Page 32 of The Girl You Left Behind
I didn’t mind his ill-temper. I was used to him by then. When Édouard’s work was going well, he was the sweetest of men, joyful, keen to see beauty in everything. When it went badly, it was as if our little home lay under a dark cloud. In the early months of our marriage I had been afraid that this was somehow my fault, that I should be able to cheer him. But listening to the other artists talk at La Ruche, the artists’ studios in the 15th, or in the bars of the Latin Quarter, I grew to see such rhythms in all of them: the highs of a work successfully completed, or sold; the lows when they had stalled, or overworked a piece, or received some stinging criticism. These moods were simply weather fronts to be borne and adapted to.
I was not always so saintly.
Édouard grumbled all the way along rue Soufflot. He was irritable. He could not see why we had to walk. He could not see why he could not be left alone. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know the pressure he was under.
“Very well,” I said, unhooking my arm from his. “I am an ignorant shopgirl. How could I be expected to understand the artistic pressures of your life? Well, Édouard, I will leave you to it. Perhaps my absence will bring you some contentment.”
I stalked off down the bank of the Seine, bristling. He caught up with me in minutes. “I’m sorry.”
I kept walking, my face set.
“Don’t be cross, Sophie. I’m simply out of sorts.”
I glared at him, then took his arm, and we walked some distance in silence. He put his hand over mine, and found that it was cold. “Your gloves!”
“I forgot them.”
“Then where is your hat?” he said. “You are freezing.”
“You know very well I have no winter hat. My velvet walking hat has moth holes, and I haven’t had time to patch it.”
He stopped. “You cannot wear a walking hat with patches.”
“It is a perfectly good hat. I just haven’t had time to see to it.” I didn’t add that that was because I was running around the Left Bank trying to find his materials and collect the money he was owed to pay for them.
We were outside one of the grandest hat shops in Paris. He saw it, and pulled us both to a standstill. “Come,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t disobey me. You know I am easily tipped into the worst of moods.” He took my arm, and before I could protest further, we had stepped into the shop. The door closed behind us, the bell ringing, and I gazed around in awe. On shelves or stands around the walls, reflected in huge gilded looking glasses, were the most beautiful hats I had ever seen: enormous, intricate creations in jet black or flashy scarlet, wide brims trimmed with fur or lace. Marabou shivered in the disturbed air. The room smelled of dried roses. The woman who emerged from the back was wearing a satin hobble skirt, the most fashionable garment on the streets of Paris.
“May I help you?” Her eyes traveled over my three-year-old coat and windblown hair.
“My wife needs a hat.”
I wanted to stop him then. I wanted to tell him that if he insisted on buying me a hat, we could go to La Femme Marché, that I might even be able to get a discount. He had no idea that this place was a couturier’s salon, beyond the realms of women like me.
“Édouard, I—”
“A really special hat.”
“Certainly, sir. Did you have anything in mind?”
“Something like this one.” He pointed at a huge, dark red, wide-brimmed, Directoire-style hat trimmed with black marabou. Dyed black peacock feathers arced in a spray across its brim.
“Édouard, you cannot be serious,” I murmured. But she had already lifted it reverently from its place, and as I stood gaping at him, she placed it carefully on my head, tucking my hair behind my collar.
“I think it would look better if Madame removed her scarf.” She positioned me in front of the mirror and unwound my scarf with such care that it might have been made of spun gold. I barely felt her. The hat changed my face completely. I looked, for the first time in my life, like one of the women I used to serve.
“Your husband has a good eye,” the woman said.
“That’s the one,” Édouard said happily.
“Édouard.” I pulled him to one side, my voice low and alarmed. “Look at the label. It is the price of three of your paintings.”
“I don’t care. I want you to have the hat.”
“But you will resent it. You will resent me. You should spend the money on materials, on canvases. This is—it’s not me.”
