“Yes.” Henri tipped his hat with the cordial glass, now feeling quite silly for holding it. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
“Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec,” said Juliette, still in pose, dropping the silk robe to offer her hand.
“Oh my,” said Henri. He looked over his shoulder at Lucien, then back at Juliette, who smiled, calmly, almost beatifically, not as if she wasn’t aware that she was naked, but as if she were bestowing a gift upon the world. He forgot for a moment that he had come here to rescue his friend from her villainy. Her lovely, lovely villainy.
Henri bowed quickly over her hand, then wheeled on a heel. “I must see your painting.”
“No, it’s not ready.” Lucien caught him by the shoulders to keep him from moving behind the canvas.
“Nonsense, I’m an artist as well, and your studio mate; I have special privileges.”
“Not on this one, Henri, please.”
“I have to see what you’ve done with this—this—” He was waving toward Juliette while trying to get a look at the canvas. “The form, the luminosity of the skin—”
“Lucien, he’s talking about me like I’m a thing,” said Juliette.
Lucien crouched and sighted over his friend’s shoulder. “Look at the subtlety of the shadows, soft blue, barely three levels of value between the highlights and the shadows. You’d never see that except with indirect sunlight. With the surrounding buildings diffusing it, the light is like this most of the day. It’s only for an hour either side of noon that the highlights become too harsh.”
“Lucien, now you’re talking about me like I’m a thing.”
“Nonsense, ma chère, I’m talking about the light.”
“But you’re pointing at me.”
“We should put a skylight in the studio on rue Caulaincourt,” Henri said.
“There’s an apartment upstairs, Henri. I fear the effect wouldn’t be the same.”
“Good point. Is this the pose? You should do her from the back when you finish this one. She’s a finer ass than Velázquez’s Venus in London. Have you seen it? Exquisite! Have her looking over her shoulder at you in a mirror.”
“Still here,” Juliette said.
“Put a naked cherub on the couch with her to hold the mirror,” said Henri. “I can model if you need.”
The idea of Henri as a hirsute cherub seemed to jolt Lucien out of his enchantment with the light on Juliette’s skin, and he steered the count to the door. “Henri, it’s good to see you, but you have to go. Let’s meet at the Chat Noir this evening for a drink. I need to work now.”
“But I feel as if my rescue has been, well, somehow less than satisfactory.”
“No, I’ve never felt so thoroughly rescued, Henri. Thank you.”
“Well, this evening, then. Good day, mademoiselle,” he called to Juliette as Lucien pushed him out the door.
“À bientôt,” the girl said.
Lucien closed the door behind him and Henri stood there in the little weed-choked courtyard, holdi
ng a crystal cordial glass with a heavy brass knob on its base, wondering exactly what had just happened. He was sure that Lucien was in grave danger; otherwise, why had he hurried back from Malromé? Why had he come to the bakery? Why, in fact, was he even awake at this ungodly, midmorning hour?
He shrugged, and since he was holding the cordial glass anyway, he worked the long cylinder of the silver flask from his cane and poured himself a cognac to steel his nerves for the next stage of the rescue.
Inside the studio, Juliette resumed her pose and said, “Have you ever seen the Velázquez Venus, Lucien?”
“No, I’ve never been to London.”
“Perhaps we should go see it,” she said.
TOULOUSE-LAUTREC WAITED ACROSS THE SQUARE IN MADAME JACOB’S CRÉMERIE, watching the alley next to Lessard’s boulangerie. The girl appeared at dusk, just as Lucien’s sister said she would. He quickly chomped on a bit of bread spread with Camembert that he had left, drained his wine, placed some coins on the table, and climbed down from the stool.