Paris: The Novel

Éloïse had stood up for the boy.
    “If he wants a career in the art business,” he’d remarked to her, “I know the Durand-Ruel family. They’ve three galleries in Paris now, and another in New York. They’re starting to make money selling the Impressionists. Or I can easily get an introduction to the Duveens. They handle the Old Masters. They could give him advice.”
    “But Le Bon Dieu may have given Marc a special gift,” Éloïse had pointed out. “If so, it’s his duty to use it. He’s creative, a free spirit.”
    “That,” confessed his father, “is what worries me.”
    “You created the Joséphine store.”
    “Not the same.”
    “Besides,” his sister pointed out, “a painter can become a great man. Think of Delacroix. He was magnificent. You’d be proud to have a son like that.”
    “Hmm.” Jules pulled a face. “Delacroix had Talleyrand to ensure him a great career.”
    It was true that France’s epic romantic painter had obtained important state commissions from the powerful minister Talleyrand—and many believed that Talleyrand, a close friend of the Delacroix family, was actually the artist’s father.
    “Well, you have the resources to help him,” Éloïse pointed out. “And you’re his real father, too.”
    Jules Blanchard considered.
    “I just think it’s all too easy for him,” he complained. “He hasn’t suffered. Think of all those years I had to suffer working for our father.”
    “You didn’t suffer so much,” his sister said tolerantly.
    “I suffered,” he insisted.
    “He will suffer for his art,” said Éloïse.
    “I doubt it.” Jules Blanchard gave his sister a searching look. “Do you really believe the boy has the passion to be an artist? Do you think he’ll stick at it?”
    “I don’t know, Jules. But if you want my opinion, you should trust him.You should give him the chance to succeed—or to fail.” Éloïse paused. “If he is not good enough, he will realize it himself. But if he never tries, he’ll always regret that he didn’t.”
    That had been two years ago, and soon after the conversation, Jules Blanchard had made Marc an offer.
    “I will support you for five years,” he told him. “But if you have not met with any success by that time, then you will have to reconsider, and find some other employment. During those years, from time to time, I may ask you to do certain small projects for me. I shall not ask for more than one a year. Do you agree?”
    “Yes, Father. That seems reasonable.”
    “Good. Now, you will need a studio. There are a number to be had between the boulevard Haussmann and the Gare Saint-Lazare. Manet had a studio there, and Morisot and a number of our modern painters, and it will be close to our home as well.”
    Marc smiled to himself. The area would be close to home and also to his father’s office. He had no wish to live under the parental eyes.
    “In fact,” he said with perfect truth, “you’re more than a decade out of date. Some of the artists you’re thinking of have moved out of town altogether. A few went across the river. But the place for any artist to be nowadays is just below Montmartre, in the Place de Clichy area.”
    “A bit unsavory.”
    “Not really. And if I’m going to do it, I should be in the community, don’t you think? What’s the first project you’d like me to do?” he asked obligingly, to change the subject.
    “Your mother wants a new set of dining room chairs. I want you to design them. Something striking, out of the ordinary. I’ve got an excellent man who can make them.”
    A month later, Jules and his wife had been astonished when Marc had come in one evening and laid his designs out on the dining room table. The work was unlike anything they had seen before. Over the rich, full-bodied shapes of the chairs were carved elegant, sinuous, tendril-like lines that suggested delicate plants.
    “It reminds me of Gothic decoration, yet strangely modern,” remarked his father.
    “It makes me think of orchids,” said his mother. “Where does it come from?”
    “I have a friend at the School of Decorative Arts,” Marc told them. “He’s been showing me all the latest designs from Germany and England. It’s the coming thing.”
    “Does this style have a name?” asked Jules.
    “My friend calls it Art Nouveau. You’ll be setting the fashion. If you don’t mind being a little courageous.”
    “Well”—Jules looked at his wife—“I asked for something