Sacre Bleu (27 page)

T
HREE DAYS AFTER
L
UCIEN AWOKE FROM HIS COMA,
T
OULOUSE
-L
AUTREC
arrived at Lessard’s bakery to find the young painter not only on his feet, but forming great, disc-shaped loaves and laying them on trays to be proofed. The kitchen was rich with the smell of yeast and the sweet aroma of fruit
confits
that were simmering on the stove.

Before venturing a greeting, Henri fished a gold watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and checked the time.

“Oh thank God, when I saw the bread I thought it might be before dawn.”

Lucien smiled. “These are not today’s loaves, Henri. Those came out of the oven hours ago. I’m going to proof these loaves twice, the second time overnight. It’s an Italian recipe. They call it
focaccia.
The bread becomes dense but not heavy, good for carrying sauces, cheese, meats.”

“French bread is superb for cheese and meat, Lucien. What is your sudden fascination with the Italian way of doing things? I noticed you used thin glazes on your painting like the Italians.”

“They were the masters, Henri. They say that the Italians taught the French to cook. That when Catherine de Medici married King Henry the Second, she brought a whole brigade of Italian chefs to France, toured them around the country holding banquets and teaching the people how to cook.”

“Blasphemy!” said Toulouse-Lautrec. “It is accepted science that God himself gave the French the gift of their cuisine, and while he was downstairs, cursed the English with theirs.”

“But the painting—”

“Fine, there were a few Italians who could paint.” Henri had made his way over to the stove and scooped a handful of steam off a cherry
confit
and inhaled it. “This is delightful.”

“Régine will put it in croissants tomorrow. Taste it if you’d like.”

“No, the aroma is enough for now.”

Lucien turned the last of the loaves on the floured table and plopped it onto the proofing tray. “Speaking of which, you are slightly less aromatic than when we last met.”

“Yes, apologies. One loses perspective after a week in a brothel. I have since returned home, bathed in my own apartment, without the help of my maid, who left me, I might add.”

“Well, when you don’t go home for weeks at a time, without notice … servants need to be paid, Henri.”

“That wasn’t it. I had paid her in advance, thinking I would be away at Mother’s for the whole month.”

“Then what was it?”

“Penis,” explained Toulouse-Lautrec.

“Pardon?”

“I was conducting an experiment. A theory based on information I had recently obtained, for which I sought confirmation. I strolled out of my bedchamber,
au naturel,
and the maid tendered her resignation on the spot—with far more histrionics than was called for, I thought. The woman is sixty-five years old—a grandmother—it’s not as if she’s never seen one.”

“I assume you were wearing your hat?”

“Of course, what am I, some philistine?”

“And were you, if it’s not too personal to ask, in a state of readiness?”

“For the accuracy of the experiment, yes. I would say I was approaching two o’clock—half past at the least. A condition I attained, I might add, completely without her assistance, as she was dusting the parlor at the time.”

“And still, she bolted on you? It sounds as if you’re lucky to be rid of her.”

“Well, yes, the bitch refused to do the windows. Fear of heights.”

“And penises.”

“Evidently. But to be fair, I had brought Guibert along to record the experiment with his camera. It was his first time working inside with the flash and he overloaded the pan a bit with magnesium powder. The resulting explosion and fire may have contributed to her exit.”

“Fire?”

“Un petit peu.”
Henri held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart to show just how little fire was required to frighten away the maid.

“I remember when you limited your experiments to ink and paper.”

“Say you, as you prepare that Italian bread abomination.”

“Touché,
Count Monfa.”

Henri whirled on his heel and peered over his
pince-nez
at Lucien. “So, you are recovered?”

“I need to find her,” said Lucien.

“So,
no,
then.”

“I’m fine. I need to find Juliette.”

“I understand. But if I may ignore you for a moment, we need to speak to Theo van Gogh.”

“So you’re not going to help me find her?”

“I thought I made it clear that I was ignoring you on that count. We can’t just burst into the gallery and start interrogating him about his brother’s death. I do have pictures hanging there, as do you, I believe, but I can’t think of how to move the conversation from our pictures to Vincent without seeming uncouth.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Lucien.

“We need to take him your painting.”

“No, it’s not finished.”

“Nonsense, it’s magnificent. It’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

“I still have to paint in a blue scarf tied around her neck, to direct the eye. And I have to get some more ultramarine from Père Tanguy.”

“I’ll fetch you a tube from the studio.”

“It’s not just that, Henri…”

“I know.” Toulouse-Lautrec took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Why is it so hot in here?”

“It’s a bakery. Henri, I’m afraid of the painting.”

“I know,” said Toulouse-Lautrec, his head bowed, nodding somberly in sympathy. “It’s the penis, isn’t it?”

“There’s no penis!”

