Immortalized
Henri Leclair was one of those rare, gifted individuals born with the talent of an artist and the soul of a poet. As a child growing up in Lyon, he was naturally expected to work in the silk mills, but Henri wanted to be a painter. However, since he wasn't born into a wealthy family, it was necessary he find some form of employment to earn his keep.
By working long hours in a wine shop and living frugally, he was able to save enough money to leave Lyon and rent a small, sparsely furnished room in Paris. Once there, he soon found employment during the morning hours, thus leaving his afternoons free. From noon until dusk, rain or shine, Henri would paint the sights of Paris. Yet while his paintings of the Jardin des Tuileries and the imposing edifice of the Cathédral Notre Dame de Paris showed his unquestionable skill, they were not unique. After all, the city was teeming with paintings of its famous landmarks.
"I will never become a great artist until I can find something truly inspiring to paint," Henri said as he stood in front of Monsieur Mercier's gallery on the Left Bank of the Seine, admiring the collection of watercolors by a promising new painter.
Once he had seen all he could glimpse through the gallery's front window, he gathered his canvas and paints and headed toward home. Approximately half a mile from the gallery, he stopped at a bakery to purchase a loaf of bread. A girl, newly arrived from the French countryside, stopped her baking to wait on him. One look at the captivating mademoiselle and Henri was instantly smitten.
"What do you want?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
The artist's reply was unintelligible.
"I can't understand you. Are you speaking French?"
When Henri came to his senses, he asked the girl for a loaf of one of the bakery's cheapest breads.
Marie Fournier looked at the customer's patched trousers, threadbare shirt and worn shoes and decided that despite his handsome face he was nothing more than a penniless peasant.
After paying for his bread, Henri took two steps toward the door and then stopped. He stood still, summoning up the courage to speak to the girl.
"Is there something else you wanted?" she asked with a hint of annoyance.
"I ... I was wondering if ... if you would let me paint you."
"Will you pay me to model for you?" Marie asked hopefully.
"No, I haven't got any money," Henri admitted. "But I promise that if the painting sells, I will give you half the money I make on it."
"Have you sold any paintings yet?"
Henri, a truthful man, shook his head.
All Marie's instincts told her to decline the artist's offer since she could expect nothing in return for her time, but there was something endearing about the young man that she found difficult to resist.
"Tomorrow is my day off," she announced, hoping she would not regret her decision. "I can sit for you a few hours, but I expect you to at least provide me with something to eat."
Although Henri had to sell his only good jacket to afford the price of a dinner, he was delighted that Marie Fournier had accepted his invitation.
* * *
By the time Henri Leclair finished his fourth painting of Marie Fournier, the two had pooled their resources and began living together in a small garret not far from Monsieur Mercier's gallery.
"How do you like it?" the painter asked as he revealed his completed work to his model.
"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed. "Who is it I'm supposed to be?"
"Ophelia, who is a character from Shakespeare's Hamlet."
"Don't you think people are going to wonder why all the subjects of your paintings look like me? You've got my face on Juliet, Joan of Arc, Queen Guinevere and now Ophelia."
"They're not exactly alike. There are distinct differences. Here you have red hair; there you are blond."
"But it's still my face."
"Yes, and your face is exquisite. I could never tire of painting it, just as I am sure when I get an exhibit at Monsieur Mercier's gallery people will never tire of seeing it."
"And when will you get that exhibit?" Marie asked, anxious to get her promised share of the money should his work sell.
"I need more than four paintings," he explained. "When I have enough for an entire exhibit, I will bring them to Monsieur Mercier."
"And until then we will be forced to remain in this horrid little garret!" she complained petulantly.
"You are adorable when you pout," Henri laughed. "But take heart, my dearest angel. Someday you will have all the fine things in life you now crave. And not only will you have money, but I will immortalize your beauty. It will be your face people see in their minds when they read of Helen of Troy or Aphrodite."
While the painter's adoration pleased Marie's vanity, the girl never lost sight of her ultimate goal: she had left her parents' farm and journeyed to Paris, not to work the rest of her days in her aunt's bakery but to find a husband with the financial resources to allow her to escape a life of drudgery. As much as she enjoyed Henri's romantic attentions, she would never marry him unless he made a comfortable living from the sale of his paintings.
* * *
It was almost two years later, just as Marie Fournier was reaching the end of her patience, that Henri Leclair completed his twelfth painting of her.
"All modesty aside, this is my finest work to date," he boasted, putting his palette and brush down and standing back to admire the portrait.
This time when Marie viewed the finished painting, there was no need to ask the identity of the subject.
"You've painted me as the Holy Virgin?" she asked with amusement.
"Look at the face," the artist cried proudly. "The expression is one of pure innocence and faith. I told you once that I would immortalize your beauty. This painting will be one that will capture it for generations to come."
"How much do you think you can get for it?" she asked.
The question took Henri by surprise. Although, like most artists, he wanted to be successful, he did not think of his individual paintings in terms of their price tags. To him, they would always be works of art first and commodities second.
"I'm not sure. I'll leave all that up to Monsieur Mercier."
