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CHAPTER EIGHT

Gathering Consequence

There was a moment, that night, when Ambrose rose from his chair to extinguish the final lamp in the room. As he leaned forward to do so, his attention was drawn to a sketchpad that lay discarded upon the table. It was not his own. With no sense of invasion, the fingers of the old man drew back the pages of the booklet and allowed him to see the drawings contained therein. Critically, they were not well executed but he had to confess, he was proud to see Ghislaine attempting to make the studies of plant life. She was obviously just beginning. The weight of the pencil was ridiculous. The lines said nothing relevant about the shapes. He could teach Ghislaine.

Ambrose paused then to consider the lump beneath the covers of his shared bed. He could not teach Ghislaine, for Madame Ferland would not allow it.

There was potential, though not much. It was quaint. Turning the page, Ambrose was quite startled to see his daughter's studies of a seated nude, obviously drawn from life. These were not so badly done. There was a confidence emerging here. He was indeed impressed to see that the amateur had managed to capture a likeness of Madeleine's face quite expertly. He had not done so well when he had first started. It is true though that she had done portrait sketches years before. Good, he thought, she remembered.

He noticed the marks of chiaroscuro that she had tried to use to shade the hips of the woman. Though incorrectly applied it was an obvious attempt to mirror Montaigne's rather distinctive curved cross-hatching. He nodded to himself and reflected on the merits and drawbacks of that system. At the least, it was too stylized. Damned Mannerists. The maiden's lines did not end confidently but instead abruptly. They were without expression as though she simply wished to get the mark down. It might have been that these drawings were copies of some drawings by Montaigne. Madeleine had posed for Montaigne? That seemed an unlikely scenario yet it was just as inconceivable as the noble woman undressing for his daughter.

Closing the book, Ambrose put out the lamp and undressed for bed. Two windows away, lamplight remained in the mark of a slivered golden line.

The master bedroom was cluttered all about the edges with knickknacks and oriental ornaments. The drapes, drawn for the night, were patterned after the Japanese while the carpeting was bare. This room, this private room, was not at all arranged tastefully or sparingly. It was a collection of everything and anything that either of the two found whimsically precious. This was the de Grenville concession. Neither partner's aesthetic was allowed to dominate in this room. It was a room of indulgence but also, a room of silent compromise. Any choice made in decor here was done for the perceived benefit of the other. It had long ago been decided between the husband and wife, without either ever voicing it, that this bedroom would be a room where nothing could be disagreed with. The implication was that nothing should be said herein that would require disagreement.

Thus, there was a long, cold silence that followed on after Roland, trussed up under the bedcovers, asked into the darkness, "What did you do this afternoon?"

Madeleine instinctively pulled her blankets closer to her chin and was glad of the darkness. He had already been told the false story at dinner. It had been so easy. The lies had rolled off of her tongue and everyone had laughed and none of the others had betrayed her. He was asking again though. That meant that he doubted her. Immediately following on after the fear came outrage. How dare Roland doubt her! How dare he! Her hands tightened around the sheets and she knew, even as she did it, that beside her, her husband would notice the tension. She had to respond quickly.

The laugh pushed through the night and rolled up toward the ceiling above the bed.

"I thought I had told you. I laugh to remember it. I feel so foolish."

It was only here in the bedroom that Madeleine felt any guilt when lying to her husband. Here it was difficult. Elsewhere it was trivial.

"On a lark, I wandered to the village to have lunch but as soon as I got there, I was struck by the fancy to change my mind and return home to have lunch with you and that what should happen as soon as I neared the house? Suddenly I yearned to eat in the village. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. I walked and walked until my ankles ached and still I could not determine for certain where I wanted to be."

Roland did not reply immediately so she seized the initiative, saying, "Have you ever had anything like that happen?"

"Never," answered the detached voice. "Never anything like that."

