The Witch of Painted Sorrows

by Rose, M. J.

  La Lune was real, and I had known that for a long time even if I wasn’t always able to admit it. It was La Lune who had brought Julien to me—or me to Julien—and she could take him away just as easily. She might have already taken him away, just to prove to me that she could.

  I opened the door to the ancient studio, put the necklace down on the table, and gathered the materials I needed: a knife, a bottle of linseed oil, my palette.

  “Don’t make me do this,” I shouted to her. “There must be some other way to save him.”

  I listened for her answer, but she was silent.

  “He’s in love with me. That happened because of who I am. It had nothing to do with you.”

  Still she did not answer.

  “I won’t let you bully me. I am alive—you aren’t.” But in the end that didn’t matter.

  As I scraped the cake from inside the necklace, the bells in the tower began to chime. Slowly. Marking the occasion. I felt La Lune’s excitement flowing through my blood in my veins. She was going to achieve what she wanted after all, despite all my best intentions. But what good would my resolve be if Julien died?

  I wasn’t the one with the power to keep Julien alive. She was.

  Even if it was wrong, even if it meant opening myself up to all the darkness in her soul, I had no choice but to do everything I could to try and save Julien.

  When I had enough powder, I poured out the oil and blended the concoction, watching the pigment metamorphose into a mound of silken, sensuous, ruby paint. The exact color, I thought, of the lips of the women in the portraits. The lips that looked as if they had been kissed too often.

  After I’d mixed up the paint, I chose a fine sable brush. The best one I had. Closing the door on the tolling bells, I climbed down the narrow staircase from the rue du Dragon tower and made my way back to the main part of the house.

  Chapter 41

  Palette and brush in hand, I stood on the main staircase and examined the portraits that had hung there for as long as the house had belonged to my family. I turned up all the gas lamps so the hallway was flooded with light. I dipped the sable tip into the vermilion paint.

  How dare I touch one of these masterpieces? It was blasphemy. All around me, the house seemed to be waiting, almost holding its breath. This was no time to be hesitant. Julien was fading.

  The portrait was only a two-dimensional painting. It had no value compared to a human life. What difference did it make to anyone if I finished one of these paintings after all this time? Who was there to object?

  I lifted the brush to the portrait of Lunette Lumière, and as I did, I heard Dujols warning me that there was no way to know what La Lune would do to her host when finally given a firm foothold.

  How much of me, if any, would survive?

  I thought of my grandmother, whom I loved so very much. Who was going to be released from the sanatorium soon. Could I bring her back here if La Lune inhabited my body? And Julien? If I saved him this way, would he ever forgive me?

  Did that matter? Even if he never spoke to me again, he would be somewhere on this earth, alive, and that would be enough. To know that his talent would thrive, that his heart would love, that he would survive would be enough. And I— At least I would not spend the rest of my days feeling guilty that he had died defending my honor, which deserved no such sacrifice.

  I touched the brush to the centuries-old canvas, and I painted in La Lune’s unfinished lips. Stroke by stroke, adding the silky paint to the full, petulant lips that had been waiting for this for so many hundreds of years. I was meticulous. I lifted the brush. Applied the dab of paint. Repeated the process. One dab and then another.

  I saw I’d smeared paint on my middle finger, and the sight of it frightened me. Paint made out of blood. Blood that would bring the painting to life and bind her to the painter.

  It had to be this way. From the moment I stepped into this house when I was fifteen and again this January, I was not strong enough to withstand La Lune any more than the women in these other portraits had been. I was at her mercy. A force more powerful than time.

  I thought about my own journey.

  Coming here. Meeting Julien. The beginning of loving him. Meeting Cousin Jacob and his death. Then my grandmother’s illness. My anger at seeing Charlotte singing at the opera. The fire. The horrible incident on the Eiffel Tower. Benjamin finding me in Paris and the terrible duel. All these events orchestrated by La Lune so Julien and I would both be free to be with each other. This was what she needed. To find a host who, unlike the other women in these portraits, was talented enough to paint, capable of love, and strong enough to withstand the witch’s presence. A woman who would allow La Lune to incubate and live out her needs, to be an artist, to love and be loved back. With Julien—or, if he walked away, with someone new.

  My brushstrokes were so fine they were invisible, and as I painted, I saw the lips become fresh, red, living lips. When I finished, I stood there on the steps, holding the palette and the brush and listened as La Lune began to speak and give me the instructions that I needed to bring her to life so she could save Julien.

  Chapter 42

  And so we come to end of the story. I survived that night, and so I will finish the tale.

  Weeks had passed. My grandmother was living in the apartment on rue de la Chaise, I was living in Maison de la Lune. It was the end of May. Is there any more beautiful season in Paris than the spring? Julien and I were strolling by the Seine, on our way to celebrate a new commission he’d just received to build a hotel on Boulevard Raspail. As we passed a newspaper kiosk, something caught my lover’s attention.

  “Look,” he said, pointing to the journal devoted to the arts: Chronique des Arts et de la Curiosité.

