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Renoir is in love with the girl who paints by the river every morning.
He is far too old to believe in love at first sight, but he’s certain of the feeling in his chest. He does not know her name; they have not spoken. She hasn’t so much as looked at him. He only knows the things he has observed from afar, which are as follows:
- She’s terribly talented. It’s hard to get all the fine details — of which he’s sure there are many — from a minimum of ten meters away, but her canvases are bursting with color and life.
- She has the most lovely cascade of auburn hair. She usually leaves it loose, which is frowned upon by most, and arguably dangerous when working with paint, but Renoir finds he cares exceedingly little when the wind riffles the strands.
- She paints in clothes she should be terrified to stain, but doesn’t so much as bat an eye as she wipes off her brushes on her skirt. Perhaps she’s well-to-do, which would improve the odds of Renoir receiving his parents’ blessing. Or maybe she’s just odd.
Although, well. He’s fairly certain she’s a bit odd either way.
But he makes the trek down to her spot whenever he has the chance, and daydreams about her from afar for a while. It’s foolish. He can’t help himself.
One day he buys a leatherbound sketchbook and a nice set of charcoal pencils. He can’t paint, or hasn’t really tried, anyway, but he was prone to doodling during his studies and finds himself inspired by this woman. He sits on the grass in the shade of a tree a reasonable distance away and stares at the back of her head.
Then he flips the sketchbook open to the first page. It feels momentous. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface. And lifts a pencil. And touches it to a point somewhere in the middle of the sheet. And lifts it again.
Damn it all, Renoir thinks. He knows it will turn out poor. He also knows he has to start somewhere. The portrait will not draw itself. He sighs.
The charcoal touches the paper again, and this time he creates an intentional stroke. A few. A plethora. Slowly, it shapes into… something. It’s not quite what he sees, it’s not quite what he hoped it would look like, but it’s something. The beginning of an era. They have not yet spoken, but as he immortalizes his infatuation on paper, their courtship has already begun in his mind.
He’s in his twenties, for God’s sake, he needs to lay it to rest.
But he doesn’t, of course.
And he improves rather rapidly as he draws her more often, from different angles, in different clothes, through the spring into the summer. He even dares to inch closer each day. There’s no point in being shy and he knows it, but his pride won’t let him approach the woman until he’s caught her eye naturally.
Which seems like a foolish endeavor, as she’s always deeply engrossed in her painting, so much so that she doesn’t seem to notice anything else. She does not flinch when the children playing nearby shriek. Her eyes do not leave the canvas, except to reference the subject, if there is one — and everything she does not want in her work is ignored, too. Renoir has watched her intentionally exclude couples lounging on the riverbank, or ducks dotting the water’s surface, when her mood does not suit them. It’s a bit self-righteous, he thinks, but she can do as she pleases with her art.
As can he.
Renoir grows tired of the grayscale sketches fairly quickly, and buys some pastels to branch out. The first time he tries to use them turns out almost as bad as his very first drawing. Clearly these will take practice.
But he has also grown tired of drawing the back of the woman’s head. Recently, he’s crept into her peripheral vision and begun drawing her profile as well — exquisite — but it’s been weeks by now, and he longs to simply reproduce her face in his sketchbook. All of it.
So he summons his courage, stands up, and moves to a spot right in the woman’s sightline, his back to the river. He plops down on the ground and gets to work on a new piece, one that’s sure to be his favorite so far. He hopes her fervid focus will keep her from noticing him. At the same time, he prays it won’t.
Apparently, for better or worse, today is one of those days where the girl takes inspiration from the scenery.
And so when Renoir glances up to double-check the curvature of her jaw, he’s startled to find she’s looking right at him. He drops his pastel into his lap, and he can’t quite tell from the distance, but he thinks he sees the ghost of a smirk pass over her lips as she looks back to the canvas.
Their romance has ended before it even began, he thinks. His cheeks color like he’s a schoolboy and he fixes his gaze downward, on the page he’s been filling in. It doesn’t help, of course, because her face stares back at him from there, too, half a dozen times.
He takes a breath. It’s fine. He lifts his head again.
The woman dabs at the painting with her handkerchief. This is rare — Renoir has observed her long enough to know that she does not make mistakes, and hardly ever makes choices in her work she is unsatisfied with. Then she picks up a brush and looks at him again. A new stroke. Another glance.
Oh, God.
She’s deemed him worthy of depiction. She has finally seen him, thanks to his unsubtle positioning, and decided to paint him.
So it’s begun. Renoir ignores the way his stomach flips.
