The Green Muse

by Jessie Prichard Hunter

  Eventually we stopped at a surprisingly posh establishment with deep booths and fine wine. We ordered extravagantly, oysters and duck and curried rice. We talked a great deal, but we did not talk about the girl passed out back at our apartment. It was unnecessary. She was a constant companion at our table, and good company. We formulated our individual plans in delicious silence, knowing that to speak, now, of what was to come would only weaken the drug. It was easy to talk about what sorts of dresses V ought to have for the coming season, knowing that we would confide our secrets to each other later, when the moment for it was real. It was easy to discuss where we wanted to winter: Greece, perhaps, or Sicily. Someplace warm where V would wear a wide-­brimmed hat to preserve her perfect porcelain skin, and a delicate shawl for the same reason, while I would turn ruddy in our walks along the beach.

  V drank wine without showing any effect at all. I drank absinthe but retained a clarity of mind that I knew came from an excess of adrenaline in my veins. But still the song that throbbed in my blood was sweet. I leaned across the table to kiss V; she reached again for me under the table and it tickled, quite inexplicably and for the first time, and we laughed and laughed. We were merry indeed.

  When our meal was finished V insisted I take an extra two glasses of green; she could always gauge my moods, and even the extent of my inebriation, better than I could myself.

  The walk home was translucent. I realized I had never truly thought, before, of our apartment as home. The newly risen full moon, full in the early-­evening sky, kept us company, playing hide-­and-­seek among the shredded clouds. V s hand was in my pocket again, but quieter; and we were quieter. Our minds and souls did not need words to communicate now. All of my thoughts were images that transmitted themselves directly to my lover’s mind, and I knew that some of the images were hers, sent to me as surely as mine were sent to her. Occasionally I squeezed her hand, that was all.

  As we neared home I began to rise out of my beautiful lassitude and become energized. I walked faster; V laughed, and asked that I slow my pace. “What is waiting will be waiting still, no matter how slowly or quickly our steps.” I knew she was right, and I slowed, relishing this delirium. The secret steps, when we entered them, seemed to move with the wind that had just kicked up, and seemed to be lit by the moon outside. There was a nimbus around V’s hair as she led me up the stair, and her hair moved with the illusory breeze.

  And I was happy. A man needs a task, work to do, to be truly happy, and I, who had thought I would forever be a dilettante, had found my life’s work. And I had found, by the greatest good fortune, the muse to bring out the artist in me.

  As we mounted the steps I was ready.

  Chapter 54

  From the Journal of Augustine Dechelette

  I SHOULD NOT . . . write. But . . . Edouard will help me . . . when he sees what I have sent.

  “What is your name?” I asked her that.

  “Rose Bertin,” she answered. “But you should not be here.”

  “But I . . .” I tried to sit up . . . I am lying now in a dirty bed, my words . . .

  . . . scrawl across the page.

  “Be quiet now, Miss, perhaps I can be of help, if only they don’t return too soon.” Clearly she was . . . afraid. Of V and M. Soulavie.

  “No. No. Look, I will . . . give me paper, please.” Because I could move even less then, my body could not obey me. “Just a . . . small piece . . . oh, my mind, it floats . . . yes, like that. Can you write, Rose?” . . . I should not write these words here, I should throw this in the fire, before she comes

  . . . before she . . .

  Chapter 55

  Charles

  HARDLY HAD WE got in the door when V went to where the girl lay on the bed, I assumed to rouse her. I was using the andirons to light the fire, which had gone out. The room was cold, and for our purposes we would have it warm. V said nothing, but I knew it would not be easy to wake the girl; we had, after all, drugged her heavily. But I imagined that if the girl could not be roused, V would loosen and undo her garments.