  On the front page near the bottom was a headline:

  CONTROVERSY AT THE SALON

  BY ROGER MARX

  Julien picked up the paper, threw some coins down on the vendor’s tray, and pointed to an illustration beside the headline. It was a drawing of my painting. Standing side by side, our shoulders touching, we read the article together.

  Sleeping Cupid, painted by a heretofore unknown young artist from America who has been studying at the École des Beaux-Arts and atelier of Gustave Moreau, has raised temperatures and excited tempers at this year’s Salon. The provocative painting, which many call pornographic, has won a second prize in a jury headed by Monsieur Moreau himself, who defended his student’s painting by saying it was no more graphic or disturbing than a hundred paintings of nude women that are admitted to the Salon every year.

  “Why is a man’s nudity more lewd than a woman’s? This is a mythological god, in love with his wife, executed in a marvelous style by an up-and-coming artist of whom we all expect great things. That the artist is a woman, and the academy’s first female student, just makes this prize all the more important.”

  “There are laws over this kind of salacious art,” said Hector Previn, one of the judges who resigned in protest during the juried show. “Look at the lust on the sleeping god’s face. That’s not art. This painting is pornography.”

  The painting went on to . . .

  Julien had raced ahead of me, and I hadn’t caught up when he grabbed me by the hands.

  “Darling, you have been awarded a second prize by the Salon.” He swung me around. “How marvelous.” And then he grabbed me and kissed me, lifting me up.

  “You will be hailed as the finest woman painter in Paris. The first to attend the École. The bravest. The first to win a prize. Your paintings will be sold in galleries. All of Paris will want to buy one. In parlors and boudoirs your creations will hang on the walls, and people will marvel and ask, Who is this woman? Who is Sandrine Verlaine?”

  I kissed him. Full on the lips, there on the Quai. I could smell the amber and honey and apple scent that was his alone. His arms were so strong. Was he as stro
ng?

  “No,” I said.

  I was watching his clear, evergreen eyes now, watching to see how he was going to feel about what I had to tell him. For it was time to tell him. I had no excuse to wait any longer.

  Julien loved me and I him. My confession would not, could not, change that. We were bound to each other in a deep and abiding way because of what we had gone through and what we were willing to go through for each other. Our appetites, our passions, our goals were in harmony, and we were solidly on the same path toward the future.

  “No, mon cher Julien. They will not be asking about Sandrine Verlaine. They will be asking about me. The woman who signed that painting. The woman who painted it. La Lune.”

  Author’s Note

  As with most of my work, there is a lot of fact mixed in with this fictional tale.

  Belle Époque Paris is painted as close to the truth as the story allowed. There was in fact a very strong occult moment in France during the time, and there is a large body of literature written about the sometimes frightening and wild cults, believers, and experimenters. The nightclubs all existed as I describe them, as did the streets, restaurants, cafés, sights, Dr. Blanche’s clinic in Passy, and all the stores, including the fabulous Sennelier art supply store, and the Librairie du Merveilleux, owned and run by Pierre Dujols. The École des Beaux-Arts is still one of the finest art and architecture schools in the world, and women were not allowed to attend until 1897—though in my novel I move that date forward three years. The painter Gustave Moreau was a teacher there in 1894, and Henri Matisse was one of his prize pupils. The art world and anecdotes about now famous painters and the École’s salon are all based on source materials. Last but not least, Jews, especially Kabalists, do hold exorcisms to banish dybbukim and various kinds of demons, and the ceremony portrayed in this novel follows the ancient laws.

  I am especially indebted to my researcher, Alexis Clark, who saved me from hours of going down the wrong path and gave me insights and facts into the world of Belle Époque Paris and her artists, which allowed me to spend more time in my imagination than in the library and online.

  Acknowledgments

  For the fourth time and with even more gratitude, huge thanks to my terrific editor, Sarah Durand, who helped me bring this novel to life. And to Sarah Branham, who so graciously inherited it and gave it such a thoughtful polish.

  To my wonderful publisher and dear friend Judith Curr, whose faith in me is not only reassuring but always inspiring.

  To Lisa Sciambra, Hillary Tisman, Ben Lee, Daniella Wexler, Andrea Smith, and everyone at Atria whose hands this book passed through—your hard work and creative thinking does not go unnoticed. And to Alan Dingman, whose artistry graces my covers and always takes my breath away.

  To my agent, Dan Conaway, my forever knight in shining armor, whose insight and caring shore me up and make me a better writer. And to the team at Writers House, whose help is invaluable. A special thank-you to my first reader, Marjorie Braman, who is more than worth her weight in gold, and to my last, Nancy MacDonald, for her precision and thoughtfulness.

  To the amazing Meryl Moss and Deb Zipf—the best publicists in the biz.

  To my friends who make me laugh, make me think, keep me sane, and give me invaluable advice—Liz and Steve Berry, Douglas Clegg, Randy Susan Meyers, Lee Child, C. W. Gortner, Alyson Richman, Jenn Risko, Linda Francis Lee, and Pauline Hubert. And a special thank-you to everyone at ITW and the Fiction and Historical Fiction Writers Co-opers for all your support and camaraderie.

  I also want to thank readers everywhere who make all the work worthwhile (please visit MJEmail.me for a signed bookplate). And to all the wonderful booksellers and librarians without whom the world would be a sadder place.

