Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland Read Free Book Online Page A

Circe.”
    “Ah, the enchantress who turned Ulysses’ men into swine. I shall have to struggle against such vulgar tendencies in this refi ned company.”
    “Auguste has the gift of being all things to all people without surrendering his own individuality,” Madame Charpentier said.
    “Don’t lionize me, madame, or I might be forced to compete with those stone lions that are ready to devour me every time I come here.”
    Cécile-Louise looked at his cap. “It was generous of you to leave off working for this occasion.”
    He put it behind his back. “Only to see you, a buttercup of beauty.”
    “Madame tells me your paintings have been in the Salon. How lovely to be in the Salon. Wasn’t it lovely, Marguerite, when monsieur’s painting of you was hanging in the place of honor? The only way for me to be in the place of honor is if you’d paint me, monsieur. You’re getting to be quite well known.”
    She turned from side to side, showing off her figure. “I hope you don’t like profiles.” She lifted her chin and turned her head. “I detest them.
    They’re so skimpy. Why have half a face when you can have the whole picture?” She framed her face with her hands. “Don’t you agree?”
    Now he knew to trust his first impression. The mouth was the
    problem.
    “Renoir!” Someone slapped him on the right shoulder. He winced.
    “My God, Raoul. I thought you were mayoring Saigon for the Re-
    public.”
    “I was, winning them over with champagne. I ordered the best. Ship-loads of it. Paid for it myself. The prestige of France hung in the balance.
    Voilà! Les enfants de la Patrie sont victorieux, ” he sang under his breath to the tune of “La Marseillaise.” “Nothing more to do, so I came home.”
    “Are you free? That is, have you any commitments?”
    • 32 •
    L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
    “Commitments to pleasure, my good man. My boats, my horse rac-
    ing, and, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle”—his eyebrows sprang
    up—“my ladies.”
    “In that order?”
    “On most days, at least for now. The regatta’s coming up.”
    “Don’t you have to work?”
    “I’m on a pension for injuries under the Empire.”
    Auguste cuffed him on the chest. “Good for you!”
    The moment of decision.
    What if Monsieur and Madame Beloir turned out to be disagree -
    able? He’d kick himself for making the safe decision and wasting the good summer light on the Seine by doing portraits. But if the Chatou painting turned out to be a disaster, his reputation would plummet, his confidence would crumple, and he’d kick himself for declining the offer. Southern light was magical, according to Cézanne. He could paint with him there. He’d never been to the South of France. Painting new motifs might satisfy his restlessness. But the motif of the terrace he was building in his mind would be hugely satisfying.
    The man of genius has not yet arisen. It was more than just proving Zola wrong. It was a matter of self-respect. Of respect for his own development. If he abandoned the Maison Fournaise painting, how would he think of himself?
    As a coward!
    “I have a little project, Raoul. Excuse us,” he said to Cécile-Louise, who pulled her shoulders back at the affront.
    He drew Raoul away, toward Ellen Andrée, and noticed that Raoul’s lurching gait was more pronounced now. “Ellen, a delight to see you.
    May I present the Baron Raoul Barbier, cavalry officer, war hero, states-man, bon vivant?”
    “We’ve just met.”
    “Good. I was quite taken with your pantomime of the ferryman’s
    daughter in the Folies-Bergère,” Auguste said.
    “It was only a divertissement. ”
    “Ah, but how you played it! Charming. Gambetta should make the
    government subsidize the Folies instead of the Comédie-Française.”
    • 33 •
    S u s a n V r e e l a n d
    “I disagree. A national theater for the classics is far more deserving than the popularist entertainments at the Folies.”
    Her small lips