She knew that it was not over. He would find a way to press the issue further. By pressing he could force a confession. Over and over again in her mind, Madeleine had played out the repercussions of that afternoon. It could cost her everything. As her fingers worried the fabric of the sheets, she knew with the fullness of her heart that the idea of having nothing terrified her. At all costs, destruction of the remnants of her marriage must be prevented. No, not at all costs, she told herself. She will not submit herself to his sad world. She would not be what he wanted her to be. But he couldn't know.

A hand of Roland's followed the top of the linen to find his wife's nearest hand. He gently wrapped it around her too tense knuckles and just let it sit there. That small hand trembled and flinched but it was not pulled away. It could not be. Madeleine's intake of breath was silent as she strove to relax herself. He knew though. He could feel her nervousness. Pulling away would have been a fatal mistake so she just lay there beside her husband in the dark, in the silence. She waited for his next words but was surprised when they came.

"I need to go to Paris for several days."

How could he not feel the sudden, terrified rush of blood into her hand? The agitation and excitement that coursed through her veins had to be discerned by the man who had placed his hand there for this precise reason. Madeleine could have no hope of disguising the guilt that caused her fingertips to tremble. She had no answer.

"I'll take the train on Thursday morning and ought to be back by the following Wednesday night. You'll be safe and sound here on your own?"

His pause then was for drama rather than as an opportunity for Madeleine to reply.

"I needn't worry for you?" he asked, as pleasant as could be.

Madeleine desperately wanted to roll away - to turn her back on the charges. More though, she wanted to lash back and throw her own accusations at him. She could go onto the attack and put him in his place. She was much better at these games than he was. He was a fool, after all. He could do nothing to prevent her from utterly destroying him if she wished to do so. The truth would break him.

And then what would she have? Madeleine knew that she was so much more cunning than Roland and it was that superior intelligence that she now had to use. Under no circumstances should she allow him to trick her into making a mistake.

Concentrate.

Be better than him.

 But even that was not a simple solution. Does she play stupid? Does she play devious? She thought about her fingertips in his hand again and wondered what she could get away with. In the end, she went to her fall-back and laughed merrily. At the same time, she twisted her hand and gripped her husband's. She trilled her fingertips against the back of his hand teasingly.

"I'll be perfectly fine. Adele will protect me," chirped Madeleine gaily.

Roland might have been defeated but he persisted with a bold reply, "If not Adele, then Boniface or Montaigne perhaps?"

Madeleine was flushed with success and was intent upon following up her victory. It was a mistake when she said, "Either one."

Roland pulled his hand away and rolled to put his back to his wife. He gave a dry laugh, little more than a cough, but both of them knew that it was a false gesture. They were each alone in the darkness then and Madeleine had to fight with all of her strength to neither renew the conversation nor cry herself to sleep.

Over the next two days there was a tension throughout the house that every occupant felt. It sounded in each footstep and every glance. If there was a silence, and there more often was, it spoke loudly about what was not said. Even when the conspirators were alone together, they could not speak of what had happened. They were guilty of being happy and none could know of it. Even Ghislaine held her tongue for fear and for shame. Montaigne could allow himself a sense of innocence but it was guilt that clung to his back and tugged at his ears whenever he heard Roland's voice through the walls. He was guilty and with every breath that did not breathe the truth, he became guiltier. Boniface, among them all, was the least affected by the intrigue, though he could not act with complete impropriety. Once, the next day, he had made some playful banter with Madame de Grenville and this resulted in a most hateful stare from the husband. Nothing had come of it but Boniface was more wary.

Madeleine had told no one that Roland was leaving for a week. She could not determine her tone in such a declaration thus she remained mute. Jacqueline Ferland had taken Madeleine aside in confidence to plumb the depths of what she had seen at the river. The moods of everyone hinted at something having happened but Madame de Grenville was able to assure her that she had remained in hiding throughout and that nothing untoward had taken place. Both Boniface and Montaigne had behaved as perfect gentlemen. As to Ghislaine's affections, Madeleine gave comfort that both men were treating her as no more than the schoolgirl that she was. There was no danger of either ever becoming a seducer. Both of the men were entirely harmless. Boniface, for his devilry, was good natured and Montaigne, despite his appearance as a beast, was a perfectly gentle soul. Madeleine gave one piece of advice: Madame Ferland must not seek to pry too much from Ghislaine. Her daughter had little to hide but if pressed, she would grow defensive on principle. In effect, she must trust her daughter entirely. Madame Ferland, finally, offered up the question as to whether another such spying mission should be undertaken sometime later in the summer. Madeleine could not believe that she blushed at the idea but was relieved to find no indication that Jacqueline had noticed at all. The possibility of another reconnoitre was left open and Madeleine quickly brought the discussion to an abrupt close.

