by M. J. Rose
My mother talked of souls and spirits and alchemy and the power of the unknowable. All of it was in our coupling. All of it was how we were, Mathieu and I. And lying on the bed in Madame’s château, knowing that the man I had offered my heart to, who had taken it and given his own back for me to break, knowing that the man who with one look could cause powerful tremors deep inside me, who seemed to match me passion for passion, who understood all of my thoughts and dreams … knowing that he was just a few steps away made me breathless and afraid.
My hand moved faster and faster between my legs. Just once more, I would let myself remember the full force of what I had been trying to forget for these long years. What I’d tried to forbid myself to think of when I was looking for someone to make me forget. My heart breaking each time I realized that I was never going to find someone else. That there was only Mathieu. He was my curse. My mother had said not one woman in generations had broken it. Almost five years, and I had yet to push the thoughts of my golden-haired lover out of my mind.
So there in Madame’s château, I succumbed to remembering all of the glorious wonder of what it had been like to be with Mathieu, but this time, it was worse, because he was close by. And that made all the difference. The memory brought both an explosion of deep pleasure and the sting of tears, because as close as he was, he might as well have been sitting on the crest of the moon. I could not go to him. I could not allow him to come to me. Because the only thing worse than living without him would be knowing that his life was in danger because of me.
At least if he was alive somewhere on the earth, I could breathe the same air he was breathing. Loving him from a far distance, the only way I could.
But would one night matter? Just one night? My determination to do the right thing, dissipating, dissolving.
Twice I started to walk to the door and then retreated. I couldn’t give in. I had to. Couldn’t. Finally, I opened the door. Crossed the threshold. Stood out in the hallway. Did I dare go to him? How could I not? This might be the only chance I’d ever have. I was strong but not strong enough to sleep under the same roof as Mathieu and keep away from him. If it was only for a few hours, what harm could come? The night offered a blanket of protection around us.
As I stood, barefoot and trembling in the hallway, I realized there were more than ten guests sleeping in this house, on this floor and the one above, and I only knew where my brother was. Even if I wanted to go to Mathieu, I couldn’t.
I willed him to sense me. The minutes ticked on.
What kind of an occultist was I to not have the power to awaken him? How could he sleep through my need, my willingness to break my vow to myself? How could I not make Mathieu sense me? How could I sense him in the house but not be able to pinpoint which door kept him from me?
And then I wondered if us even being under the same roof now was fraught with danger. Was I a threat to him that night? Would I be the next day? My vision hadn’t been stamped with a date. I had to leave the château. I’d borrow Sebastian’s car. For one last moment, I stood there in the silence, memories sliding from my eyes and dripping onto my nightgown, soaking into the silk.
Chapter 40
Book of Hours
September 6, 1920
My trunks are all packed. I’ve cleaned up my studio and put everything away. I’m taking my art supplies, of course, but leaving behind all my drawings and canvases. I’ll start afresh in New York.
And now, while I wait for the appointed hour when the cab will come to take me to the train, there is time for one last entry, one last secret to inscribe in my book that holds all the other secret, stolen hours.
I don’t imagine I will ever be able to open this journal and read through these entries again. But when I began this chronicle in May, I resolved to record every hour I spent with Mathieu. And so our last few minutes must be included, despite their excruciating melancholy.
After the blindfolded drawing session when I saw into the future, I avoided Mathieu for more than a week, claiming a sudden illness. And I was ill—sick over what I had seen and my understanding of what I must do about it. I stayed in bed, eyes red from crying, uninterested in any of the food Grand-mère sent up to my room. While I hid away, I made plans to leave Paris. That part was easy compared with figuring out how to tell Mathieu. What could I say that wouldn’t invite questions? That would kill the relationship without leaving any possibility for reconciliation? I was determined it had to be a clean, decisive break. I wasn’t sure I’d be capable of remaining steadfast in my decision to go if he begged me to stay.
In the end, I took the coward’s way out. I arranged for him to see me in a compromising position with another man. I paid Claude Cherchez, one of my fellow students who was always short of funds, to act the part of my lover. The plan was for us to be seen together, heads close, holding hands, and then kissing passionately in the café a few blocks from the bookshop where Mathieu and his uncle ate lunch every day. I’d told my friend only enough to get his sympathy. That Mathieu had become a bore but wouldn’t leave me alone, and I was hoping if he saw me with a new lover, he’d understand it was time to move on.
It was a scene worthy of Alexandre Dumas. Claude and I were already seated and had finished half a bottle of wine, when Mathieu and Pierre Dujols entered Café de Flore.
Neither of them noticed me at first, and those minutes of waiting while they walked to their table were agony. Claude held my shaking hands and whispered what looked like words of love but were really gossip about our fellow classmates. I prayed I’d get through the encounter without breaking down and concentrated on Claude’s banter rather than turning my head.
