The Green Muse

by Jessie Prichard Hunter

  “What if, Captain Bezier, this gang, or whatever you want to call it, is killing innocent ­people and stripping them of their IDs in order to have them sent to the public morgue?”

  “Edouard, are you mad? Murder is one thing, but murder for . . .” He hesitated, unable to find the words.

  “Art,” I said simply. “Murder to create art.” I snapped my last picture of this latest masterpiece.

  “Edouard, you are mad! Doubly and triply mad. You almost had me believing that these four murders really were all connected”.

  “Five,” I said, but I do not think he heard me. He had stood and started to refill his pipe; I knew it was only to calm his nerves.

  “I will check out this ­couple, the Soulavies, whom you mentioned. But you have been wasting my time with nonsense, Edouard. The first two killings were simple robberies. The murder of Monsieur Theo, well, I have heard certain things about that young man’s conduct and character that do not bear repeating. It is only a wonder he did not meet a bad end sooner. And Madame Odette was a drug addict, a very seductive drug addict with a fine title but nevertheless, a woman only a few steps from the streets herself.”

  “She was an artist,” I said. “An artist of seduction. And I will continue to believe that her death was somehow related to the others. All the signs are here. The fact that we have not spoken of it makes it no less true. And yes, these five murders—­and perhaps Lenore DuPrey’s as well, although she was not posed in precisely the same way as the intentional victims of the original Artists of Death—­are all part of a concatenation of events the object of which has been to stage a kind of performance at the Paris Morgue.”

  “Edouard, ­people are murdered every week on the streets of this city. Absolutely the only thing these murders have in common is that all the victims have been found without identification.”

  “Henri, aside from the way four of the victims—­the intentional victims, if you will—­I saw one of those victims leave a party with a woman who became a victim herself not three days later. Does that tell you nothing?”

  “Certainly it does, Edouard,” he said, not seeming to notice that it was the first time in our long acquaintance that I had used his Chris­tian name. “But I am an officer of the law, not a fanciful young man whose vision has been clouded by infatuation and”—­for the first time indicating the victim—­“pathos. I have already told you that I am going to have this ­couple thoroughly investigated. But true police work does not rely on the intuition of young men. It relies on a thorough examination of all the facts, not just the ones you find convenient to fit your poetical notions of art.”

  “I did not claim to be right,” I said wearily, beginning to gather my equipment to depart. “But these are not ordinary murders, I am convinced of it. These killings have not been driven by greed or passion, except possibly Odette’s. But that could just as easily have been revenge. You say the identity of the victim gives the identity of the criminal every time. Odette was unstable, untrustworthy, scheming, and a drug addict. Not someone who could be trusted to do as she was told. Not someone who could be trusted to keep a secret. And I truly believe that all that woman needed was an excuse to kill. She was evil, Henri. I do not know if she can be held accountable for what she was, but she was evil. And the person who murdered her was even more evil. Certainly, it could all be coincidence, but coincidences happen far less often than is commonly believed. And if it was because of the bad company she kept, well, surely you would have heard something already, what with your connections in the underworld. You know this is true.

  “But I bore you with my foolish conjectures. My things are ready.” I turned to go, my heart breaking a little at my last glimpse of red fire.

  “Now, Edouard, do not be this way. You know I value your—­”

  “I bore myself,” I said sharply. “ I am a fool so enamored of a darkness that it is not within my own nature that I let my imagination quite run away with me. I am never going to solve these murders, Captain Bezier; I am an ordinary man with morbid fantasies. I do not have a poet’s soul. I am made of nothing but earth and wheat. Good evening, sir.”

  And I left, wishing, wishing, wishing it were true.

  Chapter 47

  From the Journal of Augustine Dechelette

  I CAN HARDLY believe the events of the last twenty-­four hours. I look around this room and it seems as if it all might have happened to somebody else.

  But if I am to order my thoughts, I must start at the beginning.

  I woke this morning as happy as if I were looking forward to a walk by the Seine with my young man. My young man! Oh, Edouard, what have I done? I will be with you soon, my darling, but will you be angry to find what I have done? I hardly know how it happened myself. I should not have consented to this. But, oh, V was so persuasive, so charmingly tearful, and I must admit I was intimidated by M. Soulavie.

  Augustine, slow your pen. I woke up happy this morning, as I said, having received Edouard’s letter yesterday afternoon. The day seemed full of promise: Edouard was to visit. I had been struggling with myself over whether I should break my confidence with V and tell him that she and M. Soulavie were planning to arrange my release from the hospital. It was a great kindness on their part, a great gift—­why was I unsure? I could not understand why I could not tell my dearest Edouard. But I trusted in V’s assertions that after I was free of the hospital she would contact Edouard immediately.

  I still trust her.

  But I was entirely unprepared for V and her husband’s visit this morning. V had always, excepting the first visit, informed me by letter when she would be visiting next, always taking care that it would be at my best convenience. There have been so many sessions and treatments that it is a wonder I have had time for visitors at all!

  But I suppose that is all behind me now.