He makes sure not to move too much, so her portrayal is accurate. His legs have gone partially numb by the time she’s packing up to go. But he’s gotten quite a bit of drawing done himself, in spite of the discomfort. The last headshot of the day is rather excellent, her hair almost the perfect shade of copper-wire, the midday sun’s rays reflecting off the strands. He’s proud of his work.
Once she’s gone, he struggles to his feet with a groan.
He supposes he’ll do about the exact same thing again tomorrow.
Once, he goes to the river and she is not there. The break from routine is nearly worrisome, but he chooses not to dwell too much on it. Of course the mystery woman has responsibilities as well. It doesn’t get rid of the empty feeling, but it helps.
He still has his art supplies with him, though, and came fully prepared to spend an hour or more here as usual. So he sits anyway, readying the worn sketchbook once again.
He has no reference. It matters little — at this point, he could almost definitely draw her from memory. But realism has begun to lose some of its appeal, and so Renoir decides to try something new.
He sketches a different version of her, one that isn’t quite human. It is massive, with spindly limbs, and Renoir imagines it leaves flower petals in its wake when it moves. It has billowing hair, just like the woman, only more dramatic. It’s a rich green instead of auburn — he gets a bit lost in the creativity and takes more than a few liberties. He drapes it in colorful, floaty silks and satins and bejewels its figure. It is what she deserves.
And then it is complete. The first draft, anyway.
What to name it? Renoir thinks for a moment. He does not know his muse’s name, only that she calls to him like a siren.
Sirène. That’s it. A goddess who weaves wonders. An otherworldly, hypnotic beauty. Utterly magical — for that is what she is to him.
The being will be doodled on every piece of paper Renoir gets his hands on for the next month.
A second day passes. A third. He thinks of asking after her, though he wouldn’t have the faintest idea how. He misses her. It’s strange, and somehow it makes perfect sense.
And then she’s back, lugging her plein air easel with her as she walks gracefully across the grass.
He hardly stops to consider what he’s doing before he approaches her. His feeling during her absence has made it abundantly clear that he cannot let this slip through his fingers. He must try.
Renoir’s feet fail him a short distance away from her. Her presence seems to leave every part of him in debilitating awe. But she’s looking at him, curious.
He knows her attention is fickle. He knows he will not keep it unless he speaks, unless he makes it worth her while. So he wills his voice to come out steadily. Gentlemanly.
“My name is Renoir Dessendre. Might I have the pleasure of learning yours?”
Aline is her name.
He loves that name, though he thinks he would love any name simply for its being hers. He loves the shape of it, the sound of it. The soft syllables run like water over his tongue. He makes the word a mantra of sorts over the course of their courtship — from autumn through winter, his thoughts are filled with Aline, Aline, Aline.
Renoir gets lucky: their union would be supremely advantageous for the Dessendre family, and Aline is willing. There is only a brief hesitation on her parents’ part, for the fact that Renoir is not quite as noble as they’d like him to be, but somehow he’s managed to charm them into agreement. Aline tells him she thinks they’ll be treating him like their own son soon enough.
He wants to make her a gift for their approaching wedding. A painting, however predictable that may be. It’s only that a portrait of her seems trite, and Renoir wants to impress.
He stares at the blank canvas.
Sirène certainly fits the bill for impressive in his eyes, and has a relevant history. There are only two problems: One, he isn’t certain he has the skill to bring his exact vision to life quite yet. And two, he doesn’t know what she will think of the creature, particularly if she knows that it’s meant to be her. Aline’s style is realistic. But Renoir has always been fond of the fantastical. He worries, however irrationally, that she will disapprove.
In the end, the thought of the closing deadline forces him to abandon that fear and pick up his brush. First, a yellow underpainting — that alone takes the better part of a day. He spends altogether too much time fiddling with fabrics, observing how the light interacts with them and how they move. Sirène’s skirt fans out to take up the better portion of the bottom half of the painting, the material seemingly endless. She lives at the center of a sea of silk. He captures her in motion, the pose referenced from a sketched still of Aline dancing (he gets distracted looking at it more than once). The gold-and-green puffed sleeves are inspired by his favorite dress of hers. The belt is the element that requires the most effort — he curses himself for the level of detail only once he’s too far in to give up. Every time he thinks he’s finished, he decides to add something else: another beaded strand in her hair, another ribbon. The whole affair feels a bit like vomiting his heart onto the cotton.
It takes weeks. He’s happy with how it turns out. It doesn't quite encapsulate her beauty in his eyes, but it's close. And then it comes time to present the painting to his bride-to-be.
Aline examines the piece in silence for longer than Renoir would like. Her face betrays nothing, and it’s nerve-wracking.