“I know, I was just trying to lighten your mood.” Henri clapped his friend on the back and flour dust rose from Lucien’s shirt. “That shall be our conceit to Monsieur van Gogh. We will take your painting to him and ask his opinion about adding the scarf. He will see that it is a masterpiece, be flattered that we asked, then, while his guard is down, I’ll ask him what he knows about the circumstances leading up to his brother’s death.”

“That’s a horrible plan.”

“Yes, but I have chosen to ignore that.”

B
ECAUSE HE SELDOM APPEARED ON THE BUTTE DURING THE DAY, MANY OF THE
boys of Montmartre had actually never seen the “little gentleman.” He was rumor, a myth, a legend. They had, of course, heard of him; they knew he was of royal birth, an artist and a
bon vivant,
and they had concocted tales that they shared among themselves, that he was actually a troll, the cruel master of a circus, and possibly a pirate, but the things they all knew to be true about him—by way of warnings from their mothers—were that he was always to be referred to as “the little gentleman,” was never to be teased, whispered about, or laughed at, because he was, in fact, a gentleman, always polite and well dressed, usually generous and charming, and Madame Lessard had promised that any child caught being unkind to the little gentleman would be disappeared, never to be seen again except as an unappetizing pie with eyelashes in the crust. (Madame Lessard was only slightly less mysterious than the little gentleman himself, but more menacing, as she could deceive you by giving you a treat today, only to set you up for a proper poisoning later, or so the story went.)

But now, the legend had materialized, better than a bear on a bicycle eating a nun: the baker and the “little gentleman” were carrying across Place du Tertre a large picture of a naked woman who had recently been murdered by Madame Lessard, and the boys of the butte were drawn to the spectacle like sharks to blood.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t ask van Gogh to come to the studio,” said Lucien, trying to cantilever his end of the painting into the wind. (There were reasons why windmills had been built on Montmartre.) They were progressing across the square in a sideways, crablike manner, to keep the painting from being ripped from their grasp. Thus, because of the length of the canvas, nearly eight feet, and the crowd of boys who had gathered to look at the nude as it progressed, they were displacing the space normally required to allow passage for three carriages, with horses, and were going blocks off course to accommodate the wind and their entourage.

“Why don’t we hire some of these urchins to help?” said Henri. “You would help, wouldn’t you, urchins?”

The urchins, who were also moving in a crablike manner, their eyes pinned on the blue nude as if attached by mystic cords, several, unashamed, tenting their trousers with innocently stiffened peckers (they knew not the cause, only that the sight of the blue nude was simultaneously pleasant and unsettling, the exact effect she had on adults,
sans
trouser tents), nodded. “We’ll help,” said one boy, his finger far enough up his nose to tickle a memory nesting in his frontal lobe.

“Not a chance,” said Lucien. “The paint’s not even dry. They’ll get their dirty little hands all over her. Back, urchins! Back!”

“Was she blue in real life?” one boy asked Henri.

“No,” said Toulouse-Lautrec. “That is merely the artist’s impression of the light.”

“Did you touch her boobies?” another urchin asked.

“Sadly, I did not,” answered Henri, grinning at Lucien and bouncing his eyebrows, the very caricature of a light-opera lecher.

“Why didn’t you make them bigger?” asked Nose-finger.

“Because he didn’t paint her!” barked Lucien. “I painted her, you annoying little maggot. Now fuck off, all of you. Off you go. Pests! Vermin!” Lucien couldn’t wave them away without letting go of his end of the painting, but he was doing some powerful head tossing and eye rolling.

“Well, if you’re going to shout at us, we’re not going to help you anymore,” said Nose-finger.

“Lucien,” Henri said, “it is still a crime to beat a child to death, but if you feel you must, I will prevail, on your behalf, upon a team of lawyers my family retains for just such emergencies. My father is notoriously careless with firearms.”

“Is that why Madame Lessard killed her?” asked one urchin, who, for some reason, Lucien had begun to think of as Little Woody. “Because you were painting her instead of baking bread like you’re supposed to?”

“That’s it,” said Toulouse-Lautrec. “I’ll do the beating. Shall we lean the painting against this wall?”

Lucien nodded and they carefully set the painting on its edge. Henri had been holding his walking stick braced against the back of the canvas stretcher, but now he waved it with a great flourish and closed his eyes as he drew the brass pommel. A collective gasp rose from the urchins. Henri ventured a peek.

“Would you look at that?” he said. There, instead of the cordial glass he was nearly sure he would be holding, he was brandishing a wicked spike of a short sword. “I’m glad I didn’t offer to console you with a cognac, Lucien.
En garde,
urchins!”

He thrust the sword in the direction of the boys, who let loose with a cacophony of shrieks as they scattered to every corner of the square. Henri looked over his shoulder and grinned at Lucien, who couldn’t help but grin back.

“She’s too skinny,” came a voice from where had once stood a thistle of street urchins. A slight man, today wearing a broad straw hat and buff linen jacket and trousers, his gray goatee trimmed and combed, and an amused smile in his blue eyes: Pierre-Auguste Renoir.