“All composers did,” Mark said. “Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, so on throughout the ages. The difference between ordinary composers and great ones that the latter steals ideas to prove just how much can be accomplished using them as a base. That’s what Mozart did, using someone else’s tune to build on to create that brilliant overture in The Magic Flute. You know that one, right? I don’t have to play it?” We nodded in unison. “Chopin did the same thing: he used the seeds from another artist’s garden to grow his own masterpieces.”
It was late at night by the time we left the house in the Latin District. At the door, Mark embraced me enthusiastically, crushing me against his broad chest.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to tell you about Richard. I was afraid I’d scare you off.”
I just hugged him back by way of answer, and felt his sigh of relief.
“We had a wonderful evening,” he said. “I’m so glad you wanted to come and visit us. We’ll be waiting with baited breath for news about who Marie’s lover really was, and the book I’m sure you’re going to release eventually. We’ll come to the release party!”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I threatened him playfully. “Thank you so much for inviting us tonight. For everything, especially all that extra information about Chopin and his music.” I looked at Richard and smiled. “After all the research I’ve done, I’m always surprised to learn just how much I don’t know yet.”
Mark shook Tadeusz’ hand.
“You’re a lucky man,” he said with mock seriousness. “If Lucy were a man, I might have to steal her from you.”
Tadeusz hugged me and grinned.
“I was always glad she’s a woman,” he said, “but now I’m doubly glad about it!”
“Me too,” Richard said, squeezing Mark’s shoulder affectionately.
We said our goodbyes and headed home, walking through the nearly-deserted streets of Paris. It was really late, and even the tourists seemed to have had enough, because we hardly saw another soul. A cold, damp breeze blew off the Seine, and we could hear the sound of house barges squelching against their moorings.
“Did you know about Mark and Richard?” Tadeusz asked.
“No,” I admitted truthfully. “But I think I’ve suspected for a while. In retrospect, I’m surprised I didn’t put the pieces together sooner. He always got kind of hesitant when he was talking about his partner, and tended to leave sentences unfinished, acted a little nervous, you know? I’m not surprised, and I don’t mind at all.”
“Me either.” I sensed a smile in his voice that I couldn’t see in the shadows. “Who knew I was right with that joke I made at the Louvre when we first saw them? Funny how life turns out. Anyway, it made me happy, in a way.”
“In what way?”
“In a good way…” he assured me seriously. “In a very good way.”
“I love Paris at night,” I said, molding myself against his side.
“It turns out that I do, too.” He hugged me tight. “I think I’ll be sad to leave here.”
“Me too,” I admitted, “but we can always come back. Sophie promised us the use of the attic room for life.”
“Yes, I remember. I’ll gladly make use of that invitation, especially since we met those strange Yanks. We have more people to visit now. I like them.”
“I like them, too. They seem like a perfect couple, don’t they?”
“Yep, they’re cool people. Knowledgeable, too. I was impressed.”
We made it back to the apartment without incident. Before I lay down to sleep, I sat for a while gazing out the window at the painter’s studio in the courtyard below. The shadows looked normal tonight, just regular shadows, no strange movements. All was silent and still. Apparently, the ghosts had already gone to bed.
I left the window, and did the same.
Trigny, 1849
The winter had been unpleasant that year. The icy wind squeezed in through every crevice in the old chateau’s walls, howled down chimneys, and moved the heavy velvet curtains hanging over the windows. Snow had even fallen that day, a rare phenomenon in this region of France, covering the garden and terrace in front of Marie’s bedroom windows with a thin film of white.
The petite woman, her face marked by illness, wrapped her winter shawl tighter around herself and went over to the fireplace. The logs were already burning out. She stood staring into the fire for a moment, then she collected herself and leaned over the wood box to fetch fresh logs.
“Mother?” Phillippe said. Her son was a soft-spoken, pretty, almost feminine youth, who had managed to sneak into the room so quietly that she hadn’t heard him. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer. Why are you out of bed? Have you forgotten that the doctor forbade you from walking about just yet? You’re too weak. You should have called someone to fix the fire for you. And why—”
“Phillippe,” Marie said, her pale face lighting up at the sight of her son. “I don’t know which question I should answer first when you ask them in such rapid succession. Slow down, I can’t keep up—” A terrible, dry cough wracked her body and interrupted her words.
“You know very well what I mean,” Phillippe scolded, guiding her back to bed. “Pneumonia is very serious, that’s what the doctor said.”
“My little guardian,” Marie murmured, stroking his cheek tenderly. “All right, I’m going back to bed. My bones are starting to ache from lying down so much. I’d really like to go up to my studio and paint a little, to see some colors, not just… this all the time.” She motioned disdainfully towards the icy vista outside her window. “I’ve had enough.”
“The doctor said you still have to stay in bed for a little longer,” he insisted. “Your fever only just broke, and your studio is terribly drafty. The fireplace doesn’t work at all.” Suddenly, his expression brightened. “I know! I’ll ask Grandfather to fix it. I promise.”
