The Memory of Scent (18 page)

This is it. I am being humiliated and there is little I can do about it.

George jumps to his feet and, with one hand, grabs Vincent by his throat, his chair momentarily tilting back on two legs. Gaston and the Baron immediately spring to pull George away and the chair rocks and rights itself again leaving Vincent coughing and rubbing his neck. Undeterred, George points his finger close to Vincent’s face.

‘You show a bit more respect in the company of ladies or I’ll throw you out of here myself. Go sup with the devil and learn to keep away from decent company.’

Vincent gives a large whoop and a clap.

‘Decent company? Decent company? My dear boy; that has made my night. Ask the doctor there, what price decent company comes by these days in Paris.’

And there it is. I have been unveiled with the flourish of a freshly planed sculpture at the Exhibition. He has yanked the cloth from me and presented me, stone cold, to an assembled audience for inspection and comment. And I can only sit here, petrified. I am aware that Catherine is draping my wrap around my shoulders.

‘Come, let’s leave.’

My palms are cold and tingling and Catherine gently nudges me again. Vincent has a contorted smile from having achieved – I am not exactly sure what. He is a loathsome specimen and he has rendered me immobile. Babette, you have made your choices, and you had reason to make those choices. You promised yourself you would live by them. Do not sit here as if you are some pathetic foil of destiny – it has been yours to shape. My resolve has returned. I straighten my back and rise from my seat, passing wordlessly to the other side of Vincent’s chair. I slowly pick up a jug of iced water and empty it on to his lap.

‘There isn’t enough Champagne or money in this entire world, Vincent,’ I lean in closer to whisper, ‘and the pity for you is that you know what you’ll be missing.’

* * *

It is morning, and I have received flowers from Philippe, flowers from George and a note from Vincent to say he is
leaving for Australia. Fortunately, I have a day with Catherine planned and I accompany her to the platform at Gare de l’Est as she waves the Baron off on the Orient Express. His own father arranged for him to see a doctor in Vienna, believing his health to be far from robust. Catherine is seeing him off on a long break to take some invigorating spring waters somewhere, and she is at the same time torn, not knowing where her beloved Léo is nor in what condition. I think she is replacing her anxiety by fussing over the Baron.

It is why, I believe, so many women lavish such affection on their cats or their horses. It is all a displacement for real love and tenderness. All that nuzzling into warm animal flesh, when really, if they would only admit to it, they would much rather be writhing under a naked man who adores them. I have seen women acknowledge their husbands with only a cursory nod as he enters a room, then in pads a cat and her eyes will light up and she will immediately call it to her lap and speak in intimate soothing tones into its velvet ears. I blame the husband. He does not see that instead of his perfunctory response to his wife before he proceeds to the fireplace and lights up a pipe, he should make his way over to her chair, lift her face lovingly and kiss her deeply. The cat would soon be banished.

Catherine staggers slightly as the blue and gold sleeping cars of the train pull away and I lead her to a bench.

‘You look pale.’ When I think about it, this has crossed my mind before.

She smiles weakly. I have just this second come up with a very good idea.

‘Catherine, why don’t you move in with me? You would be saving money. Then closer to the time that Léo is expected back, we can look for a nice little place for you both. In the
meantime, you won’t be wasting what little resources you have.’

‘’Babette, you are presuming a lot of Philippe, and George might resent having to navigate around me every time he comes to call.’

‘Nonsense. I think they would both be pleased that I have a companion. Philippe has said the apartment is mine to do with as I wish, and he would hardly begrudge me having my dear friend move in.’

‘Babette Fournière, you would have people doubt the wetness of water if you put your mind to it. Fine, fine. I haven’t the energy to argue with you.’

I can be such a clever thing sometimes!

‘This will be so amusing. Let’s go fill a trunk with your belongings.’

Neither of us have any idea when Léo would be able to come home or how long this arrangement is going to last but hopefully there will be at least a few months of girls’ outings and trips to the shops and long wine-soaked lunches, more energetic evenings at the Bal Mabile and lots of fending off of potential suitors together. Catherine is a firm friend, closer than any sister could be.

