The Siren of Paris Read Online Free

drawing what you think you see as the model. This exercise is not about training your hand, but your eyes. Unless you really see your model with all your sight, you are just drawing from your imagination.”
    Marc studied his own poor example. The shape he had drawn was nearly unrecognizable as a human form. He felt irate with himself as he stared at the distorted proportions and contorted lines.
    A sound could be heard outside in the hallway, muffled by the door.
    “This is the foundation of my class if you continue with me at École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. You know how to draw, but you lack the ability to see,” he continued.
    The noise became far greater outside the class. People in the hall spoke loudly; the stomping feet of someone running down the corridor grew closer.
    “Marie, please replace your robe,” the instructor said, and then walked toward the noise.
    As the door opened, Marc heard, “Guerre! La guerre!”
    “Stop! Silence, please. I have a class in session. Have you gone mad?” Students from other classes poured into the hallway.
    “No, sir. I was told to tell everyone of the war.”
    “What war?” he asked.
    “France. France is at war with Germany. If you have a radio, turn it on. They are calling up the troops.” The students gasped, and their teacher stood in the doorway, stunned.
    That night, Marc’s roommate packed for the front. “It is all a farce. I am going to be bored to death,” he complained bitterly. “France is not Czechoslovakia, or Austria.”
    “The war is not official yet. France and Britain made demands, but nothing is official until the third,” Marc said to him.
    “Perhaps I am packing for nothing?” he snorted.
    Marc left in the morning for the city to take up his next flat. People bustled about, making preparations for the war. Sandbags lined the fronts of prominent buildings; posters announced air raid stations. Marc stopped and joined a crowd gathered in front of one of the posters. As he read, it occurred to him that it said nothing different from what he’d heard on the radio or read in the papers, yet, somehow, none of it seemed real to him.
    Nigel complained to Marc in the café that night while having a smoke. “This is absurd. Suddenly now, everyone is bustling about as if the loudmouth himself is at the border, but the entire German army is in Poland. This is just another short crisis. I am sure there will be a new agreement in a few weeks.”
    “I hope you are right,” Marc said. “If all the students are at the front, how many classes will there be?”
    “Oh Marc, if you get bored of drawing lovely naked women, you can join the troops at the front and earn your glory and honor. It is the hero’s calling, you know, and you are a citizen of France, so you can be drafted in case the calling does not come through,” Nigel teased. Marc suddenly remembered he was born in France. The thought struck him as odd that he could be called up for the draft.
    “Oh, I have the dogs of war in me, but I prefer not to feed them and, besides that, the French don’t know what to do with a man born in France, yet a citizen of the United States. I don’t even have a French passport,” Marc crushed out his cigarette.
    “Smart. No worry Marc, you will find your glory another way I am sure, but, as for me, I have no dogs left in me at all,” Nigel said, a look of bemusement on his face.
    “Are you leaving soon?”
    “Of course I am, even though I’m sure everything will work out. But if this doesn’t calm down, I want to be on the other side of the pond.” Nigel looked out to the street.
    “Well, I have class in the morning all the same,” Marc said. “If I do not see you before you leave, I hope you have a safe trip.”
    “You will see me. I am not leaving that fast. David will be back and I will be at Dora’s for lunch. Don’t stay up too late dreaming of all your drawings,” Nigel said, and left the café.
    On September 2, Marc saw a line