Agnes And Yves (Ma Vie en Bleu)
Chapter Twenty-Five
We’re getting closer to the big climax in the story…This is a build-up to a budding romance and then a plot twists arrives in Chapter Twenty-Six. Stick with me if you’ve been reading the previous chapters.
Since this is a short chapter, it’s free to read. If you like it, leave a comment (no one ever does), share, and join as a paid sub if $5 a month fits into your budget. Hopefully, you’re among the people on the planet who feel blessed with prosperity you want to share with others. If not, I understand.
The Francophobe hoped to have avoided a visit the Louvre. The famous Parisian landmark flaunted what seemed like endless miles of paintings—what seemed like rooms and rooms of artwork that would take days to view.
She knew that as a former art critic, she should have relished the idea of spending an afternoon among celebrated paintings in history. However, her thoughts roamed to Barcelona. She obsessed about finally acquiring a rental car and she refused to focus on artwork. She felt jittery like a child waiting for the arrival of Christmas Day and the presents.
All smiles and gleeful as a petite enfant, Yves grabbed the American muse’s hand and dragged her past Italian renaissance paintings, past Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa,” past “Venus de Milo,” past medieval war scenes and torments of saints, past the works of Flemish masters and the hours dwindled, leaving Agnes with no stolen moments to peek at her watch.
Finally, she feigned a need for a bathroom break. Out of Yves’ sight, Agnes grabbed the nearest payphone and called a number she had memorized.
“Oui, I’m Agnes Cass. I called a few hours ago about a car….What do you mean you had one for me and now you don’t?”
Agnes pleaded. “Well, you must have another one for me. I can get to the airport in an hour….”
She wiped perspiration from her forehead, and cursed Yves for dragging her to the Louvre.
“What do you mean you placed my name back at the bottom of the list? No, you can’t do that! Hello, hello…” That wretched Parisian hung up on me!”
As her life came crashing to a halt, Agnes sunk to the floor, her knees curled up to her chest. She banged her forehead on her knees. Tears of frustration battled with her eyelids and anger rose in bursts to her throat. She would have screamed, but she saw security guards eyeing her so she refrained.
After finally locating Agnes, Yves approached the distraught American.
“What are you doing? We still have more paintings to see.”
She looked up at Parisian painter, her face pale and her eyes flush from crying.
“I don’t wish to see anymore paintings, Italian, Flemish, or otherwise. I just blew my last chance to get to Barcelona in time!”
Taken aback, but left with guilt eating away at him, Yves wondered how he could cheer up his muse. He had never seen any woman turn into an emotional wreck after visiting the famous museum. She was an arts journalist, nonetheless.
“Are you hungry? We can go eat at the café.”
The American shook her head. “I’m hardly in the mood.”
“Okay, then we go back to the studio and complete the painting. You can keep your clothes on this time.”
The reluctant muse dragged her lips into a smile.
They shared a bottle of Burgundy after Yves completed the painting. Agnes thought that she looked chic and she loved the choice of ambers and oranges the painter had chosen. She stared at the paintings of Anne-Marie in aquamarine tones.
“So is that your former muse?”
“Oui, that is Anne-Marie. She stopped modeling for me some time ago.”
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes, but she only wants to marry and have babies now. I do not wish to do those things. I have never been fond of children and I would rather spend my days here in the studio.”
“That’s understandable.”
The American felt a kinship with the Parisian, since she too felt like roaming the world fancy-free. She never discussed children with Pablo, and wondered what life would be like with him. But that Spaniard slowly faded from her consciousness, causing Agnes to panic as her dreams dissolved into a series of “what ifs” about Yves.
The thoughts circled like vultures. Yet, another part of Agnes clung to the romantic ideal of getting involved with a flamenco guitarist. She fancied having songs written as odes to her beauty and tenacity.
And she wanted to win the musician’s affections. Is that a crime? She fought and resisted Paris’ allure to seduce her.