Chapter 6: Conversation in the Studio

While her elder brother, Charles, was thus engaged in his various comings and goings, navigating the intricate, often perilous currents of Parisian society and familial duty, Mademoiselle Françoise de Tréville, adhering with a young lady’s dutiful precision to her customary routine, rode in her modest carriage to the esteemed studio of the renowned painter, Herr Karl Dürrenberg, to commence her day’s study of the pictorial arts. Her heart, though still fluttering with a mixture of anxiety for her friend Marie and a burgeoning, hopeful faith in her brother’s promise, was outwardly composed.

As his name readily, and somewhat exotically suggested to Parisian ears, the painter was of German extraction.

In this era, Germans arriving in the vibrant, often bewildering metropolis of Paris most commonly pursued careers as musicians or painters – professions infinitely preferable, it went without saying, and certainly more civilized than the uniformed murderers and brazen pillagers who would traverse the continent in such lamentable, destructive numbers some decades hence.

Among the community of German painters residing in Paris, Herr Karl Dürrenberg was pre-eminent, a figure of considerable artistic stature. After many years of diligent, unremitting effort and an unwavering dedication to his art that bordered on the sacred, he had achieved considerable fame and recognition within the demanding, often fickle, Parisian art world. Furthermore, his unimpeachable integrity and his quiet, upright character had earned him the profound respect, and indeed the affection, of all who knew him. In time, his studio, a sanctuary of creativity and disciplined instruction, had become the most sought-after, most exclusive, establishment for young ladies of high society wishing to learn the delicate and accomplished art of painting.

The master’s standards for accepting pupils were notoriously and almost legendarily strict. Mere wealth, however substantial or newly acquired, was utterly insufficient to gain entry into his exclusive, hallowed circle of disciples. Talent, genuine application, and a certain innate sensibility were the true keys to his door.

And any young lady who had had the privilege of studying under the tutelage of Herr Dürrenberg was universally acknowledged as possessing the refined discernment necessary to critically appraise the collections of the great museums, and the cultivated skill required to produce portraits of considerable artistic merit – in short, she was recognized as a woman of true, cultivated artistic appreciation, a woman whose accomplishments significantly added to her intrinsic value and her desirability in the discerning eyes of society.

For those young girls who merely aspired to the glamorous title of artist or craved the fleeting allure of public notoriety, yet lacked genuine, God-given talent or had not undergone the most fundamental, rigorous training in technique, society in this era, for all its romantic notions, had not yet become so indulgent, so indiscriminately accommodating, as to provide public talent exhibitions to satisfy their misguided whims.

The studio itself was a vast, airy chamber, illuminated by large, square-paned glass windows set into its northern side wall, meticulously designed to capture the optimal, consistent light so crucial for painting. At present, however, due to the intense, almost blinding glare of the high summer sun, these windows were mostly obscured by heavy, dark velvet curtains, their rich folds diffusing the light into a soft, ethereal glow. Along the walls, in a state of picturesque disarray, leaned a multitude of empty, gilded frames and unstretched canvases of various sizes, awaiting the touch of inspiration. The walls themselves, and the wide, scarred wooden floorboards, were spattered with a vibrant, chaotic kaleidoscope of colours from countless pigments, a testament to years of passionate creation. The space was further cluttered, in a charmingly bohemian fashion, with plaster casts of classical statues – serene Greek gods and noble Roman matrons – various arcane artistic implements, easels of every description, and even, rather incongruously, a few pieces of antique armour, lending the entire studio an atmosphere reminiscent of the intriguing, slightly mysterious, backstage area of a grand opera house.

As the master, Herr Dürrenberg, had not yet arrived to commence the day’s instruction, the young lady pupils, as was their established custom, were engaged in their individual painting exercises, their silence punctuated only by the soft scratch of charcoal on paper or the delicate dip of a brush into paint. Each girl, a bloom in her own right, possessed her own unique beauty and a carefully cultivated, graceful deportment. Their attire, though uniformly elegant and befitting their station, varied subtly in style and colour, reflecting individual tastes and perhaps familial allegiances. Sunlight, filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, slanted into the studio in broad, luminous shafts, creating a myriad of enchanting, ever-shifting contrasting effects, a dramatic interplay of strong, defining light and deep, mysterious shadow.

To any visitor stepping into the studio for the first time, the scene itself, with its youthful occupants so earnestly engaged in their artistic pursuits, would have appeared a worthy, indeed an irresistible, subject for a painting, a charming tableau of innocence and refined accomplishment.

