Cezanne's Quarry (21 page)

“Just one, then.” Hortense smiled at the waiter. She had enough
savoir faire
to know that one did not linger at a table without eating or drinking something. As soon as he left, Hortense continued. “I mean, what did you tell him about where Paul was when that witch was killed?”

“I told you. We told him the truth. We said we didn’t know. We’re never sure where Paul is, except when he’s up in the attic or painting at the back of the Jas.”

God, she was dense! “Do you know
when
Solange Vernet was killed?”

“Sometime after the Virgin’s feast. I’m quite sure of it, but it doesn’t matter. Paul didn’t do it.” How could she be so sure? Besides, didn’t she read the newspapers? Didn’t she know how important an alibi was?

“When he came out to Gardanne, I told the judge that Paul had spent the entire time with us.”

Marie raised her eyebrows. Then she began to finger her empty cup. “I don’t really think that was necessary. “

Of course not. The Cézannes would not deign to show any gratitude even if she had lain down in front of a roaring train for them. “Really?” Hortense paused to emphasize her disagreement. “I got the impression that Paul was a major suspect.”

“And,” Marie countered, “I got the impression that they already had the major suspect in prison, the Englishman.”

Hortense shook her head in disbelief. Didn’t they know how easy it was for the authorities to jail a foreigner for as long as they wanted? That didn’t mean they wouldn’t go after Paul.
She
had watched him being dragged down the streets of Gardanne.
She
had been forced to sit still answering questions while two hulking gendarmes went through their things. She had seen that young judge taking all those notes and checking up on every little detail. At least Hortense had kept her head and known what to do. Apparently Paul’s mother and sister had not.

“Nevertheless,” she had to give Marie a dose of realism, “I fear that Paul is still a suspect. How long did they question him at the courthouse?”

Marie shrugged her shoulders and stared straight ahead. Hortense was beginning to get an inkling that Marie’s nonchalance was just another way of shutting her out. Or maybe they’d had an easier time at the Jas. That wouldn’t surprise her. They lived in a grand estate, not some hovel in the middle of nowhere. Their house bespoke money and influence, no matter how miserly they were about keeping it up. Hortense had seen the judge, and she had been under his microscope. She did not think he’d easily be dissuaded from his mission.

“Didn’t that judge make you nervous? You should have seen the gendarmes he brought with him. They were all over the apartment. He even went through Paul’s paintings one by one, as if they were going to tell him something.”

“He did that in Gardanne?” She had finally piqued Marie’s interest. “Did he take any of them with him? Did he say anything?”

Hortense sat back. It was her turn to shrug. “What was there to take? Pictures showing Gardanne from the top, Gardanne from the bottom, and Gardanne from the middle. And some apples. And me.”

This time Marie pulled Hortense toward her. “None of the quarry?”

Hortense shook her head. “Why the quarry?”

“That’s where she was killed!” Marie hissed. Just then, the reappearance of the waiter made them both jump a little. Hortense recovered enough to thank him and communicate that they would be sitting there for a while, continuing their nice little conversation. When he left, she leaned toward Marie again.

“What difference does that make?”

Marie’s eyes darted around, making sure they would not be overheard as she mumbled, “They found a piece of one of Paul’s canvases there.”

Oh God.
Hortense covered her gasp with her hand. She felt the morning’s coffee lurch up from her stomach. It was worse than she thought. How stupid of Paul. How often had she told him not to tear up his work, if only to preserve the canvas, if only to save them a few sous? And what if he had taken Solange Vernet there, and in a rage—

“Of course,” Marie continued, “I told him it could be anyone’s, but it was pretty clear it was Paul’s work.”

Paul’s work, as unmistakable as it was unprofitable. Hortense stared out toward the front of the café. Everything was a blur. Voices buzzed around her like annoying insects. She looked at Marie. Was there more? It was her duty to tell her everything.

“Did he find a picture of the quarry at the Jas?”

“No, but. . . .” Marie still holding back on her.

“But what?” She gripped Marie’s arm. “What?”

“He seemed to be interested in a number of paintings and even took two with him. Old ones. Yet he seemed to think they were important.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother said that he kept looking at paintings that seemed violent and,” Marie paused and whispered, “lascivious.”