Finally, she turns to him. “This is me?”
Renoir can feel his cheeks heat, surprised that it was so immediately obvious to her, but he nods, clearing his throat. “I’ve had the idea for some time. Since the days at the river,” he says.
Aline tilts her head, and he thinks she looks faintly pleased — a good sign. “Is that so?”
He nods. “Her majesty has drawn dozens of men to their deaths,” he informs her.
“Well, that’s flattering,” Aline remarks, only half sarcastic.
“And one cannot look at her for long, lest they be hypnotized by her beauty.”
She chuckles, standing on the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek. “I suppose I’ve long since caught you in my trap, hmm?” He smiles in lieu of a response. “There are far worse ways to be depicted,” she says. “I like it.”
Renoir exhales with relief.
“What do you call it?” she asks.
“Sirène,” he answers.
She snorts. “That seems to fit the theme.”
They linger there for a while longer, Renoir pointing out all the little details, Aline looking a bit more fascinated — smitten, maybe — with each one.
Sirène’s temple is an escape he designs for them. Their own private paradise. A respite from the real world. Clea and Verso are on the precipice of understanding what happens when Maman and Papa take weekend getaways alone, and what goes on behind the locked door of the atelier some nights, so a discreet place to slip away to seems overdue.
Renoir takes it upon himself to create this haven. He paints every detail in an ode to Aline. He sculpts the structure to befit a goddess. It is a place of worship. Its creation is a form of worship. Every detail is drawn to either evoke her essence or to suit her tastes. It turns out massive, beautiful and labyrinthine. And it is received rather warmly. Which is to say, it gets a lot of use.
However, there is one chamber he’s left intentionally empty.
Occasionally he has dared to think, where do I fit in beside her splendor? He does not want to distract from Sirène. But he is her husband. He wants to be there by her side, in this little world he has made. Perhaps he deserves to have a representation of himself, a smaller being to serve her.
And so the Tisseur is born. Four arms to carry out the will of Sirène, and a statuette of her at his base — she keeps him upright. A jumble of spools of thread and pins and fabric, utter devotion carved into his marble body. Not beautiful like the one he serves, but practical, and tireless.
“All it does is work for her?” Aline asks when she lays eyes upon his newest addition for the first time. Renoir hums in affirmation, more than a little proud. She throws an inscrutable sidelong glance his way, but eventually breaks into a bemused smile. He can’t, for the life of him, figure out what she finds funny. “Surely you see yourself as more than my slave, mon amour.”
“Slave? You misunderstand. The Tisseur works of his own volition. And I see no greater honor than to serve such a being,” he says, trying futilely to explain the love he holds for her, a feeling for which there are no words. It’s a frustrating disconnect. Hence why he resorts to elaborate visual metaphors.
“I believe you hold the opposite opinion of most husbands.”
“Most husbands aren’t married to you,” he says. “This is why Sirène exists. There’s something about you that demands adoration.”
Aline scoffs lightly, before her gaze flicks back to the Tisseur. “You’re a rather poor seamster, though,” she points out.
“It’s the idea of the thing, Aline, my dear.”
Her eyes crinkle at the edges, preceding a soft laugh. Renoir wants to bottle the sound and drink it. And she’s particularly generous that night, so Renoir thinks he must have done something right.
Alicia is growing up so quickly.
Renoir’s leg doesn’t allow him to do all the dancing he used to with his wife. But their youngest loves to dance with her mother. She’s not as precise with her steps as Clea, not as in tune to the music as Verso, but her heart is there.
On gentle days like this one Renoir will sit in one of the chairs in the right-side lounge while Verso plays his songs, and Aline will take her daughter’s hands and guide her clumsily through a waltz, Alicia’s high and bright laughter echoing off the walls all the while.
He takes to doodling, like old times. His subjects are constantly moving, which forces him to draw with less detail. It provides an interesting exercise, limiting the girls to their most basic forms: Alicia’s wild hair, Aline’s flowing skirts.
Renoir sighs fondly. Alicia looks so much like her mother, even now. He imagines once she’s grown, the resemblance will be uncanny. For now, though, they’re distinguishable most easily by height — Alicia only coming up to the older woman’s waist. Aline herself has always been on the small side, but by comparison, she’s massive. Renoir’s mind wanders to Sirène, and how tiny he is beside her. And then he gets an idea.
His sketching changes direction, and suddenly he’s made a little Alicia-creature to go alongside that giant goddess, a wispy thing to add some more life to the temple. A handmaiden, maybe, or a companion. Or a fledgling that will grow to one day have the same splendor. He doodles a few more, in different-colored dresses — pictures them floating and dancing about, happy and free, because that’s the life he wants for his daughter.