Marie gazed at her son fondly. He’d grown up so much! Not long ago he’d been a little rascal, full of mischief and pranks, but now he was very serious and tried so hard to seem like a grown man. His voice was just starting to break, which tended to ruin the illusion of maturity at the least convenient moments. In the absence of a father, he’d become very attached to her, so much so that she was afraid she’d raised him to be too gentle and sensitive.
Will you be able to take care of yourself when I’m not here anymore? she wondered sadly.
“Darling,” she said wearily, her body struck by sudden chills. “Please go ask Marcel to bring some more wood for the fireplace. It’s cold in here. I’m going to have a little nap now, but I want you to read to me before bed tonight, all right?”
“Of course, Mother,” Phillippe agreed, with a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”
The door slammed shut behind him; sometimes it was obvious that he was still bursting with energy as he grew, making it hard for him to sustain his adult façade. A moment later, the door opened a crack and Phillippe’s curly head appeared, his expression embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. That was an accident.”
Marie smiled and raised her hand, a silent sign that she understood, then she closed her eyes and lay back. The boy left silently this time.
She felt terrible, but she didn’t want to trouble her son so she pretended to feel better than she really did in his presence. The pneumonia she’d caught back in October had sapped her strength completely. Every so often she’d think she was starting to get better, and then the fever and weakness would put her right back in bed again. The season simply wasn’t favorable for convalescence, especially in the chateau, with its huge, drafty rooms, poor heating, and incessant dampness.
In retrospect, she knew now that she’d dressed too lightly for Frederic’s funeral, but at the time she’d left Trigny it had still been quite warm. She’d stayed at his graveside too long, feeling the chill seeping from the ground up through the thin soles of her shoes and into her very soul. Part of her youth had just been buried, part of hers
elf, and she couldn’t just walk away like the other mourners did. She had to stay longer. The wind howled between the graves, chilling her to the very core. When she finally got back to her aunt’s house, where she had stayed for a few days during the wait for the funeral, she found herself unable to drive the chill out of her frozen feet. Auntie, now older but still very energetic, called for a warm bath and hot broth, but by the time she got back to Trigny the next day she was consumed by fever. It was then that her estranged father had insisted she and Phillipe be brought to his house, where she’d have better care than in the home ruled by her brother-in-law and his gloomy, quarrelsome wife. It was also then that the old man had finally gotten to know his grandson, and to her great delight, the two had learned to love one another.
The door opened again. This time it was her older sister, who slipped into the room and came to her bedside.
“Are you feeling better, my dear?” she asked anxiously, placing her hand on Marie’s forehead. “You have a fever again…”
“No, you just have very cold hands,” Marie protested weakly.
“I heard about a great doctor in Paris,” she said. “Practically a miracle-worker, from what I hear. I’ll send for him tomorrow.”
“So you’re saying that only a miracle will save me now?” Marie joked, giving her sister a mischievous smile.
“What?!!” Her sister looked offended, and quickly crossed herself. “Don’t you dare think like that!”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Marie admitted. “This illness has lasted so long…”
Her sister signed and nodded, her expression worried. “Yes, I remember. Ever since his funeral. If I’d known how sick you’d get, I never would have let you go.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to stop me,” she replied. “All my friends from my youth, and half of our family were there. How could I have missed it? It would have looked terribly peculiar, you know.” A coughing fit overtook her and stole her breath away, along with all of her remaining strength. She fell back onto the pillows, her eyes closed, struggling to breathe.
“Sophie?” she gasped. She felt her sister’s hand in hers, and clung to it with as much strength as she could muster. “If I… wasn’t around anymore… Would you take care of Phillippe for me?”
“I will, I promise you.” Sophie squeezed her hand tight, her voice trembling. “You don’t ever have to worry about him, I’ll take care of him. You’re going to get better, though. You’ll see. Father and I will bring you the best doctors, and you’ll get better. You’ll raise him yourself, with our help. You’ll see.” She swallowed loudly, as if she were struggling not to cry. “Rest now, my dear. Try and sleep a little, while I go tell the cook what to make for dinner. You have to eat well now. Sleep.” She quickly adjusted Marie’s covers, then practically ran out of the bedroom.
Silence descended again. Sophie’s brief presence left behind the lingering scent of her perfume, which Marie had come to associate with home and sense of security. Sophie was both sister and mother to her, since she had been too young to remember much of her actual mother from her childhood. Whenever she had a problem growing up, she’d gone to Sophie. Later, she had been the only one she’d confided her biggest secret in. They never spoke of it out loud, but she was still the only one who knew.
The fireplace crackled suddenly, loudly. Startled, she bumped into her side table and sent the book and framed daguerreotype sitting atop it flying. With great effort, she leaned out of bed to pick up the photograph, and examined it to make sure the fall hadn’t damaged it.
Thankfully, it seemed fine. Her own face stared back at her from the metal plate. The photograph had been taken in Paris during the summer of 1846, three years earlier. In the spring of 1849, not so many months ago, she’d accidentally met Frederic again at the Pont des Arts bridge. Marie smiled at the memory.
