CHAPTER SEVEN
As Pleasant an Afternoon
The two women made slow a procession around the grounds of the estate later that afternoon. Jacqueline Ferland in her dour darks and Madeleine de Grenville in her summer brights were in stark contrast. They each maintained precise posture as they strolled, hands clasped fore or aft and with shoulders squared. It being a pleasant enough afternoon, Madame de Grenville had made a resolution to take time to speak in confidence with Madame Ferland. It was not so much that there was something specific that needed saying but, as the hostess, Madeleine felt that she had a responsibility to her most reclusive guest. The cadence of the ladies was pointedly casual, showing for any that might observe them, that they were women entirely comfortable in their environment without a hint of undignified stress in their lives.
Madeleine was provoking every topic of conversation, encouraging her quieter companion to voice opinions. The more Madeleine got to know Madam Ferland, the less interest she found herself having to learn more about the woman. She had been that wife for twenty years, marrying Ambrose when he was already advanced in his profession and life. There was a fourteen-year gulf between the husband and wife yet it was Jacqueline that seemed the most aged in manner and bearing. Madeleine found her to be entirely without happiness and worse; she was without a wish to be happy. Madame de Grenville was rent between two attitudes toward the woman. Should she pity her for her inability to wish for a better life or should she envy her that stoic contentment? It would be, thought Madeleine on her darker days, such bliss to no longer wish.
Madeleine had married for money, and prestige, and all the things that a young woman was supposed to marry for. She might have loved Roland from time to time when he did not embarrass her. That was her ambition, her duty, of late, she believed: she must never allow Roland to appear to the world as weak as he was. If they laughed at her husband, they could not but laugh louder at her for choosing him, for allowing herself to be selected by him. She had forfeited so much for this marriage and there was no way that she was going to let that be wasted. She had given her life to Roland. That could not be allowed to be a mistake. Loss could not be allowed to become regret.
As she strolled along beside Madame Ferland, Madeleine did not feel regrets. She could walk at the side of this woman and feel that she had made the better choice than Madam Ferland. Yet no, she could not say that with certainty. There was a regret... there was a hint of envy... of desire. Was it too late for her to bear her husband a child? Could she endure the world that such a change would require? A son. A daughter. It did not feel as though she desired it, yet was she not a woman? Was it not her duty? No. Her duty was to herself - to her past - to her future. Her duty was to all that she had discarded in the name of her choice. Madeleine's future was entirely obliged to her past.
Jacqueline, sensing a silence which had grown too long, finally ventured to initiate a topic, saying, "My dear, I wish to thank you for your tolerance of my daughter. It was very generous of you to take all three of us in. You did not need to."
A polite smile answered, "You are all entirely welcome. I am glad for Ghislaine's presence. She adds a certain vitality to the proceedings."
Six steps were taken before Jacqueline took up the strain again. "Vitality. You will, please, tell me if she gets in the way… in any way. If she is any trouble at all."
"She has been none."
The dark woman gave a smile for her daughter’s sake. “I try to keep her occupied, and not underfoot, but she is a young woman and will find ways to escape me.”
“She is curious, I think, and her mind seems ever active.”
"Sometimes I wonder what she thinks – what she does when she is idle. Have you spoken to her much at all? Does she have your confidence?” asked Madame Ferland. Madeleine could sense that her walking companion was uncomfortable bringing these notions to the surface, but her curiosity was being tweaked, and that was always a pleasant sensation.
"I have not been intimate with her. Is there a concern that you have? I would be pleased to try to gain her absolute trust if you had reason to believe... Do you believe that she is keeping secrets from you?"
"I fear so," she said. Another woman might have denied it immediately but Madame Ferland was less concerned with any weaknesses that might show. The fear of losing her daughter to things beyond her control was overriding any thought of her own appearances. On she strode with her sombre black skirts carving a wake of scattered green and yellow leaves behind her. They were rounding the house and coming up to the wide view of the countryside at the back of the estates when the beginnings of an enterprise first suggested itself to Madeleine.
"Young Boniface is a handsome and likeable young man, don't you think?"
Jacqueline intook her breath with venom, "He is dangerous and wicked, I believe."
"Wicked," repeated the woman beside her, allowing the word to hover in the air for a moment. "Yes, I agree that he may be. We should neither of us be at all surprised though if a young woman was to find herself attracted to him."
"Not a respectable young woman."
Madeleine suddenly felt herself at a loss for words. Had she been insulted? No. This Madame Ferland was being foolish. She tried a defense, "I do not think that Ghislaine will lose sight of her duty."
"I do not know," was all that the troubled mother could say.
Madeleine ventured a belief, "When a girl wishes something, respectability does not have its necessary weight. It tends to float away with the breeze. Should she falter, it would not make her a failed woman. In any case, we will not let her falter."
"Perhaps she and I should leave."
Madeleine stopped and turned to Madame Ferland to place a reassuring and sober hand upon the woman's sleeve. She committed, "Madame. I will ensure that Ghislaine does not enter into any improprieties while she is here. It will be all right."
It was a long sigh before Madame Ferland nodded and placed a hand atop that of the other woman. "Your assurance is appreciated."
"Let us make another circuit, Madame Ferland. It has just occurred to me how I might be of great service to you in this matter."
There was the hint of happiness on the visage of the bound woman as she acquiesced. "I would love another turn. The weather is marvellous."
Her companion was less talkative for a time. A scheme was nearing full development and it was quickly becoming an idea that might bear ripe fruit indeed.
"Here is what I am thinking," began Madeleine, "Do you know the old ford of the river to the south? Well, it is nicely pastoral, isolated and yet with many places where one could conceal themselves should one wish to spy upon happenings there."
Jacqueline's expression indicated that she had no idea where her walking companion was taking this discussion. Madeleine continued, "Trust me, my friend. First, understand that Boniface is not the only threat to your daughter's affections. As shocking as I am sure you will find it, I have seen her eyeing Monsieur Montaigne."
"My God. No!"
