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The new housemaid was a woman Marianne didn’t recognize. Her face was an elegant oval, her cheeks ruddy. Her name was Lucie. It almost hurt when the door opened and it wasn’t Sophie looking out.
“Would you like something to eat? Wine?”
Marianne shook her head. “Thank you. I would like to rest.”
Lucie ducked her head and motioned for Marianne to come inside. Marianne stepped out of the twilight and closed the door behind her. With a canvas tucked under one arm, and her belongings in the other, the déja vu cut to her center.
“This way.” Lucie took Marianne’s bag and began climbing the stairs. It occurred to Marianne that this woman had no idea of Marianne’s former presence in the house. She did not know about the way she had watched the dust fall around Héloïse’s hair as she walked up these stairs. The way the light hit the ridge of her ear. It was painful to be shown around like a stranger, when there was no place that felt more intimate.
The flight to the second floor where Marianne would be staying in the reception room felt long and cold. Things were bound to be different after ten years, but the house sounded the same. The wind groaned. The floor was so cold it hurt Marianne’s feet. She pressed her fingers to her lips and suppressed a sigh. These walls held so many memories.
Héloïse’s mother had died. It was written in the letter that Héloïse had sent, in tiny ink letters, a smudge on the right hand margin: “My mother has died.” It didn’t say how, nor how long ago. Just that it had happened, and that Héloïse was returning for eleven days to her childhood home in Brittany with her daughter. Just her daughter. She requested a portrait of her daughter as a gift for her mother-in-law in Milan. The girl was her only granddaughter. She hoped Marianne would meet her there.
The letter was spare. Barely a full page of writing, it made no reference to the emotions behind their ten years apart. It made no comment on Héloïse’s feelings about her mother’s death, her husband’s absence, or even about seeing Marianne again. It was a commission and that was all. Marianne didn’t know what to think. What would she be met with when she saw Héloïse again? What had been written between the lines?
“Here we are.” Lucie stood to the side of the reception room, appraising her work thoughtfully. The bed was made, the fire ignited. It crackled gently alongside the sound of rain against the window panes.
“Where is your mistress?” Marianne turned to Lucie.
“She retired early. She was feeling unwell.”
Marianne felt the hurt like it was a physical injury. She held her stomach, and nodded tightly. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if I can assist you with anything.” Lucie smiled, a hint of youthful sheepishness, then stepped into the corridor.
Marianne took a long, wavering breath. How could she pretend, and even hope, that after ten years, things would go back to the way they had once been? She moved towards the fireplace, and leaned against the mantel. She was different these days, just as she expected Héloïse was too. She had experienced more than her fair share of success in the Parisian art world. Under her father’s name, her work had appeared in galleries and wealthy saloon rooms. It had brought her financial comfort, and more importantly, something to fill the pit that had been left behind. Several years ago, she had picked up teaching. It brought more satisfaction than painting could these days. It was unusual for her to even find herself in a room like this, preparing to paint someone’s portrait.
It was then that she noticed the room had been set up already for her work. An easel stood to the left of the room, waiting for its canvas. The same stool Héloïse had once posed on had been placed before the easel. Marianne knew this was Héloïse’s doing, just as she knew that this cold welcoming was her doing too. It could only mean that Héloïse was placing boundaries on this new relationship. It was a sharp reminder that things could not be as they once were.
Then why was she here? Marianne lowered herself onto the bed, without undressing. What could any of this mean?
The following morning, Marianne joined Lucie for breakfast. There was still no sign of Héloïse, but when Marianne asked, Lucie shook her head. “I don’t know where she spends most of her time.”
“And her daughter?”
Lucie smiled. “The library.”
Breakfast was cold, leftover rabbit stew and bread. The rye tasted dry on Marianne’s tongue and she drank double the water she normally did. After breakfast, Marianne roamed through the many cold-footed rooms in search of the library. On the ground floor, next to the countess's former office, was the library. It was small, with dusty short shelves and a low chaise-lounge taking up most of the room. Against the far wall, her back turned, was a young girl. Marianne stood still, her breath caught. The girl seemed to notice she was no longer alone, and turned. Her eyes were pale blue, her hair like flax. Marianne managed to smile.
“Hello,” the girl said.
“I’m Marianne.”
“ Joséphine.”