Marie's face brightened.
"You've spoken to him then? He's agreed to give you a show?"
"Not yet, but I will—soon. When I've had the chance to paint a few more ....."
"No!" Marie insisted. "I've had enough. I refuse to pose for another painting until you go down and show Monsieur Mercier what you've done so far."
"But ...."
"No! Unless you have a firm commitment from the gallery, you will have to find yourself another model."
The following day Henri took three of his favorite paintings and paid a call on Monsieur Mercier. The dealer, who did not normally see artists who showed up uninvited at his gallery, only agreed to look at his work because Marie Fournier had accompanied the artist.
"Are you his wife?" Mercier asked Marie as Henri set his three canvases up in the back room of the gallery.
"Wife? No," she replied coquettishly. "Our relationship is a business one. I modeled for all Henri's paintings."
"Is that so? Then I can only hope your friend did your beauty justice."
When the dealer turned to see Henri's three paintings, he immediately stopped flirting with the girl. He cupped his chin in his hand as he closely examined first one, then the next and finally the last. Meanwhile, Henri and Marie anxiously awaited his opinion.
"You have other paintings, I assume."
"Yes," Henri answered. "I've completed twelve so far."
"I'd like to see them."
"I can bring them by tomorrow afternoon," Henri offered.
"No. The afternoon is a bad time for me since the gallery is usually quite busy from noon on. I prefer the morning."
Henri looked crestfallen.
"I'm afraid I work in the mornings," he said, unable to afford a day off even for such a great opportunity.
"I can switch my day off," Marie quickly volunteered.
"But you can't carry nine canvases all the way from the garret to the gallery," Henri said, pointing out the obvious.
"Is your garret nearby?" Mercier asked.
"Yes," Marie answered. "It is only a short walk from here."
"Then I shall go there tomorrow morning."
Henri was so excited at the prospect of the eminent art critic and dealer viewing his work that he failed to notice the look that passed between Monsieur Mercier and Marie.
* * *
Precisely at noon the following day, Henri left work and literally ran through the streets of Paris. He was eager to hear Monsieur Mercier's appraisal of his work, for not only was his the finest gallery in all France, but his opinions on art were respected throughout Europe.
As he entered the art gallery, Henri noticed the fine attire on its patrons and was suddenly ashamed of his humble work clothes. One of the gallery's employees stopped him as he headed toward Monsieur Mercier's office.
"Excuse me, but the tradesmen's door is in the rear of the building."
"I'm not making a delivery," Henri explained. "I'm here to see Monsieur Mercier concerning my paintings."
The door to the office opened, and the owner of the gallery invited the artist inside.
"Sit down, won't you?"
"Have you had a chance to see the rest of my work?" Henri asked excitedly.
"Yes, I have." Monsieur Mercier frowned, and then continued, "I could give you the usual speech, tell you I see promise in your work, that with experience you will be a great artist. But I won't do that. The truth is I don't see anything exceptional in your work. Oh, you can paint, but you're no better than the hundreds of art students who flock to Paris every year hoping to become well-known artists."
"You don't like my paintings?" Henri asked with disbelief.
"I like them. When you paint such a beautiful woman, what man wouldn't like them? But they are not art, at least not art that would ever sell in my gallery."
Henri was crushed. Having lived under the delusion that he had a great talent, he was now forced to face the painful truth. And what of Marie? How would she react to the fact that there would be no exhibit?
"My advice to you, young man," the dealer offered, "is to let your pretty model take the paintings and try to sell them at a street bizarre. She might get a few francs from the tourists who want to bring home a remembrance of their time in Paris."
Henri was sickened by the suggestion. He had foolishly promised Marie he would immortalize her beauty. He did not want to see her portraits being sold as souvenirs.
In the face of his devastating disappointment, he could not bring himself to go home just yet. He walked through the streets of Paris for several hours before finding the strength to return to the garret he shared with Marie. When he walked through the door, he found her throwing her few belongings into an old sack from the bakery.
"What are you doing?" he asked, knowing the answer but dreading to hear the words spoken aloud.
"I'm leaving," she replied coolly. "I've had enough of your empty promises."
"Don't go," he pleaded. "We can get married and move to Lyon. I'll have no trouble getting a job at one of the silk mills there, and we can stay with my family until we can afford a place of our own."
"I don't want to live in Lyon. I want to stay here in Paris. I want the things you swore you'd give me when you became a famous artist. What a fool I was to believe in you!"
Henri was brought to tears by Marie's bitter words.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I wish I could make it up to you."
"You can," she said, her eyes suddenly glowing with avarice. "You can give me my paintings."
"Why? They're worthless. Just ask Monsieur Mercier."
"I spent hours posing for them. I ought to get something for my time, even if it's only a few francs to buy a new frock."
Henri looked at the stack of canvases leaning against the wall. The one of the Virgin Mary was on top. With every brushstroke he had put his heart into that painting; it was to have been his masterpiece.
"Take them," he said, turning away from a sight too painful to behold. "Take anything you want; take everything."
He walked out of the garret, never intending to return.