Palms were raised and then slowly lowered to reassure the woman. "Do not worry. He will make no progress. We shall see to that. But the first thing we must do if we are to combat these threats is to reconnoitre and gain intelligence."
"You are so much cleverer than I in these things, Madame." Madame Ferland did not mean it and Madame de Grenville did not entirely believe it. Madeleine was, if anything, more on her guard now. Was this woman playing at something?
"We shall see," said the lady of the light pastels. "My plan is a bold one so I do hope that you will have faith. Here is what I intend to do: I will arrange for Monsieur Roy and Monsieur Montaigne to picnic at the old ford. They will go to paint for the Leda. Backgrounds. Alone at the river, they will have the confidence to be themselves, a way from the prying eyes of the household."
"Yes, but I do not see..."
"With them, on this picnic, will be Ghislaine."
Jacqueline's eyes were understandably wide.
"As I said, it is a bold scheme but I believe it to be a good one. I will, all the while, be secreted nearby and observing everything. It is perfect. Monsieur Roy and Montaigne do not much like one another. That is certain. We could not therefore wish for a better chaperone for dear Ghislaine. If either of the men made any improper advance, the other would surely step forward to protect her."
"I suppose but..."
"But they will still be much more open about their true feelings. I will, from my hidden place, be able to see with absolute certainty if either of those men is any threat to your daughter's good name. And, of course, should the men not prove suitable chaperones, I can step out of my refuge in an instant and put a halt to anything that approaches impropriety. Nothing can possibly go amiss, Madame." Here, Madeleine pressed a hand of assurance upon the dark sleeve of her co-conspirator.
Jacqueline was mystified. This proposal was absurd, in any practical sense. It seemed a scheme for the sake of scheming. Madeleine had some ulterior motive, it was clear, but Jacqueline could not see the deeper design yet. Before consenting to this tomfoolery, she would prod it a little.
"I should be the witness. You could show me the hiding places," suggested Jacqueline, but Madeleine was quick to respond to this.
"Ah, but the key to all of this is that Ghislaine must believe that you are back at the house. She has to think herself unguarded if we are to see her at her most honest."
"Perhaps," pondered the darker of the pair, but then she worried, "Do you believe that she is that very different when she thinks herself unwatched?"
There was a bright laugh in the warm afternoon then. "Oh no," said Madeleine. "We will see by this that there is nothing to fear. My report to you will be filled with tedious details of two painters hard at work while a bored and petulant maiden skipped stones. Then, you will know that you have naught to fear and you can relax, enjoying your summer as you and your daughter should. We will see that all is yet right with the world and you will not ever have to whisper a word of your worries to your husband."
Madame Ferland sighed, "He does not understand young people or how I worry."
It was a reassuring tone that flavoured Madame de Grenville's words, "Men never understand how hard it is. We must protect dear Ghislaine's interests and so, your interests."
"I feel much assured. I do not really see..."
"Everything will go without incident. We will look back on it as a harmless adventure. All that will be required of you is to act perfectly natural except..." Madeleine paused as she saw a way that everything could unravel. "Would Ghislaine suspect something if you allowed her to go to the river without you? With those men?"
"Oh. Yes, I suppose she would at that. But it was such a good plan."
Madeleine was already working on the idea though. She was too invested in the adventure now to abandon it for such a low obstacle. If it could be hurdled, it would be.
"Leave it to me. I have a weapon at my disposal. My husband will propose the expedition and all of its components. You can, if you wish, put on all manner of fretful countenances at the prospect of his commandment, but at the end you can surrender to your host's stern demands. Once I have explained how important this matter is to you, and I, he will play his part to perfection. Come, let us complete this rotation and then have ourselves some lemon juice."
"Oh no, it is too expensive and sour."
Perhaps she had gotten too much into this character that she was playing but Madeleine felt bold and saucy enough to venture a bitter witticism to put an apple in the maw of her boar. "You have just described my husband." Madeleine, at least, laughed to herself. Madame Ferland smiled.
Following the casual parting of the ladies, Madame de Grenville hurried to her husband where she raised the matter of the picnic expedition with calculated calm. This would be a means, she explained, of reducing the tensions between these two most fractious artists. Ghislaine was needed to enliven the composition. Ambrose should not be included because each of Charles and Boniface would perceive Ambrose as siding with the other, even as the venerable man sought only moderation and compromise. Madeleine was not as successful as she wished in making it all seem to be Roland's idea. She proved to be too impatient to wait for Roland's mind to come up with creative solutions on its own. The stick would be thrown right next to where the juicy bone lay in plain sight, but still the pet would only come bounding back to happily return the drool slick twig. No mention was made, as the scheme was laid out, of Madeleine having any part to play, especially not her spying role. This was a private intrigue. So when Roland did come up with an idea to hide away to watch the scene unfold, his wife scolded and chastised him for immoral intentions. Her affectations of outrage would have been applauded on a Parisian stage, she secretly acclaimed. Eventually she did manage to sufficiently enthuse her husband to the project, so that she could entrust him to play his part without realizing that he was an agent.
The role assigned to Madame Ferland left that lady anxiously underemployed. She had only to wait until the evening when, with Ghislaine in the room, Ambrose voiced the surprising news that M. de Grenville had proposed the outing. She then initially undertook various expressions of outrage and indignation, as best befitted the situation, before eventually acquiescing in such a way as to allow her intimate family to believe that they had won some victory. Ghislaine proved incapable of concealing her delight and was bouncing in her chair. Ambrose Ferland dwelled for a time on suspicions once raised by Roland de Grenville, but those speculations, earlier easily brushed aside, had gained no new arguments and so now could be just as simply set down as unjustified. The young would have their day in the sun.
Only two nights further on, Charles Montaigne was tramping across the cascading plains of Amance. Though his strides seemed certain, he cared little for trails. He had no destinations. If he sought inspiration in cypress grove or cherry orchard, he was quite blind to it. The man did not appraise the merits of the nature through which he dusken travelled. He marched past shadowed fence posts as though they were Parisian prostitutes. The vaulted grey canopy of leaves could not hearken his attention more than a block of apartments would. There would be moments - mere moments - when the angle of some deadfall shaped a silhouette stark enough to call his heed to the composition, or in passing some flower that grew from the living bark of beech, he might make mental note of the juxtaposition. Were the sun to accompany his expedition, there may have been a sketchpad in hand, but on such nightly treks, his empty hands were often clasped behind.
