Paris, January, 1776
Ten portraits in eighteen months, and she could barely count the new commissions. It seemed everyone wanted Elisabeth, not just for portraits, but as a guest at dinners, balls, the opera, and lately even the most elite literary and artistic salons.
“I need more fashionable gowns, Maman.” Elisabeth put the finishing touches on a new portrait of her mother, a portrait she thought perhaps her finest to date. She was extremely pleased with the subtle variations of white, from her mother’s powdered hair, her white lace-edged cap, and her white satin pelisse with white swan’s down that edged it. “Perhaps a robe à l’Anglaise.”
Jeanne rose and stretched before coming to stand behind Elisabeth and examine the portrait. “As you’ve raised the subject, there is something I wanted to discuss with you,” she said.
What was there to discuss about dresses? Elisabeth wondered. It must be something else. Elisabeth never ceased to marvel at her mother’s ability to link two unrelated topics if it served the direction she wished to take the conversation. “Talk to me while I clean my brushes.”
“Monsieur Le Brun has spoken to me again.”
Ah. So that was it. Their neighbor had persisted in working his way into their company, inviting them over, letting Elisabeth borrow paintings to copy and props from his own studio. She knew he wanted more from her than her thanks. But so far, she’d been able to pretend ignorance. Without turning around, she said, “And again, my answer is the same.” This would be the third time their neighbor had mentioned marrying her. Elisabeth was still suspicious of the whole idea, not just because of her mother’s situation, but also Rosalie’s, how getting married had interfered with her art.
She wiped the turpentine out of her brushes on a rag, not looking at her mother when she said, “Isn’t it odd that he talks to you about marriage and not to me?” It was a strange way of courting. Yet despite her antipathy to the idea of marriage, she couldn’t help being flattered. Le Brun was an attractive man, and he valued art. That, at least, was something.
“He is being honorable. He would not want you to marry without our blessing.”
The words I do not require the blessing of Monsieur Le Sèvre were ready to spill out in a rush, but Elisabeth swallowed them. There was no point in telling her mother something she already knew. “I see no reason why I need marry at all. My life is just as I want it. Well, nearly. And marriage will get me no closer to all I want.”
“You think that, but what about children?”
Children. Yes, perhaps she’d want them some day. But not now! She didn’t have time. “I’m no one’s idea of a mother,” she said, and frowned.
“Monsieur Le Brun has invited us to dine with him this evening. You have no other engagements. I think we should go.”
“Maman—”
Jeanne put up her hand to silence Elisabeth. “You should know something else before we go, something that might affect your response to Pierre—Monsieur Le Brun.”
Elisabeth had finished cleaning her brushes and was forced to face her mother, whose expression had changed. Jeanne rubbed the back of her hand, a nervous tic Elisabeth associated with bad news. “What is it? What must I know?”
“Would you like to be able to decide for yourself whether you can afford to hire a model, or purchase a new gown, or buy that ultramarine you so covet?”
“Of course.” Elisabeth knew that, because she was under the age of twenty-five, her stepfather controlled her money. She would have to wait four more years before she could truly be her own mistress and claim from him all the money he held for her in “safekeeping,” as he put it. It was inconvenient, but she hadn’t bothered to keep track of what she earned. Painting the portraits was more important to her than the money.
It was Jeanne who turned away now, pretending to straighten a wig on its stand. “I am afraid—no, ashamed—to admit that my husband, your stepfather, has not been acting in your best interest with regard to your income from the portraits.”
Elisabeth froze. “What are you saying?” She knew Le Sèvre was grasping and miserly, but would he cheat her? And how would he do it?
Her mother turned and fixed her with a moist gaze. “My dear, you are a wealthy woman. You can afford to hire all the models you wish and buy all the decorations and scarves and gowns you want. My husband has been hiding your money away, so neither you nor I knew just how much you have amassed since your election to the Académie de Saint-Luc. And he has been deducting the rent of the apartment and your studio without my knowledge.”