* * *

My friend, my sister, is fading. Philippe has ordered her to the hospital. She has been lacking energy and her pallor was becoming more alarming by the day. It confused me because her eyes were shining and her skin had a flushed quality, both of which I foolishly mistook for being hallmarks of a young woman in love. It was her cough, a belligerent hacking that had burrowed deep into her chest, which made me finally call for Philippe. A childish belief in magical thinking made me delay it for longer than was beneficial to Catherine. Her
weight loss was instantly apparent to him. I, however, was oblivious to it and teased her for her lethargy.

And now I am holding back her hair as she tries to retch into a basin by the side of her hospice bed, tuberculosis rattling her tiny frame. My skirts trail these long corridors day after day as I refill jugs of water to keep her thirst quenched and her forehead cooled. Philippe is angry with me, telling me to allow people whose job it is to take care of Catherine. I read to her, sometimes passages from the Bible. I felt, if I didn’t, I would be divinely rapped on the knuckles. I felt that I needed to barter with God so He would speed up Catherine’s recovery. Mostly I read from popular Gothic novels to keep her mind active and emotions engaged.

The coughing that surrounds me is like a rolling death rumble. It starts in the far bed in one corner and reverberates. It inhabits the night-gown-draped patients so completely and ferociously that it sometimes bends them in half as they struggle to expel it, to exorcise it from deep within their being. They then collapse back down, spent from the effort, until the low rattle begins deep within their chests again. It is a pitiful duel. Catherine is so weak. Where will her strength come from when she is next seized by this beast lurking within her? I want to prod her so that she will be energised and prepared. I want her to raise her puny fists and excoriate this fiendish intruder.

But she is slipping. In her fevered confusion, she is convinced that I am her young cousin Cécilia.

‘Ceci, I am so sorry for being so unkind to you.’

I take her hand and hold it to my face, kissing it softly.

‘Ceci, I am so sorry …’

‘Catherine, I have always loved you and admired you, and always thought you beautiful.’

‘Thank you, Ceci, you’re a good girl …’

Catherine smiles and I squeeze her clammy hand. Her face is serene. One deep unbroken breath emanates from within her, her chest rising with the effort. Her eyes flicker closed and then her breath rattles in an extended surrender.

‘Catherine. Catherine?’

I feel detached. I have never before seen life ebb so distinctly away, from the shallow breaths to this nothingness, this abject stillness. The careful way that she pinned her hair, the rose water she dabbed on her skin and clothes, the powder she used on her face, the graceful way she swept her hands through the air while telling a story: all the details that made up Catherine as a person are suddenly extinguished. Her essence is gone, like the smothering of a flame, despite her living image lying stilled on the bed before me. It is a cruel taunt, this death.

George is waiting for me on the street outside my apartment. I lean into him as I traipse heavily up the stairs. I feel exhausted, emptied. I go straight into my room and ease myself on the bed. He lies down beside me and I am aware of him rocking me as I cry myself into a dulled exhaustion.

* * *

The maid is not the brightest and often needs more instruction than I have the patience to give her, so it is pleasant to see the table freshly laid with hot rolls, coffee, juices and fruits, and several cuts of
charcuterie
by the time I get up. I haven’t breakfasted like this in a very long time. I feel she must be responding to the male presence in the household and is in search of a type of validation that clearly I am unable to give her. Or perhaps George has simply told her
what to do and what to purchase. I do not want to draw too much attention to the novelty of this morning’s feast in case he thinks I am unable to handle the help properly. The maid, who has some Biblical name like Marie or Marthe, is scurrying about with unseemly purpose, clearly in an attempt to give the impression to George that this sort of domestic busyness is the norm for her. So we both pretend, for the sake of appearance and both our reputations, that today is unfolding no differently to any other day. George reads the newspaper and sips at his coffee, oblivious, while the maid and I daren’t look directly at each other, neither of us wishing to make a dent in George’s silent approval of the day so far.