Despite the cadence of the artist's gait, it was the mind - the imagination of Montaigne that travelled far afield. Coupled with the near unconscious parade of new circumstance before his senses, the speed of his advance powered his mind like a steam locomotive engine. He conjured or crafted ideas and images which could not be put down again until they were twisted or doctored, dissected and cornered. Even discarded, they would struggle and torture new thoughts and aged notions that fought to stay pure.
Beauty was the goal, the pinnacle, of all Montaigne’s thoughts this night. Swans, and trees, and Queens, the sun… shadows, smiles, surprise, and shock… delight and fear… despair perhaps… darkness and light… how bright the bird's white?
A wind blew up, scattered the thoughts of Charles, and obliged a risen collar ere he could return to rearranging his puzzlings. In those seconds, Charles observed that his circuitous ramblings had brought him to the track that spanned the fields between Roland's estate and the village of L________. He turned toward home, set himself upon one side of the rutted track, and strode.
Moments after, an indistinct voice flew below the moon, fleeting. Charles shrugged away the sound to burrow deeper into his brain. Footfalls too then, but they were shut out.
"I said 'Hey'."
Boniface Roy sprung beside Charles and with spry and rapid paces, overtook the ogre for a half a step and spun to grin at him.
"Hey Hey."
It was Boniface again. Charles gave the surliest of grunts and once more raised his collar. The younger laughed, and tripped, but stumbled, and then renewed his laugh, maintained his cheer, and took place beside the larger, marching figure of Montaigne.
The two stepped in silence, with Boniface spiritually daring Charles to initiate a dialogue. After only a few minutes of waiting, Boniface grew bored of that game and dropped back a pace. Deftly he slid in behind the great man, and, with less than a hand's span between them, Boniface followed after Montaigne, matching him step for step, slouch for slouch. The slight shadow could not keep a grin from his lips, even while he tried to mimic the unseen scowl of the other. His comic talents were unappreciated and unseen. Oh, Charles was entirely aware of the antics of the satyr. He could even imagine the perverse motives of the imp. His mind raced, as he maintained a measured pace, and could feel the too near presence of that pest, to find the right response. He knew, certainly that if he would simply stop to swing a single fist he could knock the jester to the ditch and then, within seconds, by a series of furious blows, he could stave in the smirking knave's skull. Charles could leave him there - dead - and no one would know. Silence and peace. He could hear Boniface breathe behind his back, sense the wet exhalation of beer, hear the instantly echoed footfalls upon the dry dirt track. No one would know.
Charles could halt, rooted where he stood. Surely, the buffoon would collide with the instant wall of overcoat. Who would look the fool then? Boniface would bounce, keep to his feet and deflect all fault. Every course had consequences. If the others... If Madeleine were told of this childishness, and she surely would should the crisis escalate, she would mock. Boniface would triumph... unless he was dead. No one would know.
He could endure, could Charles. He could be the better man - the nobler soul. He could simply ignore the little man to enjoy the walk. He could not. One course was a path from this outrage.
"Please stop," Charles said.
Humiliation.
No apology fell from Boniface, but a merry laugh lifted up. It took only a skip and the cheerful youth was once again striding quick at the side of his fellow.
"I didn't see you at the tavern... but then, you don't drink, I'm sure, so it stands to reason... "
"I wasn't there," answered Charles. He turned his face away.
Boniface chimed, "Oh yes, it stands to reason then."
The two took perhaps a dozen steps in silence then, each leaning forward against the gentle rise. Boniface began again. He had to. "Just out for a walk then? A lonely moonlight solitary sojourn. I know how you feel though. Sometimes the tedium must be escaped, the walls traversed and windows sprung from." And Charles gave another grunt so Boniface took it for fraternity. "The conversations there can be so tedious... repetitious. We feed on crumbs of words cast aside by sparse helpings of the previous eve. Monsieur de Grenville's larder of wit lies barren. We starve for new ideas, even just new words... new faces. I try. You know I try. I am always seeking to find new things to say... new conversations. Fresh wit! Nothing comes back. My sown seeds, flung upon unfallow ground, cannot take root... cannot grow... are taken by the wind away... and wasted."
Here Boniface uncharacteristically flung his arms out before him, and shook them in the air.
"Maybe," ventured Montaigne, "you could speak less. Spare your wit for those who appreciate it."
No breeze blew.
No lofty clouds darkened out the moon.
Tree toads slowly moaned but no dogs bayed and no night bird songs stirred the country quiet.
Boniface barked. The yipping laugh caught both men unawares, but after a half beat, tenor and baritone were chuckling in concert.
"Excuse my rambling tongue. It needed an exercise run."
"The townsfolk?"
"Philistines."
And Charles nodded. They loped along until Boniface remembered, "Monsieur de Grenville made curious request to me this morning. Maybe you can burn off some of the queer fog surrounding it."
"Hrm."
"He recommended that you and I, Monsieur Montaigne, make expedition out tomorrow, going so far as the wooded ford... and that we should paint there, be inspired there, and take lunch there."
"All of us?" asked Charles.
"Just we pair, but... " and here Boniface pointed toward the moon with a single finger for emphasis and dramatic effect, "... but he also bid us bring Ferland's daughter, Ghislaine. He spoke about the young among us needing to take the air, and how you and I might try a landscape day."
"No Ambrose?" Were the three not equals then?
Boniface answered, "There was an implication that he was already well underway, and that we were not."
"I am not."
"I am neither, I suppose. But why the girl? What is his scheme?"
To which Charles replied," Do not assign too much cunning - too much cleverness - too much anything to our friend Roland. True, he likely has a scheme, but it is also likely true that it is only a petty, misguided, and meddlesome thought, not worth our worry. He imagines himself our puppeteer."