“What are you reading?” Marianne stepped into the room. On further inspection, it was a beautiful room for a library. A large window on the opposite end of the room sent a wide shaft of light throughout the small room. Every book’s spine was lit with sunshine.
“ Hero and Leander .”
“That’s a heavy story for a young girl.”
“I know.” She seemed proud of this. Her pride reminded Marianne painfully of her mother. “Are you here to paint me?”
Marianne nodded. “If you like.”
Joséphine smiled. “Maman will be home soon. Then we can begin.”
Marianne walked by the shelves, examining the books. “Do you read a lot?”
“Not as much here as in Milan. We have a huge library there.”
Marianne thought of Milan: the Italian music, the festivals, the wide streets. The orchards and sweet-smelling air. “Does your mother like it there?”
Joséphine was quick to answer. “Of course. We all do.”
The mention of a “we” – a wife, husband, and child – sent Marianne into pained silence. Before she could think of any way to respond to this, Lucie appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on her dress. “She’s returned.”
Marianne let Joséphine go ahead of her. She paused in the door frame to the reception room, her breath heavy in her chest. She closed her eyes, steeling herself. She heard the exclamation of Héloïse’s voice before she saw her.
“José.”
“Maman!”
Marianne entered the room. The late morning sun filled the room. Several paces away, standing near the canvas, was Héloïse. Her blonde hair was windswept and unkempt. Ten years had not changed her much; she had the same fierce presence. Her face was more drawn, more tired. Even so, she was smiling. She looked up, and their eyes met.
“Hello,” Marianne breathed.
Héloïse’s smile seemed to stiffen – not in a repulsed or uncomfortable way – but in the sense that it was clear she had not prepared herself well enough for this. She nodded. Words were no longer enough.
Joséphine seated herself on the painting stool, and arranged her dress around her knees, as though she had been directed in advance how to present herself. “Like this?”
Marianne joined Héloïse by the easel. She examined the ten-year-old girl from across the room. She forced herself to focus on the pigments of colour before her. She could not think about the movement of Héloïse’s breath next to her. She could not think of her long, sturdy fingers nestled in the pleats of her skirt. She could not think of the woman’s eyes on her while she was not looking.
“Put your left hand overtop your right. Like that, yes. Straighten your head. Tilt your chin towards the light, just slightly. Yes.” Marianne selected the charcoal to begin with. She began to sketch the outlines of the girl’s figure: the shape of her face, the slope of her shoulders, the width between her eyes. During this, Héloïse stood to the side, watching in silence. Occasionally, she would say, “ José, don’t play with your dress.” Or “José, don’t slouch.” The time felt slow and restless all at once. Marianne would find herself in moments of fluid concentration, and then her focus would unravel the instant Héloïse stepped nearer and Marianne could hear her breathing or see her hair move from the corner of her eye.
At last, after an hour and a half had passed, a well-wrought outline of Joséphine had been created on the canvas. Each detail had been committed in dark, inky stripes. Marianne could begin painting the base tomorrow.
“Thank you for your patience,” Marianne smiled. “You posed wonderfully today.”
Joséphine flushed at the praise. Héloïse touched her daughter’s arm. “Help Lucie in the kitchen.”
The girl rustled out of the room, her skirts swinging around her tiny legs. Finally, Marianne felt a release, as though time had evaporated. There was no more daughter, no more husband, no more barrier between them. Here they stood. A painter and a young woman who had just left the convent. A woman who despised her future, yet could not reject it. A painter who could only give her away.
Héloïse touched the edge of the canvas. “You have improved.”
“I haven’t started.”
“I can see it in how you move. You’re confident.”
“It’s pretend.” Marianne smiled. She studied Héloïse’s features. She was still looking at the portrait’s sketch as if she was too afraid to return Marianne’s gaze. She had not known Héloïse to be afraid. Finally, the woman turned her head and returned the look. It was so intense it alarmed Marianne. This time, she looked away.
“Ten years,” Héloïse said softly.
“Yes.”
“They pass fast.”
“Do they?”
Héloïse’s brow tightened. She sighed. “I don’t know anymore.” She moved towards the harpsichord. She let a finger fall on a high note. It sounded shrill, like an insect crying out. “I’ve listened to an orchestra.”
Marianne felt the breath drop from her chest. “I was there.”
