Scarlet in the Snow

by Sophie Masson

‘Summer Morning,’ said d’Louvat, and his voice had changed, softening into what could almost be called love. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I murmured.

  ‘He was always a competent painter, Felix Vivian. But this – well, who would have thought he had such genius in him? No-one expected him to win that prize, that’s for sure. Sebastien d’Roch or Gabriel Fontenoy or Gaetan Theodorus were much more likely contenders, in most people’s opinion, including mine. And theirs! But Vivian’s work came out of nowhere. He kept it under wraps till the big day and triumphed.’ Messir d’Louvat shook his head. ‘Hollow victory though, you might say.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, there are those who say madness enhances talent, but that’s sentimental tosh. Madness destroys talent. And he’s never done anything worthwhile since.’

  ‘Felix Vivian is mad?’

  ‘Let’s say he’s touched. Never been quite the same since his breakdown after the painting vanished. Though he had that spell in the asylum, which at least set him back on his feet. That’s where he started painting crows.’

  ‘Crows?’ I echoed, with a shiver.

  ‘Yes, it’s become his thing. Dull as ditchwater and no artistic merit whatever,’ the art dealer said scornfully, ‘but it keeps him calm, I suppose. Travels all over the place painting the wretched things. As if a crow in Faustina was any different to one in Palume.’ His gaze returned to the painting. ‘Anyway, what really matters is that this has returned to us at last. It may be Vivian’s only work of genius, but most artists would die happy knowing they’d created it!’

  ‘How – how did you get it back?’

  ‘It just turned up on the doorstep. Maybe the thieves had an attack of conscience. Who cares? It came back, that’s what matters.’ There was no enmity in his voice now. He seemed genuinely happy.

  Shaken, I stared at the picture. When I’d told Ivan what I’d seen in the dream, when I’d asked him if it was his dream or memory, Ivan had put his head in his hands and said, ‘God forgive me. Yes, you are right.’ Why had he said that? I couldn’t understand it. Surely he hadn’t stolen the picture out of artistic spite? No. It had to have something to do with the girl. I remembered my feeling that something bad had happened to her. I remembered Rosette in my story. With an effort, I said, ‘The girl in the picture. Where is she now?’

  ‘Mam’selle Durant? Why, she’s at home with her father. There’s double cause for celebration at the Durant residence, of course.’

  Durant. I’d heard that name before, and recently, too. Durant. Yes. Last night Claire had mentioned something about a Mam’selle Durant’s father being rescued from brigands and becoming very ill. ‘I hope he’s getting better. It must have been very worrying for her, to wait so long for news of him.’

  To my astonishment, d’Louvat winked. ‘Makes a good story for the press, I agree. Truth is, she’d given him up for dead and got on with her life long ago. She’s a sensible girl.’

  Sensible be damned. I thought she sounded cold-blooded.

  ‘Funny thing, isn’t it,’ he went on musingly, ‘that he turned up out of the blue pretty much at the same time as the painting. There was a rumour flying around at the time that he’d been involved in the theft, as revenge for Vivian winning the prize.’

  ‘Why would Messir Durant want to do that?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘Eh?’ He stared at me. ‘What’s Messir Durant got to do with it? I’m talking about Gabriel Fontenoy.’

  All the blood rushed from my face. I gasped. ‘What? It’s him . . .?’

  ‘We don’t know yet if it was Fontenoy who took the painting or why it came back when he did,’ said d’Louvat, misunderstanding me. ‘And we can’t ask him any questions about it for quite a while, because he’s still unconscious. It’s lucky his care has been taken in hand by the most eminent brain physician in the land, Dr Golpech, the same man who cured Vivian, and who I understand from Durant has devised a revolutionary new treatment to try to cure Fontenoy.’

  My knees buckled. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he said, alarmed.

  ‘Nothing. I just . . . The address,’ I managed to say. ‘Where is the Durant residence? I must . . . I must speak to them.’

  ‘They don’t like journalists,’ said d’Louvat. ‘You’d not get past the first . . .’ He saw my expression and shrugged. ‘It is in the Tricorn district, but if you think you . . .’

