Stopping near a soup seller, Père Moscou extracted a ten centime piece from his old frock coat and greedily seized a steaming bowl. One of the urchins threw a stone at him, nearly overturning the bowl.
‘The guillotine for you!’ bellowed the old man, shaking his fist.
‘Cowardy cowardy custard, your nose is made of mustard!’ cried the urchins, running away.
Fortified by the piping hot liquid, he carried on through the streets, which were gradually filling with a weary mob. Carriages and omnibuses passed each other noisily on the bridges, the swearing and whip-cracking of the coach drivers competing with the groaning of the wheels. Flocks of sparrows swooped down on the piles of horse dung strewn across the wooden cobbles.
Père Moscou, exhausted, dragged himself along Quai Conti. For a while he thought he had conquered the fear that had overcome him in Les Halles. But, as soon as he had set foot in Place de l’Institut, it came flooding back. Shakily, as if hounded by an invisible menace, he walked along Quai Malaquais without even pausing when he crossed Rue des Saints-Pères.
Tasha was stretched out in the bath, gently stewing in the hot water. Victor looked in. ‘You’re just like Kenji – he loves boiling-hot baths. Be careful, you’re all red; you might burn.’
He plunged his hand in the water and withdrew it as if he’d been burnt, caressing the breasts of the young woman as he did so.
‘Get out!’ she cried, splashing him.
Returning to her reverie, she reflected on the night they had just spent together. Victor had been both tender and passionate, and she had only resisted him so she could abandon herself more completely. When their passion was finally spent, she had curled up against his chest. Their relationship fulfilled her emotionally as well as physically, and yet she still felt on the defensive, disinclined to put up with Victor’s bouts of jealousy.
Her thoughts wandered to that other passion of hers, which enraged and pained Victor, but filled her life to the exclusion of all else: her painting. Victor had offered to pay for the framing of her canvases, so there was nothing to stop her exhibiting them at the Soleil d’Or alongside the paintings of Laumier and his friends. So why was she worrying? She had been preparing for the exhibition since the summer; she had put heart and soul into her rooftops of Paris series and into her male nudes. But now that she was finally going to reveal them to the public, even to a public of vulgar barflies, as Victor had dubbed them, she was scared. She knew that her canvases would never receive the acclaim of the renowned art salons. Her work displayed too much rebellion against the style of the Academy painters and reflected too many diverse influences such as Impressionism and Symbolism. She also knew that, sooner or later, Laumier’s group, who worshipped Gauguin and Syntheticism, would reject her. In fact, what she feared most was having to confront these contradictions.
Wrapped in a towel, she crossed Kenji’s apartment, hurried into Victor’s and got dressed. Above the chest, facing her, she caught sight of another Tasha, a naked head and shoulders, painted last year by Laumier. Despite Kenji’s antipathy towards his mistress, Victor obstinately displayed the little picture, which she felt was better proof of his love than any declaration.
‘Where are you hiding?’
‘I’m shaving.’
She joined him in the little bathroom. ‘I have to return a caricature of Zola to Gil Blas,1 then I’m going to Bibulus to put the finishing touches to the painting I’m working on,’ she gabbled, not daring to look at him.
Without replying, Victor wiped his face and turned towards her, smiling.
‘I know it’s Sunday, but I won’t be back late,’ she promised him.
‘You can come back whenever you like.’
‘Of course, if you wanted to, you could come with me …’ she began, her tone hesitant.
‘That’s kind, but I have an errand to run. I …’ He interrupted himself. It would serve no purpose to tell her that he proposed to go over to Odette’s to try to get to the bottom of Denise’s story.
He embraced her, planting a kiss on her lips. Freed from the tension she had felt since she woke, she relaxed. ‘You know, I’m wondering if I should continue to limit my painting to one subject.’
He moved away from her, astonished. She almost never confided her artistic doubts to him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes I would like to forget everything I’ve learnt at art school, about fashions, about technique, and just let myself go, using my paintings to express my … my inner world. What do you think?’
He stayed silent for a moment, and then almost reluctantly replied: ‘The more solid the base of knowledge we have, the more we can build on it. I think it’s the same with photography. I have to learn. When I feel ready, I’ll forget all the learning and start inventing.’
‘So you think it’s too soon for me?’
He frowned, visibly struggling with himself.
‘Yes. Only when you have acquired a technique that is perfect in all respects will you be able to eliminate the aspect of that technique which you don’t judge to be important,’ he said snatching up his hat.
‘Is it really you giving me this advice?’
She looked at him in amazement. Suddenly she went over to him, removed his hat and kissed him passionately. They stayed standing for a moment, then collapsed on to the bed, where their ardour tousled their hair and crumpled their clothes.
‘What’s come over you?’
‘I love you,’ she breathed, putting her fingers inside his collar and starting to unbutton it.
Madame Valladier hastily shrugged on a jacket. Someone was banging on the door with such force that the furniture in the sitting room was shaking. She was exasperated to see Père Moscou planted on the doorstep, looking terrified, the bottom of his frock coat stained.
‘Drunker than a lord! You’ve spilled wine all down yourself!’
‘My dear Maguelonne, it’s only rabbit blood. I swear on the life of the Emperor that I have not touched a drop. But I’m not myself; I’ve got the collywobbles!’
‘What have you done now?’
‘Me? I’m as innocent as a newborn babe, I am. Hmm! Something smells good …’
‘I’m simmering some artichokes with marrow. I’ll bring you a plateful in a little while.’
‘That woman, she’s top notch,’ Père Moscou declared, heading for the Cour D’Honneur.
He changed his mind. To recover his peace of mind he had to perform a ritual. He set off down a wide staircase, its cracked steps sprouting tendrils of weeds, which had once led to the salon of the Conseil d’État. The walls, originally decorated with frescoes by the painter Théodore Chassériau, had been blackened by the fire of 1871, but, as at Pompeii, some of the paintings remained partly intact. Père Moscou marched straight over to a peeling war painting depicting horses and three figures representing ‘silence’, ‘meditation’ and ‘study’. He paid no attention to Force and Order higher up, or to a group of blacksmiths. Women suckling children alongside men harvesting also left him cold. It was only when he reached the panel of Commerce rapprochant les peuples that he stopped to contemplate an Oceanid at the bottom of the fresco.
The half-naked lady, painted in pale grey, seemed to be looking