Héloïse tensed. Something uneven and unfamiliar crossed her face. It didn’t surprise Marianne that this came as a shock to Héloïse. For the entire performance, she had been oblivious. When the violins had played their final note, she had gone to her feet and applauded with all the rest. Marianne had never looked away. She tried to find Héloïse in the front hall once it had ended, but among the bustle of the crowd, Héloïse had disappeared.
“You didn’t see me.” Marianne’s throat felt raw. These were words she had never imagined herself saying.
Héloïse sat on the harpsichord’s bench. She trailed her fingertips along the tops of the keys, but didn’t play them. She sat there for a long time without speaking. “I thought I would never see you again.”
Marianne pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Do you wish I hadn’t?”
“No.”
“I did what a poet would do. I called you back.”
Marianne sat next to Héloïse. She watched her face, older now, but all the same. Harsh lines. A look of concentration. “And I made the decision that a lover would. I returned.”
Héloïse closed her eyes. She looked immovable, like a beautiful statue made of marble. “Was this wise?”
Marianne smiled, in pain. “No.”
That night, Marianne joined Héloïse and Joséphine to read together at the table. In the candlelight, Héloïse’s face glowed red as her lips moved, following the words.
“And now Leander, fearing to be miss’d, embrac’d her suddenly, took leave, and kiss’d; long was he taking leave, and loth to go, and kiss’d again, as lovers use to do; sad Hero wrung him by the hand and wept, saying, “let your vows and promises be kept.” Then standing at the door, she turn’d about, as loth to see Leander going out.”
Joséphine’s head nodded sleepily on the table. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Marianne smiled with affection, and listened as Héloïse continued.
“But Love resisted once grows passionate, and nothing more than counsel lovers hate; for as a
hot proud horse highly disdains to have his head controll’d; so he that loves, the more he is restrain’d, the worse he fares; what is it now but mad Leander dares?”
The story of Hero and Leander was not a happy one. They were deeply in love, but Hero had promised to Aphrodite that she would be chaste. The opposition to their love made it even stronger. Being separated by the strait Hellespont, Leander was forced to swim across in order to reach her. Every night, he swam across the straight. And every night, Hero would light a lamp at the top of her tower to guide him.
“Love is not full of pity, as men say, but deaf and cruel where he means to prey.” Héloïse paused here. Her voice was getting slow with sleepiness. She looked at Marianne as though searching for something.
“Let’s stop there,” Marianne said. “You’re tired.”
Héloïse made a circular pattern with her thumb on the tabletop. She murmured, “Is it true? Is love cruel?”
“At times.”
“And now? Is it cruel?”
Marianne couldn’t help herself. She reached across the table and touched a stray piece of Héloïse’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. Her fingers lingered in the soft space behind her ear, then retreated. “No.”
Héloïse smiled. In the soft glow of the candlelight, even with exhaustion shadowing her eyes, she was the most beautiful that Marianne had ever seen her.
Héloïse said she wanted to bathe in the ocean. Marianne had just put final touches on the foundation of Joséphine’s portrait. The canvas was murky with paint. It was hard to see what it would become.
“Do you know how to swim?” Marianne smiled with one side of her mouth. She had often wondered whether Héloïse had learned how to swim during her time spent in Milan.
“I can float,” Héloïse smiled back.
After a full morning and early afternoon spent painting, Marianne was tempted to join her in the waves. Her wrists were sore, her eyes strained. Instead, she promised to accompany her. Lucie was sent to the village with Lucie to purchase meat for their stew that night. The women departed alone.
They walked towards the cliffs, the wind in their hair. It was March, but winter hadn’t yet released its grip on the coast. Marianne shivered thinking about Héloïse walking into the icy waves alone. In that mental image, Héloïse almost looked like a child. Shoulders lifted to her ears, goosebumps prickling her skin. It reminded Marianne of the moment the countess had asked Héloïse to say goodbye to her like when she was a child. She had become so young in that moment, fingertips pressed to her lips. Marianne could almost see her as a ten-year-old, square-jawed but soft around the edges.
Marianne pulled her skirts closer to her body as the wind whipped them with frenzy. “How did your mother die?”
They were reaching the cliffs where Marianne had seen Héloïse’s face for the first time. I’ve dreamt of doing that for years. Dying? Running. Héloïse turned her face away as she seemed to collect what she was about to say. “Typhoid. It happened very fast.”
