Prologue:

A silence swept across the cream colored room of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as a young girl peered closely to observe the hidden museof cool color embedded within Claude Monet’s harmonious painting Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies. The young girl’s pale blue eyes struggled to absorb the active brush marks and the dashes of flaming red swallowed by the smooth strokes of chilling blues and vibrant greens, laced together to form the lily pads and waterlilies. The whole piece was a layering of color and alongside that, an ethereal thought of mystery that the painting portrayed, expressing an enigmatic tone, leaving the young girl mystified and perplexed. She had begun to develop an idea that there was something hidden in the background of the painting- over the pond and behind the bridge, shadowed between the tall grasses and reeds, next to the spilling abundance of weeping willows. As she gazed deeper into this central spot, she felt a hand lightly touch her shoulder from behind. The hands at first felt soft and cold, emanating a strong sense of youthfulness. But as she turned around to see who these hands belonged to, she faced an old man, with a sweet aged face. His eyes were an azotic blue, so deep and rich in color that they gave him an eccentric manner incompatible with a man of his age. He then spoke in a quiet tone, “It’s a beautiful painting. My favorite in the whole museum. There’s just something about it that leaves the viewer guessing more.” The young girl said nothing at first, contemplating if she should at first reply to this strange old man. After a few seconds of second guessing herself, she replied “It is a very interesting piece. I love the colors, but I feel like there’s something……,” she paused as she searched her mind for the correct words to articulate her thoughts, “its like, and well I honestly don’t know how to describe it, I feel like there’s something missing, or there’s something I don’t understand about it, I’m……” The old man cut her off.

“That’s how they all feel when they see this painting. If you have some time I could tell you the story behind this exquisite piece of artwork, and maybe it will clear your head some, hmmm?”The young girl thought to herself that she had no other place to be, and replied yes to listening to his story.They both moved to a bench in front of the painting, and sat, the young girl with her arms crossed placed across her lap and her ears eager to listen. The old man than began,

“First we have to start from the very beginning, and it starts with a girl.”

Chapter 1:

“Bernadette! Bernadette!” The scarlet poppies dancing in the wind raised such a ruckus, as they thrashed their thin stems against one another, carrying a child’s voice across the field.Bernadette sat within this consumption and smelled the sleeping grass beneath her feet and the poppies that breezed against her rosy cheeks. “Bernadette, you must come quickly!” The voice once again fluttered across the poppy field- Bernadette still to enwrapped in the essence of nature to realize it. “The painter Monet from Paris has rented the house on the riverside road to La- Roche Guyon! Come quick and watch all the commotion!” Bernadette sprang up to see her eight-year-old sister Adele, standing on the wavering hillside of poppies. Her younger sister, a cute little brunette, contained such a wild appearance because she never did arrive in clean clothes, only with dirty petticoats and always a mischievous smile. It was all most likely from her playing in the Seine or with the farm animals, a daily routine of hers. Bernadette, fluffing out her dress, which had grass stains and muddy spots splashedon the hem, called out to her sister. “I’m coming!” Bernadette was thrilled to learn that her favorite artist Claude Monet was here in her very own town. She was in love with all his works, from his seascape of The Beach at Sainte-Adresse to the portrait of his wife in Printemps. All his work contained such a presence of serenity and a strong association with nature, that it always left a calming but yet inquisitive mood upon her. She had never seen his work in person, only from newspaper clippings that she would collect and keep in her dresser drawers.

As Bernadette and Adele ran up towards the pebbled road of the small town Vetheuil, they both felt an uproar stirring beneath their feet as they crossed the bridge over to the church of Notre-Dame. It was April, the year of 1878 and Vetheuil was a small village located in the northwestern outskirts of Paris, France. It was a quaint town on the luscious and frivolous banks of the Seine River. Vetheuil’s Notre Dame church was a central spot; Bernadette and her four other sisters would play hopscotch or rolling hoop out in front of it. Its archaic tympanum and wooden front doors always drew Bernadette and her sisters closer into observing the aesthetic elements of the aged church. The illuminating stained glass windows peered as any eye would into the holy and godly aspect of the elegant church. Religion to the girls had always remained a mystery. They never quite understood its influence and presence.

Ever since the French Revolution, there occurred a mild desire to return to the emphasis on the church, however the power of free thought and the progression of modernity clashed with the church, thus splitting France into two, based on these contrasting views. The church even tore itself to pieces with anxieties of its own. At this point only a small minority were fervently devout. Even though Bernadette and her family, the Dejardins, were farmers, considered to be the most religious social group during this time in France, Bernadette and her sisters remained the most lost in the confusion and complexity of it all. The school she attended greatly stressed religion because of their Catholic background. Literacy, was well-taught in small towns compared to the big bustling cities of France, and abided as a key focus of the schools. It was here where Bernadette gained her quick and sparky attitude that she would use to get through her days in the Dejardins household.