Boniface grinned, as much for the appreciated truth in Charles' words as for the amount of them.
"You would say to let him dance our strings."
"I will let him play, and only do exactly as I like."
"You did not attend my critique."
Here then, Charles shifted uncomfortably and once more tried to adjust his coat collar. Boniface hurried to match the quickened stride.
"Don't be angry at yourself, or at me. I'm not angry. I don't care. It isn't much of a painting anyway. I rushed it... and I didn't care."
The square, stark silhouette of the carriage house began to appear at the top of the ridge line, with its distinctive flanking oaks. They were nearing home. Boniface drew up - halted, placed hands upon his hips and asserted his breath. The weighted stink of stacked manure poisoned his pause.
"Charles. We should do the journey to the stream tomorrow. Arrange... have Roland arrange everything. Lunch... etcetera. Wake me... have someone wake me a half-hour before we go. I will need... Charles? Is that all right?"
Charles was already on the patio steps. He gave a silent, stubborn nod that Boniface could not hope to see through the night. Lampless, Charles fumbled through the dining room and down the hall, large hands groping against both panelled walls. Fingertips like blind worms felt out varnished soft wood. Boniface stumbled in after and when his vulnerable knee met end table edges, there were whispered oaths.
Madeleine, awake in her shared bed, listened to it all. Through the stale perfume and cologne and her husband's common, earthen, mortal smell, the woman sensed something more. These were men that did not keep to the sun or the timepiece. They were not civilized. Neither was yet domesticated... broken. They were wild. Within the wrapped bundle of quilted blanket, warmed further by the body of her slumbering lord, surrounded by a comfortable home filled up with all manner of precious things, Madeleine's waking dreams were for men with neither rulers nor wedding rings. Society did not imprison Charles and Boniface.
When her sleepless eyes lifted up toward her heaven, they saw only ceiling, painted black by shrouds of shadows. Madeleine could imagine limitless ebon fields of fiery stars and phantasm worlds through space beyond. On an undiscovered world, Madeleine could be reborn. She required renaissance. She tossed and touched his hairy leg; that thin, calf-less thing. One toenail might have scratched. She waited, holding any breath at bay, but Monsieur de Grenville stirred not.
From the silence then, there arose a murmured song. Through the few walls, Madeleine could make out some stirring hum. It seemed sure, to her, that Boniface was singing Donizetti. She let slide her eyelids closed and so removed the ceiling. Turning toward the sound, Madeleine shifted away from her husband's body heat, pressed the fresh cleaned sheets to her face, and escaped from her bonds for wistful moments. She was carried back to her days of youth and music. She remembered her nights in the theater and those heady revels. Her loves and friendships then were with dreaming actors, aspiring musicians, and eager admirers. Her voice had carried her from the dance halls to the Opera halls and she clung tight to those clear backstage memories, when she was bustling to be ready for the entrance of the choir. Tonight she would wend her way to sleep knowing that tomorrow she would go on.
*
Ghislaine turned and twirled and danced and spun and then stopped, taut yet not, tensed, still, there atop one toe's tiny tip then grounded herself again among the grass and laughed. The girl's gay song rang long along the violet dotted meadow and, where across the dirt tracked path the high untrammeled forest formed a wall, her mirth seemed to slyly slip and play a game of seek and hide among the shaded leaves.
The aged wood was so lively green that no darkness born of deep shadows could doom it. Some impressionist followers would have succumbed to fits of colour induced delight but the three men upon the trail did not seem to so see it. Not immune to natural beauty, two of the striders would neither allow themselves to be transported as slaves to wherever Oberon might direct. Indeed, so keenly did they perceive each minute exclamation of divine design, isolated or uncontained amid broiling, growing chaos, that should they hesitate but a pace for observed astonishments they might never take another stride. Pity be should Apollo pause his course for love of the sunrise. The third, burdened by his pedestrian chores and pushing a wheelbarrow encumbered by poorly loaded painter's tools, did not see any glory that lined the path left and right, for this was Samuel and he was paid. He followed, balancing that singsong squeaky wheel, behind the artists and their girl.
Carefree in her muslin summer skirts, the dryad pranced and led her party down the way. The verdant path lifted up Ghislaine to dance but Montaigne stared down to the ground. The earth, dry and dusted from a summer's scolding, rooted his attention. He did see flitting, fairy shadows there, cast aside with aimless innocence by the maid, but this could not tempt his eyes to rise.
Boniface left his gaze upon the lithe and leaping legs of the happy girl. He watched pink feet that pranced and fleshy calves that tensed and clenched and then released as she sprang again. Every smile and laugh that lit her face told of unrequited bliss. Happiness lit the scene as much as ever the sun could.
The party had been moving for some half hour before they came over the slightest of rises to behold the river ford that they had been sent in search of. It was, indeed idyllic. The creek (they had no business calling it a river) was a stone's throw width here and shallow enough that it might be waded where it was widest. On either bank the cart tracks were near to overgrown but were still haunted by a time when traffic passed through here rather then the bridge upstream. The banks were overgrown with all manner of foliage but here, at the ford, a grassy sward was the near bank. Here, the sun could let its warm light flood through the widened gap of tree top greenery. It was a small field that might have been designed by the Divine Lord for Sunday picnics.
Ghislaine immediately hopped off the trail and pranced about the grass. The play of the earth between her toes was delightful. Boniface spread out his arms and beamed, embracing the scene. "Oh, this is nice", he said while the other only answered with an assenting grumble. The big man hunched his shoulders and went to the water's edge. He crouched to peer upstream and down, left and right. He was looking for inspiration and framing his picture. He was looking for his theme.
Trudging in a good few minutes behind the painting party, Samuel huffed up and, with but a pause to stretch his back, began to unburden his wagon. Easels, paints, canvases, folding stools, and a picnic basket all clattered near noiselessly to the grass. The hired man knelt there for a time and set things to right as best he could. Of the two employers, it was Boniface that took any notice of the relieved worker to the extent that he paid him a few more coins and then bid him to depart. He could return to this place sometime following the dusk and he would find the equipments stacked against a specific tree. The load could be returned to the estate that evening. The man was obliging to this arrangement and with a smile and another coin, Boniface suggested, "You might leave the wheelbarrow here also."