“Was she with you? In Milan?”
They paused overlooking the cliffs. Down below, waves crashed against the rocks. The noise was like thunder. “She was visiting my aunt in the countryside. I received a letter that she was sick. I couldn’t visit her in time.”
They stood in silence, until Marianne whispered, “I’m sorry.” She could only guess at how much suffering this had caused Héloïse. She had loved her mother, despite the anger she felt. Héloïse stared at the hard line in the distance where the sea met the sky.
“I am familiar with grief now. I’ve grown accustomed to saying goodbye.”
“That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”
“No,” she agreed. “It only hurts more.” She looked at Marianne when she said this, and the words cut through her. It was true. This time, their goodbye could only hurt more.
After stepping down the cliffside, and making it to the beach, Marianne sat on a boulder with a notebook unfolded in her lap. Héloïse stood in the distance, her shoulders hunched with cold. She began undressing, article by article. She didn’t flinch as each layer was removed, the cold hitting her skin. When she was in her underclothes, bare feet clefting the sand, she began to enter the waves.
Marianne began to sketch. Using charcoal, she drew the crests of the waves as the sun hit them. She drew the ocean swallowing Héloïse’s thighs, her dress floating on the surface of the water like translucent gauze. The sea spray soaked her clothing to her skin. Her blonde curls wisped around her neck. She looked like a woman about to depart into the ocean and never return. For a moment, she almost looked like she was heading to her death.
At dinner, Joséphine told the women all about her and Lucie’s trip into the village to purchase meat and vegetables. She spoke about the women in their thin dresses, their hands soiled with herbs and animal blood. They had hard work etched into the lines of their faces.
Across the table, Marianne watched Héloïse’s face as she heard this. There was a look in her eyes like yearning.
“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you had been born in different circumstances?”
The reception room was lit by candlelight. Joséphine had been sent to bed. Héloïse lay sidewise on Marianne’s bed with one of Joséphine’s blankets in her lap. She was embroidering wildflowers around the edges. Marianne sat on the other end of the bed, sketching.
“What do you mean?” Marianne asked.
“Where would I be? Would I be one of the women working in the village, curing meat or drying herbs? Would I see the woman living alone in the tall house by the cliffs and think to myself, ‘I’m so glad I’m not her’?”
“I don’t know,” Marianne admitted thoughtfully. “I can’t see myself having ever been anything but a painter. No matter where I was born, or under what circumstances, I would have discovered it.”
“Even when women weren’t allowed?”
“That hasn’t stopped me before.”
Héloïse smiled at this, but then frowned. “I can’t see myself in any other circumstance but this. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I was free.”
“You’re free. You can travel to Brittany and spend weeks embroidering and bathing –”
“This is not freedom,” Héloïse interrupted her. She sat upright, knees to her chest. Her voice was thick. “If this looks like freedom to you, we don’t see with the same eyes.”
Marianne flinched at the fury behind Héloïse’s eyes. However, she understood. Though they didn’t speak about it, she had a husband waiting for her in Milan. She had a daughter she embroidered blankets for. A daughter she had to raise. Being a mother wasn’t confinement in itself, but when she had no other choice but to take on that role, then… Marianne understood.
She reached out and put a hand around Héloïse’s ankle. As soon as she touched Héloïse, a soft breath of surprise left her. She hadn’t realized how magnetically she had been drawn to her skin. How good it felt to finally be able to hold a piece of her.
“We see with the same eyes,” she whispered. “We hear with the same ears.” She moved closer to Héloïse on the bed. She paused when she was close enough that she could see the tremble in her eyelashes, the subtle parting between her lips. “We speak with the same mouth.”
There was an intoxicating moment where the two women gazed at each other, the desire heavy in their bodies. Then Héloïse leaned forwards, and kissed Marianne. Her lips were strong, but soft. Marianne felt her mouth open against Héloïse, her entire body tip hypnotically towards her. She put a hand on Héloïse’s jaw, felt the petal of her neck. She wanted it to last forever, but Héloïse broke apart, slowly but with conviction. Marianne’s lips were wet with both of their saliva.
“I don’t know how I will be able to leave you again.”