It took a moment for the full meaning of this information to trickle into Elisabeth’s consciousness. She, a wealthy woman. And her stepfather—how dare he! It was all her money that paid for them to live in the Hôtel du Loubert. How long had her mother known? Why didn’t she say anything before? She wanted to race down to the apartment and confront Le Sèvre, scream at him for taking advantage of her so. But what would that accomplish? “Why are you telling me now?”
“I only recently saw the household accounts. Jacques left them out by mistake the other day. Don’t you see? The one way you could separate your financial affairs from your stepfather while you are still underage would be to marry. Le Brun is a decent man, a connoisseur and wealthy too. And I know you like him.”
Elisabeth’s view of the world slipped a little sideways. She had always thought of marriage as something that would create limits rather than eliminate them. But to marry the eccentric Le Brun would change everything. No, she didn’t want to marry at all. Things were fine the way they were—except for the matter of her stepfather and her money. “Is there no other way to gain control of my own money?”
“Not without going through the courts and coming under unwelcome scrutiny. Do you really want to drag the family through such a thing? There is Étienne to think about. He will soon be finished with school. Do you want him to have to spend his time making up for the scandals of his sister? It could tarnish your reputation as well.”
Elisabeth wondered why her actions could have any effect on Étienne. But if it did… No doubt Le Sèvre had bargained on her reluctance to put her brother at risk. As to her mother—well, she had entered a bargain with the devil as soon as she signed the marriage contract with that man. Le Sèvre was fully aware of the position they were both in while under his roof. The generosity of allowing her the studio—not generosity at all! She had been paying for it all along. How could she not have seen it? “Very well. I’ll let Le Brun talk to me. But I don’t know what I’ll answer if he asks.”
* * *
Elisabeth and her mother dined with Le Brun that same evening. He had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble over the arrangements, and made even more efforts than usual to draw Elisabeth out in conversation about art. He captured her interest by showing her his latest acquisitions and talking about recent salons. He also saw to it that their glasses were kept filled with fine wine, which he said he’d imported from Alsace. Its mellow sweetness tricked Elisabeth into drinking more than she was accustomed to, and she soon was wrapped in a pleasurable haze.
As the evening wore on and no mention of marriage or even courtship passed Le Brun’s lips, Elisabeth exchanged a glance with her mother. Perhaps Jeanne had been mistaken. Perhaps Le Brun had only said complimentary things because he admired her as an artist, and her mother had misinterpreted some perfectly innocent remark. Part of her hoped that was the case. Part of her, she had to admit, was a little disappointed.
Elisabeth stifled a yawn. She’d been up since just after sunrise and working all day until she had to stop to dress for dinner. It was time to put an end to the evening, and if her mother wasn’t going to, it was up to her. “I’m afraid—”
“Don’t go just yet!” Le Brun rose and put out his hand to her. “I have something I particularly want to say to you.”
Could this be the moment? Elisabeth glanced over her shoulder at her mother as he led her out of the dining room in the direction of his gallery. Jeanne had pursed her lips to prevent a smile, an expression Elisabeth knew well.
As soon as they were out of sight of her mother, Le Brun turned Elisabeth toward him, clasped her hands in his and raised them to his lips. “You cannot be unaware of the regard I have for you, Mademoiselle Vigée.” He paused as he continued to plant kisses on her hands.
Elisabeth was accustomed to having her hands kissed in greeting, once, perfunctorily. But Le Brun was being excessive. She wanted to pull away from him, and yet his ardor touched her.
“The more I am able to observe you as you sketch in front of items from my collection, or listen to your lively conversation, the more I am convinced that our fates are intertwined. I would have spoken to you before, but a difficult matter of business has prevented me.”
What was that he said? “A matter of business.” The words were so unexpected that Elisabeth began to doubt he intended to propose to her at all. She pulled her hands out of his grasp. He reached out to reclaim them, but she’d turned slightly away from him. “Perhaps you’d better explain.”
Le Brun cleared his throat and spoke more quietly. “I have reason to believe that the issue will be resolved very soon, and that I am therefore in a position to speak to you at last. As you see, I have many gifts to offer.” He gestured to the gallery walls, now shrouded in darkness, except for the glow of the candle he had placed on a small table illuminating the naked breast of a nearby Italian bacchante. Elisabeth had the sensation that the figures in all the paintings looked down at her, not in judgment, but with a detached curiosity, as if they didn’t mind what transpired in the next short while but would rather like to know how everything turned out.