Bernadette and Adele followed the sounds of hoofs stomping, torn up carpet bags tossed from the carriage, and large boxes of paints and discarded canvases placed against the sides of the cobbled streets.The girls hid behind a crowd of townspeople, as people were coming and going, taking each item inside the house. Bernadette watched in awe at the spectacle, directing her focus on finding Monet. Through all the uproar, she did however count a total of eight children running around, four playing tag, and the other three poking fun at one of the girl’s red carrot hair. Bernadette knew that not all of these children could belong to Monet and his wife, the dark-haired beauty Camille. An extra ounce of curiosity grew inher mind. Then all of a sudden she heard a low but gentle voice come from the creamy pale orange house. From within the small doorway, appeared a small figure. A small pale women, with an angelic amount of godly-given hair, Bernadette’s mother would say, trickling down her shoulders. Bernadette knew at once it must be Camille, for she had seen that face so many times in Monet’s paintings- a blushed and softly molded face of romance.

However it did not look like that anymore. Her stature seemed dampened and her rosy texture flustered out from her face. She looked ill and unhealthy, dangling by a thread. Camille spoke “Children come inside, and see your new home.” The children all stopped and slowly with their heads hung low, walked inside the house from the beautiful sunny day. Camille then turned around to speak to another figure who had appeared from the doorway. It was a taller women with towering dark, almost black hair, twisted up in a bun. She had a contrastingly different face from Camille’s. It was a long face with a thin nose, that left an unpleasant expression cast upon her face. Her demeanor was demanding and obtrusive. They then both disappeared into the unlit hallway of the shadowed doorway, Bernadette still unaware of who this other lady was. Adele then grabbed Bernadette’s petticoat, and spoke in an irritating tone “I think I’m going to head back home, this only seems to bore me. I had high hopes we would get a glance of the famous painter, but it seems that he has already fallen to the slavery of the paint and brush. I know of numerous of things I’d rather being doing right now.”

“Have it your way you silly little girl; go play with the chickens or terrorize poor Madame Baudoin’s pigs. I think I’ll wait a little bit longer.” Adele left with her nose up in the air. As the youngest of five daughters, Adele out of all of them had the most unsatisfying confidence an eight-year-old could have. She had a wild temperament, which meant she couldn’t stand still for very long, but loved creating drama that would have the whole town talking. Since the town only had 622 inhabitants, news traveled quickly.

The muddy carriage that had been outside of Monet’s rented house moved away and the tiny crowd that had formed while the move in was occurringdispersed. Only Bernadette wasoutside the house, gazing upon its sea green tinted window shutters. As she was about to turn away, the top window farthest to the left opened, and Bernadette could see a silhouette of a man surface. The first she saw were two mysterious brown hazel eyes, so beautiful and so tired that her heart melted in anguish at the man’s sleepy appearance. She knew immediately that it was Monet by his pointy voluminous beard. He then reached for something out of his pocket, a pipe, and started smoking as he stood, arms a flat on the window sill, looking up at the fabulous view of the mystical greenery of Vetheuil. He then looked down, presumably to Bernadette. Her hair blowing in the wind, and catching the golden rays of sunlight, seemed to almost startle Monet and awaken him. Once Bernadette realized he had noticed her, she ran back down the street to her house, excited and her heart racing. She had seen Monet, and more importantly he had seen her.

Chapter 2:

Bernadette’s father was a farmer, a farmer who devoted his life to making agriculture a profitable pursuit of his. Not only did he raise the fattest pigs for market or the stoutest cows with the whitest milk, but worked a wheat field just across the River Seine in an even smaller village of Lavacourt. He was a successful farmer, who never said much and never dared sell any of his daughters off by spoiling them with jewelry or any of Paris’s modern accessories. His name was Corneille Dejardins, a stout but well-built man who had earned himself a reputation in Vetheuil as the general of farming. During the Franco-Prussian War from 1870 to 1871, he was the general de division, a major general in the command of a division of the Second French Empire. It was there he made a name for himself, and when he returned from war, the little town of Vetheuil greeted him as a conquering hero. But like all things in the small town it grew only too common a notion among the townspeople. Yes, he was still highly honored and respected for his bravery during the war, but never found it as a conversation starter.