As for their art, it was a remarkably brilliant few days. Boniface was working feverishly on his seated Leda and was taking great pains to get every brush stroke right. No more was he content to just get it good enough with his tricks. On this piece he was pushing himself. It was as though he was finally chasing truth. He was not letting beauty slow him down either. The colours and textures on the parts he had nearly completed were breathtakingly marvellous. Roland, though otherwise pointedly silent in his tours these past few days, had paused to exclaim his wonderment and the magnificence of the yellow and sienna flesh tones that depicted a nude thigh in the sunlight.

Ambrose too had taken to making rounds of the other painters. He was determined to not entirely isolate himself. De Grenville's experiment had to be allowed fullest opportunity to succeed. Ambrose could have isolated himself in Paris. The old man, when looking at Boniface's work, was also quick with critical praise but he also asked questions about technique. He was interested in the methods that the younger man was using to bleed the contours where they were struck by the full force of the sun. It came out that what Boniface was doing was showing the light to be bouncing an inch or two from the flesh. It is a phenomenon that is entirely impossible in science, agreed Ambrose, but the eye thinks that it sees it thusly. Here, he was not trying to fool the eye but instead seeking to capture that moment when we are so deceived by the power of the sun.

"You are not painting truth, my friend, but you are telling the lies with cunning honesty," said Ambrose.

In the conservatory, Montaigne was also making great strides with his Leda and the swan. His Queen was not seated but instead was reclined quite low upon the grass and the swan, what little was worked in thus far; lay beside her and atop her. With a wing and a long neck, he pinned her to the ground without the least bit of applied strength. She did not resist that swan but it was impossible to detect by what had yet been done if she was seduced or if she was perhaps cunningly deflecting the large bird's advances. What was going to be in her eyes, one might wonder. Would it be desire or sadness?

Before this small painting that was remarkably light in colours and composition, Roland was inspired to ask, "Is she happy?"

After an instant of tension – of a memory, Montaigne rolled his burly shoulders before giving a thoughtful response, saying, "She is torn. She dearly wishes that she could be happy but everything seems wrong. The swan is beautiful and elegant, everything that she sees as beautiful and so desirable yet ...”

"Yet?"

"It is a monster after all, even if it is a God in disguise. We mortals are taught to fear such things."

Roland conceded with a thin smile that it was right to fear them and Montaigne grunted in agreement. There was a real danger that the painting would become obscene. It would need to be rescued from the rude and kept beautiful. It would be difficult, Charles knew, but he would need to make sure that it was done. This subject could not be giant figures entwined in struggle or passion. No, they would need to be reduced and softened. More line; Less chiaroscuro.

When Montaigne found his way to Ambrose' work, he was surprised by what he saw. The tinkerer's Leda did not touch her swan but they were instead composed as opposing forces on either half of the canvas. It was more of an Annunciation than a Leda.  On reflection though, there was some insight in this approach. Was the swan so dissimilar to God's angel, come to speak to the young girl about the child that she would bear? Rather than raping the maiden, he is able to make it a mythological immaculate conception, or at least hearken to that idea. His swan, what was roughed in, was no weightless angel though but in the coiled twisted form that the undercoats seemed to suggest, it was more serpent. Suddenly the annunciation shifts to bring in echoes of the serpent tempting Eve. Montaigne smiled and began to look through the painting to find signs of an apple. There it was by Leda's hand almost within her grasp. Montaigne did a great deal of nodding as he appreciated the complex references and compositional conversations that were being undertaken within the square.