Samuel tipped his worn blue cap. "I will", he said, and went his way with a light step and a whistle.
Montaigne's bare ankles were well wetted by this time from waters that were neither cold nor warm but refreshingly cool. "This is a good location" said Charles. "I can set my Leda in such a scene."
Each of the men naturally, at the mention of Leda, turned their eyes to Ghislaine. The fair maiden was laying bright white upon golden green, welcoming a beam of sunlight to caress her. It was Montaigne that stated the obvious, "Zeus in a shower of gold."
"Danae" replied the other but a chuckle was the heart of Boniface's answer. He grinned down at Ghislaine but she protested, "You are in my light!" With a hand to his bosom, Boniface posed as a romantic lover and mockingly quipped, "You are my light, my love!" and everyone laughed. None of them took it at all seriously. There was a bit more of that play between the two while Montaigne took his naked feet out of the stream and trudged over to get to his painting tools. He would concentrate upon working. There was much to do and, he feared, it would be far too easy to become distracted by both Boniface and the girl. If he set to work, the other painter would surely be required to do the same. He could shame him into acting the professional. Boniface watched Charles making his preparations and then looked back to the innocence and invitation of Ghislaine. He too must work. He too must remain focussed. The maid, for her part, rolled over onto her belly and crossed her ankles in the air behind her, seeming oblivious of how her light dress slipped down her pink calves then to bunch about her knees.
"Are you doing backgrounds for Leda today then?" she asked.
Montaigne gave her an answer first. "Studies. We get our colours and see some structures and patterns that we can use and then reconstruct them as required in the finished work back in the studio."
Ghislaine tilted her head and thought about that. With the invention of tubes of oil paints, artists could now work out of doors and did not need to spend their days at a base where individual colours could be painstakingly mixed. It was liberating yet both of these men were using the traditional studio techniques. "Why?"
Boniface took his turn then, saying "We do not wish to copy nature. We construct it. Nature is beautiful, certainly, but this..." and here he gestured grandly, "... is God's creation. Far be it from me to have the hubris to copy it." Another broad grin on the handsome face convinced Ghislaine that the man was still teasing her.
Montaigne tried something more practical. "Out of doors, the light changes with every cloud and every gust of wind. It is like trying to paint a model that will not sit still."
"Troublesome world!" inserted Boniface.
Montaigne continued unperturbed, "In the studio we can control our light and can control our tempo. We can be as patient as required and, perhaps just as importantly, in the studio we are not constrained by our eyes. We can invent. That is also why we do not paint from a model but rather study the model and make notes only to set the model aside when we turn to the final canvas."
"I want to draw a picture," asserted the girl.
"Do" answered Boniface. "There is paper and pencils. Make a pretty landscape" he said, to which Montaigne shot the younger man the most disdainful of glances.
And so the trio settled in to spend the morning at their individual arts. Ghislaine patiently, desperately trying to capture the world that she saw, Montaigne trying to see and capture the four degrees of colour in each leaf, and Boniface looking to see pattern and rhythm in the curves of branches that hung low over the waterline. From time to time Ghislaine would hop to her feet to look over the shoulder of the painters (more often Montaigne) and sometimes she would ask a question about what she might be looking upon. The young girl was edging herself into the confederacy of artists.
Madeleine, meanwhile, grew decidedly restless in her hiding place. Shrewdly, she had selected a locale with a fine view of the scene and on the near bank. She had correctly guessed that the painters would all be putting the picturesque water into their works and so would keep their backs to her blind. What she had not anticipated was that her prey would remain so tedious for so long. It had been nearly a full half hour. Waiting longer would offer nothing. It was time. Rising then, she brushed bits of leaves and branches off of her long skirts. Then she lifted them up above her ankles and began to step out of the noisesome bushes. Not at all stealthy, each of the three at the creek's edge turned to witness Madeleine's traffic through the last edge of the wood. Despite any entanglements about her feet, Madeleine was laughing and waving.
"Hello, my friends. Hello!"
All were surprised. None were at all unhappy by the arrival of the hostess. Ghislaine was fair beaming but Boniface could barely conceal a devious grin. The young lyric made a demonstration of a grandiloquent bow before the newcomer. Montaigne's suspicions anxiously flickered between Boniface and Madeleine.
Only Ghislaine was impolitic enough to wonder aloud where the woman had come from and why. Madeleine waved the question away and lightly answered, "I was envious of what a wonderful day you three must be having."
"It is very much a better day now, Madame" winked Boniface.
"Madeleine" she allowed.
"Come!" exclaimed Ghislaine, "We have bread and wine and grapes. Join us for lunch." They each set aside their art then. There would be time for beauty later. Society must win out over labours. So, reclined upon the slightly sloping greenery, the four souls set about breaking their short fast. Boniface and Madeleine kept up a jolly banter throughout the meal and Ghislaine too threw her wit into the ring as often as she dared. Montaigne kept himself on the periphery, both conversationally and physically, but he was not so obvious as to be rude about it. Madeleine would not leave him make such an escape and would repeatedly seek out his eyes. Several times she caught him looking her way and each time she affected a fashionable flirtatious blushing smile. She was, as near as any or she could tell, happy. Boniface was decidedly enjoying himself and Ghislaine continued to effuse her delight. The girl took a deep swill of wine and then, careless of the spraying dregs, rolled across the grass laughing.
Both wine bottles were drained with surprising efficiency with each taking their share. If they were drunk though, it was an inebriation born of sunlight and good company. Montaigne too, as the luncheon continued on, lightened his spirits. It was impossible not to. When the big man turned from exchanging a glance with Madeleine, his gaze would fall upon the white and pink and golden form of Ghislaine and she would be already staring at him with child-like glee. In search of the rustic, Madeleine had already bared her feet, tossing her stockings aside without any hint of modesty. She was only following after Ghislaine, after all.