  So I worked quickly to make the flames, and as I did I felt a delicious anticipation building in my loins and fingertips. I did not turn to watch V undress the girl, luscious as that would have been. At this point I preferred to dream. Augustine was not so lovely as V, but her skin looked soft, her muscles supple. Her eyes were bright morning cornflower to V’s gray daytime sky, to Odette’s moonlit midnight. And I had never before seen fear the likes of the fear in her eyes: Tabby had been ready to fight. This girl was innocent, a virgin. She was not ready to die, and I was ready to see if she had some fight in her.

  “Charles!” V’s voice had an urgency I had never heard before. For a moment I feared the girl dead.

  But she lay undisturbed, breathing slowly but steadily. For some reason V was whispering. I stooped to hear her, my hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. Never had V shaken away my touch. I reared back in surprise.

  “Look at this.” V’s hand was trembling a little. V’s hands, no matter what they did, never trembled. She held out the journal the girl had left on the table. I scanned the page, saw only a scrawl. The girl had regularly shared her diary entries with V, but to my panicking eye there was only purple ink on a page.

  “She has gotten help,” V hissed. “We must stop it.”

  “What help?” I found myself whispering as well, although we could have been shouting for all it meant to the unconscious girl.

  “Rose.” The name was filth in V’s mouth.

  “What?” I said stupidly.

  We had agreed not to call for Rose for as long as Augustine was in the apartment. Rose disgusted me. She was old and unclean. She had worked hard all her life. She was the face of misery. We used her to do our shopping for us, that we might have food at the ready. She took our laundry once a week. We did not even ask that she clean, as I disliked having her around, and once I became used to the filth here, I came to like it.

  “Clearly she will be heading to La Salpêtrière, and Edouard. Go. Find her, kill her, and strip her naked.”

  “Naked? It is still daylight, and you know Rose has no identification on her, no wallet, no pocket journal. She is a washerwoman.”

  V’s eyes were thunder. Once a woman’s wrath is turned toward a man, there is no stemming that tide. I should have taken the blame. There was no point fighting the water, the wind. But I found myself angry: V was my wife. She should not have spoken to me so. I resisted the urge to say that it was not I who had left the girl with writing materials.

  “Rose was not supposed to be here today.”

  “But she was. And now this.”

  “Rose will not have gone far. She hasn’t the wits of a dog, anyway.”

  “Go,” V hissed, and she turned away. I wanted to raise my voice. But the flood of rage in that one word stilled my tongue. I will deal with you later, I found myself thinking. There were things I had wanted to ask V to do to our young lady. Maybe I would not ask.

  I turned and left without a word.

  Chapter 56

  Edouard

  1:35 P.M.

  Henri,

  Augustine is missing. She left the hospital, I know not when, apparently in men’s garb. I do not know where she got the clothing. I have been told that for some time Augustine has been receiving visitors of whom I have been unaware; I spoke to Dr. Charcot but he would tell me nothing. This makes me think that these visitors are moneyed enough to buy the Great Doctor’s ignorance.

  Forgive me, Henri. I am not myself. I want to run out the door and through the streets of Paris screaming her name. Please contact me as soon as you receive this letter; I will stay here at the hospital, impossible as that seems to me now. I cannot believe that my Augustine would leave the hospital—­leave me—­in such an irresponsible manner. I fear she has been coerced in some way. I fear she is in danger.

&nbs
p; Please help me, Henri.

  Chapter 57

  Charles

  IT WAS DARK but not yet late. I knew that I would catch up with Rose long before she reached her destination, which I was certain was La Salpêtrière. A young man like Augustine’s photographer would surely, diligently, always work late. I walked as hurriedly as I could. V had expressly forbidden my using the carriage, and of course she was right, for how would it look to see a well-­born gentleman wrestle an old serving woman into a carriage on the street at the dinner hour? ­People were beginning to flock to the cafés for an early appetizer or that first drink. I longed to stop, just for one quick absinthe. I saw a bar: Danton’s Revenge. I had been there—­it catered to a rough clientele. I wanted a rough crowd, dangerous men only, no women at all, not even whores.