On the other hand, his wife, Bernadette’s mother, Marquite had her own stories to embellish at dinner time regarding “father’s” time at war. One could never imagine such a small lady with so much eccentricity. She had an autumn orange hair color, always wisped up upon her head in a messy bun, her cheeks bright flustered red, and tiny shriveled lips because she always would bite them. As the mother of five daughters and married to a middle-class farmer, she spent most of her time indoors embroidering the French decor pillows and adorning the small country house with rococo furniture. In France during this time, the basis of a person’s social status was the aesthetic appeal of their furniture. Marquite was all about presentation and held her family’s wealth much higher than it actually was. The over arrogance she contained led her to being the most troublesome of the women in the Dejardins’s household. Bernadette and her sisters felt they always had to watch her on their outings to town and when they attended church on special occasions. In her talkative manner, at any moment she could slip out an unnecessary comment that could have the whole town talking behind their backs. Even at school, the sisters would have to retain their family’s dignity by denouncing any bizarre rumors the parents of their classmates had heard about their mother. Bernadette, 17, who was finally out of school, was perfectly educated and highly literate. In France, literacy held quite an exceptional esteem. Bernadette was the second eldest of the daughters, her 18 year older sister Sophie, had graduated school just a year earlier. These two sisters had the tightest bond ever and shared with each other their darkest secrets.

When their mother heard that the famous Claude Monet had moved into the quaintly lavish house on the riverside road to La Roche-Guyon, she immediately began one of her long fantasies.

“Girls, we all must introduce ourselves to Monsieur and Madame Monet. Imagine if we only became such great acquaintances, they could invite us to Paris, perhaps to view a private collection of Monet’s work! And what if he so happened to be inspired by the beauty of any one of you that he decided to paint you. Just think, we could buy blue satin drapes for the windows in the salon!” Vivienne the third eldest, rolled her deep green eyes that clashed against her stormy black hair. “Mama, you know undoubtedly that that will never happen. This family has the least chance of ever gaining that obnoxious reputation of wealth that you so much want. More than you want to see us off and married.”

“My dear Vivienne, God gave you that black hair for a reason, rude and unnecessary remarks. My priority in life is to see you all off married to fine young and wealthy gentlemen. By accomplishing that you will be doing this family good. I doubt however with your attitude you will get very far in that category.” Their mother spoke with a raised tone in her voice, as she plopped upon the cerulean pillows. Edith, the second youngest, was completely ignoring the conversation by playing with their spotted calico cat, Himmy. Sophie, the sweetheart of the family, then said “Why must we always talk of marriage and wealth? There are so many other important and interesting things for us to small talk about.”

“Like what?” Vivienne then said. “That’s all we seem ever to talk about.”Himmy then jumped out of Edith’s lap as their father walked in, his pants 8 inches deep in mud, and a humorous grin upon his face.

“Those stupid pigs escaped again. I don’t understand I keep fixing the hinge on the gate, but they always manage to break out. Luckily, they didn’t get that far. Farmer Mullins was able to catch them. I have a feeling these pigs will do especially well at market.” Eying Adele, who was conspicuously standing in the corner. “I still wonder how they escaped.” He said to himself, shaking his head, still with that smirk grin on his face as he walked upstairs to wash.

“So sorry dear to hear of that misfortunate event, well now for more pressing matters, Bernadette will you please help set the table.” Bernadette, this whole time was sitting on the window sill, daydreaming while looking into the field of waving grass and apple trees beyond their farm, rocking in between it in the lights of Vetheuil. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with the fact that Monet lived in her village now. Her obsession with his art was only another driving force of hers to want to meet him and have a peek inside his world. Yet there was so much mystery and shadow that lingered around him, that she found it odd this vividly talented artist was almost unreadable. Bernadette walked over to pick up the stained and cracked porcelain plates, placing them on the table as her mind seemed to float with the wind among the poppies.

Chapter 3:

It was late Monday morning. Vivienne, Edith, and Adele had already left for school. Sophie was drying clothes outside, as their mother, humming away, was once again rearranging the furniture in their pink salon. Father had left to oversee the progress of the wheat farm in Lavacourt. Meanwhile, Bernadette was outside by the Seine picking wildflowers. She found an abundance of chrysanthemums cuddled together near the bank by an old bush, which had already weathered much of its leaves. She delicately plucked them from the ground and placed them next to the white poppies and sunflowers she had already picked. As the sun climbed to its highest peak, Bernadette made her way to town. She had made it a habit this summer of giving these flowers out to the townspeople, hoping to bring a smile to their face. Everyone in the village loved Bernadette for her natural and kind heart, but also within her was a spark of adventure and oddness that made her a tad different from her elder sister, Sophie. Sophie was an angel who never spoke a hash word from her mouth, but because of that she never did give anyone her honest opinion. Bernadette on the other hand, was an angel as well, but a smart girl with a witty attitude, and never easily fooled. She was an explorer in search for an adventure that could take her away from her little town, she only knew too well, where she could experience a taste of art and the real world. This driving motivation within her, impelled her to want to meet Monet, who she considered to be the epitome of her desires.