Boniface though was championing the masculine on this hour. His wit and frivolity kept up a rapid patter and allowed none to stop and reflect upon the impending end to it all.
He followed the maiden's example and rolled himself down the hill toward the creek. Madeleine, giggling like a young thing, spun along after him until the three laughed in a pile of white clad arms and legs. Montaigne could not imagine following their merry lead, but he did grin and warn, "Do not put yourselves in the river!'
"I will not, by my own will!" cried Ghislaine back. "I am pinned beneath this beast of a Monsieur Roy in any case. Oof!"
"A beast eh? I shall be beastly then" answered Boniface and he spun about to engage Ghislaine in a furious round of rib tickling through her pale dress. Many cries of mock terror arose from the girl and Madeleine playfully swatted at Boniface's back to vainly help her young counterpart.
Montaigne grinned from his place at the top of the slope and looked to the remaining food.
Squirming, Ghislaine wriggled her tormented self out from under Boniface and kicked wildly to make her escape. Her young legs, thin and unblemished, flashed bare to the thighs as she writhed. Boniface grabbed at an ankle but the petite maiden eluded the fiend with a twist.
She did not fall into the water.
Ghislaine scampered up to drop herself down next to Montaigne and she looked at his face. Was there any mirth hidden there behind that thick beard? Was there merriment in his brooding eyes? She leaned in close with a foolish grin on her face and Montaigne could not help but look and grin in kind. Inches then from the face of the grizzled painter, Ghislaine suddenly let a surge of happiness well up and it was released in a laugh. That was followed up with a pixie push upon his shoulder.
At the stream, Boniface rolled himself over to appraise Madeleine lying beside him in her virgin whites. The man could not resist. Brazenly he brought forward a finger and picked a thread of hair from her face, setting it secure behind her ear. Madam de Grenville did not rebuke the gesture. She welcomed the gesture. She mirrored the gesture, setting Boniface's hair to rights and plucking out some leafy residue that had clung therein.
"I love the summers in the country," she said.
"It is gorgeous" replied Boniface quietly, staring into Madeleine's grey eyes. "It is magical. It fills my heart with youth and celebration. It makes me long for every moment to last forever. I want to stay here, with the summer, forever. It is so charming and delightful."
Madeleine matched the stare and returned the sentiment, saying "Yes. It fills me with hope, and happiness too. It is so warm... so lush. It is alive, the world."
The finger of the young painter returned to Madeleine's face but it was on no dutiful errand. Instead the soft fingertip was just tracing the contours of her flesh, teasing out the gentlest, whisper of a touch as it explored the softness of her visage. She did not flinch but closed her eyes and surrendered to the advance. The fingertip drew down to the corners of her lips. It played there with the gently upraised corner and by its persistence, saw the smile widen.
He followed the line of her nose, letting the tip of that finger hover on the furthest point of her fair flesh and then slowly pulled back. He watched her follow it, edging after the departing digit eagerly and he rewarded the pursuit by letting her catch it. She laughed again and then Boniface leaned in close to nuzzle his cheek to hers.
Montaigne was not watching the riverbank anymore for Ghislaine had stretched her lithe and winsome form out on the grass immediately in front of him.
"Charles" said the maiden, "Are you happy here?" and the large man could not prevent his eyes from watching Ghislaine's feet rubbing themselves slowly back and forth against her ankles.
Montaigne mused in a moment of self-reflection as he thought about the philosophy of happiness and the appropriateness of happiness. He thought about pleasure and sin. He thought about propriety and what was indecent. He watched her flesh stretch itself as one hairless pink calf rubbed against the other in the glorious sunlight. He watched the translucent white dress absolutely fail to conceal the marvels that were the maiden's knees.
He remembered Paris and in his memories it was only dark. There was no sunlight that shone upon his poverty and frustrations. There was little enough laughter. Those images of mirth that he could summon were those of himself and his friends in darkly gloomed drinking holes. He was always younger. …And the green. He brought the Bois du Boulogne to mind and les Jardins Tuileries but it was not the same. A grey veil was suspended over all of those images. He knew that these were the same trees and the same light, yet somehow everything was brighter here in the country. Perhaps it was the company that was colouring his world.
If ever any of his Parisian friends had asked him if he were happy, his reply would have been seasoned with sympathy and sadness. It could never be a genuine question as they knew the answer, for it was their answer too. None of his friends would ever have asked such a question.
He was on the verge of asserting that he was happy when from the creek came bubbling the intertwined laughter of Madeleine and Boniface. The young man had wrapped the woman in his arms and pinned her to his torso. She hardly feigned resistance. Montaigne knew that the lady was seduced. The scoundrel had pulled her from her pedestal and she would never again mount it. Shattered, she frolicked. Ruined, she gamely, playfully kissed him, and Montaigne on his low hill above them both seethed. The question was forgotten.
Montaigne checked his anger. It had not been a real kiss. It had been without passion, a mere peck. She pushed Boniface off of her and rolled away. Maybe it had only been to mollify the seducer. Clever girl; she had tricked him, the fool.
"Yes, I am happy here."
The eager gaze of Boniface pursued the eluding motions of Madeleine. She moved with the grace that wisdom grants and the fluidity of one yet young at heart. She danced away and toward Montaigne.
"We should all get back to work," said Madeleine. Her words belied the expression on her face that sang of delight.
Ghislaine, still laid out beneath the open sky cried out, "Work! Play! We must create!" and stretched her fine arms out to the fingertips. Even Boniface envied her exuberance. Even Montaigne yearned for her naiveté.
"I do like your spirit, Ghislaine," said Madeleine as she planted small fists upon her hips and tried to look as authorative as possible. "Yet you remain on your backside. Rise up! To Work!"
Grudgingly yet mirthfully, the others did each rise to their feet and look to restart their studies. The young girl though tilted her fair head and saucily pointed out the injustice of the scene.
"And what are you going to do? Or is it your only job to make us toil?"