  And I am so afraid

  I was writing in my journal when one of the attendants knocked on the door; I was daydreaming in ink. About Edouard, of course. About a future that seemed, because of V’s precious offer, as if it might really come true. So of course when I was told that it was V wishing to see me, I was elated. Almost before she was through the door I had thrown myself at her feet like a child and hugged her waist, and said, ``Oh, you do not know how happy I am that you are here!”

  And then I noticed M. Soulavie behind her. He had not accompanied her in some time, and I was immediately chagrined, and leapt clumsily to my feet.

  V took my elbows and turned my embarrassment into a pretty embrace. What must it be like, I wondered, not for the first time, to have your every movement be graceful?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and V laughed.

  “For what, you silly girl? Now, it is time to go. What have you to bring with you?”

  I stood, astonished and unable to speak. I saw that M. Soulavie was holding a small traveling bag; V took it from him and laid it on the bed.

  “Look what we have brought you!” And she removed a pair of men’s brown pants, a white shirt, a brown jacket, and men’s boots, workman’s clothes, by the look of them, but new. “I packed as carefully as I could, but I fear I could not avoid a few wrinkles.” She was talking brightly, as though we were discussing a trip to the shore. She turned to me and said, “You will need your journal, yes? And your brush and mirror, of course! Although there will be plenty of mirrors at home, and you will be free to admire your loveliness whenever you want!”

  They had not gotten the requisite papers and permission to do what they were doing. How I knew this I cannot say. It was the first time I had doubted V. But she was looking at me so beseechingly. She came and took both my hands. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Augustine,” she said, looking into my eyes. “I just want you out of this hideous place. You do not belong here.” Her pretty lips trembled. “Don’t you trust me, Augustine?”

  “Of course I do,” I said sincerely. />
  “She is shocked, V,” said her husband. “We show up unannounced with men’s clothing and tell her she is to leave immediately—­that is too much for a young girl to take in all at once.” He seemed nervous; he was always so detached that I found this almost frightening.

  “But what we’re doing is wrong!” I cried. “And what about Edouard?”

  V laughed. “I promise you, once we have gotten you home, we will send for your young man. But I told you before, Monsieur Mas is far too upstanding a fellow to allow us to spirit you away like this. You know that is true.”

  “I don’t want to wrong him,” I said. I felt much more than that. I felt that I was betraying Edouard. He had pledged his love, and yet almost my very first action was to deceive and wrong him. I felt my eyes start with tears, and although I loved and was grateful to V I could not raise my face to hers.

  Her fine satin petticoats rustled as she knelt before me. “Oh, my poor, sweet Augustine,” she said, and she petted my hair with fairy hands. “Cry, darling, if that is what you need to do. Of course you are frightened, my love. Who would not be frightened? It is not to your shame; you are such a brave girl. You have already been put through so much. But remember, Augustine, under whose aegis your barbaric treatments have been carried out.” Her voice, although soft, was firm, as though she were explaining something emotionally difficult to a cosseted baby sister. She smelled of lilac powder. “Look at me, Augustine.” A sister she believed in. I knew I had to live up to that, to be the Augustine she saw in me; I wanted that every bit as much as I wanted to be the girl Edouard saw when he looked into my eyes.

  “Dr. Charcot,” I said like a dutiful student.

  “Yes. Dr. Charcot. Do you tell your mother what really happens at the Friday afternoon shows?”

  I noticed that she did not call them “lectures.” I blushed my deepest red. I had thought often of that: What if Maman were to see me posing? How many times had I thanked the heavens that Papa never let magazines into the house!

  “It is no coincidence, Augustine, that the doctor’s hysterical patients strike lascivious poses. And make amorous noises.”

  Amorous noises. If it is possible, I blushed deeper.

  “I will not stand by and continue to see you treated thusly. Charles will not have you treated thusly. I will not see you corrupted by that man.”

  “Charles?” I said, incredulous and forgetting he was in the room. “Charles cares?”

  V took both my shaking hands into her own. “Of course he does! I know my husband has a hard exterior.” At which I started, seeing him as if for the first time; he was staring at me intently, with an expression impossible to read. “I have even had my female friends confide that they find him frightening!” Charles, starting himself as he came from his reverie and saw that I was regarding him with an expression almost of horror, smiled easily at me. But his heart is warm, Augustine. It is just that he is a man, and men do not know how to show these things. No, Charles and I have had long talks about you, and he is the one who has made all the preparations. A carriage, these clothes, Charles would do anything I asked of him, but this is something he wants to do, for you. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  I started to cry again: shame or relief. “You will notify Edouard?” I asked tearfully.

  “I will bring him to you directly we are home, and safe.” She squeezed my hands, then stood. “You must be strong, Augustine. For Edouard, and for yourself. Here, dry your tears. We do not have much time. We cannot remain at the hospital for longer than our usual visit. Now, let us see how you look in these clothes.”

  I felt no embarrassment at the thought of V helping me to dress. Maman often pulled my stays at home, but I was repelled and fascinated by the clothing laid out for me. “Monsieur Soulavie!” I exclaimed, but he was already disappearing through the door.