“What if you don’t?” Marianne knew how she sounded. Futile, desperate. A child grasping at straws for a chance to play with a doll, only for a few moments longer. Héloïse shook her head.
“One of us will always have to leave the other.”
Marianne touched the side of Héloïse’s face, tears in her eyes. They came so fast. “Don’t say that.”
Héloïse’s face had hardened. Only her eyes betrayed her deep sadness. “It’s the resistance that makes love stronger.”
“Resistance changes nothing. If there was nothing in our way, I would love you just the same. I would love you if we were destined to be together, and I would love you if we were not.”
“Which do you think it is? Are we destined or not destined?”
“Don’t ask me that,” Marianne sighed. She put her face in the crook of Héloïse’s neck. She smelled like rosemary and salt. She felt a warm, heavy hand placed on the back of her neck.
“I think it’s both,” she heard Héloïse whisper.
Joséphine’s portrait was well on its way. Her eyes were polished, two pale blue centers that were so bright they seemed polished. The mouth was unfinished, limp and lacking definition, but it held enough to know that it would soon be beautiful. The two women stood in the reception room, admiring the half-finished portrait of Joséphine .
“She’s beautiful,” Marianne said.
“She looks like her father,” Héloïse added. This made them both pause. Marianne tightened her hands behind her back, searching for a way to occupy her unease.
“What is he like?”
Héloïse ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. Marianne, even in the midst of her discomfort surrounding the topic of Héloïse’s husband, felt herself go soft. Héloïse’s voice came dry and sad: “Distant. Misunderstanding. He doesn’t like to play cards. Maybe because I always beat him.” She smiled as though there was something funny about this, but even she didn’t know what it was.
Marianne’s chest was tight. She couldn’t imagine what he looked like, or the sound of his voice when he spoke, but each time she tried to picture him, she felt nauseous. It was as though her very body rejected the idea of his presence in Héloïse’s life. “Is there beauty?”
“Do you mean, is there consolation?”
Marianne stiffened at the memory of their old conversation. She didn’t know what to say. Héloïse continued, after it was clear this was an unfair question. “Yes. I listen to music. I go for walks.” She looked up, her gaze lost. “It’s beautiful there. In spring, there is nothing but colour. Everywhere.” She met Marianne’s gaze. “ Joséphine is the most comforting of all. She reminds me of my mother.”
Marianne smiled at this. “How is that?”
“Her passion. Her humour.” Héloïse took a deep breath. “I’m afraid of loving someone so fragile. I couldn’t lose someone else again. I couldn’t.” She looked at Marianne, and Marianne knew that she had not been the first, and would not be the last person that Héloïse had to say goodbye to. “I named her after my sister. It’s hard not to feel like I’m assigning her a similar fate with that name.”
“It’s a beautiful name. She will be happy and healthy.”
Héloïse nodded, without much sincerity. “I tell myself that.”
“Let me tell you again.” Marianne clasped Héloïse’s hand in hers. “She will be happy. She will be healthy. You are a beautiful mother, and she has everything she will need.”
Héloïse softened. “Thank you.” It came as an exhalation, as though she had been waiting years to hear those words spoken aloud and with such honesty. She squeezed Marianne’s hand, then let go. Marianne was used to it, but it stung all the same. More and more often, every touch was accompanied with letting go.
At night, they continued to read Hero and Leander . Sometimes Joséphine would be able to pay attention, but other times she would nod off into her arms and would have to be carried to bed. Other times, Héloïse sent her to bed early and they would read by themselves, her voice impassioned as she recited each line of poetry. Marianne would listen carefully, her chin cupped in the palm of her hand.
“ To Hero’s tower, had that kind minute lasted. But now the cruel Fates with Até hasted to all the winds, and made them battle upon the Hellespont, And forth they brake, the seas mix’d with the sky, and toss’d distress’d Leander, being in hell, as high as heaven. The Destinies sate dancing on the waves, to see the glorious winds with mutual braves consume each other. ”
“They’re going to kill him,” Marianne said, though she already knew the way this story ended.
“ Leander hurl’d his marble mace at the stern Fates; it wounded Lachesis that drew Leander’s thread, and could not miss the read itself, as it her hand did hit, but smote it full, and quite did sunder it. The more kind Neptune rag’d, the more he rased his love’s life’s fort, and kill’d as he embraced. ”
Marianne couldn’t help but feel Leander’s death was an omen. Héloïse had tears in her eyes as she continued to the end.