“What did he take with him?” It took some effort to keep her voice down.

“A woman being strangled and a naked woman being worshiped by a group of men. And,” Marie lowered her voice even more, “all of the women had hair the same color as Solange Vernet’s.”

Hortense closed her eyes against the din and tried to conjure up the images.

“Of course, Mother told him that Paul did those long ago, when he was very young, when he was trying to find his style. But still they could use these as proof.”

Of what? Marie did not even try to say. Of Paul’s temper? Of the fact that he had been so bewitched that he had become insanely jealous?

“Do you know which paintings I’m talking about?” Marie’s face was close to hers. Hortense saw her yellowing teeth and caught an unpleasant whiff of pungent cheese from the midday meal.

She pulled away to think. She swallowed hard and willed her stomach to be still. She knew all of Paul’s paintings. They were always packing or unpacking them, getting them ready for sale or moving them back to a studio. “Yes.” She could picture them. “Some of them he did before we met. I think he said they were inspired by those horrid serial novels in the newspapers.”

The “horrid” was for Marie’s benefit. Hortense rather enjoyed the serials; she even admired some of the paintings. At least they told a story. She had especially liked the large canvas he gave to Zola, depicting a naked man, tall, strong, and muscular, with skin so dark it was almost red, carrying a fainting white-skinned woman into a woods. A woman with dark brown hair like her own. It still gave her a
frisson
of sensuality to think of it. Hortense had always assumed that she was the woman in that painting. But, as for the rest—she closed her eyes again, trying to remember. The woman on the cloud, the many failed versions of the temptation of Saint Anthony, and the clumsy rendition of two nudes in bed during an afternoon lover’s tryst—all the women had golden-red hair. Why had she not realized that before? Her throat was constricting, choking her. She had known for a long time that Solange Vernet had touched something deeper in Paul than she ever had. But she had never considered that he had known her—or someone very like her—in another life. In the life before theirs. A first, incomparable love. A buried, reignited love. How dare he?

“Your coffee is getting cold.”

Hortense realized she had been clutching the cup. She took a sip. Marie was staring at her. Despite what she was feeling, she had to stick to her plan. She
was
the only one. The family owed her. She had given the best years of her life to Paul Cézanne. Even if he were in terrible trouble, even if he had killed Solange Vernet in a jealous rage, she, Hortense Fiquet, needed to get something out of all those years, all her devotion, all her waiting.

“So you think,” she could not resist a little jab at Marie, “that they will see Paul as some obsessed, crazed murderer?”

“Of course not!” Marie almost rose in horror. “Of course he didn’t do it.”

“Then why was he mixed up with her?” Hortense could no longer hold in her anger, and spoke too loudly. She took in a breath and looked around. No one seemed to have noticed. She glanced back at Marie. “Well?”

Marie had the nerve to look away, uninterested. Of course she did not deign to answer that question. She would not say anything against Paul, the beloved brother, the beloved son. A grown man who never really had to worry about tomorrow, because in the end he knew that Papa would rescue him. Until now. This time, money and his family’s influence might not be enough. This time, Paul had gotten himself in too deep.

“You know,” Hortense announced, “I’m going to help Paul get out of this.”

“Really?” said Marie, laying her hand on Hortense’s arm, as if to rein her in. “Don’t do anything foolish.” By which she meant, of course, don’t show yourself in public. “If worse comes to worst,” Marie continued, “Rose’s husband—”

“Maxim!” Hortense almost snorted. “You would trust that little dandy to defend Paul’s life?”

Marie glared at her. Hortense took a slow sip from her coffee. She wanted to make Marie suffer a little. “I don’t know if Paul told you, but after all these years Zola had finally consented to come to Aix this summer. Then his wife got sick and made a big fuss about the cholera.” Neither she nor Paul had been all that surprised that the condescending, hypochondriacal Alexandrine had refused to come. Zola’s account of Aix was not a very attractive one. “Zola wrote us to apologize. He’s taking her to a spa. It’s really not that far from here. So, I sent him a telegram yesterday, asking him to come as soon as possible. I told him it was a matter of life or death.” She paused. “Please don’t mention this to Paul,” she added, as if she were taking Marie into her confidence. “I don’t want to disappoint him if Zola can’t come.”