  But I’d stopped listening, and fled.

  I took a cab this time. ‘I’ll give you double the fare if you get me there quickly,’ I gasped to the driver.

  ‘It’s a fair trot from here, but I know a back way that’ll be quicker than the boulevards, which will be choked at this time of the evening,’ the cab-driver said unflappably. He was as good as his word, and as we sped through the backstreets I felt as though I were hovering in some strange nightmarish state of numbness, my mind repeating the same things over and over, my feelings fogged and frozen.

  Ivan’s real name was Gabriel Fontenoy. He was in the Durants’ house, where a girl he’d dreamed about during his long ordeal lived. A girl who, according to Claire’s newspaper article, had never given up hope, but who, according to d’Louvat, had long ago given him up for dead. A girl he’d probably been in love with. A girl who had a prior claim on him and who even now was probably at his bedside, hoping that he’d recover, while he lay insensible, at the mercy of a brain physician who had supposedly cured Felix Vivian. A brain physician. The absolutely perfect cover for a sorcerer.

  I had to warn them. Whatever it cost me, I had to tell them the truth. I had to make them understand that whatever lies the doctor was peddling, the young man was in the gravest danger from his attentions. At least he wasn’t in the asylum, like Vivian had been. So there was some hope. But I had to make the Durants realise that they had to help him. I had to help defeat Dr Golpech, whatever it took, even if it broke my heart to think it might be Celeste Durant whom Ivan – no, Gabriel – would turn to afterwards.

  Gabriel. He was still Ivan in my heart and in my memory. I saw him in those last moments, in the mirror, his lips murmuring my name, his eyes full of such love and grief. The memory tore at me. I could never stop loving him. But when he was safe, when he was recovered, who would he choose? Me or the girl he’d loved before, with whom he shared a history, a home, a language? If I really loved him, all I should want was his happiness, even if it didn’t include me.

  The Durants’ house was huge, set behind tall, imposing gates in a distant part of the city, where houses with gardens were the norm. The cab-driver let me off outside the closed gates, and as I paid him, he said, ‘I hope you have an appointment. They don’t let just anyone in.’

  ‘I have an appointment,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m from Madame Ange, the milliner. I have to show Mam’selle Durant some new designs. It’s all been arranged.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. Very well. But it’s a long walk back to the centre and cabs don’t often ply the streets here. Would you like me to wait for you, just in case?’

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He lifted his hat. ‘Goodbye, Mam’selle, and good luck.’ And with that the cab left at a brisk trot, the sound of the horse’s hooves ringing on the cobbled pavement till they had turned the corner and disappeared.

  I glanced up and down the street. Nothing stirred. I looked up at the house and could see the lights were on. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the bell on the gate, and rang.

  The peals of the bell had only just died on the air when a big burly man came striding out of the shadows towards me.

  ‘No-one admitted without appointment,’ he said. With his large frame, huge hands and small, watchful eyes, he looked like a formidable guard dog, even had I not glimpsed the knife at his belt. The Durants were clearly expecting some kind of trouble.

  ‘There was no time to make one,’ I said, trying to keep my voice ca
lm. ‘I’m on an urgent errand.’

  ‘The doctor told us the fresh medicine supplies wouldn’t arrive till tomorrow morning,’ said the man sharply.

  ‘Oh, I’m not from the doctor,’ I said quickly, thinking that at least I knew now that the doctor wasn’t actually here. ‘I’ve come from Messir d’Louvat. From Lilac Gardens art gallery.’

  ‘Why didn’t Messir d’Louvat come himself?’

  ‘Because he’s had to go to the police. There was a break-in at the gallery.’

  The small eyes widened. ‘What?’

  ‘Please, let’s not waste time. I must speak to the Durants at once.’

  ‘Wait here. I will fetch Messir Durant,’ the man said, and he strode off.

  He returned shortly after, with another man. Tall, distinguished-looking, with light brown eyes in a tanned, strong face, thick pepper-and-salt hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he looked to be in his forties and wore a well-cut tweed suit. He surveyed me appraisingly. ‘I didn’t know d’Louvat had such a charming young assistant.’ His voice was mellow and deep.

