Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella Read Free

of his lack of funds – I had known when Édouard and I met that he could not be wealthy – but because of the casual disregard with which these so-called friends seemed to treat him. They promised him money, which never came. They accepted his drinks, his hospitality, and gave little back. Édouard would be the man suggesting drinks for all, food for the ladies, good times for everyone, and when the bills came, he would somehow find himself the last soul in the bar.
    ‘Friendship matters more to me than money,’ he had said, when I went through his accounts.
    ‘That is a perfectly admirable sentiment, my love. Unfortunately friendship will not put bread on our table.’
    ‘I have married a businesswoman!’ he exclaimed proudly. In those days after our wedding, I could have announced I was a lancer of boils, and he would have still been proud of me.
    I had been peering through the window of the Bar Tripoli, trying to make out who was inside. When I turned back, Édouard was talking to this Madame Laure. This was not unusual: my husband knew everyone in the fifth and sixth
arrondissements
. It was impossible to walk a hundred yards without him exchanging greetings, cigarettes, good wishes. ‘Sophie!’ he said. ‘Come here! I want you to meet Laure Le Comte.’
    I hesitated for only a second: it was clear from her rouged cheeks, her evening slippers, that Laure Le Comte was a
fille de rue
. He had told me when we’d first met that he often used them as models; they were ideal, he said, being so unselfconscious about their bodies. Perhaps I should have been shocked that he wished to introduce me, his wife, to one, but I had quickly learned that Édouard cared little for conventional etiquette. I knew he liked them, respected them, even, and I did not want him to think less of me.
    ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle,’ I said. I held out my hand, and used the formal
vous
to convey my respects. Her fingers were so ridiculously soft that I had to check I was actually holding them.
    ‘Laure has modelled for me on many occasions. You remember the painting with the woman on the blue chair? The one you’re particularly fond of? That was Laure. She’s an excellent model.’
    ‘You’re too kind, Monsieur,’ she said.
    I smiled warmly. ‘I do know the painting. It’s a beautiful image.’
    The woman’s eyebrow lifted just a fraction. I realized afterwards that it was unlikely she was often complimented by another woman. ‘I always think it an oddly regal work.’
    ‘Regal. Sophie is quite right. That is exactly how you appear in it,’ Édouard said.
    Laure’s gaze flickered between us, as if she was trying to work out whether I was mocking her.
    ‘The first time my husband painted me I looked like the most awful old maid,’ I said quickly, wanting to put her at ease. ‘So severe and forbidding. I think Édouard said I looked like a stick.’
    ‘I’d never say such a thing.’
    ‘But you thought it.’
    ‘It was a terrible painting,’ Édouard agreed. ‘But the fault was entirely mine.’ He looked at me. ‘And now I find it impossible to paint a bad picture of you.’
    It was still hard not to meet his gaze without blushing a little. There was a brief silence. And I looked away.
    ‘My congratulations on your wedding, Madame Lefèvre. You are a very lucky woman. But, perhaps, not as lucky as your husband.’
    She nodded to me, and then to Édouard, as she lifted her skirts slightly from the wet pavement and walked away.
    ‘Don’t look at me like that in public,’ I scolded him, as we watched her go.
    ‘I like it,’ he said, lighting a cigarette and looking ridiculously pleased with himself. ‘You go such an endearing colour.’
    Édouard saw a man he wanted to speak to over in the
tabac
, so I let him go, walked into the Bar Tripoli and stood at the counter for a few minutes, watching Monsieur Dinan at his usual spot in the corner. I asked for a glass of water, and drank it, exchanging a few