“Papa,” Alicia lilts, peeking up at Renoir over the sketchbook perched on his knee. “What’s that?”
He smiles. “That’s you, little one.”
She lifts the book to inspect the page closer, and her delicate features scrunch. “No, it isn’t.”
“Not exactly, but it’s your essence. See? She has your hair,” Renoir explains, pointing.
“Essence,” Alicia repeats.
Aline comes up behind her daughter, leaning down to inspect Renoir’s drawings as well. “This looks quite similar to another creation of yours, mon coeur,” she says.
“That was the idea.” He gathers his sketchbook back from Alicia and tucks it under his arm.
“You have a unique way of showing your love, sometimes, Renoir,” Aline tells him, with an undeniably fond look on her face. He rises to his feet to kiss her, and to pat Alicia on the head.
The singular eye in the Ballet’s mask will become ironic, later. In the meantime, it is just another parallel to Sirène, another similarity drawn between Alicia and her mother.
He loves them. He loves them. There’s little else to say.
“So, Renoir,” Aline begins, idly stirring her coffee. There’s always a prickle of anticipation — maybe closer to fear — when she begins a conversation in this vague manner. She could be about to say anything at all.
“Yes, dearest?” he responds anyway.
“Why did you paint Sirène in the Canvas?”
The inquiry startles him a bit. By now, they’re far removed from the time they spent in that world, and yet Renoir can’t say he ever thought the topic would become casual conversation.
“Other than to hoard chroma? Take your pick of reasons, mon amour,” he says, absently putting an arm around her shoulder while turning the page of his newspaper.
“I want your reason,” Aline protests, turning to look him in the eye.
“Ah, but that’s not how art goes, is it? Once the work is done, the artist’s intent makes no difference. Only the viewer can decide the meaning of the piece,” he muses.
“I am speaking to the artist on the piece he made for me,” she says. “Therefore your logic is faulty and your point is invalid.”
Renoir lowers his paper. “If I must say it aloud, I missed you.”
For a second, his wife looks as if she means to smile, but instead she sighs, long and exaggerated. “I should have guessed.” She smooths a hand over her skirt. “Regardless. I wish you would have considered that our children could go walking through there,” she chides. “I can only hope Alicia didn’t look too closely at her surroundings.”
“Whatever do you mean?” he asks. “It’s a perfectly innocent structure.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She sips her coffee. “Tell me, did you chisel every one of those reliefs by hand in this version of the temple, too?”
Renoir sets the paper on the coffee table. “Perhaps we should revisit the old painting,” he says, letting his voice slip into huskier tones.
Aline eyes him with a glimmer of amusement. “Not now. It’s lost some of its magic since I had to fight your little Axon.”
“Fair enough. Though, you know,” he says, thoughtfully, “that giant stone woman of yours was rather alluring, too.”
“Oh, God,” she laughs. “No. Now you’ve crossed a line.”
“Is it so wrong to find my wife attractive in all her many forms?”
Running a hand through her hair, Aline rolls her eyes. “I suppose not, but sometimes I think you find me least attractive in this human form. You like your… monstrosities.”
“My darling, you could not be further from the truth.” He takes her free hand in his own, swiping a thumb over her weathered knuckles. Renoir has never been the most articulate when it comes to his heart — murals like Sirène take the place of ballads and sonnets, love poems without words — but he casts around blindly for something to say, now, to prove to her a sentiment he’s never directly expressed. “You’re the loveliest thing I've ever seen. No matter how hard I may try, I have never been able to translate your full beauty onto a page or canvas. You inspire everything I do, but when I lift a pencil, I can only ever hope to get close. There is nothing,” he says, squeezing her hand, “nothing more perfect than you, just this way.”
She raises an eyebrow while he speaks, but her face gradually softens, her cheeks turning a rare shade of pink. “Besotted old fool,” she mutters.
Renoir chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “An apt description,” he agrees. “Shall we forgo Sirène, then? I'm content to admire the inspiration instead.”
“Well, don’t let me stifle your creativity,” Aline says, lifting her cup to her lips again.
“How could you? You’re my muse.”
“Enough,” she huffs.
Renoir smiles to himself, but obliges her. He counts himself lucky for these moments, after decades spent fighting. He counts himself lucky for so very many things in his life — Aline, perhaps, most of all.
Sometimes, when he looks at her, he still sees that girl from the river. Sometimes, he still feels like that smitten boy. Most days, he wonders how he ever won her over. But he’s found that these matters can rarely be explained with logic, and so he simply decides that he’s happy.
And still deeply, deeply in love.