At one point, Montaigne was taking a casual glance through the prepatory sketches that Ambrose had set to the side while he worked. There, amid the sketches of swans and foliage, beneath a well-defined drawing of an oak, were several portrait sketches of a young girl: Ghislaine. Montaigne swung his attention quickly back to the picture and put Ambrose' young daughter into the role of the naked Spartan Queen, into the role of the Virgin, into the role of Eve, and suddenly he saw the true complexity of what Ambrose was attempting. In the next instant, he saw in the unformed swan equally a beautiful seducer and a giant corrupter. He saw between these two ghost images the feminine form of an angel, all curves and beauty, foretelling his Ghislaine's future.

Montaigne returned to his own studio and sat with fists buried in his beard, staring for hours at the thing he was trying to paint. It was yet too simple. It was too much little more than a pretty picture. "Is she happy?" he asked himself.

Starting over was out of the question. A better idea may never come. Completing it was beyond him. Something needed to be done to advance the issue. Something needed to be done to give him new insight into what his Leda was. Who was his Leda, after all? Is she only one woman? Is any woman only one woman?

Charles Montaigne spent hours clawing at his face.

It was a particularly sweltering afternoon when Madeleine rolled up her thin sleeves and made her way to the garden for some long overdue labour. Idle hands needed to be occupied. So with a small basket of clippers, spades, and ties, she strolled down the hill from the house and onto the back lawn. To the left she was instantly aware of the other two ladies of the party deployed on the grass. Ghislaine was painting merrily away on some watercolour or other while her mother sat beside her. The only concession that Jacqueline had made to the heat was a wide brimmed straw hat that matched Ghislaine's. The costumes of the pair were otherwise in complete contrast. Facing off into the distance, they had yet to note the new arrival at the back of the house.

Madeleine's steps were immediately stealthed. She knelt down and hid herself in the midst of the low, wild garden. She remained crouched there for a while, waiting to see if she'd been spotted, before she relaxed and began to assess her offspring. The plants had been left untended too long but that was always the case. She was no gardener. This life was not a natural fit for her. Immediately as she started, she rebelled at the touch of the dry dirt on her fingertips. It was a long gaze up to the bright sun that decided her to not don gloves today. With head raised, she looked back over to the mother and daughter. They still had not spied her. Good. Confessing, Madeleine told herself that her motives had not anything to do with diabolical intrigues. On this day, at this moment, in this heat, she simply didn't want to deal with Madame Ferland. That was all. It was perfectly reasonable.

Bare, dry hands fumbled about at the base of her roses, trying to figure out what needed to be done. Some weeds were yanked, some tips were pruned, and some leaves were trimmed to better allow the light in. It may or may not help. Something had to be done. It all looked far too dishevelled to be respectable. Sitting back on her haunches, the lady of the house wiped her brow with her forearm. This was tragic.

"Good afternoon, Madame de Grenville!"

Madeleine waved back with sunny disposition, "Hello, Madame Ferland. Hello Ghislaine."

"Are you gardening?" asked Jacqueline.

So many cynical answers danced on the end of Madeleine's tongue but she replied amiably enough, "I am. It needed to be done."

"And it is such a wonderful day."

Ghislaine then turned away from her project and waved a paintbrush at the garden, "Hello." Her mother did not see that her daughter did not smile. Madeleine threw an especially bright countenance at Ghislaine as though she was demonstrating how it ought be done.

Suddenly Madeleine found herself at one of those awkward society crossroads. Courtesy and disgust with the horde of plants surrounding her was telling the hostess that she should go join the duo. She should be pleasantly polite. Instead though, she took the other option and went back to her work. A few casual words of small talk were exchanged as she crept slowly along the way, working on her most annoying weeds. Ghislaine remained silent, quite satisfied to surrender society for the sake of art. Madeleine, crawling on hands and knees with her own hat being knocked around, dress always being snagged, found herself envious of the young girl's handicrafts.

