Free Sunflowers by Sheramy Bundrick

myself to look submissively at the floor and apologize. That evening, as I entertained yet another soldier, yet another farmer to “earn my keep,” I closed my eyes and saw Vincent’s face.

CHAPTER SIX
    A Starry Night by the Rhône
I often think that the night is more alive and richly colored than the day.
—Vincent to Theo, Arles, September 1888
    F
    irst it was little things. At luncheon, Madame Virginie called Minette to sit next to her, the place that used to be mine, while I was banished to the other end of the table. I stayed behind and helped the cook clean the kitchen while everyone else left for the market and monthly trip to the apothecary. Then it became clear: I was on Madame’s list. “Where do you think you’re going?” she’d demand if I went anywhere near the front door, so there was no chance of slipping out to see Vincent. “How many customers did you have last night?” she’d ask each morning, even though she made sure the other girls had more than I did. Jacqui tried her best to make things worse, taunting me under her breath, sneaking into my room to steal my hair ribbons or use my perfume without asking. Oh, I would have liked to talk back to Madame, give a piece of my mind to Jacqui, but I didn’t. Françoise understood. She quietly made sure I got new hair ribbons and gave me encouraging smiles whenever she passed me. “Madame’ll get over it,” she whispered. “Keep being a good girl.”
    One night, when Madame Virginie was safely in her parlor and everybody but me was upstairs with a customer, Raoul brought me a message at the bar. “ Monsieur le peintre is outside and asks for you.”
    Vincent stood on the sidewalk under the lantern, wearing his work clothes—even his straw hat. He had a pipe in his mouth, artist’s box in his hand, canvas and easel strapped to his back. “It’s time to try a night picture by the river,” he said. “Would you like to come with me?”
    I glanced back inside. “I can’t. Madame Virginie threatened to throw me out after I got back last time.”
    An angry spark leaped into Vincent’s eyes. “What did she say?”
    “That I couldn’t go off with you anymore and lose a night’s business.”
    “I can give you some money—”
    “I don’t want to take your money.” I thought about the little box in my bureau. If I got caught, I could give her a few of my own francs. “Wait a minute,” I told him and pulled Raoul aside. “If Madame Virginie asks, I’m with a customer. There’s a franc in it for you.” He agreed with a grin and a “Oui, Mademoiselle.”
    “Let’s go,” I said to Vincent, “but let’s hurry before someone sees me.” We rounded the corner toward the city gate and the Place Lamartine, but instead of crossing the garden in the direction of the yellow house, he steered us toward the river. The burden on his back was making him hunch over, and I asked, “Would you like me to carry something?”
    “No, thank you.” He smiled at me as we passed under a streetlight. “I look like a porcupine, but I’m used to it.”
    The Place Lamartine ended at the edge of the Rhône in a high sloping wall, built some years before to protect the city from floods. Vincent unfolded his easel and secured a canvas so the breeze wouldn’t blow it off. “You don’t want to go to the riverbank?” I asked, peering down a stairway to the stony shore below. I could take off my shoes and stockings and dip my toes in the water.
    “Too dark down there,” he said. “Better vantage point from up here.”
    From where we stood at the bend of the river, you could see all the lights of Arles and the bridge linking the city to the suburb of Trinquetaille. A full moon flooded the southern sky with light and drowned out the stars, but you found them if you turned to the north, a carpet of them twinkling like diamonds. Most nights, pimps and whores wandered the embankment, or fishermen wanting a late-night catch, but not tonight. We were alone with