past. He’d been so wealthy and handsome. He was always photographed with beautiful women – women who spent their time in spas rather than university libraries. And as much as we say that beauty comes from within, it can be hard not to envy those who have so much beauty without, too. The great heroines are rarely plain. What if Beauty and the Beast had been reversed and the young girl was the one who looked like a monster? Would a male beauty have bothered to try to see what lay beneath?
The night before I was due to fly to Venice, I sat down with my notes on Augustine’s life so far and read them through again. But I was distracted.
I posed in front of the mirror in the bedroom, looking at my new haircut. The hairdresser had persuaded me that losing a couple of inches in length would make my hair infinitely more chic. I liked it. Would Marco? I ran my hand through the new choppy layers, remembering what Marco had said about my hair back in February, when he told me what he thought of my photograph on the university website.
I admit upon first inspection you were not what I might call ‘my type’. Your hair. Why did you wear it at such an unflattering length? But your best efforts with that knife-cut fringe could not hide your beautiful cheekbones. Michelangelo might have carved your generous mouth and your perfectly straight nose. Your chin is feminine yet determined. You have the face of a mythical heroine. A goddess. No amount of bad lighting and ill-chosen costume could conceal your beautiful bones.
Or your eyes . . . There is mischief in those perfect blue irises. Blue like a pair of old Levi’s. That is a great compliment, I hope you know . . .
I hugged the memory of that compliment to me now and smiled at my reflection as I imagined Marco smiling back at me. In less than twenty-four hours I might be in his arms.
Chapter 14
Paris, 1839
Life was very happy in the chambre de bonne at 76, Rue de la Ville L’ Evêque, but alas, unbeknownst to me, trouble was brewing in the salon downstairs. Remi had been working on his portrait of Arlette for weeks now and Arlette was growing impatient. It was Remi’s belief that the subject should not see the painting until it was finished, lest they be disappointed with the work in progress. Remi had warned Arlette of this, explaining that he worked in a very particular way and for quite some time it might look as though he was making no progress at all, when in fact he was making those tiny adjustments that would add up to perfection.
Arlette took Remi at his word and promised she would not try to take a peek at her portrait until Remi gave his permission. I believe she stuck by her promise because several times she complained to me that she was growing impatient and begged me to tell her what I had seen. Was Remi making her beautiful? Should she have worn the green dress after all?
I could tell her truthfully that I did not know. Arlette was not the only person forbidden to see Remi’s work until such time as he deemed it ready. I could only tell her I thought he seemed happy and that was a good sign. I was sure I would have some inkling if he was dissatisfied.
Finally, six weeks after he started the portrait, Remi told Arlette he would not need her for another sitting. He had only to put the finishing touches to the background and then it would be complete. Arlette was beside herself with excitement. She had one of the men take down the old painting above the mantelpiece in preparation. She told all her friends about the portrait’s imminent unveiling.
Elaine and I were with her when Remi said he was finally ready.
Arlette had put on her blue dress for the occasion, so that we could properly marvel at the likeness. The portrait was covered with the paint-spattered cloth that Remi draped over it every night. Remi stood to the side of it, smiling proudly. I was already pleased with whatever he had painted. I knew it would be wonderful.
Arlette
The night before I was due to fly to Venice, I sat down with my notes on Augustine’s life so far and read them through again. But I was distracted.
I posed in front of the mirror in the bedroom, looking at my new haircut. The hairdresser had persuaded me that losing a couple of inches in length would make my hair infinitely more chic. I liked it. Would Marco? I ran my hand through the new choppy layers, remembering what Marco had said about my hair back in February, when he told me what he thought of my photograph on the university website.
I admit upon first inspection you were not what I might call ‘my type’. Your hair. Why did you wear it at such an unflattering length? But your best efforts with that knife-cut fringe could not hide your beautiful cheekbones. Michelangelo might have carved your generous mouth and your perfectly straight nose. Your chin is feminine yet determined. You have the face of a mythical heroine. A goddess. No amount of bad lighting and ill-chosen costume could conceal your beautiful bones.
Or your eyes . . . There is mischief in those perfect blue irises. Blue like a pair of old Levi’s. That is a great compliment, I hope you know . . .
I hugged the memory of that compliment to me now and smiled at my reflection as I imagined Marco smiling back at me. In less than twenty-four hours I might be in his arms.
Chapter 14
Paris, 1839
Life was very happy in the chambre de bonne at 76, Rue de la Ville L’ Evêque, but alas, unbeknownst to me, trouble was brewing in the salon downstairs. Remi had been working on his portrait of Arlette for weeks now and Arlette was growing impatient. It was Remi’s belief that the subject should not see the painting until it was finished, lest they be disappointed with the work in progress. Remi had warned Arlette of this, explaining that he worked in a very particular way and for quite some time it might look as though he was making no progress at all, when in fact he was making those tiny adjustments that would add up to perfection.
Arlette took Remi at his word and promised she would not try to take a peek at her portrait until Remi gave his permission. I believe she stuck by her promise because several times she complained to me that she was growing impatient and begged me to tell her what I had seen. Was Remi making her beautiful? Should she have worn the green dress after all?
I could tell her truthfully that I did not know. Arlette was not the only person forbidden to see Remi’s work until such time as he deemed it ready. I could only tell her I thought he seemed happy and that was a good sign. I was sure I would have some inkling if he was dissatisfied.
Finally, six weeks after he started the portrait, Remi told Arlette he would not need her for another sitting. He had only to put the finishing touches to the background and then it would be complete. Arlette was beside herself with excitement. She had one of the men take down the old painting above the mantelpiece in preparation. She told all her friends about the portrait’s imminent unveiling.
Elaine and I were with her when Remi said he was finally ready.
Arlette had put on her blue dress for the occasion, so that we could properly marvel at the likeness. The portrait was covered with the paint-spattered cloth that Remi draped over it every night. Remi stood to the side of it, smiling proudly. I was already pleased with whatever he had painted. I knew it would be wonderful.
Arlette
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