Free The Last Van Gogh by Alyson Richman

will need to act like a professional.”
    “Yes, Papa,” I said in my most serious voice. I had to fight hard not to show just how elated I was.
    “Some people would frown on my decision to let you sit for him, but I promised his brother I would do all that I could to help Vincent continue his painting. And anyway, this will not be as though you are modeling for an art class.” Papa laughed to himself. “No, I would never allow my daughter to do that sort of modeling!”
    I blushed when Papa made this off-color remark. “No, of course not, Papa. Of course not.”
    I, on the other hand, could not have been more pleased that Vincent had made good on his promise. As a child I had posed for Armand Gautier, another painter friend of Papa’s, but that was a long time ago.
    I wanted to tell someone that I—Marguerite Gachet—had inspired a brilliant painter. That he had chosen to immortalize me in canvas and his luminous paint. My head was now filled with questions. Would Vincent use vibrant colors or choose the muted ones I feared my plain countenance deserved? Would Papa let him paint me unchaperoned or would I be allowed to sit with him alone?
    But I had no one to discuss this with but my diary and myself. Paul had chosen to postpone going to Paris until Tuesday as the school was engaged in a reading period before exams. And although he remained in the house, he still had not spoken to me since his piano debacle. By that evening, he still had made no effort to speak to me, or even acknowledge me when I went into the parlor to do my needlepoint. He sat on one of Papa’s armchairs with his head buried in one of his schoolbooks, his legs extended like two strips of timber, never looking up at me once.
    I was used to his bouts of moodiness. He had been petulant even as a child whenever he didn’t get his way, but it bothered me that he was angry with me because I had performed my piano piece without error and he had heard that Vincent wanted to paint me and not him.
    “How’s your painting going?” I finally got the courage to ask him. “Perhaps you can ask Monsieur Van Gogh for some instruction; I’m sure he could offer you some sound advice.”
    “He has little interest in me, Marguerite. You know that.” His lip was curled up in a nasty little scowl.
    I spent several minutes trying to reassure him. “If Vincent can’t assist you, I’m sure Papa’s other artist friends might be able to offer you some guidance on their next visit.”
    He shook his head. “Papa will monopolize them so, I will have little opportunity.”
    “We must remember, Paul,” I said as I sat next to him and gently took his hand, “Vincent is one of Papa’s patients, and we cannot push too hard with him. He is here to recuperate and to get himself back to his painting.”
    Paul nodded.
    “I too am anxious to get to know him,” I said, lowering my voice. “It will happen over time. Once you’re home for the summer in a few weeks I’m sure you’ll have ample opportunity.”
    Paul smiled. “Yes, perhaps after my exams are over and I’m here full time, he’ll give me some pointers.”
    “Yes, I’m sure he will.”
    I touched Paul gingerly on the knee and made my way to the kitchen. I had left a pile of potatoes in the sink. When I slid open the Algerian striped curtain, I found Louise-Josephine standing over the potatoes with a bowl of water in front of her and a peeler in one hand.
    “Oh, thank you,” I said. I was surprised to find her there. I quickly reached for a knife and began helping her. We stood next to each other, aprons tied, the ribbons of potato skin falling into the sink. She hummed softly as she worked, a smile permanently fixed on her lips. After a moment, she turned to me and said, “Mother tells me you are to be painted by Monsieur Van Gogh.”
    My heart stopped as she spoke as if the fact that she knew about Vincent’s request cemented it in stone.
    “I’m sorry”—she hesitated—” perhaps I