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Just as the United States had celebrated in 1876 the passing of a hundred years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence, so France prepared for the French Revolution's centenary in 1889.
All Paris was agog as the tallest structure in the world rose before their eyes. Nearly a thousand feet high, the Eiffel Tower featured an observation platform at the top which would give, it was promised, "Heaven's view of the most beautiful city in the world." A second attraction was a series of model villages representing the far-flung colonies of France, from Indo-China to Algeria.
As the year dawned, Sadi Carnot, the French President who replaced Grévy in 1887, invited Annie to sing at the tower's inaugural. The United States was among the many republics that planned displays at the International Exhibition.
Duncan Cargo contracted for a booth at the American Pavilion. In keeping with the theme of progress in industry, science, and the arts, Philo approached Beth and Bart to participate.
One cold January day, he took them for a lunch of pressed duck served in a heady sauce made from its own blood. This was the speciality at the Tour d'Argent, the oldest restaurant in Paris, ideally situated on a bank of the Seine. Its panoramic windows overlooked the magnificent Cathedral of Notre Dame, at the opposite end of the Île de la Cité from the Place Dauphine.
On the way in, they met Renoir coming out. The artist greeted the men enthusiastically, but not Beth.
"Good afternoon, Madame," he said coolly. "You have avoided me of late. Perhaps, if I am worthy, you will show me this portrait I have heard about. It appears that I am no longer your mentor in matters artistic!"
His withering tone intimidated Beth. She stood red-faced, her eyes downcast. Philo and Bart glanced at one another in mystification.
"Yes," Renoir went on relentlessly, "it is fitting that you have come to dine on blood. You have drained mine dry! Now you go on to another, and, of all things, you have chosen a duck! What does that say of your regard for me?"
He drew himself up grandly. "I renounce you as my student. I do not know you, Madame!"
He made as if to walk away, but Beth grabbed him by the sleeve.
"Oh, mon cher ami, my dear friend, do not abandon me," she pled. "It was a simple indiscretion, I assure you. I promise I shan't do it ever again."
The great Impressionist reeled to face her.
"You will not do it again? Shame, Madame! Shame!" he decried. "You have displayed greater talent than I ever dreamed you had, and you dare to suggest you will not do it again?"
Poor Beth registered massive confusion.
Renoir turned then to Philo and Bart. Only when he did so, did they discern the twinkle in his eye.
"I think what M'sieur Renoir is trying to say, dear Beth," Philo interjected, "is that whatever you are guilty of, he hopes you will do it again."
"And again," repeated the artist, "and again and again! For if you do, you may become the greatest female artist of the century, if the world, God help us, will ever let us forget Rosa Bonheur. I detest that woman's pedestrian style!"
Bart shook his head and lifted his hands and shoulders in a puzzled shrug. "I declare, folks, y'all have left me in the dark."
"What our great artist is talking about," Beth said to her husband, relaxing at last, "is that portrait I painted of you for Christmas. I'm a neo-Impressionist after looking over the paintings of Georges Seurat! My broad brush strokes have become mere dots of color, which is very un-Renoir!"
Renoir rolled his eyes skyward. "Seurat! I detest him, too! Like you, he is not yet thirty, while I am nearly fifty! I think you both were born with brushes in your hands, while I, a simple, ordinary man, have had to work so hard to paint the simple, ordinary way I do! You see, I do not even know how to make a dot!" He took on a mournful, self-depreciative air that convulsed his audience with mirth.
When the merriment died down, Philo addressed Renoir seriously. "I have invited these two young people here today for a special reason. My company will exhibit at the Fair this spring, and I want them both to contribute. Bart works with Oriental love potions and such....."
Renoir waggled his finger at the captain. "Come, come, my dear fellow, Doctors Bart and Dash are the talk of all Paris with their exotic concoctions. We French, you see, are not so shy as you Americans in matters of the boudoir! Tell me, Doctor, is it really true that you make an aphrodisiac from coconuts that grow on trees at the bottom of the Arabian Sea?"
"Not quite," Bart explained with a smile, "but we have experimented with the coco de mer in search of its properties that do indeed excite the senses. Actually, it grows on hundred-foot palms in the Seychelles Islands, drops into the waves, and rolls up on the Malabar coast of India, having been pushed there by the currents flowing on the ocean floor. For this reason, people have called it, for hundreds of years, 'coconut of the sea'!"
"That is my point," Philo chimed in. "I want our exhibit to show the influences exerted by the world's cultures on each other to achieve common goals that require contributions from us all. For example, Beth represents the so-called 'new' world in America. She is an artist who comes to the 'old' world to refine her talent, and then contributes something that goes beyond them both."
Renoir applauded theatrically with his gloved hands. "Excellent, mon capitaine! An inspiration! And also excellent advertising! Millions of people will pass through your exhibit this summer and look at Beth's paintings. My, my! Do you suppose there is a little corner of your pavilion you might devote to my modest work?"
Again, his eyes twinkled, and they shared a laugh.
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