As the afternoon wore on though, Madeleine grew less and less interested in returning Jacqueline's banalities with any similar sentiments. It was a relief therefore when Madame Ferland was overcome by the elements. "It is too hot, Ghislaine. Come, we will return to the house." Nothing about the young girl's upbringing allowed her to make even the meekest protest yet Madeleine saw sadness in her silence. Madeleine quickly rose up and then did a casual stretch to disguise her enthusiasm.

"Oh, how unfortunate. I was about to come watch dear Ghislaine paint her pretty pictures."

Jacqueline made a pathetic effort to fan herself with the brim of her straw hat. "Oh no, it is too warm. I feel as though I will faint."

Ghislaine took a long, hard look at Madame de Grenville, seeking to detect her intentions. She could not see through anything. There was no intrigue.

"Perhaps," suggested Ghislaine, "we can come back out tomorrow." Her mother supported this notion.

"No," insisted Madeleine then. "Please allow me to sit with Ghislaine for a time. It will give me an opportunity..." and here Madeleine was approaching and trying to look as sly as she could. Madeleine, when she was sure that she had caught the eye of the mother, gave a wink and then continued , "... an opportunity to study her arts."

So Jacqueline gave a knowing nod and then shifted to insist that Ghislaine stay. She picked herself up and with as broad and pleasant a grin as she could muster, made her exit.

And there was Madeleine, quiet as can be, standing behind the young girl and waiting for her to start in again on her watercolour landscape. About to utter some trite announcement every bit as inconsequential as Madame Ferland, Madeleine caught herself and remained mute.

At first, of course, Ghislaine was nervous to have this new matron watching over her but she had only to gaze off into the distance and get some new insight on how to describe a cloud and she was able to lose all of her cares about society and what should or should not be said. She could paint and this was more empowering than ever she imagined it could be. Nothing about that empowerment had anything to do with the ability to make a living from the trade or having the respect of others. It was all in her newfound ability to make. She had but to apply her mind to the task and she would find a way to master it. To be sure, things were progressing very gradually and Madeleine, comparing Ghislaine's work to that of the men, was not greatly impressed yet for the maiden, there was a fresh and invigorating thrill that came from simply learning and doing.

Painting was absolutely unlike her piano playing. Scales. Hours of practise. Following the page. For her, music was just doing what she was told. Music was about performing tricks and demonstrating obedience. Music was how her mother showed her off. In some senses, Ghislaine was delighted that her watercolours were so wholly inferior to her father's grand masterpieces. It prevented her mother from taking them seriously. Never would her mother proudly boast that her little Ghislaine painted landscapes. Painting was a liberation from expectation. Also, because she was so far removed from the level of art that Boniface and Montaigne were doing, Ghislaine felt that it was a different world that she was working in. It was not, consciously at least, the difference between men's art and women's art, nor was it adult art against the art of youth. It was Ghislaine's art. Perhaps, she mused at some point, what she was doing was not art at all. She wasn't clutching at art or beauty, innovation or any kind of masterpiece. She was not trying to get into the Academy or make something for a gallery. She was not trying to woo a husband with her skills. Ghislaine was simply just making.

Madeleine quietly seated herself on the grass beside Ghislaine and watched her in silence. She had studied Montaigne, Ambrose, and Boniface at work and it occurred to her that Ghislaine was approaching the task in a way that was not the same as any of them. She was certainly not as calculating and decisive as her father. Madeleine smiled to herself to imagine in how many ways Ghislaine was different physically from the large Montaigne. He dwarfed her in stature and in temperament. Were Ghislaine ten meters tall, she would still be a small girl.  Charles would carve powerful, sweeping strokes of bold colours and contrasts upon his canvas but Ghislaine made slow, tentative marks. She held the paintbrush like she held a pencil. Was she then closest to Boniface? It seemed to Madeleine that they were still markedly different. Boniface made beautiful, certain and simple lines. Ghislaine though would never be so certain of the power of line. She was not wholly feminine in the nuances of her paintings and her forms bore more weight that the young lyric's did. Ghislaine's painting had not the qualities of any of the three men.