"She inspires us," Boniface defended her.
"She does that," added Montaigne as he retook his place before his lightweight easel.
"I can put you in my landscape!" This was Ghislaine's idea. "Can I draw you?" Oh, what fine eyebrows were arched over Madeleine's flashing grey eyes then. It might have been an inspiration or the excuse she had been waiting upon.
"I would be honoured to sit for you." Madeleine's smile was disarmingly sweet and she stepped with bare feet to the water's edge. She had to find a fitting frame for her beauty. Without any demure hesitation, Madeleine de Granville commenced to unfasten the buttons of her pale summer dress. Between Boniface and Montaigne there were sudden startled and unnerved stares. Would the other arrest her? Would the other encourage her? It could not be allowed yet both of them wished it to be so.
It was Ghislaine that first voiced any kind of protest and it was merely a gasp. Raising an eyebrow and pausing her activities on a low button, Madeleine looked to the younger woman as though awaiting her permission to continue. Ghislaine looked left and right, all about, making certain that the verdant clearing was indeed desolate and then her expression shifted into a lighter motif. She laughed in fact. She too set fingers to a coral button, but as soon as this was noted, Madeleine was firm.
"No, Ghislaine. You will draw me."
"But I can draw while being naked..." was her indecisive protest and even the word thrilled her. "I could ... too ... "
"No, Ghislaine," she said with certainty. Boniface chimed in and agreed with the hostess. "No, Ghislaine." Montaigne was silent. His large hands vexed a rag around the tainted tip of a paintbrush. He was not yet beginning to compose. For now, he was intent upon the torso of Madeleine as it was, clasp by clasp, more revealed. She was so bold, he thought. So courageous.
Boniface snapped quickly to attentiveness and began to treat the situation as entirely natural and professional. He selected a place for their model and set about laying out the picnic blanket and their hostess' discarded clothing as a nest for her to rest upon.
"It will be fine here," he said and then followed on with a correcting musing, to say, "Fine? You could never be merely fine. The atmosphere and ambiance in this locale will be as splendid as your beauty deserves, my lady."
Madeleine let drop the last of her skirts and stood there naked among her friends. Her shoulders were well back, allowing her round breasts to press forward. Each brown tipped orb pointed to a different gentleman. For now, her hands rested upon her curved hips. The dark fur about her sex was thick and tangled. Unlike the classical statues, this seemed natural and rude. Madeleine though did not care and perhaps the angle of her hips was designed to let her femininity also press forward, announcing her to the group.
Ghislaine stared and blushed. This womanly body was not like the nubile frame that she inhabited. Was this something that she could look forward to? It was a different kind of feminine, a different kind of beautiful. The flesh, Madeleine's flesh, was given a golden glow by the sunlight, but where the shadows of leaves danced upon the surface, it remained an alluring pale and pinkish hue. The woman's eyes now seemed wider and brighter. Somehow her visage had managed a greater intensity and intelligence atop this starkly naked form. She moved, bare feet upon the grass, flesh against a backdrop of green, naked amid the clothed, model amid the artists, and women amid her admirers. Startlingly confident, she gave Boniface a generous grin and thank you before taking up a place upon the bed made of her discarded costume.
"How shall I pose?" she inquired even as she stretched out her arms and tried a variety of contrived modelling moves.
Still Montaigne was silent so Boniface answered, "Just seated. Perhaps place one hand upon your ankle. Give us some languid lines."
"A triangle!" spoke up Ghislaine. It was less a suggestion than a realisation. "She is making a triangle!" Indeed, from Ghislaine's perspective, the arms and legs of Madeleine were formed into a strong hypotenuse against a right angle of the woman's spine.
"Very good," said Montaigne finally. The large man shifted his painting station and furrowed his brow. He was now entirely determined to make this work. He had to use the model that was offered in this rare moment and not be distracted by the context. It was all right, he told himself. She knows what she is doing. She is doing what she feels is right.
Meanwhile, Madeleine settled into her posture with a bit of a confident swagger, tossing back her head. "I should let my hair down."
"No!" It was Montaigne. "The hair is good as it is."
Boniface eased the air with his fine laugh, "The bound hair makes you look modern, as you are. You are neither Danae nor Helen. You are Madeleine."
"I am," smiled Madeleine and then instantly that expression faltered and her body tensed. "You will none of you paint my face, will you?"
They all three nodded and Montaigne spoke on their behalf, "None shall know of your sacrifice for art."
"Such an enobling sacrifice," murmured Boniface. "We must cast a medal to honour her."
Madeleine regained her high spirits, saying, "Paint well, Monsieur, and I am honoured as much as any woman ought to be."
The four of them settled back into a quiet afternoon of light conversation and quiet creativity. The model, though pretty enough, was not anything that inspired any great art. The adorning backdrop similarly was simply green and nothing for genius to manifest itself from.
Montaigne was exercising some ideas though and some concepts for his Leda were beginning to form. In particular he was forming some notions for the flesh tone for his Spartan Queen and how much red it should have considering the possible tones of greenery. He was also further developing some notions about the curves of the feminine spine as it relates to the nature of a swan's neck. More though he was leaning toward a definite decision on the issue of Contra Posta and entwinement. The swan would, he decided, need to be wrapping itself in some way about an active woman. She could not be as passive as his model was today. She would need to be as lively as Ghislaine had been when she had sat for him. He would need to see energy. The model, he determined, would need to be manipulated and moved into more extreme poses. Tension would need to be introduced. Tension and conflict both. It nagged at Montaigne that when he managed to catch Madeleine's wandering eye as she sat there naked on the grass, there was a flash of proud defiance in the look. It was as though she knew that he wanted to think less of her for this act and she was daring him to do so.