However, should such a discerning visitor have the opportunity to remain within those seemingly tranquil walls for an extended period, to truly perceive, beneath the surface, the fervent, often turbulent, emotional undercurrents concealed beneath the studio’s superficially splendid and harmonious veneer, they would likely have been quite taken aback, perhaps even a little disquieted.

Indeed, a Parisian art studio of the 19th century, particularly one frequented by young ladies of the haute volée, was, in its essential social dynamics, its intricate hierarchies and unspoken rivalries, not so very different from a fashionable school classroom of a later, perhaps more overtly competitive, age. Young ladies from wealthy, influential families were, in their intrinsic natures, their vanities, their insecurities, their burgeoning desires for acceptance and admiration, not so very different from girls of more common, less privileged stock. The pupils, adhering with an almost religious scrupulosity to an unspoken yet rigidly enforced set of internal rules and social codes, had swiftly, almost instinctively, formed their own exclusive cliques and alliances, simultaneously, and with equal precision, identifying their rivals and in some cases, their outright adversaries. Inevitably, these small, self-contained circles found themselves in a state of perpetual mutual opposition, subtly vying for status, for the master’s fleeting approval, for the admiration of their peers, and for the perceived social advantages that came with belonging to the ‘correct’ faction, all the while carefully and often cruelly excluding outsiders – a behaviour that, for young girls on the cusp of womanhood, could be described as both an instinctual drive for social survival and a rather sophisticated, if sometimes heartless form of amusement.

In the rarefied, almost sacred, atmosphere of the art studio, where talent and artistic merit ought, ideally, to have reigned supreme, the worldly status and inherited fortunes of one’s parents and grandparents should, by rights, have been forgotten, or at least relegated to a position of secondary importance. Yet, here, as in so many other spheres of Parisian life, these very considerations of lineage and wealth, of ancient names versus new money, became the ultimate, immutable basis upon which the young ladies delineated their factions and formed their exclusive and often fiercely defended circles.

The young ladies were thus divided, almost as if by an invisible yet unbreachable line, into two distinct, clearly demarcated groups, positioned on opposite sides of the spacious studio, separated by a physical distance that, though in reality quite short, seemed to represent a social chasm that might never in the course of a lifetime be truly and lastingly bridged.

On one side, clustered together with an air of confident, almost boisterous camaraderie, were the daughters of the nouveau riche bourgeoisie – the prosperous bankers, the influential notaries, or the immensely successful merchants who had amassed fortunes in trade or industry. Each possessed, or was heiress to, considerable wealth, and they chattered away with animated expressions, their laughter light, frequent, and perhaps a trifle too loud for the hallowed precincts of an art studio. Their gowns were of the latest fashion, their jewels, though perhaps a little ostentatious, undeniably real.

On the other side, maintaining a more reserved, almost regal, distance, were the young ladies hailing from families of the old, established aristocracy, those whose names resonated with centuries of French history. Their expressions were considerably more composed, their conversation more restrained, more nuanced, and decidedly less effusive. They indulged in no excessive displays of emotion, their movements studied, their deportment a testament to generations of careful breeding. Yet, from time to time, they would cast sharp, covert, and exquisitely disdainful glances – glances, however, that, with a skill honed by long practice, were invariably just perceptible enough to be keenly and woundingly felt by their intended targets! – towards the other, more boisterous, group.

The current state, the uneasy coexistence, and indeed the uncertain future prospects, of France’s two dominant and often competing ruling classes were thus, with an almost startling, poignant clarity, mirrored, encapsulated even, within the seemingly tranquil confines of a Parisian painter’s studio.

These young ladies, each and every one, on both sides of the invisible divide, possessed an elegant, almost flawless deportment and moved with a graceful and studied charm that was the hallmark of their class and upbringing. Yet, their eyes, those supposed windows to the soul, often lacked a certain directness, a youthful, artless candour. Their rigorous, often restrictive upbringing had long since transformed polite civility, the meticulous observance of social forms, into an ingrained, unconscious instinct. But in this relentless process of social refinement, their natural childishness, their precious, uninhibited spontaneity, had been slowly and almost imperceptibly eroded, smoothed away like a rough stone tumbled in a relentless stream. The innocent, untroubled simplicity of true childhood, with its unfeigned joys and its fleeting sorrows, was receding ever further from them, replaced by a premature, worldly knowingness.