  “Shh,” V cautioned softly. I stared at the pieces of clothing and picked them up wonderingly, one by one: I had never thought I would ever in my whole life wear men’s pants.

  “Go ahead, Augustine, put them on.” V was smiling her child’s smile, as if this were a game of make-­believe.

  And in truth it felt like make-­believe. I smiled back at her, a child myself. I let her help me into the strange male garments, stifling our laughter when I could not properly get my second leg into the pants. They turned out to be not so different from my pantaloons, but they were dreadfully scratchy against my thighs.

  As soon as I was dressed, V touched my shoulder and said, “Augustine, now you must be brave: You must leave this room. The attendants have not been present during our visits—­surely you must have noticed that.” I had noticed, and I was grateful for it. It was so nice to laugh and be free in V’s company without fearing the attendants watching us. I knew that as the star hysteric of La Salpêtrière I was being given special treatment.

  “You will walk out of your room, Augustine, and down the hall, and right out the front door of the hospital. I will go out ahead of you to meet Charles, and we will drive our carriage around the corner to the left, outside the hospital grounds. You will wait ten minutes, precisely, before you follow.

  “Augustine”—­and she looked at me and the child was gone and her eyes were stern—­“you can do this. You will do this. Now,” she said, jumping up and kissing both my cheeks, “I will go.” And her smile was as complicitous and innocent as it had been moments before.

  I watched her go, waited ten minutes, and walked out the door.

  I remember only vaguely walking down the hall and away from my room. I do not remember opening my door at all, I was so scared.

  I walked down the hallways, somewhat surprised to find that I remembered the way to the front entrance. I looked neither right nor left. I tried to walk like a man but gave that up almost immediately: Even an accomplished actress could not have acted that part without practice.

  But no one noticed me, because no one was about. The hospital seemed empty; I did not even hear voices, or cries, or shouts, as I usually did. But I did not relax my vigilance, and when I neared the large, airy lobby I found the familiar globe rising in my throat. Just a small distance, Augustine, I told myself, just a few minutes, and you will be free.

  As I rounded the corner into the lobby I saw Dr. Charcot talking to a group of young men. I stopped, terrified, but he seemed not to notice me. “There is no such thing,” he was saying, “as hysteria.” It was all I could do to burst out laughing.

  And I simply walked through the lobby and out the front doors. The row of tall trees that led to La Salpêtrière seemed as long as in a nightmare, but I walked with a resolution born of numbness and determination both. If I did not know it was impossible, I would swear I did not breathe at all the entire way.

  And I turned the corner and the carriage was waiting for me. I recognized it at once in all its opulence: V could possess nothing less. There was a driver who did not even turn his head to take me in. The entire carriage was gleaming, with not a single mud splash or scratch on the paint. As I approached, the door opened and V’s proud smile greeted me, and I breathed again.

  The interior was magnificent. Brushed gold leather seats, black velvet curtains, even a tray affixed to one side that held various glasses, a tall container of water with tiny brass spigots, and a bottle whose label I recognized from advertisements. V slid her arm around my waist, squeezed, and said, “Now you have done the hard part, darling. Relax and enjoy the scenery.”

  It didn’t feel real. All my senses were heightened, but what I noticed most were the dresses! It seemed a different color and fabric met my eyes every time I shifted my gaze. An ankle-­length royal blue cape, opening to reveal a glimpse of a rose faille skirt with a cascade of white lace down the front; a short brown leather jacket riveted with brass grommets and edged by long gold tassels that covered a brown leather dress that moved, for all its heaviness, like slow water. The girl wh
o wore it was arresting: short full hair no longer than her chin, chestnut-­colored and curled in a perfect frame about her perfect face. I had never seen short hair on a woman before, outside of magazines. Her eyes were a confident brown, her bee-­stung smile a confident red. I do not believe her lips were stained that color. It was too natural, too much a part of her whole demeanor, which was mischievous and sensual and excited and coolly sophisticated all at once. She was no older than I.

  I think I will retain the image of that young woman for the whole of my life.

  I felt more the country bumpkin than ever, no matter how fine the carriage, how exquisite my patroness. But I was only crestfallen a moment. “That hat!” I exclaimed.

  “Which one, dearest?” V asked, and only then did I realize that I had spoken aloud.

  “That one.” Our carriage was amid a crush of traffic such as I had never before witnessed. I wished it wasn’t stopped; surely a hat I admired would be of no interest to V. But at a glance she knew which hat I meant, and her delight seemed genuine.

  “Satin,” she said, “and garnet. Two of my favorites. And look how that lace falls!” Black, in a ripple around the sides of the face, and longer in the back, all the way to the shoulders. It swayed becomingly as its wearer walked the boulevard. A huge black ostrich feather completed what seemed, to me, perfection.

  “I can have a hat like that one made for you,” V said, “once we are settled.”

  Settled? I thought, and banished the thought. V was excited; we both were. I said, “I would love that,” and was ashamed of my flash of doubt when I saw how genuinely happy V’s smile was.

  I was simply nervous. This was such a big step. Augustine’s Great and Terrible Adventure! Then I saw another hat and forgot everything else but I wish I could wear that hat for Edouard.