  I coloured. ‘I’m not his assistant, Messir. My name is ter Zhaber, Alexandra ter Zhaber, and I’m just hired help for the exhibition tomorrow.’

  ‘By your accent, you’re Faustinian,’ he said, sharply.

  ‘Yes, Messir, I am. And I’d just arrived at Lilac Gardens on Messir d’Louvat’s request, to start getting things ready, when he came rushing out in a terrible state.’

  ‘It was a break-in, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Someone got into the gallery and . . .’ I shot a meaningful glance towards the imperturbable guard. Durant understood.

  ‘Remy,’ he said, ‘please open the gate and let the young lady in. We will need to discuss this in private.’

  Remy reached over to the gatepost and pressed something. There was a hiss of released steam, the heavy iron gates swung open, and I walked through, the gates shutting behind me with a hollow clang.

  I’d done it. I was in. Now I had to somehow persuade the Durants to let me see Ivan – Gabriel. I could not bear to tell them my story until I had seen him with my own eyes, and proved to myself that he was alive.

  ‘Apologies for the reception,’ said Messir Durant, as we went up the stairs and into the house, ‘but we are living in strange times, and I’ve told Remy to be careful.’ He ushered me into a large, well-lit hall and down a long corridor hung at intervals with striking, light-filled photographs of exotic lands, animals and people. I remembered reading in Modern Art and Artists that Gabriel Fontenoy’s godfather was a celebrated explorer. But what the book hadn’t said was that he was also a talented photographer, for the bottom-right of each picture was signed ‘Edmond Durant’.

  He turned, saw me looking at them, and smiled. ‘You like my photographs, Mam’selle?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They are most interesting.’ I pointed to a picture of a magnificent white wolf captured in mid-pounce. ‘And dangerous to take, too!’

  ‘Oh, well, you just have to know what you’re doing,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘It must be an interesting life you lead, Messir,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, it is,’ he said, ‘but then I have never been one for the little life. Adventure and risk and discovery – that is my lifeblood. Staying at home and doing the things everyone else does has always bored me.’

  We had arrived at a quiet, book-lined study. Durant motioned me to a chair, and after closing the door, sat behind the desk. Above the desk, I noticed, was a rather formal oil portrait of a young woman with a small child on her lap. His wife and daughter, presumably. There were also a couple of other paintings: one of a house set in a woodland scene, the other a still life. Though they were quite small, almost miniature, they drew the eye at once, with their vivid, striking composition.

  Durant shot me a sharp glance. ‘Now then, Mam’selle, what’s this about a break-in at the gallery?’

  I smiled winningly and took my notebook and pencil out from my bag. ‘I have to tell you, Messir, that was only a pretext.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He stiffened, his eyes now cold.

  ‘I mean, Messir d’Louvat told me you didn’t like journalists, but I had to . . . take the opportunity to to see if I could –’

  ‘You’re a journalist?’ he echoed, cutting me off.

  ‘Yes. I . . . I work for a small ladies’ magazine in Faustina, called The Mirror. I’m supposed to be covering some fashion stories, but I –’ I put on my sweetest smile – ‘well, to be frank, Messir Durant, I heard a rumour about the show at Lilac Gardens and couldn’t resist going there. Messir d’Louvat wasn’t very happy at first, but he allowed me to see the painting, in the end.’

  ‘I can see that he might,’ said Durant, raising an eyebrow. ‘You have a most persuasive manner, Mam’selle. So you saw Summer Morning. What did you think of it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said sincerely. ‘Really beautiful.’ I gestured at the other paintings. ‘I notice you have some fine pictures here, too. Are they also by Felix Vivian?’

  ‘No, they are by my godson Gabriel.’ A little tremor went through me. ‘Except the portrait, of course,’ he went on. ‘That was painted well before his time.’ He gave me a searching look. ‘Now, Mam’selle, this article of yours. What is it you want to know about Summer Morning?’

  ‘Actually, Messir,’ I said hastily, ‘I was very much hoping to interview your daughter about how she feels now the painting’s been found. You see, if I’m to get this story into The Mirror, I have to look at it from an angle my editor might like, you understand?’

