Camille - Chapter III

She thinks that the mysterious man must be pulling a prank on them and that he was most likely one of those guides that dress up like a famous person from history for tourists. Surely he couldn’t be the “real” Claude Monet, one of the most famous French Impressionist artists, because that would be preposterous!

“That had to be it.” She realises, and feels a bit silly for even considering it in the moment and also unease at the fact that he had been following them this whole time. The man gestures to her dress and says with a small smile,

“I am so happy that you, my dear, are the one to have chosen this dress when you saw it in that little shop window, as it suits you perfectly. It, in fact, has chosen YOU.”

He snaps his fingers with a flourish and she feels a rush of warm air swirl around her body. Something tickles at her lower legs and she watches with astonishment as her dress begins to elongate until it flows gracefully past her ankles. Feeling a bit faint, she glances wide-eyed at her husband to find him staring back at her with the exact same incredulous expression on his face.

“How is this happening?!” she exclaims as she watches the man who calls himself Claude Monet make sweeping gestures towards her with his hand, as if it in fact is a paint brush and she is the canvas he is bringing to life.

Her dress had now begun to billow out and gain more volume as it continued its metamorphosis: the waist tightened up like a corset, the silk fabric of the skirt layers arranged themselves into intricate folds across her hips and made tiny rows of pleats near the bottom. She gasped as the gown began to extend even further down cascading behind her and as she caught her reflection in a nearby shop window, she saw that an old-fashioned bustle had appeared underneath as well, creating fullness in the back. A series of feminine velvet bows and delicate ruffles began to to embellish the gown’s trailing skirts.

The neckline squares itself off, and long sleeves start to take shape around her forearms, ending with taffeta bows and ribbon accents.

She breaks into a wide smile as she spins around, admiring the beautiful workmanship of this enchanted garment, and her husband bursts out in stunned laughter as they witness this puzzling transformation together.

“I feel like I’ve stepped straight out of an 1870’s Tissot painting!” She exclaims, citing another of her favourite artists of the time who had so masterfully captured the fashions of the late 19th century. Long hair now elegantly coiled and pinned into an updo, her fingertips feel the softness of carefully arranged flowers and ribbons adorning a headpiece as she touches her head.

They had become so engrossed in this spellbinding spectacle, that neither of them had paid any attention to the print on the gown itself and what was happening to it. Monsieur Monet had stood back during the process, observing the couple with an amiable smile as they took all of this in.

“Ahem...” He says now, clearing his throat as a means to get their attention. “James Tissot indeed! But how, my dear, do you like the painting?” He gestures humbly to her gown.

The floral print that had indeed started to make a deeper impression at the restaurant had now completely come alive. It was at this moment that it all came together for her. The colours became more saturated and she could now clearly see that it was a MOVING rendering of delicate water lilies on a pond. The vibrant blue and green hues danced amongst the deep pinks and purples that swirled about in this painting come-to-life, the canvas of which was her wonderful new gown. The water gently undulated, seemingly from an intangible breeze, and she felt that if she gazed too long at it, she would somehow “fall into” this work of art.

Snapping out of its hypnotic spell, she exclaims, I see it now! in her head and then again out loud to both her husband and Claude Monet as she starts to comprehend why this was all feeling so familiar.

“It’s my dream! It’s that lovely dream I have been having, and I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but these are your iconic water lilies, Mr. Monet!” She blurts out awkwardly.

She has a Master of Fine Arts degree so she is kicking herself and feeling embarrassment for not noticing the connection earlier, but how could anyone foresee something like this happening? It’s ludicrous! she thinks, but oh-so extraordinary.

Monet tilts his hat at her in an almost imperceptible nod, and then lets out a hearty chuckle, remarking, “It is quite alright, my dear.”

“Maybe I AM still in a dream,” she muses. “There can’t be any other explanation because things like this don’t jus- ”

Her train of thought that had been flitting all over the place through her head quickly derails as she realises that her husband is now also experiencing his own metamorphosis. Gone is his casual, dark suit and in its place is a very dapper, impeccably tailored black tailcoat and matching double-breasted waistcoat. Black trousers, a starched white shirt and bow tie, and a gold watch and chain completed his “new” look.