“ Hero bow’d herself with searching the lamenting waves for him; like a poor snail, her gentle supple limb hung on her turret’s top, so most downright, as she would dive beneath the darkness quite, to find her jewel: “Leander, still my choice, come nought but my Leander: O, my voice, turn to Leander! Henceforth be all sounds, accents, and phrases, that show all griefs’ wounds, analiz’d in Leander.”
Thus cried she; for her mix’d soul could tell her love was dead: and when the morning fell prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe, blushes, that bled out of her cheeks, did show, Leander brought by Neptune, bruis’d and torn, with cities’ ruins he to rocks had worn. She saw him, and the sight was much, much more than might have serv’d to kill her; should her store of giant sorrows speak! — Burst, — die, — bleed, and leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed. She fell on her Love’s bosom, hugg’d it fast, and with Leander’s name she breath’d her last! ”
Marianne thought of the striking image that the poetry created: the two lovers lost together in the ocean, their bodies constantly being funneled to and from each other by the ocean’s currents. Nobody could see them there. Below the surface, they finally had privacy.
The candlelight flickered as Héloïse took a pause, before beginning the final paragraph: “ Neptune for pity in his arms did take them, flung them into the air, and did awake them like two sweet birds, which we call Thistle-warps, that near no seas dare ever come, but still in couples fly. And this true honour from their love-death sprung, they were the first that ever poet sung. ” She closed the book. “The Fates were so unkind.”
“I disagree. It’s a better death to give Leander than many others. I would rather drown on the way to my lover’s tower than in childbirth or illness,” Marianne said.
Héloïse nodded thoughtfully. “To die of love is to live by it.”
The painting was almost finished. It was solely the small details that needed completing: the sunlight on Joséphine’s eyelids, the rose on her left knuckles, the deepening folds of her cream dress. Marianne realized that the instant she finished the portrait, there would be nothing else tying her here. The time had gone too fast.
Each day, Marianne spent most of the morning and early afternoon by the easel. She mixed paint. She created shadows and dapples of light. She took her time. Though she had no reason to, Héloïse always watched. She would talk with Joséphine, encouraging and entertaining her. Sometimes she spoke with Marianne. But most of the time, she just watched.
On the seventh day, Marianne joined Héloïse on a visit to the village. They were letting Lucice stay at home with a stomach cramp. When they arrived in the village, Marianne was reminded of the evening they had visited for the first time, so that Sophie could check with the medicinal women whether she was still pregnant. Women bustled through their daily activities with purpose. Despite being occupied, they were continuously friendly with each other: they called out hello to Marianne and Héloïse passing by; they stood chatting in doorways and helped each other carry packages. There was a sense of camaraderie and unity between the women that Marianne had never seen elsewhere. Héloïse seemed equally affixed by the women around them. At one point, in the light of day, she grabbed Marianne’s hand and pointed as a cat slunk across the street.
The houses were small, brown and level with the ground. Wildflowers drooped between the houses and along garden paths. Large trees towered over the scene, still bleak from their winter decay. No matter where you stood, you could hear the distant crashing of the ocean, so fierce and enraged it was like the sound came from the ocean’s own throat.
After finding what they needed, they walked throughout the village, their arms burdened, until they came to the same spot where the bonfire had once stood. The long grass swayed in the wind.
“Stay,” Héloïse said. While Marianne stood in place, Héloïse walked across from her until she reached the place where she had once stood across from the bonfire. For a moment, Marianne could almost see the cinders in the air, and the way that the heat had blurred Héloïse’s face and stung her eyes. Héloïse began to hum, a low reverberation deep in her chest that was hauntingly familiar. Marianne laughed. She knew this song. She began to supply the second vocals, to the best of her ability. She was never a good singer, but it was suitable enough. The two-person performance didn’t last long, and they both broke into laughter until even that faded and they stood smiling across from each other, lost in the image of that night all those years ago.
The next afternoon, the painting was finished. Joséphine’s blonde hair fell in loose tumbles down her shoulders, with a bow holding it back from her face. Her pinched face was both charming and impish, a curious baleful gleam in her round eyes. She was proportioned like a feather, tiny and light, practically upright against the brown backdrop.