  I slipped into a doorway. I slid my flask out of my inner pocket, felt the reassuring cold outline of her torso, her flowing hair. Even sugared and watered my absinthe would be nothing like the real thing. Stripped of ritual, addiction loses its romance.

  I drank. The liquid went instantly sour in my stomach. I gritted my teeth and drank again, and this time the liquor went down smooth. Damn Rose Bertin. Damn Augustine and her scheming. The thought of having to undress the old woman after I’d killed her soured my stomach more, almost to the point of vomiting. I resolutely drank once more and suddenly all was calm within my heart. This was the latest challenge; that was all.

  I hurried my step. One bit of unpleasantness, then back to the apartment and its untold pleasures, for surely V would have prepared some vignette especially for me, some scene in which I was to play a most exciting part.

  I saw her. She was hurrying through the crowd, and nobody but me would have noticed her at all. It was closer to twilight than I had realized, and yet Rose’s agitation showed even before I grabbed her arm.

  “You were at the apartment, Rose.”

  “Oh, no, sir, not today. The mistress told me not to come till she told me.”

  “You were there. You saw.”

  “Saw?” The whites of her eyes were whiter than her smock.

  “V told me she saw you leaving the building not so long ago.” A lie, but a convenient one.

  “I was visiting with my friend Nanette. I often do, of an afternoon.”

  “Why did you go into the apartment?”

  She smelt of fear and sweat and onions. The idea of touching her was nauseating; I released her arm so suddenly she stumbled, but she did not run. She did not even seem to realize she was free.

  Because she knew me, and knew that she was not.

  It was a quick and entirely unsatisfying chore.

  And there she lay. I turned away, relieved. This was simply an unpleasant episode; in half an hour I would be back at the apartment.

  But then I paused. Find her, kill her, and strip her naked. I was loath even to look at the old woman’s body clothed, but V wanted that body naked, and I had never before disappointed V; I would not disappoint her now.

  But as I leaned over the body, revulsion overcame me, and even my absinthe courage deserted me. I simply could not undress Rose. I could not even remove her apron. The alley was empty, and night was falling fast. There was no danger of being caught here. For a long time I did not even move. I settled, at last, for searching the body. As I gingerly touched and lifted the apron I could smell potatoes and laundry soap. I knew Rose would not have any identifying papers on her person, but I checked the pockets of her apron, I checked the pockets of her skirt: they contained lint particles and roses. I crushed the petals as I pulled them out, and felt the oddest stab of remorse. The petals had almost no color, but they retained a sweet smell, one that would cling to my fingers all the way back to the apartment.

  I left her then. It would be the first time—­the only time—­that I had not done as V wished. She had been my willing slave on so many occasions but I had always been hers. I took a bitter drink from my flask and left the unwanted, anonymous body.

  Chapter 58

  Edouard

  WHEN I WAS summoned to the phone I was ashamed to find myself a bit in awe of it, almost frightened. I had never had reason to use a telephone before. I felt shallow to be fearing such a thing while Augustine was missing, but at the time I was still telling myself that since she had walked out, and not been carried, that she must have wanted to go, no matter how much the thought cut my heart; no matter that it was impossible for me to believe it.

  The call was from Henri. I spoke to him briefly: The fact that he sounded exactly the same through the peculiar mouthpiece was less strange to me than that I noticed it at all. After asking a few questions and assuring me that the police were doing all they could to find Augustine, he informed me that he had a murder victim he wanted me to photograph. My Augustine was missing, and I knew that she had not left of her own volition. But Henri was the one person I needed most right now; he had gone so far as to telephone me at La Salpêtrière when he got my note. So I gathered my equipment and was furnished with a carriage and driver—­ certainly a first—­ and made all haste to reach the destination provided. And I was grateful to him.