“Ah, but not quite…” Monsieur Monet notes, and as he flutters his fingers, a glorious top hat materialises out of thin air to settle snugly on her handsome partner’s head. The couple gleefully embrace like children in their excitement and delight at the turn of events the evening has taken.

“I feel just like Cinderella! This must be what it feels like to be inside a fairytale. AM I Cinderella? Or, Cinderella who has already found her Prince?” She asks spiritedly. “Or maybe I’m still dreaming...or wait, are WE Cinderella?” And she cackles hysterically at the thought. You’re babbling! Get it together and stop babbling — she scolds herself while trying to suppress the giggles.

Amused, Monet calmly waits until they have settled down a bit from the shock.

When she has determined that this is indeed all really happening, and not some bizarre, lucid dream, she asks, “Why me? Why us?”

The soft-spoken French Impressionist master, who is inexplicably existing in modern-day Paris, states, “Because you, my dear girl, are the spitting image of my beloved and dearly departed wife, Camille. The resemblance is remarkable! She was a very accomplished seamstress, and the dress you saw in the window was made by her out of her most-loved fabric. It have been waiting for the right person to fall in love with that dress, and when I saw you, I knew you were that special one.” He says with a wistful look in his eyes. “The bond the two of you have is very much like what I had with my Camille, and I want to help in any way I can to make your time in this city as magnificent as it can possibly be. I do miss her so.”

And with that, an old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage arrives, clacking on the cobblestones as it pulls up beside the bewildered couple. Monsieur Monet gestures to it, nodding for them to get in as the door swings open on its own.

Looking each other up and down and admiring themselves in their newly acquired finery, the pair climb into their new means of transport for the evening. Claude executes a spry little jump as he ascends onto his seated place as he will be their coachman for the night.

Notre-Dame, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Trocadéro, the Eiffel Tower, they experience it all and draw no attention from the rest of the city dwellers and tourists. With the exception of a select few who alongside Claude, attend very graciously to them, it’s as if they are in their own bubble. Their own magical Paris in an idealistic state.

At first, she is feeling a bit apprehensive about going about town in the elaborate “period” clothing that they are both in, but she quickly realises that no one even notices. She had expected sharp looks from passersby, or perhaps arrogant withering glances from waitstaff assuming they were tourists playing in costumes, but all of those with whom they came into contact with couldn’t have been more genuine.

The world was still there of course, the big city bustling and buzzing around them without a care -locals on their mobile phones oblivious to others, gentlemen smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and chatting outside tiny cafes, young people greeting each other with kisses as they meet up for a night on the town, tourists snapping selfies in front of everything they can manage. All of it still ticking and running like a well-wound clock. Except they are in their own sense of time and reality tonight and it is glorious.

After attending a performance of the Paris Opera Ballet at the extravagant Palais Garnier, there is one more place that their new friend Claude would like to take them to. He halts their carriage along the river Seine, and as the horses shuffle and snort, he alights from his seat above and guides them down to the water. There awaits a small rowboat that he helps the young couple get into, as it is very dark at the edge of the water. Ever their guide, Claude effortlessly rows the trio out into the centre of the storied river. The water was oddly still and glass-like.

“I want to show you the lights. The beautiful, wondrous, lights this special city has to offer. So many of them did not exist in my time, and though things have changed greatly in this modern day, there is nothing as special to me as seeing my beautiful Paris dazzling in such a manner.

The view from the water here is like none other!” He exclaims, and in his enthusiasm they catch glimpse of a much younger Claude showing through, one exhibiting a rush of boyish excitement.

Paris at night viewed from the water is simply dazzling. The dramatic architecture, the gilded sculptures of Pont Alexandre III, the Eiffel Tower in all its luminous glory! The manner in which the lights illuminate the water with their reflections creates some of the world’s most exquisite scenery to behold.

As they float along, not feeling even the slightest hint of wind or chill, she hadn’t noticed that the tail end of her gown had shifted slightly and was now trailing behind them in the water off the edge of the tiny boat. Feeling a slight tug on the garment, she turns around.

