The Art of Seduction (20 page)

M
ason rushed across the street to the Grand Hotel, but Richard wasn't there; he wasn't at the adjoining Café de la Paix, where he often took his meals, or at the pavilion on the fairgrounds. It wasn't until hours later that, on a hunch, she found him at her old apartment near Place du Tertre on the top of the Montmartre butte, which he'd been converting into a sort of shrine.

It was the first time she'd been there since the night of her plunge into the Seine. The garden was the same, as was the sloping vineyard out back. But the building itself had been sandblasted to sparkling cleanliness. The floors and stairwell had been freshly varnished and the walls painted a warm terra cotta hue. As she stepped into her old living space on the upper floor, she found that it had been stripped of the charming French country accoutrements with which she'd decorated it. In their place were the spartan furnishings more befitting Richard's concept of a noble, starving artist: a ragged, narrow cot, a single commode, a broken mirror, all worn with age.

And in the midst of this museum-like memorial, Richard sat at a shabby table with pen in hand, surrounded by stacks of stationery. On the floor below were several pieces of wadded-up pages that he'd discarded. His sleeves were rolled up and he was deep in concentration.

“Duval is on to us,” she told him.

He looked up at her as if still in the grip of his other thought. “I beg your pardon?”

She told him about her meeting with the inspector, her voice seething with agitation. “He knows there was another woman on the bridge. He's figured out that the other woman jumped and it was her body that was found and mistaken for me.”

“We have nothing to worry about,” he assured her calmly.

“How can you say that?” she cried. “He says an arrest is imminent.”

“He can't arrest you for something he can never prove.”

“What if he finds out who the other woman was?”

“He can't.”

“And why the hell not?”

“Because I've taken care of that. I've erased every record of her existence.”

“But…We don't even know who she is.”

He put the pen in the inkwell. “I'm a detective. It just took a little digging. Her name was Blanche Cauvereaux. Born in Bordeaux, 1860. A widow, no children, no living family. Her birth record and baptismal certificate are back at the hotel, if you'd care to see them.”

Mason remembered the brief glimpse she'd had of the woman's face. Saw her being carried to her death by the current. Now she had a name. Blanche. “My God,” she breathed. “That woman was a human being. And now you've made her disappear as if she'd never existed. Is there no end to what you'll do to get what you want?”

“What I want is to protect you. Is that so wrong? Had I left that to chance, Duval wouldn't be making idle threats. He'd have you in irons.”

The truth of what he said took the wind out of her. She sat down on the cot she'd never slept in. Even so, what an unconscionable thing to do. Kill the woman a second time. And for what? To protect a fraudulent fame that was bringing her nothing but misery.

Be careful what you wish for….

“I assume you read about the forgeries,” he was saying.

Vacantly, she told him, “I went to see them.”

“I still wouldn't worry about them either. They can't be much.”

“They're so good they almost knocked me off my feet.”

“There are a number of excellent Rembrandt fakes floating about. Hasn't hurt his reputation one bit. You aren't upset, are you?”

“When I first saw them, I thought it was the end of the world. But after Duval's threat…after discovering we've erased a woman's life…it seems a small matter.”

“You've had a bad day. You'll feel better tomorrow.” He turned back to whatever he'd been writing. “Let me just finish this and we'll talk some more.”

Lost in her own thoughts, Mason just sat there, feeling battered and lifeless. But eventually, the scratching sound of Richard's pen began to grate on her nerves. She rose from the bed and picked up one of the wadded pieces of paper on the floor. When she uncrumpled it, she saw some bold lines of handwriting that had been crossed out. It was the start of a letter dated March 6, 1885, and the greeting read, “Dear Amy.”

“What is
this
?”

He glanced up at her. “I was just going to tell you. I've had a marvelous idea. Just a minute.” He finished a line, then put the pen down and turned to her. “It struck me when I saw how emotional people were becoming in front of the paintings that there was another way we could make the story come alive. It occurred to me that we could communicate her character and give substance to her voice in a series of intimate letters to her sister. I've made arrangements with a publisher. If we can dash off a few dozen or so in the next week, he'll have a deluxe volume printed and in the bookshops in time for the pavilion opening. A rush job to be sure, but it can be done. I only wish I'd thought of it sooner.”

Mason couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “And you're going to be the
author
of these letters?”

“There's no time to procrastinate over this, so I just jumped right in.”

She stepped to the desk and picked up one of the finished letters. Her eyes scanned the page. In bravely poetic language, this fictional Mason was describing to her confidant sister how she'd starved herself to buy paints to finish her self-portrait, only to have it ridiculed by every dealer. She spoke of how she would struggle on despite this, how she would do whatever it took to stay alive, keep painting, fulfill the vision that burned in her consciousness like a fever. Even if she had to sell herself on the streets to do it.

Slowly, she looked up at him. “So now you've turned me into a whore.”

The word made him flinch. More firmly, he said, “The fact that Mason was willing to sell herself for what she believed in hardly makes her a whore. It ennobles her spirit. Shows that she was capable of such devotion, she would pay any price to protect what she loved most.”

