Rosalie’s letter arrived the next day. Elisabeth read it through twice in the privacy of her bedroom. Could it be true? Why hadn’t Rosalie told her sooner? They hadn’t seen each other as much of late, that was a fact. But to keep something so important from her closest friend?
The beginning of the letter was all commiseration about Elisabeth’s plight, with a promise to see what her mother could do, if anything. Then the letter took a surprising turn.
You’ll never guess! Oh, it is too wonderful—although perhaps you will think me foolish and not dedicated to art the way you are.
Elisabeth had to admit, that had been her first reaction when she read the news.
Rosalie was to be married. Not only was Rosalie to wed, but her entire life would change. Her husband was a court official. She would be the wife of the concierge of the Château de la Muette, one of the king’s residences on the outskirts of Paris. She would move to Passy, a carriage ride instead of a walk away. And then she would be a wife and have a wife’s duties. No doubt babies would come, and Rosalie would forget all about her pastels.
And all about me.
A hard little knot lodged itself in Elisabeth’s throat. She stifled the threatened tears—she should be happy for her friend! But was this what Rosalie really wanted? This Louis Filleul—he must be much older. Rosalie had always insisted she would only marry for love. How could she be in love with an old man?
Elisabeth paced across her bedroom, the letter crushed in her hand. I will never marry. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her brow creased, her mouth turned down in a frown, her unruly auburn curls not yet tamed into submission. Nonetheless, she had to admit she had grown out of that gangly phase that had been her mother’s despair and become quite pretty. Now, when she strolled in the gardens or through the galleries in the Palais Royal, she felt men’s eyes on her, following her, assessing her. It was annoying and pleasing at the same time. It made her mother happy, that she knew. Soon Jeanne would be trying to marry her off to someone wealthy. Was that all her good looks could achieve? A marriage? No, Elisabeth thought. Perhaps she could turn them to her advantage even now. Why not? She was desperate enough to try anything, and Rosalie didn’t have any easy answers.
“Maman!” she called out the door of her bedroom. “We’re going out. I’ll be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Elisabeth and her mother were striding along the Rue de Cléry to where it became the Rue du Mail, then on toward the river and the Rue du Louvre, dodging puddles where chamber pots had been emptied, flattening themselves against buildings on the narrow streets and closing their eyes to avoid the bits of grit tossed up by horses’ hooves. Elisabeth hardly noticed, though. All she could think of was what she must do.
“We should have hired a carriage,” Jeanne said the second time they had to duck into a doorway to avoid being run down.
“It would have taken too long to get one. And the distance is not far.” And why wait around and do nothing? she thought but didn’t say.
“I don’t know what you hope to accomplish. Your father’s old friends have no doubt forgotten all about you.”
Elisabeth didn’t want to admit she shared that fear and didn’t have a backup plan for what she would do if faced with that result. It was brazen, just breezing into the Louvre as if she did it all the time. “Nonsense, Maman. You know I see them in the salons—Madame Geoffrin's especially. And didn’t they all tell me to come and visit them in their studios whenever I wanted to?”
“That was when you were a child. Why couldn’t you simply wait for them to send letters back? And why not accept the help our neighbor, Monsieur Le Brun, has so kindly offered?”
That stopped Elisabeth in her tracks, and her mother—who’d been scrambling to keep up with her—almost ran into her. “What help?”
“I told you! Don’t you remember? He offered to let you use his studio. At least it’s in our building, and you won’t have to turn up announced in some gentleman’s private quarters.”
That was an issue. The artists not only worked in the Louvre, many of them lived there. It was one of the benefits of being a member of the Académie. It did feel intrusive compared to visiting someone’s atelier. But what could she do? “They’re hardly private, the studios at the Louvre. Students go in and out all day. And besides, we don’t really know this Monsieur Le Brun.” Thankfully, they had arrived and their conversation would have to stop. Elisabeth stood and looked up at the great limestone palace, abandoned unfinished by Louis XIV, who chose the relative isolation of Versailles after fleeing Paris during the Fronde. “This way,” she said, drawing her mother toward the entrance to the wing where the studios were located. She hadn’t been there since she stopped taking classes with Briard a few years before.
That entrance gave onto a long, dark hallway with studios off it on both sides. There was a second floor, but Elisabeth knew Vernet—who was one of the older artists, a respected landscape and seascape painter—would likely be in a prime location with easy access to the Cour Carré, where the prestigious salons took place.
Jeanne pulled Elisabeth to a stop just inside the door. “We shouldn’t be in here,” she whispered. “How will we know where to go?”
Before Elisabeth had to confess that she didn’t know exactly where to find Vernet, an elderly man came toward them from down the corridor. She stopped him and said, “Pardon, Monsieur, could you tell me where I might find Vernet’s studio?”
The man opened his eyes wide and swept his gaze from her kid-leather-shod toes to her beribboned straw hat. “I didn’t realize Monsieur Vernet painted portraits.”
He doesn’t, but you don’t need to know that, Elisabeth thought. “If you would be so kind as to tell us the way?”
“Go along there and turn left down the next corridor, and it’s either the second or third door on the right.”
