The scar appealed to her. That and the clear, almost glass-like eyes. He seemed to be looking at her through a broken window. Berthe blinked and looked away. He would be a fascinating subject for a painting.
"Not myself," he said, his Dutch accent slowing his words. "I understand that, Monsieur Van Helsing," Berthe said. "I don't do--I have never done--a death mask. It's not something my technique is well suited to--"
"Yes, yes, I realize that. This new style ... I confess I do not care for it myself, but it has certain advantages which I believe will work to my purposes."
Berthe smiled tolerantly and looked out her window. Paris seemed drugged under the searing August sun and the late hour's light layered the city with an amber stickiness that blurred detail and nagged at her to go to her easel and palette.
"Wouldn't a sculptor be better...?"
"No. The subject would not, I think, be served by a too precise rendering." He drew a deep breath and seemed to look inward. His forehead creased thoughtfully. "There was a fluidity to him in ... before."
Berthe flexed her fingers and winced at the slight pain. She rubbed her right hand gently.
"Rheumatism?"
She looked up, startled.
"I am a doctor," he explained, the ghost of a smile twisting the scar. "Is it bad?"
Berthe shrugged. "Painting is sometimes difficult, but usually only in the morning or during winter. It is nothing."
"I could prescribe--"
"No. No, thank you." She sighed again. "Your offer intrigues me, I admit, but not for the reasons you may think."
"I am prepared to offer a good commission--"
"Of course, I had no doubt, but--in truth, monsieur, I would do this for the promise that I am allowed to paint you."
He laughed, a dry exhalation that, for a moment, she thought would degenerate into a ragged cough. For the first time during the interview she saw an unguarded emotion--surprise, perhaps even disbelief--animate his face.
"You are not serious."
"I am, I assure you." She switched hands and rubbed her left. "One finds that one has painted everything after a time. Even if one has not, it seems so. Ennui is a disease of the inspired."
"Is it?"
"You have never been inspired, monsieur?"
"No. Only obsessed. One does not suffer ennui when one is obsessed." He waved his left hand vaguely around his face. "What is it you see?"
"I don't know. But I am inspired."
"Mmm. I am flattered."
"I haven't painted much in this year. My husband passed away in April--"
"I am sorry."
"--and many of my friends, as well, have died in the last few years. I feel ... short of time."
"I understand that fully. I am myself not young."
She nodded. "We both are of an age when it is best to be occupied so that we do not dwell on such things overly much."
"There is, unfortunately, nothing left for me to dwell on. Only details. Small things that I feel are necessary to complete what is past."
"Like this death mask?"
"Like the death mask, yes. The subject occupied my attentions for many years."
"Well. You have my terms. I wish to paint you."
"Please, I will pay you as well--"
"I do not ask--"
He pulled his wallet from within his heavy black coat and thumbed out a sheaf of notes. British pounds, she observed. Sound currency. Everything about this man seemed solid in the extreme. He counted briefly, then laid the notes on the table beside him and looked up.
"I shall be honored to have you paint me, Mme. Morisot. However, if you decide not to afterward, I shall fully understand."
)
