Love at Dawn

3.A False Friend

From that day on, Edith had a new secret base.

Every time she was out of Aunt Adele's sight, she flew like a bird to the bottom's inn room to seek the young painter. Most of the time, she was genuinely welcomed there.

The little sprite was no longer alone.

One day, the painter suddenly asked her, "What books do you like to read?"

Edith couldn't answer.

"Well, what have you read?"

Edith stammered, trying to recall the name of the fable book that her sister Margot always carried around, but her usual playfulness made her lose face at this moment.

"...Do you know how to read, Edith?"

"Nature is my teacher." She stubbornly refused to be outdone.

Andre chuckled resignedly.

He pulled out two large boxes from under the tattered armchair and opened them in front of her.

They were filled with books, many of them exquisite classics that Edith suspected were priceless.

"You are richly endowed. I'll teach you," he said to her.

From then on, besides "playing with Monsieur le painter", little Edith had a new task of learning. She spent almost all day in the painter's studio and living room.

Andre's prediction was spot on - Edith was indeed an incredibly bright and quick learner.

As a student, her proclivity towards skepticism and questioning would have given a regular pastor a headache; but in this makeshift classroom, her thirst for knowledge was music to her mentor's ears.

He held the petite close in front, teaching her how to write hand by hand. She started with Fables de la Fontaine; by the age of twelve, she dug out to read Herodotus' Histories and Du Contrat Social by herself. Soon enough, she was writing pretty thoughtful compositions of her own.

This uniquely gifted girl, first enlightened by nature and the city streets, now receiving such a kind of special education, had never been indoctrinated with Christian catechism nor subjected to the traditional ideals of a virtuous wife and mother. What an unimaginable form would she grow into in the future?

Throughout the course, Edith developed a certain fascination for the painter.

Perhaps people would call it a young girl's first love. Definitely, it was not a true love affair, as Edith was still far from the age of romantic infatuation. Nevertheless, the cramped little studio had an alluring, almost mystical quality that drew her in.

During breaks in the lessons, she would perch on a small stool in the corner and watch him work.

He had to produce some simple and vulgar works to earn a living, yet at times he would rather go hungry just to finish one of his own grand art pieces.

As he painted this oil painting, he always knitted his brows and occasionally bit his lip, wielding his brush with great force, so absorbed that the young girl was too bashful to disturb him.

At first, she found this time tedious; but as she grew older, she began to appreciate the serious manner in which the beautiful youth painter worked.

She had a vague sense that there was some kind of passion for change in this, sometimes setting her heart racing along with his for no reason.

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On an ordinary day when Edith was about to turn thirteen, she took her new composition with gusto to the painter to discuss together.

The door was unlatched as usual. The room was empty.

The inn concierge informed her that the painter had moved out the night before.

"Where does he go?"

"How would I know, mademoiselle," the concierge impatiently threw his hands up. "To another town, anyway. It's said he's not coming back."

Edith almost ran all over Rouen that day. By evening, she returned to the same place with some unknown hope, pushing the creaky door open.

Only then did the girl realise how spacious this narrow inn room was.

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"The painter left? Perhaps he returned to his hometown," Aunt commented casually at the dinner table that evening. "Anyway, you're reaching the age, shouldn't be running off there all the time anymore. When you get a bit older, people will start gossiping."

"Mother is right, Edith. You should find other ways to entertain yourself. Margot will help you," Cousin Philippe attempted to console this poor girl.

Margot sympathized with her sister and tacitly offered Edith their bedroom for solitude after dinner.

That night, the young girl flung herself onto the bed and buried her face in the pillow. "Traitor! A false friend! No, I don't even recognize him as my friend!"

She didn't cry, only her words were filled with tears.

The following year, the family moved to Paris.

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