Of course, owing to their tender youth, society, with its myriad pressures and its often cruel expectations, had not yet entirely assimilated them, had not completely extinguished their innate, resilient spirits. Thus, on occasion, when the mood was light, when the constraints of social performance were momentarily forgotten, they could still display a genuinely pure, almost sacred, smile, a fleeting, heart-touching glimpse of the authentic, uncorrupted child within – as to how long such precious, fragile qualities might endure in the often harsh climate of Parisian society, only Heaven, in its infinite wisdom, could say.

Françoise de Tréville, with a quiet determination that was characteristic of her, took no active part in the subtle, yet relentless social skirmishes between the self-proclaimed “aristocratic party” and the equally self-assured “banking party.” As was her invariable habit, she had retreated to her own quiet, secluded corner of the studio, a little alcove near a dusty collection of plaster casts, and was diligently and almost fiercely continuing with the painting she had left unfinished the previous day – a dramatic, emotionally charged rendering of a three-masted warship caught in the terrifying, tumultuous grip of a tempestuous storm. The captain, a solitary, resolute figure, his features noble and determined, stood steadfastly upon the forecastle, one hand gripping the rail for support against the lurching deck, the other raised, authoritatively directing his beleaguered crew as they battled the raging, mountainous waves and the howling, merciless wind. All the while, his gaze, intense and unwavering, scanned the distant, turbulent, storm-tossed horizon with a brass-bound spyglass, searching, perhaps, for a sign of hope, a break in the oppressive, threatening clouds.

She had become oblivious, or so it seemed, to the hushed whispers and the occasional, curious sidelong glances that were directed her way from other parts of the studio. She was entirely absorbed, lost, in the fierce, consuming passion of her creation, her brushstrokes bold and confident, her colours rich and evocative. When she had applied the final, decisive brushstroke, deftly delineating the dark, ominous, swirling clouds that threatened to engulf the brave vessel, she, like all true artists wholly engrossed in their work, let out a long, deeply satisfied sigh, a sigh that spoke of both exhaustion and profound creative fulfillment.

“It is truly magnificent, is it not, Mademoiselle?” a low, cultured voice murmured in admiration, startlingly close beside her ear.

“Eh?” Startled from her reverie, her heart leaping in her chest, Françoise quickly turned her head, her long golden hair, loosened from its customary braids, swinging with the abrupt movement like a silken banner.

Mathilde de Dutilleul stood observing her, a tall, rather imposing figure, clad in an elegant gown of deep sapphire blue, embroidered with delicate silver lace. In her left hand, she held, with an air of casual sophistication, her gold-rimmed lorgnette, that indispensable accessory of the discerning Parisian lady.

She was one of the acknowledged, if unspoken, leaders of the aristocratic faction within the studio, her position cemented by both her own formidable intellect and the considerable influence of her family. Her grandfather, the esteemed Comte de Dutilleul, currently held the prestigious and powerful position of Keeper of the Seals to His Majesty the King.

Her eyes, Françoise noted, were a dark, almost obsidian, hue, lustrous and intelligent, though often veiled by an expression of cool reserve. Her hair was a soft, light brown, simply but elegantly coiffed. The corners of her eyes were subtly and almost exotically elongated, lending her finely featured face an air of inherent seriousness, a certain thoughtful gravity. She was generally a young lady of few words, her pronouncements, when she chose to make them, invariably concise and to the point. She was two years Françoise’s senior, having already reached the significant age of seventeen, an age when young ladies began to seriously contemplate matters of marriage and their future establishment in society.

The Keeper of the Seals (Garde des Sceaux) in France was initially the minister responsible for the custody and application of the Great Seal of the Realm, a symbol of royal authority. Over time, the office evolved into an important and influential ministerial position, often held by a close confidant and trusted advisor to the King, effectively a senior minister of justice.

Mathilde leaned closer, her gaze, magnified slightly by the lenses of her lorgnette, minutely examining the painting Françoise had just completed. “The composition is exceptionally strong, Mademoiselle, and your use of colour, particularly in capturing the fury of the sea and the menace of the sky, is most judicious, most effective. It is, without question, a remarkably fine piece of work – Mademoiselle de Tréville, you have just completed what I can only describe as a veritable masterpiece, a painting of true power and emotion. You are, indeed, most deserving of Herr Dürrenberg’s frequently expressed high esteem for your talents…”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle, you are… you are far too kind,” Françoise replied, a faint, unexpected blush rising to her cheeks at this unsolicited and rather effusive praise from such an influential, and usually reserved, quarter.

“There is no need for false modesty, Mademoiselle. My praise is entirely sincere, I assure you,” Mathilde stated, her expression remaining quite serious, almost solemn, despite her complimentary words. “I have no particular reason, nor indeed any inclination, to offer you empty flattery.”

