In they came, by ones and twos, the deluge of daubers: humble, hackneyed, or haughty! Some with long drooping mustaches and haunted, sorrowful eyes; others lively as spaniels nipping me with viper-vim wits and vain smirks curled tight as chameleons’ tails. Howsoever they came, I held them all in thrall–prisioners (parishoners?) of my pen. Success crested for those I loved best and shrivelled voidward for those I cursed. Such was the influence of intelligent comment in those days.
Down the furrowed carpet came Manet, his latest canvas coyly swathed in ratty blankets. He had the numb look of a digesting ox on his face. And yet, there was a hint of cunning….
“Unveil it,” I commanded. “And then persist in silence until I speak to you again.”
Manet did as I bade him, his resentful shoulders humping the awkward square onto the big easel that faced the light. He was backing away and folding the blankets as I fell to silence, the bell of my being quelled by a cupping touch.
The dress was a masterpiece of restless chiffon. Manet had not yet ensconced the goddess in a golden frame; she had flown semi-nude and nailed to her canvas magic-carpet right through my foul foyer! How pure, how whiter than steam itself! In fine, an unflinching effect. And how different from my salty and sinuous Jeanne–the dark Venus of vulva and black fire.
“Who… is she? Does she exist?”
Manet cleared his throat. “She is a Mme. Sabatier. A common enough sight at L’Opéra Grainier. Surely you have attended some of her Sunday salons?”
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