine’s portrait. When it was finished, Grandmère hung it over the parlor mantel—the first of Julie’s pictures to be displayed. Valentine is frozen for all time in front of a window overlooking the garden. Dappled sunlight filters in, casting lavender and gray shadows in
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