On her first Monday afternoon as a secretly married woman, Elisabeth attended Madame Geoffrin’s salon, as she had done many times before. Before, though, she had not had a husband, even one she could not acknowledge. But only she would know that she had made a fundamental, irreversible change in her life.
In the short carriage ride to the Rue St. Honoré, Elisabeth had just enough time to let her uncertainty about what she had recently done overwhelm her. What if she and Le Brun didn’t get along? What if she was trading the tyranny of her stepfather for the tyranny of a husband? Did she love him? How could she know what love was? They hadn’t so much as touched each other since the wedding, not wanting to arouse any suspicion among the nosy neighbors. So utterly separated from the sensations that had led to her answer of yes—an answer that surprised her as much as anyone—it was hard for Elisabeth to piece together all the reasons why she had.
By the time Elisabeth arrived, the usual crowd of intellectuals, artists, and nobles—most married, a few still unwed—had already assembled in Madame Geoffrin’s apartment. As soon as the maid took Elisabeth’s cloak, Madame Geoffrin approached. “Ah, Mademoiselle Vigée! I have someone here who very much would like to meet you.”
Whatever Madame Geoffrin asked of one of her guests was considered an order. She was not high born, nor even particularly well educated. But she had a unique talent for gathering the most consequential people around her, whether in the arts, literature, music, or politics, and a quick mind that held facts and faces in it much longer than some found convenient. Madame Geoffrin gave two salons a week, beginning at one in the afternoon. Thursdays were for intellectuals and literati. Monday was her day to welcome artists, actors, and musicians.
“I think you are acquainted with Monsieur Van Loo,” she said, sweeping her soft, white hand toward an elderly gentleman seated on one of the few really comfortable chairs. “He said he had some remarks about your paintings he wished to impart to you.”
Elisabeth’s mouth went dry as she curtsied and sat next to the eminent painter, who was a notorious curmudgeon. “Monsieur, of course I am a great admirer of your work.” How feeble! She wished she’d had more time to think of something pithier and more flattering.
“So, you’re the pretty portraitist they talk so much about,” Van Loo said. “Well, pretty is as pretty does.” He then pulled a large handkerchief out of his vest and blew his nose.
This critique was not what Elisabeth expected. It was the first time anyone had said anything that could be construed as uncomplimentary about her work. At least, to her face. It made her wonder if there were others who had such a dismissive view of her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Van Loo put his elbow on his knee and leaned toward her. “Mademoiselle, I understand as much as the next person the demands of fashion. But mind you do not let them dictate your art.” He smiled at her, then looked away and gestured to someone else.
The audience was over. Elisabeth stood and put a hand to her hot cheek, hoping no one noticed her blush. Before she could feel awkward Madame Geoffrin returned, her infallible instincts for smoothing over any unpleasantness coming to Elisabeth’s rescue. “You must also meet our celebrated actor, who, after we have had some refreshments, will deliver a scene from Mustaphe et Zéangir, a play in which he will perform next season at the Comédie Française.”
Elisabeth smiled and thought of Étienne—who would soon return home from school after being away for most of the last seven years. How envious he would be to know she had been in such close proximity to the great man. Although she’d only seen her brother a few times during holidays in all those years, they kept up a lively correspondence. She knew, therefore, that Étienne adored the theater with a passion equal to hers for painting. Soon he would have to make his way in the world. Their mother hoped that he would take a secure position as a civil servant, but that was unlikely given Étienne’s personality, which thrived on human intercourse and art.
After a moment, a conversation among a group of nobles and intellectuals distracted her. The word marriage sailed to her receptive ear, and she joined them.
“Really, what is the purpose of the married state but the getting of children?” said the Comte des Deux Ponts.
An older gentleman Elisabeth did not recognize, but who was treated with deference by everyone else, said, “Marriage is not a purely physical act. It is the meeting of minds. A true marriage does not render the woman subservient to the man.”