For the young girl, for the first time in her short life painting from a model, it was a day of excitement and discovery. It had taken very little time to get past the notion that she was looking at a naked woman. She arrived with sure footing in the place where she could see Madeleine simply as a subject for her drawing. The struggle that she still had to overcome was taking it back from that to where she could see the model as a drawing subject but also retain the physicality and politics of the moment. No one gets that quickly so she should be forgiven for not yet seeing it. Ghislaine was playing as she drew, but she was also learning with every mark. It was hard work and she applied herself with a diligence and determination that would not have surprised anyone that knew her mother and father. As she worked, she did begin to yearn for colours, but knew enough to restrain that dream. The journey must be travelled in stages, determined stages. Progress must be ordered. It is no good to ask a question when you have not yet answered the last one fully. It is no good to colour when you have not yet learned line. Ghislaine made her lines with an unsteady hand but as steady a mind as any might have imagined of her. Her application seemed, to Boniface at least, uncharacteristic. Montaigne, from their afternoon together days before, knew her enough to have anticipated the capability of such determined intelligence.
Boniface's demeanour was the least intense. He was quite casual and it was he that did the greater part of conversation with his nude model. He continued to practise his flattery and bantering skills and thereby continued to delight Madeleine and also Ghislaine. Montaigne shut it out when he could. The hand of Boniface moved across the canvas with light, confident strokes making lines of elegance and precise perfection. His eye could quickly determine the necessary qualities of every line in Madeleine's torso and he improved the contours of her arm. His ability to perceive and capture was also apparent when he shifted effortlessly from foreground to background as though they were indistinct. The lines of the grass mirrored the brush strokes that marked her flesh. It was all going so well, but he was leaving a space empty. Center of the rectangle, pale white against the colourful picture, was the undone head of the model. Nothing was done of it, but for quickly washed lines delineating the landmarks. Those landmarks though were likewise perfectly placed so that it could only be one face that filled that space. He did not fill it in, but instead painted rapidly to finish all about it.
Madeleine was quite surprised by herself. This situation had never entered her fantasies, yet somehow it seemed utterly wonderful. It trumped her darkest and most fantastic imaginings when she had given birth to the scheme of sending the three that she most liked to this place that she could liberate herself by their company. It was a glorious feeling to be so entirely, indecently naked before these men and not feel the least bit of shame. The sun upon her flesh was a celebration of liberty. She revelled in it and again made a point of pulling back her shoulders and projecting her once-secret breasts toward her men. They were her men. They were entirely hers to have and befriend, to do with as she chose. Her act was not any betrayal of her husband. No, better, it was these men that were betraying the trust of Roland de Grenville and they had done so at her prompting. This was a triumph.
The day wound its way down until finally it was Montaigne that paused to stretch and look off into the direction of the distant house. It was not quite guilt. "We should be heading back. Is everyone nearly finished?"
Energy immediately slipped out of Ghislaine's posture and she sighed. "Yes. This has been wonderful." She thanked Madeleine several times while everyone began to pack up their belongings. Madeleine stretched out, pushing her arms out with wide spread fingers and thoroughly enjoyed a final bath of atmosphere. Rolling her neck in a slow rotation, she issued a quiet moan that was at once satisfied and stress relieving. "It was my pleasure. I'd often wondered what it would be like to be a model. I am glad that I had an opportunity to find out. It was interesting being watched so intensely."
"Oh, I always watch you that intensely, Madam," chuckled Boniface. "I'm just too sly to be always noticed."
Laughing, Madeleine rolled the white stockings up the lengths of her smooth calves. "Oh no, Monsieur, you are not." Ghislaine joined in the mirth and thanked the model again.
"Well, I too thank you, of course," said Montaigne. "I hope... no, I trust that we should not be speaking of what happened here."
A couple of noses were wrinkled as the subject was raised so openly. Boniface in particular was disgusted by the big man's bluntness. "That is assumed," assured the young man.
Monsieur de Grenville's wife continued to dress herself on the ground, at the feet of the two men. "Discretion would be best for us all. As far as anyone need know, the three of you had a wonderful afternoon without me. I was never here."
"It could not have been a wonderful afternoon without you in it. No one would believe it." Boniface's grin was wide. He was so terribly proud of himself. Madeleine's answer was a condescending laugh.
When she was properly pieced together, Madeleine accepted another thank you from Ghislaine and then, without a further word from any of those there gathered; she gave them each a tender kiss upon the cheeks before she made her exit alone.
Ghislaine, after her, said "We will see you at dinner."
When she was gone, Montaigne and Boniface shared a moment of not looking at one another. They said nothing but stacked the painting and picnic equipment beside the silent wheelbarrow. Ghislaine hugged her drawings to her breast and looked from one man to the next. She was not certain what had suddenly changed but with Madeleine's departure, tension had weighed down the clearing. Grey had settled upon the colours.
Kneeling, Montaigne placed his canvas face down against the trunk of a tree. Any passers by would not see the nude figure. He stood back up though and took a pace back. It still did not seem right. Boniface watched him in silence but nodded when the giant knelt again, this time with a knife. With a determined strength, Charles carved into the painting, stabbing it with the violence of certainty, and cut out the heart of the frame. It ripped and tore, frayed with the jagged scarring, and finally the picture of his hostess naked was rent free from the frame. Not rolled, he mashed the piece of coloured cloth into his paws and smeared the oil paints irrevocably and utterly. Ghislaine winced. Boniface still nodded in silence. When Montaigne looked at the canvas in the younger man's hands though, Boniface took to shaking his head in the negative.
"I'm keeping it. I need it."
Lips were pursed. It took a long moment, and Boniface waited for that length, but finally Montaigne gave a grudging nod of his beard. Timid Ghislaine had to wait until another long pause ended with the two men beginning the trek back to the house. She followed along and respectfully joined them in silence. Despite her whites, the pace and posture of the procession reminded Ghislaine too much of the funeral parties that she had seen passing through the narrow streets of Paris. She searched within her memories for some indication of where things had gone so wrong. It had all gone so very well. She did not understand it.
Boniface and Montaigne understood one another perfectly, hence the silence.
As the estates approached, though, something about the ridiculous nature of the moment forced another chuckle from Boniface. He chose his words carefully though despite the appearance of the impromptu, saying, "I liked what you were doing there. I hope to see something of it in your final work."