Paris: The Novel

some work there, including one of the Japanese bridges he was working on. The second studio was larger. In here, he turned to Marc and remarked: “You were saying that the pond could become an obsession. I will confess that recently I have been haunted by a dream for a huge project. It would be a huge room, circular, with enormous panels of lilies, floating in the water, and a hint of cloud perhaps. One would be completely surrounded by this great essay in blue light. I say blue, but of course I mean a thousand colors, mixing and reacting like the plants in the garden. For when colors interact, they create new colors, that one has never seen, or known that one has seen with the eye before.”
    “Such an obsession would be a life’s work, monsieur,” said Marc appreciatively.
    Monet nodded. Then he glanced at Marie. By chance, she was standing beside Hadley at that moment. His eyes took them both in.
    “So, this handsome American gentleman is your fiancé?” he asked.
    “My …?” She was completely taken off guard. She had not been prepared. She felt the deep blush coming into her face and it was no good, there was nothing she could do to stop it. “No, monsieur,” she stuttered.
    “Ah,” said Monet.
    “I’ve no such luck, monsieur,” said Hadley cheerfully, and glanced at Marie in a friendly way. But she could not look at him.
    Then Aunt Éloïse said something to Monet, and he answered her, and the conversation moved on, and nobody seemed to notice her anymore, for which she was grateful.
    A few minutes later, it was time to leave. As they were moving toward the doorway, Hadley turned to Marie and remarked quietly, “I hope Monet didn’t embarrass you by thinking we were engaged.”
    “No,” she said. “It was nothing.” And she wanted so much to say something else. Something to make him think of her. “I’m sure you’ve got prettier ladies to consider,” perhaps. Something. Anything. But she could not.

    As they waited on the platform for the train at Vernon, Marc and Hadley were deep in conversation, while Aunt Éloïse and Marie quietly chatted.
    “I think that was a very successful visit,” said Aunt Éloïse.
    “Yes. Monsieur Monet was really glad to see you. And I think he was glad to show off his garden.”
    “It’s a marvel,” said Aunt Éloïse. “A marvel.”
    When the train came they all got in. Soon they were clattering back toward Paris.
    “Well,” said Marc, “Hadley and I have come to a decision.”
    “And what is that?” asked his aunt.
    “I’d thought of spending time down in Fontainebleau during the summer, but”—he gave his aunt a look—“that may not be possible just at the moment. So Hadley and I are going to take lodgings up at Giverny for the summer. We shall paint up there.” He smiled. “We’ll see you all at summer’s end.”
    “Oh,” said Marie.

    There was an ancient peace at Fontainebleau. The Royal Château and its quiet park were older by far than Versailles. The place had first been used by King Philip Augustus, back in the twelfth century. But the main inspiration for the present palace came from the French Renaissance, in the time of François I and Leonardo da Vinci. And though Napoléon had used it as his personal Versailles, old Fontainebleau, with its shaded alleys, and huge forest nearby, retained a settled, quiet air that the stark magnificence of Louis XIV’s huge palace entirely lacked.
    As for the town, it was quiet, and conservative, and full of cousins.
    It was a pity, Marie thought wryly, that none of her cousins was the right age. Then she could just have married one of them and everyone would have been happy.
    “At least when you marry a cousin,” one of them had truly remarked, “you know what you’re getting.”
    So she walked the puppy, and visited her cousins, and took riding lessons because she might as well improve her skills. “In case another aristocrat comes along,” she told her mother with a smile.
    But she did not find much peace.
    Where was he? At Giverny. What was he doing? Painting out of doors, sketching, eating and drinking with the other artists there.
    Was he still speaking French? Or was he relapsing into English with the American colony in the village? Was he with a woman? Had he meta charming American girl, an artist perhaps, from a good family like his own? Would Marc write and mention casually that his friend was engaged?
    She imagined him, in this situation and that. Her imaginings did