In the window’s reflection, I watched Mathieu and his uncle sit down at a table where they couldn’t avoid seeing me once they got settled. And indeed, after only a few moments, I saw Mathieu look our way, then stand and head toward us.
I whispered to Claude to kiss me right away. He played his part well, if not with a bit too much enthusiasm. But it was all for the best, because the kiss stopped Mathieu in mid-step, and he didn’t approach our table. Not then. Not at all.
When I next checked in the window’s reflection, the table Mathieu and his uncle had occupied was empty.
That was a week ago. Every day since then, a letter from Mathieu has arrived at the house. I’ve burned them all. What good will it do me to read Mathieu’s words? Whether he is hurt or confused or furious, I cannot be swayed. I have to go.
The dawn has broken. Outside my window, the pink-orange sky will soon be turning pale blue and then a more intense cerulean blue, and it will be time for me to go.
I feel lost. I am lonesome. All the dreams I’ve dreamed for the last four months have died, and along with them, some of my soul has died, too.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return to Paris. Wouldn’t the memories haunt me and drive me mad? Even now, here in my bedroom, I turn my head to the window and for a moment see Mathieu standing there, naked, after our last lovemaking, backlit by the late-afternoon sun.
I go to sleep, and even though I know the sheets have been laundered a dozen times since he lay on them, I still inhale them, searching for a hint of his cologne.
What would I do if I walked down a street and saw Mathieu walking toward me or spotted him in a café? Or simply heard his name spoken in passing?
Every scenario is untenable.
I know I can’t completely escape. No matter where I go, there will be moments when I will think of him. For the rest of my life, every time I see two lovers embrace, I will miss him.
I can’t remember which kiss was our last. How is that possible? I don’t have an exact count of how many times we kissed. According to my Book of Hours entries, we saw each other more than sixty-four times and spent more than three hundred hours together. If Mathieu kissed me a dozen times during some hours and only one or two times during others, that would be at least a thousand kisses. And yet, as I sit here, as much as I try, I can’t recreate the sensati
on of his lips on mine. I can remember that it happened and that it made me feel sublime, but experience it anew? No. How cruel is love? How mercurial? To be all bright, strong, bold, and powerful splashes of colors while you are in its midst—and then, once you’re out of its immediate presence, all you have left are thinned-out, pale hints as memories.
If only I could kiss him once more and could write down every nuance and keep it safe on these pages, so whenever I am needy, I can open my book and feel one of his kisses again in all its red, purple, deep-magenta intensity.
I hope that one day I will find solace in believing I have done the right thing by leaving him to keep him safe. That one day the pain of missing him will be attenuated by knowing he is alive and well.
But now I can only think of how I always believed I would be with Mathieu forever. Of how the world changed color when he came into my life. Of how lonely I was until I met him. And how that loneliness has returned and will stay with me forever. I always thought I’d see Mathieu again. And again. And now, I know, I never will.
Chapter 41
My younger sister, Jadine, collects people’s tears and uses them to help her clients find their happiness through the salty water. As I dressed to leave the château, I thought that if she were there that night, I would have let her collect my tears so she could offer me advice. But she was in Paris.
My mother might have been able to hold my hands and feel my energy and give me insight into how to exorcise Mathieu’s pull. But she was in Cannes.
My father, with no magickal thinking, would have put his arms around me and told me he loved me and understood. That might have been what I needed the most at that moment. But he was in England, building a country house for an eccentric art collector.
And Sebastian? My twin, my other half, who knew me in many ways better than anyone else, who had been my eyes when I couldn’t see, who shared my determination and my passion for art—he would want to fight my battle for me. He would see Mathieu as the villain in this story. Would somehow blame him. But none of my despair was Mathieu’s doing. Like so many times before, the doing was all mine.
The house was quiet as I crept down the stairs, not wanting to disturb anyone. I’d drive into town. There was an inn there. A place to spend the night away from temptation. And then, in the morning, I’d telephone Sebastian and explain, and he’d understand and pack up my things and join me, and we’d go home.
While I’d been in my room, the storm had intensified. Rain pelted the castle. I didn’t have an umbrella. I hadn’t thought I’d need one, so I ran from the front door to the garage, getting soaked in the process.
Sebastian’s car started without any problem, and I pulled out of the sheltered area and onto the open road. The night was dark, the moon only a blurry crescent peeking through the clouds. I strained to see through the rain. Fighting the road, slick with water, I drove on, away from the castle and my temptation. Driving farther away from Mathieu. I was proud of myself for making such a wise decision. I went around a first curve. A second. The more distance I put between myself and the castle, the more I relaxed.