George’s upbeat mood yanks me a little from the experience of having watched Catherine die. In fact, he always lifts me. I intended to wallow in misery and to shroud myself in mourning for at least a week, but already I am feeling a little flighty. Poor Catherine. I will miss her. But how does George manage to smell of freshly picked lavender? Does he keep a small bottle of cologne on his person? His hair is a little dampened from the wash bowl and has sprung into untamed ringlets. He will later rake through it with something greasy from a little pot, the same way my father used to, and it will take on a smooth sheen. But I like this look, maybe because it speaks of a certain intimacy, casual and untamed and lacking the patina that he presents to others.

He rattles his cup back down on to his saucer, and with a quick snap he folds the newspaper and tucks it under his arm in one fluid movement.

‘Mar— will you tidy up my bed now, please.’

She obliges immediately. She could have at least finished drying the plate that was in her hand. When I say ‘now’, I
don’t mean it as literally as she understands it to be. I really must learn to instruct her more sequentially and not presume she will make independent judgments, for all that does is force me to begin my day on an empty stomach.

‘George,’ I brace myself. ‘You really are owed an explanation.’

I could not bear to be in a constant state of worry about meeting another Vincent out in company in similarly excruciating circumstances.

‘You’ve been so good and so sweet to me, that there’s something I have to tell you. Philippe is not just the generous benefactor that I may have led you to believe him to be.’

‘My darling Lily, I have long known about Madame Delphine’s house. I can honestly say to you that I do not care. I could wring your neck for the way you make me feel about you and then wring everybody else’s if they so much as glance in your direction. It’s a predicament with which I am completely unfamiliar. Could we not make this little apartment your sole orbit? Do you really have to venture out in society at all?’

‘You can imagine how that would cease to be amusing for me within a very short space of time. You want me trapped, bored and gagged? I’d be clawing your eyes out very quickly and you’d regret the day you first saw me.’

‘Right, for my own self preservation, I shall return and take you out to dinner later. We’ll raise a glass to Catherine. Will you be fine for that Lily?’

‘And George, I’m not …’

But he makes his way towards the door, the newspaper still carefully tucked beneath his arm.

‘I think you need some more rest. You have had a tough few weeks and I could do with some fresh air.’

And there it is, with a wink and a meltingly warm smile, as if under a cloudburst of petals, the air seems to have sweetened and I can breathe more easily. He loves me too.

With my hands clasped around this small glass of beer, I stare into it as if it is a pool of wisdom. I stare until the rim of froth dissolves. What answers do people seek at the bottom of these glasses? What spell of introspection does this contrary liquid cast on them? It mesmerises, hour after hour, night after night. Downcast eyes hypnotised by the amber brew, seeking redemption or temporary ease from a cluttered mind. I can only conjure up images of a half-dead mother, or at least that is what she exudes. Her sadness is a resting beast that she is afraid to stir, so she remains still. Still and wearied by the effort.

I find myself talking in whispers in case the beast consumes us both. And in those moments, my baby whimpers for attention. My Isobel and all thoughts of her must be swaddled until she is nothing but a hollow stirring. I would otherwise rise up in a rage and rouse the beast and we would all be lost.

I have not been sure that I can entrust this to George and I am even less sure now as I wait for him, than when I contacted him. I watch for his bobbing hat among all the others crisscrossing these narrow streets. I glimpse him, striding effortlessly up the hill.

The images of the cracked head of the dying painter and the blood-soaked floorboards rise up like night-time intruders, making me sit bolt upright to banish them to the moon-shimmered Montmartre rooftops. But they are returning with more frequency.

‘My dear Fleur, you look lovely sitting here in the late morning sun.’ He swivels to catch the eye of a waiter and calls for a Kirsch.

I lean forward, both arms resting on the table in front of me. ‘George, there is something still troubling me about the death of the Spanish painter.’

George accidentally nudges his paper on to the floor and bends to pick it up. He smoothes it out and places it first to his right, then to his left. He has now pulled his chair too close to the table so scrapes it back a little to allow enough room to cross his legs. I wait for his fidgeting to stop.