Le Brun continued. “I think we would make an excellent pair. With my many wealthy clients to add to those you already know, you could become famous quickly. And my own business could be extended into homes that were previously not open to me, but that welcome you. All of this emboldens me to ask if you would ever consent to become Madame Le Brun?”
Madame Le Brun. In the time between when her mother spoke to her about her stepfather and this dinner engagement, Elisabeth had talked herself around to thinking that marriage might not be such a terrible idea. Everything both he and her mother said made perfect sense. But in all her thoughts on the subject, she failed to consider that marrying would force her to change her name—a name that had gained significant renown in the last two years since her first public exhibition. “I-I don’t know.”
Before she could say another word, Le Brun put his arms around her and drew her to him, clasping her in a surprisingly strong embrace considering his slight build. Since her father’s death, Elisabeth had not felt the arms of a man encircling her, and his gesture unlocked something she didn’t know she was guarding. All the muscles she’d been clenching—in her arms, her jaw, her back—released their tension, and she melted toward Le Brun. He lowered his face to hers and touched her lips with his, just the gentlest kiss and the taste of sweet wine. When she did not pull away, he did it again, with more confidence. A shock of warmth sped through Elisabeth’s arms, into her stomach, and down to her toes. She kissed him back, and he darted his tongue into her mouth.
“No!” She pushed against him and he let her go. “I’m sorry, I’m just…” How could she explain that at the age of twenty-one she was still as innocent as a child when it came to affairs of the heart?
“No, I apologize. I should not have—”
Elisabeth searched Le Brun’s eyes. She saw no trace of hardness or cruelty there, only warmth and desire. How would it be to live with such a man? He certainly appreciated art, and wouldn’t demand that she abandon her career. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind. I was just surprised.” This time it was Elisabeth who pulled Le Brun to her and lifted her chin so they could kiss again.
He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her chin, her ears, and whispered to her, “I want you. I have wanted you ever since I first met you. I would like to marry you right away, but unfortunately, I cannot.”
What had he said before? Something about business?
Le Brun took hold of her shoulders and held her a little away from him. Without the heat of his body against hers, Elisabeth shivered. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I have allowed a gentleman in Brussels to believe that I have honorable intentions toward his daughter.”
“Oh,” she said. But she still didn’t entirely comprehend. Such an odd thing to do. And why would it matter? “Well, you can just tell him you don’t! If you want to marry me, you’ll have to.”
“I do want to marry you, and soon. But you see, this gentleman…he has three extremely fine paintings I wish to purchase, and our negotiations are at a very delicate point.”
Now Elisabeth stepped away, taking his hands off her shoulders and hugging herself. “Is that the sort of thing you’re accustomed to doing when you want to buy paintings?” Treating a girl as a bargaining chip? Did the girl love him? If so, poor thing to be used so!
“I’m certain it’s only a matter of a week or two. We can be married quietly, and once the affair has blown over, you can move in here and have unfettered access to my collection—and a much larger studio, with all the objets d’art, vases, pedestals—whatever you need. And we’ll be welcomed in the finest households in Paris, and you could entertain here as well.”
He painted a lovely scene of artistic and domestic bliss. But Elisabeth still couldn’t let go of the fact of that girl in Brussels. It was deceitful of him. Would he be similarly deceitful to her? Weren’t all husbands deceitful philanderers? Like Le Sèvre? Was an entanglement with a girl in Brussels any more despicable than Le Sèvre’s behavior with regard to her money?
She focused her mind on the one thing, the important thing, that had made her consider the possibility of marriage. “I have one condition.”
“Anything!”
“I must be known as Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun. I will not relinquish my name.”
It was a very quiet affair. No banns were read. Only Elisabeth, her mother and stepfather, and Le Brun stood at the altar rail at St. Eustache on a cold Thursday morning in January. After the ceremony, the newlywed couple took their separate ways back to the Hôtel du Loubert.