They ate at a bistro near Sacre-Coeur, and they discussed painters and painting. Tony was fascinated with her stories of the well-known artists for whom she posed. As they were having cafe au lait, Dominique said, 'I must tell you, you are as good as any of them.'
Tony was inordinately pleased, but all he said was, 'I have a long way to go.'
Outside the cafe, Dominique asked, 'Are you going to invite me to see your apartment?'
'If you'd like to. I'm afraid it isn't much.'
When they arrived, Dominique looked around the tiny, messy apartment and shook her head. 'You were right. It is not much. Who takes care of you?'
'A cleaning lady comes in once a week.'
'Fire her. This place is filthy. Don't you have a girl friend?'
'No.'
She studied him a moment. 'You're not queer?'
'No.'
'Good. It would be a terrible waste. Find me a pail of water and some soap.'
Dominique went to work on the apartment, cleaning and scrubbing and finally tidying up. When she had finished, she said, 'That will have to do for now. My God, I need a bath.'
She went into the tiny bathroom and ran water in the tub. 'How do you fit yourself in this?' she called out.
'I pull up my legs.'
She laughed. 'I would like to see that.'
Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom with only a towel around her waist, her blond hair damp and curling. She had a beautiful figure, full breasts, a narrow waist and long, tapering legs. Tony had been unaware of her as a woman before. She had been merely a nude figure to be portrayed on canvas. Oddly enough, the towel changed everything. He felt a sudden rush of blood to his loins.
Dominique was watching him. 'Would you like to make love to me?'
'Very much.'
She slowly removed the towel. 'Show me.'
Tony had never known a woman like Dominique. She gave him everything and asked for nothing. She came over almost every evening to cook for Tony. When they went out to dinner, Dominique insisted on going to inexpensive bistros or sandwich bars. 'You must save your money,' she scolded him. 'It is very difficult even for a good artist to get started. And you are good, cheri.'
They went to Les Halles in the small hours of the morning and had onion soup at Pied de Cochon. They went to the Musee Carnavalet and out-of-the-way places where tourists did not go, like Cimetiere Pere-Lachaise—the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, Frederic Chopin, Honore de Balzac and Marcel Proust. They visited the catacombs and spent a lazy holiday week going down the Seine on a barge owned by a friend of Dominique's.
Dominique was a delight to be with. She had a quixotic sense of humor, and whenever Tony was depressed, she would laugh him out of it. She seemed to know everyone in Paris, and she took Tony to interesting parties where he met some of the most prominent figures of the day, like the poet Paul Eluard, and Andre Breton, in charge of the prestigious Galerie Maeght.
Dominique was a source of constant encouragement. 'You are going to be better than all of them, cheri. Believe me. I know.'
If Tony was in the mood to paint at night, Dominique would cheerfully pose for him, even though she had been working all day. God, I'm lucky, Tony thought. This was the first time he had been sure someone loved him for what he was, not who he was, and it was a feeling he cherished. Tony was afraid to tell Dominique he was the heir to one of the world's largest fortunes, afraid she would change, afraid they would lose what they had. But for her birthday Tony could not resist buying her a Russian lynx coat.
'It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life!' Dominique swirled the coat around her and danced around the room. She stopped in the middle of a spin. 'Where did it come from? Tony, where did you get the money to buy this coat?'
He was ready for her. 'It's hot—stolen. I bought it from a little man outside the Rodin Museum. He was anxious to get rid of it. It didn't cost me much more than a good cloth coat would cost at Au Printemps.'
Dominique stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. 'I'll wear it even if we both go to prison!'
Then she threw her arms around Tony and started to cry. 'Oh, Tony, you idiot. You darling, fantastic idiot.'
It was well worth the lie, Tony decided.
One night Dominique suggested to Tony that he move in with her. Between working at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and modeling for some of the better-known artists in Paris, Dominique was able to rent a large, modern apartment on Rue Pretres-Saint Severin. 'You should not be living in a place like this, Tony. It is dreadful. Live with me, and you will not have to pay any rent. I can do your laundry, cook for you and—'
'No, Dominique. Thank you.'
'But why?'
How could he explain? In the beginning he might have told her he was rich, but now it was too late. She would feel he had been making a fool of her. So he said, 'It would be like living off you. You've already given me too much.'
'Then I'm giving up my apartment and moving in here. I want to be with you.'
She moved in the following day.
There was a wonderful, easy intimacy between them. They spent weekends in the country and stopped at little hostels where Tony would set up his easel and paint landscapes, and when they got hungry Dominique would spread out a picnic lunch she had prepared and they would eat in a meadow. Afterward, they made long, sweet love. Tony had never been so completely happy.
His work was progressing beautifully. One morning Maitre Cantal held up one of Tony's paintings and said to the class, 'Look at that body. You can see it breathing.'
Tony could hardly wait to tell Dominique that night. 'You know how I got the breathing just right? I hold the model in my arms every night.'
Dominique laughed in excitement and then grew serious. 'Tony, I do not think you need three more years of school. You are ready now. Everyone at the school sees that, even Cantal.'
Tony's fear was that he was not good enough, that he was just another painter, that his work would be lost in the flood of pictures turned out by thousands of artists all over the world every day. He could not bear the thought of it. Winning is what's important, Tony. Remember that.
Sometimes when Tony finished a painting he would be filled with a sense of elation and think, / have talent I really kmve talent. At other times he would look at his work and think, I'm a bloody amateur.
With Dominique's encouragement, Tony was gaining more and more confidence in his work. He had finished almost two dozen paintings on his own. Landscapes, still fifes. There was a painting of Dominique lying nude under a tree, the sun dappling her body. A man's jacket and shirt were in the foreground, and the viewer knew the woman awaited her lover.
When Dominique saw the painting, she cried, 'You must have an exhibition!'
'You're mad, Dominique! I'm not ready.'
'You're wrong, mon cher.'
Tony arrived home late the next afternoon to find that Dominique was not alone. Anton Goerg, a thin man with an enormous potbelly and protuberant hazel eyes, was with her. He was the owner and proprietor of the Goerg Gallery, a modest gallery on the Rue Dauphine. Tony's paintings were spread around the room.
'What's going on?' Tony asked.
'What's going on, monsieur,' Anton Goerg exclaimed, 'is that I think your work is brilliant.' He clapped Tony on the back. 'I would be honored to give you a showing in my gallery.'
Tony looked over at Dominique, and she was beaming at him. 'I—I don't know what to say.'
'You have already said it,' Goerg replied. 'On these canvases.'
Tony and Dominique stayed up half the night discussing it.
'I don't feel I'm ready. The critics will crucify me.'
'You're wrong, cheri. This is perfect for you. It is a small gallery. Only the local people will come and judge
