“We’re out of cognac at the studio,” said Henri, wanting very much to ask Juliette if somewhere, somehow, he might see Carmen, his Carmen, again.
“My apartment is too small,” said Lucien. “And the bakery is out of the question.” He wanted to be alone with Juliette, to lose himself in her presence, but his desire was somewhat dampened by the fear that she might murder him.
“How is your mother?” asked Juliette, wondering if there might not be a perfect amount of cognac that would ease the struggle of making a confession without releasing the impulse to kick portholes in the kidneys of her confessors and get on about her day.
“She sends her regards,” said Lucien.
“Was that a breadboard she hit me with?”
“Crêpe pan.”
“She’s a strong woman.”
“She didn’t really send her regards. I was making that up.”
“She’s always been very kind to me,” said Henri. “But I’ve never almost killed her son.”
“Or broken his heart,” said Lucien.
“It was for art, you know? I’m not a monster,” said Juliette.
“You take people’s lives, their health, their loved ones,” said Lucien.
“I’m not always a monster,” she said, pouting.
“A monster with an exquisite bottom,” said Henri. “Speaking from a purely aesthetic point of view.”
They were just passing by a tobacco shop where a gruff-looking woman stood in the doorway and scowled at them, rather than nodding the usual bonsoir.
“Perhaps we should discuss my bottom in a more discreet locale,” said Juliette.
“Or not at all,” said Lucien.
“You painted an enormous nude of me, Lucien. Did you think no one would notice?”
“It’s hidden down a mine.”
“It was the only place I could think to hide it that was close to Bruant’s club.”
“I have a fully stocked bar at my apartment,” said Toulouse-Lautrec.
And so they found themselves in Toulouse-Lautrec’s parlor, drinking brandy and discussing the awkward business of modeling for classical motifs.
“You know what I hated most about posing for Leda and the Swan?” said Juliette. “The part where you have to bonk the swan.”
“If it’s all about the painting, why don’t you just become the painter?” asked Henri.
“I’ve done that a couple of times, become the painter. It doesn’t seem to work to make the color. It turns out I have no artistic talent. Although I was able to inspire paintings also as a model at those times.”
“Berthe Morisot?” asked Lucien.
“Yes.” Juliette drained her glass and held it out for Henri to refill. “Don’t misunderstand, I loved standing there with the others, our easels all lined up, painting the same motif. Cézanne, Pis
sarro, Monet, Renoir, sometimes Sisley and Bazille as well. Cézanne and Pissarro dressed in their high boots and canvas jackets, like they were on an expedition in the country. Cézanne wearing that ridiculous red sash to show he was from the South, not a Parisian, and Pissarro carrying that heavy walking staff, even if we were only on the banks of the Seine, painting Pont-Neuf. Me in my spring dress, looking completely out of place among all the men, but one of them, accepted by the Rejected.”
She sighed and smiled. “Lovely Pissarro. Like everyone’s favorite uncle. I remember one time we were all at a showing of our work at Durand-Ruel’s gallery, and one patron saw me among the male painters and called me a gourgandine, a hussy. Pissarro punched the man in the face and stood over him with Renoir and the others while he lectured him, not about my lady’s honor, but about my value as a great painter. Gentle Pissarro. So fierce in truth. So gallant.” She raised her glass and drank to Pissarro.
“You really have great affection for him, don’t you?” asked Lucien.