She hugged the photograph to her breast and lay back, closing her eyes, allowing herself to drift off into memory. It had been March, or maybe April. It had been an unusually warm spring, and the forsythias growing along the banks of the Seine were already covered in buds. Must have been the end of March, then. She was in Paris to visit her aunt, who was feeling a bit poorly and wanted to see her favorite niece. Back in Trigny, the forsythias were already covered in an explosion of yellow flowers. Yes, definitely the end of March.
Her thoughts drifted back to that spring day in Paris…
It was first warm day of spring, so she’d decided to take a stroll around the city. A franc she didn’t have to spend on a coach was always another franc in her purse. That was money she could spend on something else, like a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor, or the crossing fee on the Pont des Arts bridge. She always enjoyed wandering across the bridge towards the Louvre, past the rows of potted bushes and ornate public benches. The fee hadn’t gone up, and remained a very reasonable three sous per person.
Not too expensive, and well worth it, she thought, taking her money out of her purse.
A few fellow pedestrians glanced at her indifferently. She was dressed in a dark gown with a modest yet elegant cut, the kind of thing that didn’t really catch anyone’s eye. That was fine, though. She wasn’t looking for company, and was glad not to have to talk to anyone for a little while. On the other side of the bridge, she took Rivoli Street towards the Louvre, which was still the only place in Paris that never failed to bring her a sense of peace. The perpetual buzz at her aunt’s house was already beginning to wear on her nerves. Her aunt was starting to feel better, but she was hard of hearing in one ear now, and had developed a tendency to shout.
Besides, she missed her son terribly. Phillippe would be turning fifteen in July.
Fifteen already! My little— Oh, no!
She smiled fondly at her mistake. He wasn’t her little boy anymore. She still remembered those gangly arms and legs, the constantly bruised knees, and merry laughter that chased away all her sorrows.
Suddenly, she realized that there was a coach following her, and it had been for some time. Lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t noticed it. It felt like someone was watching her from the dark interior. She picked up her pace, but the coach did the same. As it drew closer, she saw a hand clad in a fashionable glove slip resting on the window frame, and a stranger’s face beyond. Every story she’d ever heard about murderers and kidnappers flashed through her mind, and she glanced around desperately in search of help.
“Marie? Marie, is that you?” The sound of a familiar voice bought an end to her panic. She turned to look at the coach, straining her neck to try and see who was inside.
“…F-Frederic?” It took a long moment before she recognized the haggard, prematurely-aged man for who he was. The surprise and disbelief in her voice clearly upset him, but he just smiled sadly and nodded.
“Yes, it’s me. At your service, madam.” He sketched a mock bow to her, then offered her his hand. “May I invite you inside?”
Marie accepted the offer, gathering her skirts about her with her free hand as she climbed the stairs into the coach. The interior smelled of a familiar floral cologne, one she remembered only too well.
“It’s been so many years!” she exclaimed, seating herself opposite him, pleased to see an old friend again. She studied him for a moment and noticed that he was dressed heavily, despite the warm weather, but she decided to focus on more pleasant matters. “How are you? What have you been doing? I want to hear everything!”
“First, how much time do you have? Can I kidnap you for few hours?” he asked, giving the coachman the signal to drive on while they spoke. He glanced back at her, and a glint of humor appeared in his eyes. “There is a lot to tell, but I don’t know if you want to hear it all…”
“I do, actually,” she admitted eagerly. “I really do. For years now, the only news I’ve had about you has been from the papers or friends, which I suppose now you can either confirm or deny the truth of for me. I have plenty of time. I’m in no rush to get back to my aunt’s
house, and I only just left so I won’t be missed for some time.”
“The countess is still alive?” A genuine smile crossed his face. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Alive and well, and just yesterday she asked about you. She’ll be so happy to hear that we stumbled across one another today.”
For a moment, an awkward silence reigned. Frederic studied her discreetly, as if he wasn’t sure what to say first. It had been too long since their last meeting, and now there was so much dividing them that they didn’t really have much in common anymore.
It had been many years since that vindictive gossipmonger, Monsieur Potignac, had informed Marie’s father of their secret romance. She’d left Paris so suddenly that she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to anyone. Her father had barely given her time to pack her belongings.
“You didn’t recognize me,” Frederic said, and it was more of a statement than a question.
“No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “It’s been so long. It must have been fifteen years. I recognized you by your voice.”
“I recognized you by your gait,” he replied. “You always take such tiny steps, like a Chinese geisha, except you’re always slouching.” He wagged his finger at her. “Didn’t I warn you about that before? It’s not good for your posture.”
She smiled bitterly. They were hardly the same people they’d been fifteen years ago. She remembered him as a cheerful, quick-witted dandy, and he no doubt remembered her as a happy young girl, curious about all the things life had to offer. Now, he looked far older than his years and worn down by illness, and she was a thirty-something widow with a face permanently etched by sadness.
She realized that he was probably thinking something similar, from the way he was studying her. They fell silent again for a while, listening to the hustle and bustle of the street through the open windows.
“How is—” they both began at the same time, then they laughed.
Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin Page 21