Bernadette was walking down the lightly sun dusted roads of Vetheuil, as she made her way to Monet’s house. She was still wondering who the lady with Madame Monet was. She had hoped by walking by Monet’s house she would see a sign, something that would give her a hint to assist her in solving this mystery. As she strolled on by, dangling the basket of flowers by her pastel pink dress, smeared with grass stains, she looked up surprised by the quiet atmosphere of Monet’s house. Compared to how it was a few days ago, one would only guess that no one lived here. There were no sounds of children playing, no one was in the kitchen, there was nothing. A buzzing curiosity grew inside her. She made her way up to the front door, and knocked two times, waiting attentively.She had expected a maid to open the door, but after about 8 seconds of awkward silence, the door swung open. Bernadette found herself staring at Monet. Monet’s brown hazel eyes appeared to grow even weaker at the sight of her. Bernadette smiled softly, and raised up her straw woven basket.

“Monsieur Monet would you like a flower.” He only looked at her with the utmost surprise, and said nothing. He looked down at the basket, tracing his fingers along the stems. He then picked up one chrysanthemum, and looked at her, asking through his eyes. Bernadette smiled and said of course. Monet then turned around in the doorway, about to close the door, before whispering a thank you from his lips.

Chapter 4:

Over the course of the next few weeks, Bernadette every Monday, mid-day, would come over to Monsieur Monet’s house to give him a flower and every time he’d pick a flower different from the one he chose the week earlier. Bernadette every time would try to delve more into finding the truth behind this arcane artist, but was only able to observe him through his mannerisms since he never said much. His face was simple but yet complex. His thick brown beard covered most of his face, so it was difficult to see his facial expressions. The only way she could ever gain a reminiscent of his personality was through his mysterious eyes. As time passed, Bernadette learned amidst all the gossip in town that the unknown lady she saw was in fact Alice Hoschede, wife to Ernest Hoschede who was a wealthy department store owner and patron of the arts. However, he apparently became bankrupt, and Alice, a close family friend, would pay frequent visits over to the Monet household to help with the children. Bernadette had heard from Baker Bellaire that Monet was having an affair with Alice. These rumors all started once everyone learned that Madame Monet was seriously ill. Most of her beauty had drained out from her, she was white pale and shriveled up like an animal gagging for air. She was his muse for much of his work, but now since she no longer had that radiant beauty many thought that he sought another source of inspiration. Bernadette on the other hand never believed that Monet was having an affair with Alice. She was too somber and strict for his romantic taste. Bernadette discovered without his personal muse, he sought restoration in painting landscapes, as she would often find him outside in the country of Vetheuil painting in plein-air the whimsical wonders of the hill country. She was usually picking berries and would see him sitting on top of the bank with a canvas upon his lap, sketching the cypress trees and her father’s field on the other side of the Seine in Lavacourt.

As the seasons changed from summer to fall, so did the atmosphere of Vetheuil. It was nearing the sunset on a Friday evening, and Bernadette was walking with her sisters to admire the lights of the Notre Dame, when she heard a whisper from Monet’s house. She slipped away from her sisters and followed the voice to the back door of the house. Monet stood squeezed in between the door, with a faint smile hidden underneath his beard.

“I have something to show you.” Bernadette looked surprised, her heart beating fast. He pulled out from behind his back a beautiful oil painting of a vase of chrysanthemums. The cool colors of white and pastel pinks softened the large piece, illustrating a beautiful encapturement of hidden beauty.

“You inspired me to paint this.” He said placing it in Bernadette’s hands “A chrysanthemum holds your same natural beauty, with so many layers of uniqueness.” Bernadette was astonished as she held the canvas. A painting that he had done because of her.

“I want you to keep it, under one condition.” Bernadette listened attentively. “If you come, help around the house, and tutor my children. My wife is very ill, and the cook and servant are not the best with entertaining children. Your kindness and elegance is the only thing right now in my life that radiates light and happiness. I’ve also heard in the town that you are well educated in literature, and not only that but you inspire me to create pieces of work that I have never done before.” At this moment Bernadette clearly recalled that day her mother exaggerated their future of having Monet paint one of her them and all living lavish lives in a fancy apartment in Paris, with a view of the Eiffel tower. What if this future was destined to come true?

“I will pay you for your services.” Monet then said. Bernadette thought no reason to decline, and accepted the offer.

TO BE CONTINUED