Eventually, as the heat of the afternoon beat down upon the pair, Madeleine found herself obliged make comment upon the moment, saying "It is coming along." She did not say that it was good or that she liked it. Still, the young Miss Ferland acknowledged the compliment exactly as she was expected to. Then they fell into silence again.

Time passed and the landscape grew more complete. The greens were lush and lively. The clouds were lofty and hazy. It could not escape Madeleine that the picturesque portrait of nature was evoking memories of the afternoon of the picnic. It was Ghislaine that first broached etiquette to mention that day.

"Will there ever be another picnic?"

Madeleine was aghast. She was unable to respond to the question with anything approaching the warning that she wished. She wanted to completely silence the girl. It was impossible. Instead, she collected her thoughts and tried to betray nothing of her feelings.

"No. We'd best not speak of it. Others would misunderstand what we did."

Ghislaine nodded and pursed her lips. "Nothing happened, did it?"

"Of course not," answered Madeleine too quickly. She glanced back behind to make certain that there were no secretive listeners. Perhaps, she laughed to herself, someone is crouched in the garden. She went on to try again to put the questions away.

"Sometimes people do things that are absolutely harmless but, when seen by others, they seem to be sinful." Madeleine winced at the realization that she had used the word 'sin'. She pressed on though, "You aren't a child. You know about keeping things polite."

The brush was pulled back from the picture. Ghislaine sighed and it was neither pretty nor cute. "I'm not a child. I know that Monsieur de Grenville would not be happy if he knew just as I know that my parents cannot know what happened. They would disapprove, severely.

 "So, you see."

"Just because it would hurt people does not mean it is wrong to do. Sometimes..." Ghislaine trailed off as though she was listening to herself.

Madeleine's hands rose and fell as she fought to find her footing. It was too hot for such philosophizing. She fell back upon what was reliable, "You should not hurt those you love."

At that, Ghislaine was obliged to shake her head. She put down her brush and spun to face her opponent, saying, "No! But it should not hurt them if your heart yearns for it. They should be happy for me... for you. They should be happy that we are not so terribly miserable.

Now it was Madeleine's turn to shake her head uncertainly. "No. No. We should not try to hurt them."

"But everything hurts them. I can only please my mother if I suffer."

Madeleine knew that this debate could in no ways end in a satisfactory manner. Her position seemed indefensible but it was an argument that she could not allow herself to lose. Young people simply did not understand how the world worked. It was too complicated for them. There were duties and obligations. There were responsibilities. It is the price of life. Perhaps there was a way.

"You are an advocate for hedonism then?" asked the elder.

Ghislaine was quick to back down. "No. No. Not hedonism. I believe that one should lead a good life. One must be virtuous."

Triumphant, Madeleine's smile swept into a wide grin. "A virtuous person does not hurt those who love them."

"No,” countered the schoolgirl. “Virtuous people are true to themselves. A virtuous person leads the life that is best for them. It has not the same as leading a pleasing life."

"You are not a child. You have opinions."

Ghislaine began to clean off her brushes. The horizon was forgotten. The sun was menacing her colours in any case. "I have much time to think on such things, Madame."

Madeleine cast her gaze back to the house. Adele would be having dinner ready soon. Samuel would be getting the carriage ready for the trip to the station tomorrow morning. The painters were all at work. Roland was doing whatever Roland wanted to do. The garden grew.

"We must be kind to our loved ones," said Madeleine. "No amount of truth requires that we be unkind."

"So we must conceal ourselves."

"Were it not for the truth, we would have no reason to lie."

Ghislaine laughed merrily then.

"Can I help you carry anything?" asked Madeleine.

The two arranged the tasks and load together. It was a short transit in any case. Madame Ferland was waiting in the doorway upon their return and Madeleine was proudly holding up Ghislaine's landscape for her perusal. The mother gave approval. "It is good."

Madeleine then, in front of Ghislaine, "You have a wonderful daughter, Madame: Bright and talented. You and Monsieur should be very proud of her."

"Thank you" said Jacqueline and they then all went in.

        Alone, the sun would slowly set over the untended garden to bring the industrious estate into the evening.

CHAPTER NINE