Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella Read Online Free

what the fight was about.
    ‘Sophie!’ Édouard pulled me backwards sharply as a chair swung in a great arc before my face, close enough for me to feel the disturbance it created in the air. I cursed with fright, and blushed that my husband had heard me.
    And then we were outside in the evening air, onlookers gazing in at the windows, through cupped hands, the distant sound of shouting and breaking glass in our ears. I stopped by the empty tables and brushed my skirts down, dislodging splinters of glass. Beside us a bloodied man sat on a chair, holding his ear with one hand, and smoking contemplatively with the other.
    ‘Shall we go and eat, then?’ I said, smoothing my coat and glancing up at the sky. ‘I think it may rain again.’
    My husband pulled at his collar, then ran his hands through his hair, letting out a short breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’m ready for some food now.’
    ‘I must apologise for cursing. It was not very ladylike.’
    He patted my hand. ‘I did not hear a thing.’
    I reached up to pull a wooden splinter from the shoulder of his coat, and flicked it away. I kissed him. And arm in arm we walked briskly towards the Panthéon, the sound of the gendarmes’ clanging bell echoing over the Paris rooftops.
    I had moved to Paris two years previously, and had lived in lodgings behind the rue Beaumarchais, as did all shop girls who worked at La Femme Marché. The day I had left to be married, all the girls lined up on my corridor and cheered and banged saucepans with wooden spoons.
    We were married in St Peronne, and in the absence of my father I was given away by Jean-Michel, my sister’s husband. Édouard was charming and generous, and behaved like the perfect groom for the three days’ celebrations, but I knew how relieved he was to escape the provincial confines of northern France and make his way swiftly back to Paris.
    I cannot tell you how happy I was. I had never expected to love, let alone marry. And I would never have admitted as much in public but I loved him with such a passion that I would have stayed with Édouard Lefèvre even if he had not wanted to marry me. In fact, he had so little time for convention that I had assumed it would be the last thing he wanted.
    But it was he who had suggested marriage.
    We had been together a little under three months when Hans Lippmann visited his studio one afternoon (I was washing our clothes, as Édouard had forgotten to put by any money to pay his laundress). Monsieur Lippmann was something of a dandy and I had been a little embarrassed that he saw me in my house garments. He walked around the studio, admiring Édouard’s latest works, then paused in front the painting he had done of me on the evening of Bastille Day, when he and I had first revealed our feelings for each other. I remained in the bathroom, scrubbing away at Édouard’s collars, trying not to be embarrassed that I knew Lippmann was looking at a picture of me in my underclothes. Their voices dropped for a few minutes and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Eventually curiosity overcame me. I dried my hands and walked out into the studio to find them gazing at a series of sketches Édouard had done of me sitting by the large window. Monsieur Lippmann turned and, after the briefest of greetings, asked if I would I model for him too. Fully dressed, of course. There was something fascinating about the angles of my face, something about my pale skin, he said. Didn’t Édouard agree? Why he must do – he had seen it himself. He laughed.
    Édouard didn’t.
    I was about to say yes (I liked Lippmann: he was one of the few artists who treated me as an equal), but I saw Édouard’s smile tighten.
    ‘No. I’m afraid Mademoiselle Bessette is far too busy.’
    There was a brief, awkward silence. Lippmann gave us an amused glance.
    ‘Why, Édouard, we have shared models before. I merely thought that –’
    ‘No.’
    Lippmann looked at his feet. ‘If you say so, Édouard.