  ‘Ah, of course, a woman’s angle,’ he said with a scornful smile. It stung, but I pretended to take no notice.

  ‘Precisely,’ I said brightly. ‘Your daughter’s story would inspire our readers. It’s so romantic – the story of the daughter of a famous explorer, who inspires a beautiful painting, and whose long-lost love returns from the dead!’

  ‘It’s a bit late to break that story,’ he said impassively. ‘It’s been in the magazines already. I’m sure people are quite tired of it.’

  ‘Oh, no, Messir. Readers can’t get enough of it. And my angle will be different. I know people will love it. Please, if you would just allow me to speak to Mam’selle Durant, I would be most grateful. I am trying to make my name, do you see, and this would help so much.’

  ‘Oho, an ambitious little minx,’ he said. ‘Well, then, if I give you permission, you must promise to show me your story before you print it.’

  ‘I promise, absolutely,’ I said fervently.

  ‘Very well. You may speak with Celeste. But I warn you, she may be a little short with you. It’s been quite an ordeal for her, all this.’

  ‘I will be very diplomatic and discreet, Messir, I promise. You must have been very happy to have your godson return safely.’

  ‘I was more than happy,’ he said quietly. ‘I can hardly express what a joy it was to know he was alive, even if he is not well.’

  ‘Yes . . . and what about the treatment that Dr Golpech is using? I heard it was very . . . radical.’

  ‘Golpech knows what he’s doing,’ said Durant brusquely. ‘His methods are unorthodox but I trust him. He’ll do the best for Gabriel, I know. Lucky my godson had the sense even in his disorientated state to make his way to Golpech’s surgery, or we might have lost him there and then.’

  I stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Golpech found him on his doorstep one morning. He was in a terrible state, and Golpech only got a little from him before he lapsed into an unconsciousness he hasn’t come out of yet.’

  ‘But how –’

  ‘How did he get there? We don’t know yet. We’re making inquiries.’

  I nearly told him then, but thought better of it. I had to see Gabriel. ‘I understand Dr Golpech runs an asylum,’ I said, ‘so why –’

  ‘Why isn’t he being looked after there? My dear young lady, he is my godson. He is better off here. Besides, he needs complete s
ecurity and quiet and we can provide that here much better than in that noisy place.’

  ‘And Dr Golpech agrees?’

  ‘I didn’t give him the choice,’ he said impatiently.

  Thank heavens for the arrogance of the rich and famous, I thought. It had given Ivan a slim chance. ‘Do you expect to –’

  ‘Look, I don’t have the time for more questions.’ He rang a little bell, and a servant appeared.

  ‘Please take Mam’selle ter Zhaber to my daughter’s rooms,’ Durant said. ‘Tell Celeste I have given my consent to an interview.’ He turned to me. ‘You have ten minutes, Mam’selle, no more. We are expecting the doctor in half an hour and you will have to leave well before that.’

  ‘Of course, Messir. I will, I promise. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said absently. I could see he’d already dismissed me from his mind. If he only knew, I thought as I followed the servant, if he only knew my real story, he’d soon change his tune! But now was not the time to tell him.

  Both times I’d seen Celeste Durant – in the dream and in the painting – it had been from behind. I’d never seen her face. Now I saw she was as exquisite as a porcelain doll, with a mass of jet-black ringlets framing an oval face of flawless peaches and cream, big blue eyes under a long curling sweep of black eyelash, her lips a pouting pink, a flash of pearl-white teeth visible within. She wore a silk dress that matched the colour of her eyes and showed off her figure to great advantage, and I immediately felt utterly plain and frumpish beside her.

  Then she opened her mouth and the spell was broken. ‘So you want an interview. Why should I give you one? I’ve never heard of your magazine. And I don’t care for Faustinians.’ Her voice was petulant, dismissive.

  ‘Please, Mam’selle,’ I said humbly, though inwardly I seethed at her tone, ‘I would be so honoured if you would let me ask you questions. You are the model for a painting that is really famous in my country. And yes, it is beautiful, but it hardly does you justice.’

  Her face softened. ‘Why, that is very kind. Is it true?’