Elisabeth nodded her thanks, linked arms with her mother, and pulled her in the direction the man indicated. “He said second or third…”
To her dismay, the doors along the hallway had no signs on them. Sometimes artists would nail pasteboard cards up so students could find them, but here, perhaps it was common knowledge who was where. Elisabeth stepped toward the second door and listened. She heard voices. “This must be the one,” she said, and took hold of the latch.
“Aren’t you going to knock?” her mother asked.
In answer, Elisabeth pulled the door open and stepped in. The studio was large—very large—and at least twenty students were clustered around a model in the center, looking up and down at the sketchbooks in their hands as they drew. The only sound was the scratching of pencils on paper. Obviously, the wrong place, but perhaps someone would give them more complete directions. Elisabeth cleared her throat. One of the students turned and went scarlet from the neck up. “Ladies are not permitted in the Salle du Dessin!” he said and charged over to them, taking hold of Elisabeth’s arm and pushing her out before slamming the door in her face.
Elisabeth’s cheeks flamed. She had inadvertently barged into the studio where men learned to draw the male nude.
“Look what you’ve done!” her mother cried. “I think we should just leave.”
“No.” Elisabeth drew herself up. No one need know what just happened, and she didn’t want to admit defeat yet. “We’ve come this far.” She went on to the next door, but this time she knocked and waited for someone to answer.
To her relief, the door opened to reveal the familiar face of Joseph Vernet. He’d put down his palette but still held a paintbrush. “Mademoiselle Vigée! An unexpected pleasure.” He bowed and gestured for them to enter. “I’m afraid there’s nowhere to sit at the moment.”
That was an understatement. Every surface in the studio was covered with bladders and pots of paints, brushes, sketchbooks, and pencils, and he appeared to be working on three paintings at once of the same scene, a rocky promontory and a stormy sea.
So, this is what it’s like for an academician, Elisabeth thought. An effusion of materials, the freedom to be as untidy as you like. And no one would ever dare come in and tell you not to paint and take away all your things. “We won’t stay long. I can see you are busy, and hope you forgive this unannounced intrusion. I trust you received my letter?” Elisabeth intended to be businesslike in her approach, but she couldn’t keep her voice from quavering just a little.
“Yes, yes, this morning.” He held his brush full of verdigris paint out to the side so it wouldn’t drip on her skirt and looked into her eyes. “It must have been a shock.” His friendly smile nearly broke her. He turned away and went to the workbench where he swished the paintbrush in a jar of turpentine.
“The problem is,” Elisabeth said, “I don’t see how I can get around it. I can’t join a guild. They don’t admit women, as you know. And yet there are women artists enough in Paris. How do they stay out of trouble with the Châtelet?”
“That’s simple enough,” Vernet said, wiping his hands on a rag and then walking back over to stand with Elisabeth and her mother. “A certain number of women, those who wish to be paid for painting rather than just teaching, are elected to an academy.”
“The Académie Royale?” Elisabeth’s hopes faded. She could count the number of women academicians on one hand, and none had been elected in recent years.
“There is one other academy,” Vernet replied. “Not so prestigious perhaps, but I don’t think it would matter to you in your present predicament. I was thinking of the Académie de Saint-Luc. Gabriel—Monsieur Doyen—I think you know him?—is acquainted with the rector there. Your father was a member as well, if I remember correctly.”
Elisabeth nearly cried out with joy. Of course! “Yes! I see! How does one go about being elected? Who must I speak to?”
“You must first be put forward by a member, and the officers would vote at their annual assembly in the spring.”
In the spring? Her spirits plummeted as quickly as they’d soared. “So it would take time. And I have no paints, no brushes, no canvases. I think I will go mad.” She blinked the tears out of her eyes. It wouldn’t do to cry in front of Vernet.
“There, now, I’ll tell you what: I’m meeting Doyen for supper this evening. I’ll bring the matter up and see what can be done.”
“Would you? It would be so kind of you, but I hate to presume…” But how could she be certain he would do it?
“And we’ve taken up too much of your time, Monsieur Vernet,” her mother said. “Come Elisabeth, we should go.”
“I’d offer you tea, but you see…” He opened his arms wide and shrugged, smiling.
Elisabeth wanted to embrace this elderly painter with the kind, familiar face. “I think you came to my father’s studio once or twice when I was lurking about underfoot,” she said.
“Yes, and even then, you showed talent in your crude drawings. It is my pleasure to be of any assistance I can, for your own sake as well as for that of my dear late friend, your father.”
“Perhaps, once I have my studio restored, you would permit me to paint your portrait, in thanks for your help?” It was the only way she could think of to express her gratitude.
He smiled. “Perhaps.”
They said their goodbyes and then mother and daughter retraced their steps to go back outside. On their way they passed a woman coming into the Louvre carrying a worn leather satchel. She strode by with purpose, looking as if she knew where she was going. A model, Elisabeth thought, except her face was not pretty enough. A servant then, on an errand. But the petite woman exuded a sense of belonging and assurance that seemed unlike a servant.
As soon as Elisabeth and her mother stepped out into the sunlight she put the woman out of her mind, turning her thoughts instead to the idea of being elected to the Académie de Saint-Luc and having those same rude officers of the Châtelet return all her things to her. She smiled.