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

came together primly, definitively, a perfect fi t. He patted her cheek. “I wasn’t serious.”
    He beckoned to Jules Laforgue and spoke to the three of them, Jules, Raoul, and Ellen, in a low voice. “I have a project that might happily involve the three of you, if you consent. A painting for which I need about a dozen people to model. At Chatou, the Maison Fournaise. Do you know it?”
    He could hardly believe what he was saying. Twenty-four hours ago he would have shouted across the room to Monsieur and Madame Beloir, Yes, yes! The South of France. I’ll do it. Give me an hour to pack.
    “I know La Maison Fournaise,” Cécile-Louise said, gliding up to them.
    Sacrebleu! Ears to match her mouth.
    “It’s a pretty setting by the river,” Cécile-Louise said. “I insist on being there too. Marguerite, don’t you agree that I should be?”
    Madame Charpentier drew in her double chin. “It would be nice if you consented, Auguste.”
    He felt the room spinning. Or was it his brain? “This isn’t a group portrait. It’s a scene, a moment in modern life.”
    “All the better. I am, I must say, a modern woman.”
    Ellen rolled her eyes. “I’ll be happy to help you,” she said, “just so you don’t paint me as an absinthe-sotted waif like Edgar Degas did.”
    “No, Ellen. I’m not a fl âneur making harsh observations on society.
    It will just be a joyful moment in a beautiful day.”
    “My mother saw Degas’ painting and hasn’t trusted me since. I said I was acting. ‘All the worse,’ she said, ‘elevating make-believe depravity to art.’ ”
    “This one she will love, I promise you.”
    “When would you like us?”
    “Sunday, at noon, for luncheon on the terrace. Several Sundays.”
    “Oh.” Ellen’s face clouded. “I’ll have to leave by five or six. I have performances on Sunday nights.”
    “We’ll have you off in good time. If you’d like to go boating before lunch, I’ll make sure there are rowing yoles saved for you.”
    • 34 •
    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
    “I’ll sail there from Argenteuil,” the baron said, “and take you out for a boating party. My new sloop, Le Capitaine, flies faster than wind.”
    Auguste felt a sinking in his chest at this threat to Gustave at the helm of his Iris. “A thoroughbred of the river, I’m sure.”
    “Or maybe I’ll use Nana and keep you in suspense about Le Capitaine. ”
    “It will be a privilege to be in on a painting of yours from the start,”
    Jules said.
    Auguste gave his thanks and Madame Charpentier drew him aside
    behind an enormous dahlia plant in a Chinese jardiniere and whispered, “You’ve made your decision, then.”
    “Yes.”
    “And you’re going to leave it for me to tell them?”
    “No. I’ll tell them.”
    “You must ask Jeanne to be in it. Her cachet will smooth the way into the Salon.”
    “I already have, though I doubt that she’ll pose. She hated my full-length portrait of her.”
    In a flash of memory he saw the shimmering white gown with a
    train, the white satin slipper peeking out from her hemline, her white-gloved hands holding a handkerchief, her lips parted sensuously—
    every detail an injury to him now.
    “How could she hate it? It’s a masterpiece.”
    “She said it would do nothing for her reputation.”
    “She would have liked it well enough if it had been hung where
    Sarah Bernhardt’s was.”
    “The truth is, she’s left me for more academic painters. They’ll present her identifiably in her theatrical roles to advance her career, something I wouldn’t do. I’m not an advertiser.”
    “Left you? Completely? In all ways?”
    “I thought you, all-wise and all-knowing woman of society, would already know.” Auguste brushed his left palm down his pant leg as though smoothing a wrinkle. “When a lady and I go our separate ways, it’s been my custom to paint her one last time, and give it to her as a souvenir d’amour. She condescended to let me, but