“Zola? That’s ridiculous!” Marie objected. The Cézannes did not approve of what Paul’s childhood friend had become, a writer of scandalous novels. “He’s not a lawyer. Maxim—”

“You’re right about that. Of course.” Hortense did not need to hear a catalogue of the supposed virtues of Paul’s ne’er-do-well brother-in-law. “But Zola does know more about crime and murder than any small-town lawyer ever would. He’s made a thorough study of them. And,” she looked straight at Marie, trumping her at last, “you must know that by now he is one of the most influential men in France.”

T
HE WORDS OF
S
IBYLLINE
B
EAUREGARD
droned over Martin. He was exhausted. He could not even call up the strength to drive away the fly that had landed on his hand. At this hour, in this heat, he was grateful that most of the habitués of the Vernet salon were still out of town. Mlle Beauregard was the fourth and last useless interrogation of the day. At least all that effort had yielded one positive result. As the day wore on, he was worrying less and less about Merckx. No gendarme had appeared with him in tow. No reports from Franc of a deserter in the jurisdiction. Merckx, whom he had spirited out of the house at dawn, must be far away by now.

Martin ached for his bed, which he had ceded to Merckx the night before. He longed for a good meal. He would have preferred to be almost anywhere but here, with his head pounding, listening to a detailed account of the Life and Work of Sibylline Beauregard. Martin flicked his wrist and sent the fly on his way. He tugged at his damp beard, willing himself to stay alert. Twenty more minutes of concentrated effort, and he could finally go. He gave what he hoped was an encouraging nod to assure the witness that he was still paying attention.

Martin had been observing Mlle Beauregard for well over an hour. It was obvious that she made a career of her singularity. The yachting dress, cravat, and boater were distressingly à la mode, but at least they matched. The tightly coiled black curls that fringed her round little face harkened back to a more romantic era, as did the three long white feathers that hung quite incongruously from her straw hat. The feathers bobbed in rhythm to the torrent that issued from her mouth, a mobile organ lined in red, offset by a sharply pointed nose and close-set, piercing black eyes.

Mlle Beauregard’s greatest claim to being thoroughly modern was the cigarette she held between two fingers of her ungloved, paint-stained right hand. When she paused to think, she took long draws from its holder. If she was making a point, she waved it about like a torch. Under other circumstances, Martin could well imagine her using it as a beacon of female emancipation, the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and Citizen 1885. Today, knowingly or not, she had declared something quite different: her love for Charles Westerbury.

She described Westerbury as a brilliant orator whose words had thrilled all the ladies who attended his lectures. Even she had sat in rapt silence as the Englishman unveiled the true history of the earth. In the salon, reserved for the favored few, he was different. He stood behind the circle of chairs, letting Solange elicit the opinions of her guests, only to come forward when it was necessary to correct some intellectual error or add depth to the debate between science and religion, which, of course, he insisted should never have been a debate at all. Science and religion were not opposites, but complements, a sign of the advance of humankind and the benevolence of the Creator of All Things.

When Martin probed Mlle Beauregard’s opinion of the victim, she described Solange Vernet as uneducated but intelligent; gracious, beautiful, and charming. Despite this, Martin noted, the witness did not show that much dismay about Solange Vernet’s death. Did she hope to become Westerbury’s next mistress? Or had Westerbury already taken advantage of her all-too-obvious affections? Martin doubted that.

His big mistake of the afternoon had been to ask the witness about Cézanne. The question evoked a bitter diatribe. Paul Cézanne had come late to the circle, very late, having attended only two or three sessions, and had brought with him all the advantages of his sex. Trained in art institutes, heir to a fortune, connections in Paris. How could she, the daughter of a poor widowed literature professor—who had, by the way, had the foresight to name his only child after the ancient prophetesses, the Sibyls—how could she compete for the right to make an artistic contribution to Westerbury’s great work? How could she even speak when Cézanne glowered at her so? Who would take her seriously as the “artist of the Aix landscape” when a man, the scion of a wealthy family, laid claim to the same title?