Héloïse regarded it in silence for a minute. Her lips twitched affectionately. “It’s honest. Her grandmother will be pleased.” When she looked at Marianne, it was with such softness that she didn’t even need to say the words for Marianne to know what she meant. Thank you . The most tender words they had ever exchanged had been between their eyes.
On the night before Marianne’s departure, they lay in bed together for a long time. Their touches were soft, fleeting, as though it hurt to touch each other, but it hurt even more to go without it.
“I felt your absence every day,” Marianne murmured. “You appear in every painting I’ve made. The sky matches the exact pigment of your eyes. Or a bird in the foreground has a feather that matches your green dress. But most of all, you appear in the sentiment of it. The longing. Each piece longs for you.” Marianne could have gone on forever without ending, each rambling phrase barely beginning before she felt a new one press upon her mind. Héloïse interrupted her with a kiss.
“We always waste so much time,” she said.
Marianne reached across the pillow and held the side of Héloïse’s face. Héloïse moved her mouth closer into the palm of her hand, and Marianne drew her thumb Héloïse’s bottom lip. She watched the expression in the other woman’s eyes soften. Héloïse pressed a kiss against her thumb. She wanted time to liquify, to slow down, to drip like rain from the eaves.
“Is this the last time?”
Marianne understood what Héloïse meant. Would this be the last time their lives crossed, or would they continue to merge and follow each other across their lifetimes? Would Marianne always be haunted by the vision of Héloïse in her wedding dress, or of portraits in galleries with her finger nestled in a book, or fragments she overheard from other artists, speaking of the ‘unpaintable woman.’ The painter who had come before Marianne, and failed in his pursuit of capturing Héloïse, had spread the tale throughout the Parisian art scene that she had refused to pose for him. She had become something from folklore. The unpaintable woman. “I could paint her,” Marianne had thought of saying on the occasions it came up in conversation, though she never did. “I was the only one.”
Marianne didn’t answer Héloïse. There was no answer that was fair to either of them. Instead, she matched the pace of Héloïse’s breathing, and let their chests rise and fall in the same choreography, until they had both slipped into dreams.
The next morning, Marianne woke up with Héloïse’s hands in her hair and her lips close to her ear. “Wake up. Wake up.” Her voice was both soft and firm. “Come with me. Swimming.”
It was early in the morning. Nobody in the house had risen. The two women climbed down the rocks to the beach, carrying heavy blankets under their arms for when they reemerged. The sky was still in the process of brightening. They draped the blankets across the sand and started to undress. Marianne untied Héloïse’s dress—Héloïse untied Marianne’s. The cold March breeze whisked Marianne’s skirt around her legs. Héloïse looked at her.
“Are you ready?”
Marianne nodded. They faced the ocean’s waves and headed towards it side by side. They made tracks in the sand, but Marianne could barely feel the ground. When their feet reached the ocean, the cold stole the breath from her lungs.
“Keep going,” Héloïse reassured her. She took her elbow and pulled her in deeper. The waves surged at their bodies, rushing and crashing against their calves, their thighs, their stomachs. Marianne tipped her head back, the cold unbelievable. Her entire body felt like it was about to come undone, but she smiled helplessly at the sky, invigorated and lightheaded.
Héloïse’s features were serious. She approached the ocean as though it was a conquest, rather than something they had chosen to do.
“Deeper,” she urged Marianne. They fell in step next to each other, sea spray flying at their cheeks, and foam splashing their arms, until only their shoulders remained above water. They faced each other. A wave crashed into their sides, and they almost lost their balance. Héloïse’s face split into a smile. The sight was so overtaking that Marianne felt temporarily warm.
“Deeper,” Héloïse whispered. The sound of her voice was lost in the noise of the waves, but Marianne understood what she meant. They ducked their heads under the water at the same time. It all went quiet. Entirely submerged, Marianne felt like she was weightless. She reached out for Héloïse, finding her hand.
It was hard not to think of Hero and Leander’s tragic death. She would dive beneath the darkness quite, to find her jewel. Marianne tightened her hold on Héloïse’s hand. Neptune for pity in his arms did take them. She imagined how they looked: two hands clasped in the darkness, hair loose and afloat, their bodies framed in bubbles and shafts of light. She imagined this moment neverending. Like Hero and Leander, their bodies lost forever to the water’s depths.