Françoise lowered her gaze, a sudden unease mingling with her surprise. She wondered at the true purpose of this sudden, uncharacteristic attention from one of the studio’s acknowledged leaders, a young lady with whom she had previously exchanged only the most cursory of polite formalities.

“You are wondering, no doubt, Mademoiselle de Tréville, why I have chosen to approach you so suddenly, so directly, this morning,” Mathilde remarked, a ghost of a smile, so faint as to be almost imperceptible, playing upon her well-shaped lips. She had, it seemed, an uncanny ability to read the thoughts of others.

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Françoise admitted in a low, somewhat hesitant voice. “It is not… it is not often that others, particularly those of your circle, seek out my conversation.”

“You are, by a considerable margin, the most beautiful young lady amongst us, Mademoiselle,” Mathilde stated, with a calm, almost clinical, objectivity, still with that faint, enigmatic smile hovering about her lips. “That fact alone, in this competitive little world of ours, is quite sufficient to earn the unspoken and often bitter enmity of some for the next fifty years. And then, of course,” her voice dropped almost imperceptibly, “there is the matter of your grandfather, the Marquis de Tréville, and his… particular political affiliations, which do not, shall we say, find universal favour in certain influential quarters.”

“Then why, Mademoiselle, have you come to speak with me today!” Françoise interrupted, her voice rising slightly in her agitation, almost forgetting to suppress its volume, her protective instincts towards her beloved grandfather instantly aroused. “Do you not fear incurring the displeasure, the disapproval, of certain… influential individuals yourself by associating with me?”

A moment later, a wave of regret washed over her for her uncharacteristic, almost impertinent, outburst. She had spoken out of turn, too defensively.

What will she do to me now? Françoise wondered, her heart sinking with a sudden surge of anxiety. Will she continue to mock me, to subtly torment me with her clever words? Or will she summon her friends, her allies, to ostracize me further? What should I do? How should I respond?

The first, and perhaps the most important, lesson a young lady must learn upon her formal entry into the treacherous waters of high society, her brother Charles, in one of his rare moments of unsolicited fraternal advice, had once told her, is to master the art of concealing her true antipathies, her private resentments, beneath a veneer of unwavering, impenetrable politeness. Françoise recalled his words now, with a pang of regret for her own lack of composure.

Her brother’s words, she reflected with a sigh, were always so confoundingly, so infuriatingly, wise.

However, Mathilde’s reaction to her outburst was entirely unexpected, disarming her completely. She merely pursed her lips slightly, a wry, almost weary, and surprisingly understanding smile touching them. Then, she shook her head gently, a gesture of dismissal. “Very well, Mademoiselle. Let us be clear. I have not come to you today to discuss political allegiances or the tiresome squabbles of our elders. Such matters, these endless, sterile debates about legitimacy and restoration, are merely the rather predictable, and frankly, rather tedious, pastimes of our fathers and grandfathers – we, of our generation, have, or at least ought to have, our own concerns, our own… diversions, do we not?”

Françoise looked at her, puzzled, her initial defensiveness slowly giving way to a cautious curiosity.

“You miss Marie de Léognan a great deal, do you not, Mademoiselle de Tréville?” Mathilde said, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, her gaze fixed on Françoise with a new, unexpected intensity. “Do not trouble yourself to deny it, my dear Mademoiselle. I can see it quite clearly in your eyes, in the shadows that have haunted your usually bright countenance these past weeks. You considered her a true friend, a kindred spirit, and you have been greatly, profoundly distressed by her sudden, cruel absence.”

Françoise lowered her head slightly, a lump forming in her throat. The unexpected empathy in Mathilde’s voice was almost more unnerving than her earlier cool reserve. “Yes, Mademoiselle,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “I do miss her very much. She was… she is… my dearest friend.”

“Excellent,” Mathilde nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in her dark eyes. “We are finally in agreement on one matter of substance, at least. Marie was, perhaps, the kindest, most gentle soul amongst us all, so consistently respectful and genuinely amiable towards everyone, regardless of their faction or their family’s standing. I confess, I was very fond of her myself. And yet, cruel, capricious fate has dealt her such a terrible, undeserved blow…”

Françoise remained silent, her head still bowed, her heart aching with a fresh wave of sorrow for her imprisoned friend.