Elisabeth stepped a little closer.
The gentleman continued. “That she seeks to do everything to please him is only a matter of nature, not of necessity. Thus, it is essential that attention to the character, not just the prospects of a spouse form part of the negotiations in a marriage contract.”
“Well, Monsieur, what sort of man should I marry?” asked the Comtesse de Genlis.
“You, Madame, should marry anyone who will have you, and soon.”
Nervous laughter skittered through the small group surrounding him, and everyone dispersed. The countess reddened and snapped open her fan to hide her face. A much-publicized affair between her and the Duc de Chartres had recently ended, and there were rumors of an illegitimate pregnancy—unfounded as it turned out.
The conversation had given Elisabeth time to recover from Van Loo’s cryptic comments. She was about to go in to the luncheon that had just been announced, when none other than her friend and champion, Joseph Vernet, entered the room. She hurried over to him.
“What was the discussion that so disconcerted everyone?” he asked, after a warm greeting.
“Oh, that old gentleman was teasing all the young women about marriage and strayed a little too close to the truth concerning Madame de Genlis,” Elisabeth said.
“Hah! Marriage. Sometimes I think it’s an unnecessary institution.”
Elisabeth’s breath caught. Why would he say that? she wondered. She glanced up at Vernet’s profile. He had a kind face, a face she had known as long as she could remember, and it brought her father to mind. What would Louis Vigée think of her marriage to Le Brun? “But you are so happily wed to your lovely wife, and where would you be without your daughters—is Émilie well?” Émilie Vernet was a close friend of Rosalie’s, and Elisabeth had met her several times.
“Yes! And speaking of marriage, she will wed this spring. An architect, Chalgrin. Well placed, but I fear she may be caught up in more court intrigue than she’d like.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Elisabeth longed to talk to Vernet about her own marriage, but she was sworn to secrecy. No one outside the family must know, especially in the art world. But she couldn’t resist at least bringing up the subject. “I’ve thought that perhaps I too should consider marrying. My dear Rosalie is off in Passy with her Filleul, and now Émilie…”
“You? Oh my dear, that would be catastrophic!” Vernet’s interruption stopped her in her tracks. He turned to face her before continuing. “You must concentrate on painting, not be distracted as so many women are by domestic concerns.”
A catastrophe? Surely he was wrong! “But supposing I married someone who could help my career, who wanted me to continue painting and to thrive? For example, an art dealer. Someone like Pierre Le Brun, perhaps.”
Vernet threw back his head and laughed. “I cannot think of a less suitable match for you. No more talk of marriage. Let’s go have luncheon and then hear the great actor recite.” He took her arm.
Elisabeth hoped he couldn’t feel her trembling. She felt as if she’d swallowed a stone.
Something rather wonderful happened not a week later, though, that had nothing to do with marriage and allowed Elisabeth to put all unkind thoughts out of her head: She received a message from Versailles. Her mother brought it up to her as she was cleaning her brushes at the end of a day of painting, and stood there while Elisabeth opened it.
She read the flowery script and a shiver of delight passed through her body, from her toes up to her scalp. “It’s a commission, Maman!”
“From the queen?” Jeanne said, clasping her hands together under her chin.
Elisabeth’s mood deflated just a little. “No, not the queen. The Duc de Provence.” The king’s next younger brother, and heir to the throne until the royal couple produced a son. “I’m to attend him at Versailles next week.”
Jeanne ran to Elisabeth and enveloped her in an embrace. Her mother’s arms were warm and soft, calling up a memory of the last time they embraced like that, right after her father died. She pushed her mother away and forced a broad smile.
“So, you are on your way to being a royal portraitist!” Jeanne said, her eyes showing signs of tears. “Come down when you’ve finished. We must drink champagne to celebrate.”
Elisabeth briefly wondered if Le Sèvre had bought the champagne, or if it had been purchased with her own hard-earned cash.