Paris: The Novel

in the studio afterward. And putting on a large, broad-rimmed straw hat, he led them outside.
    The main building was a long, low farmhouse with green shutters, set close to the lane, its walls pleasantly covered with flowering plants and creepers. On the garden side of the house, in the center, stood a pair of yew trees, between which a broad path led down through the garden.
    But there all resemblance with any garden Marie had seen before came to an end.
    The garden was not a wilderness. Far from it. For a start, everything was divided into carefully planted flower beds, though they were placed so close together that one could hardly walk between them. There were fruit trees and climbing roses. But having placed them, Monet left the plants to develop a life of their own. The result was a richness and profusion that was astonishing.
    “I plant for color,” he explained. “I have daffodils and tulips, hollyhocks and daisies, and poppies. Sunflowers. All kinds of annuals. In late summer the nasturtiums appear and cover the path. And then friends bring me all kinds of things, rare plants from all over the world, and I find a place for them all.”
    This rich riot of color filled over two acres.
    “I should have brought my mother,” Marie exclaimed.
    “Bring her another time,” he said kindly.
    If she ever took him up on the offer, Marie thought, she’d better find some quite amazing and exotic plant to bring.
    They wandered about very contentedly, chatting about the garden.
    “I paint plants,” he remarked genially to Marc and Hadley. “I sell the paintings, and with the money I buy more plants. It’s a harmless kind of lunacy, I suppose.” He turned to Aunt Éloïse. “Would you like to see my pond?”
    “By all means.”
    For this it was necessary to leave the garden by a small gate at the bottom that gave onto a little local railway line.
    “There’s no station here,” he explained, “but once in a while a train comes by, so we take care as we cross the tracks.” And he gave Aunt Éloïse his arm.
    Once across the tracks they entered another enclosure, entirely different from the first.
    “We rented the house for years before I was able to buy it,” Monet explained. “Then, five or six years ago, I was able to buy this plot across the tracks, where there was a small stream, and this enabled me to create a pond. And here,” he said proudly, “is the result.”
    If the main garden was a paradise of plants, this new domain was like a dream.
    Willows and delicate bushes fringed the pond. Water lilies floated upon its surface. And at a certain narrow point, a local craftsman had constructed a curved, wooden Japanese bridge over the water. Up by the house, one looked at flowers. Here one looked at lilies floating in a watery world, and at the reflection of branches, leaves, flowers and the sky and clouds above, in the soft, liquid mirror of the pond. They walked onto the bridge and gazed down, in silence.
    “We started the pond in ’93,” Monet said. “But one has to wait for things to grow. Nature teaches us patience. I didn’t start to paint a thing down here until ’97.”
    “I think it could become an obsession,” said Marc.
    “I have always painted light striking objects—a building, a field, a haystack. This is different. The color is different. And you are right. Water draws one in. It’s very primitive. Mysterious. I think I shall be painting these lilies for the rest of my life.”
    They walked slowly back. As they came to the railway line, Monet again offered Aunt Éloïse his arm. And following suit, Hadley offered his arm to Marie, who took it. And as she did so, never having touched him before, she felt something suddenly run through her so that she involuntarily trembled.
    “You all right?” he asked.
    “Yes. I’m just afraid of trains. I used to have dreams of getting stuck on a train track when I was a little girl.” What was this nonsense she was talking? Did she sound like an idiot?
    He took her arm firmly.
    “It was grizzly bears for me.” He grinned. “No trains coming. Tell me if you see a bear.”
    Safely across the tracks, he let go of her arm, and she gave a little gasp.
    “You’re that relieved?” he said in a friendly voice. “We’d better keep you off the tracks.”
    As they made their way back through the garden, she felt the sun beating upon her head.
    Monet’s house had two studios. The first had formerly been a small barn, and he showed them