  But my thoughts kept going back to Augustine. And the knowledge that she had been receiving visitors, apparently for weeks or months, yet not told me. I was ashamed. Why did she feel she could not confide in me? Augustine’s heart was pure, and for her to keep something so vital from me there had to be a reason, and I suspected what it was. That Augustine had been encouraged and assisted in her escape I had no doubt, and I was certain this ­couple I had been told about was responsible, and equally certain that they had planned this in advance. Only the most favored of Dr. Charcot’s hysterics received such mercies as visitors and journals. Surely she had been sworn to secrecy. Oh, that I could have protected her from such predatory ­people! Did they plan now to set up such shows as Dr. Charcot orchestrated? Or were their plans even more nefarious? Oh, that she had seen fit to confide in me! She was so fragile; at first I had thought her to be what Dr. Charcot said, and that she most certainly was not. This ­couple, these faceless ­people, had stolen her. Augustine had been hypnotized by Dr. Charcot; perhaps these ­people, or one of them, had a similar power of persuasion. From the description I had received, I suspected that it was the woman who had charmed my Augustine. She had been described to me as being exceedingly refined, elegant, and beautiful. Augustine would be bewitched by these things that she thought she could never possess. My beautiful Augustine, her loveliness unsullied by drawing-­room manners and false vanity!

  This made me think of Odette, and the fact that I had kept Odette a secret from Augustine. Ultimately my behavior with Odette had not exceeded the boundaries of gentlemanly behavior, although it had wandered far indeed into vain foolishness. Yes, Augustine’s secret must have been the result of something of that same fascination, mine with what I lusted after but did not ultimately want, hers with what she desperately did want but in no way needed.

  The woman described to me was small, blonde, and fine-­boned. Suddenly I remembered something.

  Mme. Soulavie. The ­couple who had accompanied Odette to the Tuesday lecture where I had made her acquaintance. Mme. Soulavie was lovely, like a china cup. And small, and blond, and fine-­boned. And of great elegance and refinement. And her husband was handsome, sophisticated, and urbane, but even in that one meeting I had been struck by something wolfish about him.

  They could have seen Augustine there, on another day. Perhaps I was half-­mad with grief and terror, or perhaps I was thinking nonsense in a desperate effort to feel that I was doing something.

  There was no record at all of any visits to Augustine at La Salpêtrière. That Dr. Charcot knew I had no doubt. How could he have allowed such a thing? I thought of Adelaide, clad only in her shift, and it still damp from her hydrotherapy session, clinging to her lovely and pathetic body. Augustine had been quite certain that Adelaide was not mad
. Surely this girl was mad to come into that room, in that state but now suddenly I hated Charcot, and resolved to leave my position at La Salpêtrière as soon as I had found Augustine and made her my wife.

  As I thought these things, the carriage stopped at an ordinary street in an ordinary poor neighborhood full of ­people on their way home or out to dinner. The weather was half-­cloudy and raw. I noticed bits and pieces of things: a woman’s pink, waist-­length cape worn over a bright green dress; another’s black hat with a huge garnet bow; a man’s arm around a girl’s shoulder; the bright flash of a silver watch being pulled from a pocket; badly dyed yellow feathers in dark hair. I looked for her, I looked for her. Was she still wearing men’s clothing? Surely she would not be here anyway, but I could not stop myself. And as I left the carriage I noticed every small woman and every tall man walking by me on the street.

  I was met by a uniformed policeman who pointed me toward an alleyway. Of course, I thought. It is always an alleyway, isn’t it? Or a dirty courtyard. And I thought of the murder victim I was to photograph and was ashamed of myself.

  Death had not seen fit to stop doing its business while Augustine was missing; I could not stop doing mine. As I turned into the alleyway I noticed a girl begging at the entrance. She was like any other beggar, but something about her stayed with me as I walked up to Henri and warmly shook his hand.

  “I have half my force out looking for her now, Edouard,” he said instead of hello. “We will find her, I promise you.”

  “Thank you for taking me seriously.” I had not intended to say that.

  Surprisingly, Henri laughed a little. “I am long past not taking you seriously, Edouard. Now, just do your work here. It will not take long, and it will do you good to have activity for your mind and hands.”