  And as always, I’m very grateful to my family, especially my father and Ellie, the Kulicks, Mara Gleckel. And most of all, Doug.

  ATRIA BOOKS PROUDLY PRESENTS

  The Jeweler of Stolen Dreams

  M. J. ROSE

  Coming soon from Atria Books

  Turn the page for a preview of

  The Jeweler of Stolen Dreams . . .

  “You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.”

  —FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  JULY 20, 1918

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Every morning the pavement in front of our store in the Palais-Royal is washed clean by the tears of the mothers of dead soldiers, widowed wives, and heartsick lovers. Look to the right and left. There is grit and grime in front of Giselle’s Glove Emporium and the family Thibaut’s umbrella store, but in front of La Fantasie Russie, the walkway is sparkling.

  Here inside the mythic Palais-Royal arcade, the stores are not all as busy as they were before the war. Except for ours. In fact, it is the war that’s responsible for our steady stream of clients.

  There is nothing to identify what we offer in advertisements.

  Visitez Le Palais-Royal, invites the dark haired seductress in the pre-war poster painted by a friend of my mother’s, who signs his work simply PAL. The posters, first made more than a dozen years ago, have been reprinted many times. You can often see them, a bit worn and faded, plastered onto kiosks on Rue de Rivoli. Unlike the women who come to see me, the beautiful lady in the poster is untouched by war. Swathed in pearls around her neck and wrists and crowned with an elaborate bejeweled headdress, she smiles at potential shoppers. Her low cut, jewel-studded teal gown shows off her creamy skin and ample breasts. Her delicate fingers, decorated with the loveliest diamonds rings, beckon and point to the arcade, showing clients the way.

  In through the main entrance, a stone archway stained with centuries of soot, down the pathway, past the fountain, through the Palais’s gardens, halfway to the end . . . but wait . . . before you turn right toward the shops, stop and admire the magic of the garden that was first planted more than two hundred years ago.

  Some of the most glorious roses in all of Paris grow here, and even now, even in the midst of all our strife and sadness, the air is fragrant with their perfume. The flowers don’t care that their blood red petals and razor sharp thorns remind mothers and wives of their loved ones’ lives cut short, stolen by the war. The bees don’t either. They are plentiful. On some afternoons their buzzing is the loudest noise you hear. During others, it is just an accompaniment to the drone of the air raid sirens that frighten us all.

  In PAL’s advertisement, in the left corner, is a list of the shops in this oasis hidden away from the bustle of Paris.

  Under Maisons Notables & Recommandèes, jewelers are the highest category. We are listed first. After all, Pavel Orloff was trained by the famous Fabergé, who is a legend even here in the land of Cartier, Boucheron, and Van Cleef and Arples.

  La Fantasie Russie is tucked in at number 130. There are a total of six jewelry stores in the arcades beneath what were once royal apartments built in the mid-1600s by Cardinal Richelieu so he could be close to the King. It wasn’t until the late 1700s that Philippe Egalité’s theatre was built and elite stores moved into the arcades facing the glorious inner courtyard.

  Royalty no longer resides here. Now it’s the bourgeoisie, including the well-to-do shopkeepers who live above their stores, as well as many famous writers and poets, established actors, dancers, directors, and choreographers. The theatre in the east wing of the complex draws the creative here despite the darkness that inhabits this ancient square. For the Palais has not without its tragedy. Philippe Egalité himself was beheaded here and some say his ghost still roams his apartments late at night.

  Pavel’s wife, Anna, whose lavender gray eyes see more than most, has warned me about the spirits haunting this great and complicated warren of stores, residences, basements, and deep underground tunnels. But it’s not just the dead who contribute to the sense of foreboding that sometimes falls on the Palais. The miasma of dread that seems to issue forth from the ancient
stones themselves is perpetuated by the living as well.

  Behind the closed doors and lowered window shades, in the shadowy stairwells and dusty attic rooms, scandals are enacted and secrets told. Some of the elegant quarters are sullied by brothels and others by gambling dens.

  There are rumors that German spies crisscross under the Palais as they move around the tunnels and catacombs beneath the city’s wide boulevards and grand architecture.

  But for all its shadows, with so much tragedy in Paris, in France, in Europe, in all the world, our strange oasis is all the more precious. Physically untouched by the war, the Palais’s fountain and gardens offer a respite from the day, from the year, from any sense of time. Her stores are a distraction. All of them, that is, until you reach La Fantasie Russie. The doorway to the unknown, the dangerous, the illegal, the occult, and the manifest. Number 130, the portal to the necromancer, to me.

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  About the Author

  Photograph by Pushett Irby Photography

  M. J. Rose grew up in New York City mostly in the labyrinthine galleries of the Metropolitan Museum, the dark tunnels and lush gardens of Central Park, and reading her mother’s favorite books before she was allowed. She is the author of more than a dozen novels, the co-president and founding board member of International Thriller Writers, and the founder of the first marketing company for authors: AuthorBuzz.com. She lives in Greenwich, Connecticut. Visit her online at MJRose.com.