“Of course,” Mathilde continued, her voice regaining some of its earlier, surprising coolness, a steely pragmatism now evident, “mere lamentations, however sincere, will save no one, Mademoiselle. Action, and action alone, can achieve tangible results in this imperfect world. I have therefore, decided to take measures to bring her back, Mademoiselle de Tréville. And I have reason to believe that you, too, would wish to do the same, that you would welcome an ally in such an endeavor.”

Françoise raised her head, her eyes wide with astonishment, with a dawning, incredulous hope, as she stared at Mathilde de Dutilleul.

Mathilde, with an elegant and almost theatrical deliberate movement, raised her lorgnette to her eyes with her left hand, holding it poised before them for a dramatic moment, and then peered at Françoise through the polished lenses, her expression unreadable.

“You are surprised, are you not, Mademoiselle?” she said, a faint, almost self-mocking smile touching her lips. “I am not perhaps, quite as devoid of ordinary human feeling, of common compassion, as I may sometimes appear to be in this… rather artificial environment.” She paused for a moment, as if choosing her next words with care, then continued, her voice dropping slightly, taking on a more confidential tone, “A century ago, Mademoiselle, our unfortunate ancestresses, faced with such a dire predicament, had little choice but to bow their heads in pious, helpless resignation and enter a convent to live out their days in prayer and obscurity. However, a century later, we, their descendants, should surely be somewhat stronger, somewhat more resourceful, than those poor, subjugated women of the past – at the very least, the more enlightened education of this new era has, one hopes, furnished our minds with something more than just unquestioning faith in the Almighty and blind obedience to paternal authority; it has given us… intellect, and perhaps, a measure of courage to use it…”

“Oh, Mademoiselle! I must thank you, from the bottom of my heart, on Marie’s behalf!” Françoise exclaimed, a surge of overwhelming relief and excited gratitude coursing through her at the unexpected discovery of such a powerful and hitherto unsuspected ally.

She then, in a rush of eager words, recounted to Mathilde how she had already implored her beloved brother, Charles, to intervene on Marie’s behalf, and how he had, with his customary kindness and resourcefulness, promised to find a way.

“I was not mistaken in my initial judgment of you, Mademoiselle de Tréville,” Mathilde said, a genuine, warm smile – a rare and rather beautiful sight – gracing her usually serious features. “Your loyalty to your friend does you great credit. However,” her expression became more thoughtful, more pragmatic, “your brother alone, admirable though his intentions and his devotion to you undoubtedly are, might not, I fear, possess sufficient influence, sufficient leverage, to sway the determined will of the Marquis de Léognan and bring this delicate, and potentially dangerous, matter to a successful conclusion…”

“He will succeed, Mademoiselle!” Françoise interrupted again, her faith in her brother’s abilities absolute, almost sacred, and entirely unwavering. “My brother can achieve anything he sets his mind to!”

“Very well, Mademoiselle. Let us fervently hope so,” Mathilde nodded, clearly somewhat reassured, perhaps even a little impressed by Françoise’s unshakeable, almost fierce, conviction. “I, too, shall place my trust in his capabilities. A man bearing the distinguished name of de Tréville, even of the less… favored branch, surely knows what he must do, and what he is capable of achieving when honor and family are at stake. However,” she added, her gaze direct and sincere, “should there be any way in which I, or my family, might discreetly assist in this most worthy endeavor, please do not hesitate for a single moment to tell me directly. I shall do whatever is within my power, consistent with… certain proprieties, of course.”

Françoise nodded eagerly in agreement, her heart soaring with renewed hope. With such an ally as Mathilde de Dutilleul, and with her own clever, resourceful Charles, surely Marie’s rescue was now within reach.

Seeing her carefully laid plans progressing so smoothly, so unexpectedly well, even a young lady as habitually composed and inscrutable as Mathilde de Dutilleul could not entirely suppress a flicker of pleased satisfaction, a subtle glow of triumph in her dark eyes. To diffuse this uncharacteristic, and perhaps unseemly, surge of emotion, she raised her lorgnette once again and re-examined Françoise’s newly completed painting with meticulous, almost professional, attention.

“It is truly a remarkable piece of work, Mademoiselle! A veritable masterpiece, as I said!” she exclaimed once more, her admiration seemingly genuine. Then, she turned her gaze back to Françoise, a new, more personal, curiosity in her expression. “Forgive my impertinence, Mademoiselle de Tréville, but I find myself intrigued. Is the noble captain depicted with such… heroic intensity in this painting a renowned historical figure? Perhaps some celebrated admiral of France? Or is he, perchance, an image conjured entirely from your own vivid, and clearly very romantic, imagination?”

Françoise’s reply, this time, was exceedingly brief.

“My brother.”