Chapter 18 1865 - France
CLAUDE MONET
The finest of Parisian cuisine mixed scrumptiously with the earthy aroma of red wine, the comfort of tobacco, and the sweet fragrance of lilacs. Moonlight danced with flickering gas lamps, casting delicious shadows over the café terrace of La Closerie des Lilas and its festive crowd.
The troop of artists and their guests had commandeered one large corner of the terrace, pulling small, two-person tables together into a serpentine line.
Waiters quickly refilled wine glasses and swapped out empty charcuterie boards for full ones, overflowing with meats, cheeses, and an assortment of fruits.
Everyone had come and, most importantly, Monet’s good friends: Bazille, Renoir, and Pissarro.
The group of artists included a contingent of new art students from the school, L'école des Beaux-Arts, and three young models.
One plump girl flirted openly with Monet.
It had taken little to kick off the merriment, but as the carafes of wine flowed, the celebration swelled.
Renoir stood, knocking his chair over backward, making everyone laugh. “Here, here. To Monsieur Boudin and your generosity!” He raised his glass. “A ta santé. To your health, fine sir.”
A clink of glasses echoed around the tables.
The one thing that artists can smell better than a cheap imitation painting is free food.
Boudin’s success at the Salon in selling four paintings and receiving commissions on three more had filled the master artist with munificence. He was lucky the crowd wasn’t bigger.
The soft spring breeze rippled the surrounding lilac bushes, sprinkling them with petals and fragrance. Bazille sneezed violently.
“Santé,” the guests said in unison and raised their glasses, laughed and drank. Someone had suggested they drink for every sneeze.
“You fools make a game of my miseries,” Bazille said. “I’ll drink to that.”
The table of friends erupted again in laughter.
Even Carolus-Duran and his soon-to-be wife, Pauline Croizette, had come.
Most delightful, èdourd Manet had brought the woman from his painting, Victorine Meurent.
His coup de grace for his Salon controversy.
Everyone loved her, especially Renoir, who pleaded with Manet and the eighteen-year-old to model for him.
Renoir, who sat to Monet’s right, had whispered in his ear. “I did not know she had that glorious red hair.”
“Too busy looking elsewhere, I guess,” Monet laughed. She was stunning, but he was in no mood for romance, even on this perfect evening in the city of love. He could not erase the image of the Japanese woman from his mind.
“My life is over,” Monet cried, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t even know her name.” He ran his fingers through his hair and almost fell backward.
Renoir caught him and pushed his chair upright. “You will always have a girl or two on your arm. You must forget about this exotic beauty.”
Monet looked around the tables and saw no sympathy. Even Bazille, his roommate, gave no encouragement, but handed him a lit cigarette.
He took a long drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke over the group of artists. “Avoir un coup de foudre, I have fallen in love at first sight, and it is truly as painful as being struck by lightning,” Monet complained. “If only I knew her name!” he pounded his fist on the table.
Boudin raised his glass to Monet. “Oh, to be young again.”
“But Eugène, you are only forty-one,” Bazille reminded him.
“Yes…and married for two years now. I have forgotten,” he said, making all the youngsters howl.
“The young Japanese woman is indeed a beauty,” Boudin said. “She told me her name is Yoshi. But son, you have no chance…she is a samurai princess, after all. Now take all that passion and emotion and pour it into your painting. Avoir d’autres chats à fouuetter…you have more important things to do.”
“My heart will never be the same.” A longing had lodged deep within his soul at the certainty he’d never see her again. It seemed ridiculous, but at that moment, he would gladly give up everything to spend all eternity with her.
“Ah, poor Roméo has lost his Juliet,” Bazille teased. “You should go to the magnificent forests of Fontainebleau and clear your head.”
“Yes. Yes.” People around the tables cheered.
Monet drained his glass of wine. “Then I must go to Fontainebleau and heal my broken heart. I will never again see such beauty.”