She shook her head. “You just can't stop yourself, can you?”

“Don't you understand the beauty of this? With these letters, we can make Mason really come alive to people—even people who might never see her paintings.”

The page dropped from Mason's fingers. “This is too much. I can't take any more.”

“I think these letters could be vital to what we're trying to do.”

“It has to stop. All of it.”

“It can't stop. It's too important.”

She rubbed her face with her hands. “Richard, I'm not blaming you. I'm as responsible for all this as you are. More so. I wanted the fame, the immortality.”

“And you can have it.”

“But I don't want it. I thought I did. But I hate it. I hate everything about it! The whole process has stripped me of my identity. For days I've been terrified of this, fighting to hang on to what was left of me. But what I didn't realize until this very moment is that I no longer care. About any of it. I don't want to hang on to that Mason, the Mason who needed to paint those pictures, who had that vision. Because of what you gave me, I've grown beyond that, and I don't want to go back. What I want is you. I want to stop this sick charade before it destroys us both. I don't care what happens to the paintings or how many people forge them. I don't care if I have to go to jail. I just want it to end.”

He stood up. “It can't.”

“Why can't it? Let's just get out of here. Leave the country and never come back. We could have so much together, if you'd just give us a chance.”

“I told you, I can't.”

“Don't you love me, just a little?”

“You know I love you.”

“No, Richard. You don't love me. You love…this.” She motioned around the room.

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it? Then why have you never once asked me anything about myself? You don't give a damn about the real me, or why I painted those paintings. All you care about is the vision of Mason Caldwell that
you
created and
you
control. It has nothing to do with me.”

Richard's face tightened. He started to speak but couldn't find the words. Balling his hand into a fist, he ground out, “I've told you. I think this is a crucial story that must be—”

“But why, Richard? Why is it so important to you? What is it in your past that's driving you to such extremes? What is the thing you won't tell me that's haunting your sleep? What was it that turned you into an art thief?”

“My past has nothing to do with this.”

“It has
everything
to do with it. Don't you see that this whole campaign of yours is just one more theft?”

“Who am I stealing from?”

“From me, Richard. From
me.
But I don't even care about
that
anymore. I care about you. You're scaring me. You've let this consume your life—
become
your life—to the point that there's nothing else left. You've created this monster who doesn't even bear the slightest resemblance to me. And your devotion to it is destroying you. Richard, I love you. I want to help you. You can trust me. Won't you please tell me what it is that's making you do this?”

He was looking at her with tortured eyes. His fist was clenched so tightly, it was turning white. “I never wanted to take anything from you. I only wanted to give to you. I wanted to give Mason to the world.”

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“All right, then, I'm going to find out on my own.” She turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” He sounded angry now.

She swung on him. “Richard, you're in the grip of something you don't understand, won't face, and can't control. I'm going to find
some
way to set you free from it.”

As she moved to leave, he grabbed her. “I said
where
do you think you're going?”

“Wherever I have to.”

Mason pulled herself free.

“You're not going anywhere.” He blocked the path to the door.

Determined, she sidestepped him and made a lunge for the table. She grabbed a stack of letters and flung them out the open window. When he charged after them, she seized the opportunity to flee from the room and down the stairs to make her escape into the streets of Montmartre.

 

Mason stepped off the omnibus in the fashionable Chaillot district. Up ahead, she could see the grandiose Renaissance mansion of the Duchess of Galliera, which took up the entire block. This was normally one of the most sedate corners of upper-crust Paris, but as Mason approached the entrance of the stately building, she was met by incongruous sounds of raucous laughter and bawdy-house singing coming from every open window.

Percival, the same uniformed attendant who'd heralded Emma's arrival at Mason's door, answered her knock. “Miss Caldwell,” he greeted over the noise, “how lovely to see you once again. We weren't expecting you.”

“I'm sorry to have come at a bad time, but I really have to see the duchess.”

“Not in the least. You're always welcome here. Her grace is just hosting a little reception.”

She looked past him into the connecting rooms, which were filled with the customary crowd of society swells intermingled with rough men wearing western frontier garb and Colt Peacemakers strapped to their hips. Some drank Dom Perignon from the bottle, passing it around like a canteen at the campfire. A sudden gunshot rang out, followed by a crescendo of laughter.

“Oh dear,” Percival clicked. “They
are
an energetic bunch. I do hope no one has been injured.”

“Reception for what?” she asked.

“Why, Colonel Cody, naturally. If you'd care to wait a moment, I shall find her grace and inform her that you're here.”

As he left her, a group of men standing at a side bar began to sing at the top of their lungs:

They dissolved into guffaws, slapping each other on the back in drunken appreciation.

Just then, Emma entered the foyer with a flourish and a smile. “Why, Amy, what a pleasant surprise.” She looked lovelier than ever, positively glowing in her apricot-colored day gown, perfectly relaxed in the tumult of the bacchanal. “We're entertaining some of your countrymen here today. The guest of honor is yet to arrive, but I can introduce you to some of his saddle-mates.”