“Oh! My dress is getting wet!” She shouts in dismay.

“This...” Monet says as he makes a sweeping gesture towards the phenomenon unfolding around them, “is not MY doing this time. My beloved Camille. I think is her way of letting me know that she is watching and that I can finally be with her again.” His eyes well up and the tears spill over out of sheer happiness.

They are no longer the only ones to witness this magnificent scene. They watch as crowds of people start frantically gathering along the bridges and on the river’s banks, all vying for a better look. A collective gasp is heard from the mass of spectators and phones and cameras appear by the hundreds, and later by the thousands, as photos and videos are taken of this strange anomaly occurring on the river Seine.

Chatter and shouts from the crowds, traffic chaos and horns bleating as local news vans arrive, not even the sound of a helicopter in the distance flying closer disturbs the three souls in the tiny rowboat on this captivating evening.

“This is so incredibly wonderful, Monsieur Monet! Thank you so very much. We will never forget this, and your kindness and generosity toward us, two complete strangers.” She says warmly and he nods earnestly in agreement with his wife.

She reaches around to pull it back in the boat, but before she can do so, she sees that the vibrant, swirling colours of the water lilies on the gown are beginning to flow into the river. They pour into the water behind them, cascading down from the enchanted dress and widening out to fill the breadth of the Seine.

As the three of them watch in disbelief, Monet’s water lilies have blanketed the river as far as the eye can see. A sea of vivid blossoms and greenery, they set off a luminous glow in shimmering, shifting technicolor hues.

The couple also feel their own tears stinging their eyes as they agree that yes, indeed, Camille must have been someone extraordinarily special.

“I must take my leave now. You have filled my heart, and know with all certainty that my dear wife would have loved to have met the both of you as well. Until we meet again.” He smiles broadly, and in an instant Claude Monet vanishes leaving the newlyweds together on their boat on the river, blinking in wonder. They share a kiss, nestling into each other’s arms, and as they slowly drift past the commotion on the streets above, she glances up and is almost sure that she spots a quick flash of the enigmatic Claude Monet in the crowd — the REAL, Claude Monet she thinks and smiles — as he tips his bowler hat in their direction and swiftly disappears into the mass of people.

– Valerie Torres

~ Fin ~

A honeymoon in Paris - Chapter I

She steps through the lush velvet drapes that frame the entrance of L’Hotel and blinks rapidly as her eyes adjust to the brilliant morning sunlight. “Come on!” she calls to him as she turns back to see that he has not yet made his way out of the lobby. She feels elated to finally be here and also a bit anxious to start exploring this magical city for the first time with her sweetheart.

Her husband she thinks excitedly that will take some getting used to, calling him that and she smiles inwardly to herself at the thought. He emerges from the doorway embracing her from behind in a huge bear hug, making her feel warm all over and so very lucky that they are on this trip together

“So! Wherever you want to go, let’s go there,” he says. “As you know by now, I’ll follow you anywhere,” his face lighting up in a broad smile. She feels that he often attempts to come off as nonchalant and a bit surly to the outside world, but she knows better.

He is just as ecstatic about this journey together as she is, so she grabs his hand and begins to playfully pull him down the sidewalk, making sure that he’s keeping up with her. He chuckles and feigns exasperation as they start out on their first full day in Paris together.

The hotel is located in the heart of the Left Bank making it the perfect location to discover things by foot. He has a “list” of places they should go, but she prefers to wander around aimlessly and hopefully even get lost a little bit along the way. Their noses lead them straight to a boulangerie, where the heavenly scents of freshly baked baguettes and croissants fill the space.

After queuing behind the locals waiting to purchase their daily essentials, they leave the shop arms overflowing with warm goodies straight from the oven. “It will be impossible to eat all of this!” he says, laughing, “Hey, why don’t we find that park?” She does a delighted little jumping dance, trying to keep it as subtle as possible in case people are watching and moves hurriedly down the street to that little épicerie on the corner she noticed when they checked in.