The following day, as workmen were delivering the dozen paintings of Marie Fournier to Monsieur Mercier's gallery, Henri Leclair's body was found floating in the Seine.
* * *
On the night of the opening of the gallery's new exhibit, Marie viewed her reflection in the full-length mirror in Monsieur Mercier's lavish bedroom. In honor of the occasion, her hair had been styled by one of the finest beauty shops in Paris, and her gown had been chosen by Mercier himself.
"You look lovely, my dear," the art dealer said admiringly.
She accepted the compliment with her usual aplomb.
"Too bad Henri Leclair never got to see the little girl from the bakery looking like a duchess."
Mention of the artist's name evoked neither guilt nor remorse. At the moment Marie felt only triumph.
"By the end of the evening, I will be a very rich," she announced.
"We will be rich," Mercier corrected her. "You forget, I get half of everything we earn on those paintings—except for the one of the Virgin Mary. I'm not willing to sell that one."
"Why not? That was his best piece; you said so yourself."
"That's precisely why I'm not going to sell it. When I first laid eyes on it, I decided I had to have it. In my opinion, it's a masterpiece surpassed only by da Vinci's Mona Lisa. I would have been willing to pay Leclair anything he asked for it."
"But you didn't have to pay him a cent, thanks to me," Marie reminded him.
"Yes, you clever little minx. You certainly cheated him out of a fortune."
"You were willing enough to go along with the plan."
"Once you threw yourself into the bargain. I always was easily persuaded by a pretty face."
In the carriage ride to the gallery, Marie looked over at Mercier. He was not handsome and well-built like Henri. On the contrary, he was overweight from too much wine and rich foods, his hair was nearly gone and his eyes were beady, giving him a rodent-like appearance. But he was well-known and respected in the Paris art world. And he was rich! That was all that mattered to her.
"Look at the crowd," Marie noted as the carriage approached the gallery.
"Splendid!" her companion exclaimed.
Scattered among the patrons eager to view Henri Leclair's paintings were members of the press. Monsieur Mercier was delighted to see that every newspaper and art magazine had sent someone to cover the opening.
"Mesdames et Messieurs," the art dealer addressed the assembly once he alighted from the carriage, "thank you for coming to the opening of the exhibit of paintings by an artist whose life was so tragically cut short. In the absence of Monsieur Leclair, I want to introduce you to his inspiration. Here is Mademoiselle Fournier, a woman whose face I'll wager none of you are likely to forget."
Marie bowed her head and basked in the applause and admiration of the crowd.
Once the showroom reached its maximum capacity, Monsieur Mercier stood in front of the double doors that led to the exhibition room.
"Now, without further ado," he announced theatrically, "I present the works of the late Henri Leclair."
The doors were thrown open and the eager patrons piled in. Mercier's smile quickly faded when he saw the paintings. There was little doubt that the model was the same and that the work was done by the same artist, but the subject matter had changed. The fair Ophelia was now the heartless, power-hungry Messalina; the innocent, loving Juliet was replaced by the bloody Countess Bathory; the saintly Joan of Arc became the Whore of Babylon.
Monsieur Mercier pulled Marie aside.
"What have you done with the other paintings?" he demanded to know. "If you think you can deceive me like you did that foolish boy, you'd better think again."
"I've nothing to do with this. I've never seen ...."
In the middle of her impassioned denial, her eyes fell on the painting placed in a position of honor: what was once an inspirational rendering of the Virgin Mary had become the hideous gorgon Medusa. The horrified young woman screamed in fright and fainted dead away.
* * *
Marie was resting on the couch in Mercier's private office, unwilling to return to the gallery and see her face hideously transformed for all to witness.
"Here, drink this," the art dealer instructed, handing her a glass of brandy.
"Those paintings! Where did they come from?"
"You can quit pretending."
"I'm not ...."
"The only reason I haven't called the police is because our Monsieur Leclair was such a talented artist that people are even anxious to own those monstrosities on display."
"You've sold one?" the distraught woman asked in disbelief.
"One? I've sold them all, and for quite a bit of money."
Mercier went to his desk, wrote out a check and handed it to Marie.
"This is your share. Congratulations, you are a wealthy woman. And there will be more for you when you give me the other twelve paintings."
"I told you. I don't know what's become of them!" she cried.
"Yes, so you have," he said, clearly not believing her. "You'll know where to find me should they turn up."
"But you and I .... I thought we ...."
Mercier laughed.
"You and I? I'm afraid that's out of the question now. I'd never be able to trust you."
Marie put up an argument, but the art dealer could not be persuaded to take her back.
She remained in Paris for only a few more months, rarely venturing outside her apartment for fear of seeing the horror in the eyes of people who saw her face and associated it with one or more of the evil women in Henri's paintings. Although the artist had intended to immortalize her beauty, he had vilified it instead.
Eventually, Marie returned to the countryside and lived out her years alone, never knowing what had happened to the original paintings in Henri Leclair's garret or where the altered versions had come from.
Image in upper left corner is taken from The Beloved by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Wasn't it nice of Salem to immortalize his pawprints on my clean floor?