After acquiring even more delectable tidbits, including lovely sparkling bottles of Fentimans Rose lemonade, she consults her map—we don’t want to get TOO lost—she thinks, and they head to Jardin du Luxembourg for an impromptu picnic.

He hadn’t initially had the city parks high up on his list, but now finds himself very pleased that they decided to come here as he marvels at the meticulously landscaped lawns and the vibrant bursts of colour and heady scents of everything in bloom. They have a languid, idyllic lunch as they sit on the large pashmina scarf that she had with her, spread out on the grass. Amid people-watching and observing the puffy clouds floating by overhead, they drift off into a light doze together.

Upon awakening they stretch out their stiff limbs, gather their belongings, disposing of their rubbish along the way, and walk along the Rue Bonaparte to the Musée d’Orsay, where she is eager to show him one of her favourite paintings that she knows is housed there. Once inside, he breathes in deeply, recalling how he has always loved the smell of the old artworks in their antique gilded frames.

It reminds him of when he was a young boy and his mother would take him on museum outings, just the two of them, and she would buy him a piece of homemade fudge afterwards at the candy shop near the bus stop.

His new wife studies every piece of art with intense scrutiny as she repeatedly leans in close and then pans back for perspective, and he watches her with a bemused smile and feels a sudden rush of affection. This is her passion after all, as she was a fine art major and is a very accomplished artist in her own right.

As they wander through the collection halls, she rounds a corner and nearly squeals, “There it is!” suddenly feeling herself redden in the face as other museum goers give her curious and slightly annoyed glances. She pulls on his shoulder and together they sit on a bench directly across from the large canvas hanging in front of them. It’s George’s Rochegrosse’s Le Chevalier aux Fleurs (The Knight of the Flowers).

As they gaze together at this masterpiece, he can finally understand why she is so taken with this piece. He too is also drawn in by the riotous burst of colours, and the astounding fact that some simple oil paints and a brush can transform a piece of cloth into such a realistic rendering of sunlight and the rolling hills as they are mirrored in the steel of the knight’s suit of armour. The longer he looks, he can almost believe that he can see their reflections in it as well amongst the wild flowers and beckoning maidens.

Having had their fill of museum time, the pair decide to explore a bit more of the Left Bank, taking the smaller side streets. They stop here and there along the way chatting about silly things and window shopping. She stops in her tracks as she spots something in a tiny shop window across the lane, transfixed.

She quickly darts across the road not bothering to check for traffic, and plants herself in front of the display to get a closer look. A dress. A fairly simple one, in a delicate blush pink hue and a retro silhouette, but beautifully crafted nonetheless.

The sign above the shop says, Maison M’Elise. A custom dressmaker’s atelier. She looks back to see if he is near, smiling as he catches up to her. “I know, I know,” he says to her, “it is beautiful. You should try it on.”

She quickly steps inside and he watches her from his spot leaning against the door frame, as she animatedly gestures to the designer, enquiring in stilted French about it. He knows that they will likely be leaving the little boutique with a Maison M’Elise shopping bag and a special dress wrapped within.

Tired-out from the long day, they make their way back to the hotel to recharge for the evening and she swings her beautifully wrapped purchase back and forth as they walk, her other hand nestled in his. Tonight they will dine at the historic restaurant, Le Procope, which dates back to the 17th century and is the oldest in Paris.

She can barely contain her excitement since she has read up so much on Parisian history, and this establishment is definitely a must-do. Or eat, as it were. The two were not disappointed, and after stuffing themselves with a positively decadent meal of classic French onion soup dripping with melted cheese, fresh crusty bread, escargots bathed in butter and garlic, and fragrant coq au vin, they left a bit of room for dessert. For who could possibly turn down heavenly crème brûlée?

Once back a L’Hotel, one with a rich history and also the last residence of the illustrious poet and playwright, Oscar Wilde, they disappear into the sumptuous, cocoon-like depths of their suite to enjoy their recent nuptials privately. Later, her head swirls with the sights, sounds, and emotions of the day, and images of her new dress fade in and out as she sinks into slumber.

– Valerie Torres

End of Chapter One