And then the car skidded. I could barely see ahead of me. What was I supposed to do? Brake? Turn the wheel into the slide? Away from it? Even though I couldn’t see them, I knew there were gorges and ravines on either side of the narrow road. The momentum was taking me where it wanted to. The car kept sliding. How wide was the road here? I gripped the wheel and turned away from the edge. Was I doing the right thing? What if another car was coming? Was I in the wrong lane? And then I heard a crack and felt a sudden impact throw me back and forward.
And then nothing, until I felt strong arms lifting me and heard the sound of rushing water. Never-ending rain. A man’s voice saying my name over and over, soothing me as if I were a child. A sense of well-being suffused me. I was safe. I heard words but wasn’t sure if they were inside my mind.
The voice was kind, loving: “You little fool. Not even a witch can escape her destiny.”
And then nothing.
*
I awoke in a bed. Soft pillows behind me, a comforter cushioning me. The sound of rain pelted the windows. Opening my eyes, I saw light and turned toward it. A lamp was beside the bed, lit. And then I saw Madame Calvé, sitting in a chair, asleep at my bedside.
As I stirred, she woke quickly and began examining my face with anxious eyes. “Oh, Delphine, you gave us such a scare.”
“What happened?”
“You had an accident on the road.”
“I thought I was dreaming that. It was real?”
“All too real.”
“Not a dream?” I was truly confused.
“No. For some reason that I’m hoping you’ll explain, you left the castle in the rain in your brother’s car and were heading toward town when you crashed.”
“The rain … the car skidded in the rain.” I was remembering.
“On a very dangerous stretch. If you had gone right instead of left, you would have gone over the side and into a ravine. We’ve had too many accidents there …” Her voice drifted off.
I knew without having to be told. “Gaspard’s wife? That’s where?”
Madame nodded. “So tragic.” She took my hand. “The idea that you could have been another victim of that treacherous passage … it’s too much.”
“Someone found me. Who?” Even as I asked, I knew.
“Gaspard,” Madame said.
“How did he know I was there?”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to ask him. He didn’t explain, except to tell me he pulled you out of the wreck. He walked all the way here carrying you. He was worried you were chilled. That you’d hurt your head. How do you feel?”
I flexed my right hand before I did anything else. No pain at all. Then I stretched and flexed my feet. “Surprisingly all right.”
“Gaspard brewed you some broth. He’s always making up natural remedies. He woke you up. Well, you didn’t seem to come to, exactly, but you sat up and drank what he gave you from the cup. Do you remember that?”
I shook my head. I didn’t.
“He said when you fully awoke to give you the rest. It’s right here. I think you should drink it.”
I took the cup from her and sipped. I tasted honey, brandy, and herbs, although I couldn’t identify any of them.
“I’m in my nightgown. Did I undress? I don’t remember getting into bed at all.”
“I’m not surprised. You were not very receptive when Gaspard brought you back. Not unconscious but woozy, sleepy. I undressed you with my maid’s help.”
“Thank you,” I said. But I felt embarrassed that they’d had to do that. “And how long have I been sleeping?” The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t glean any information from the sky.
“About fifteen hours. It’s Sunday afternoon now. We still have a full house. The storm hasn’t let up at all, and the roads are flooding. You must be starving.”
“I am, actually. I can dress and come down.”
“No. Not yet. Gaspard and I both agreed you should stay in bed for the rest of today. I’ll have a tray sent up. I have to go and tell them you’re all right. Everyone has been in a panic. Your brother, for one, as you’d expect. Is it all right for him to come up?”
I nodded.
“And not just your brother. Picasso has been terribly worried. And Gaspard, of course, who has stopped in twice to check on you and asked me to send word immediately when you woke up. And then Mathieu.” Madame gave me a sidelong glance. “From the way Mathieu reacted, one might assume he had sent you out in that storm.”
In a way, he had, I thought. But of course, I didn’t say it out loud.
“I wasn’t aware the two of you knew each other that well.” Madame pushed me to explain.
“Until last night, I hadn’t seen him for almost five years.”
“Should I not have invited him?”
“To your own home?” I asked.
She was smart enough to know I was
n’t going to share any information.
“Let me go order you some food. Just rest, dear. You’ve gone through quite an ordeal.”
After eating a fluffy cheese omelet, croissants with raspberry jam, and a pot of wonderfully strong coffee, I lay in bed and dozed again.
When I woke for the second time that day, I looked at my watch and saw it was seven at night. There was a note beside my bed from Madame saying that she hoped I slept well and to ring when I was ready for dinner. Which I did.
Other than my neck and shoulders aching a bit, considering what had happened, I felt surprisingly fit as I got out of bed. What had been in Gaspard’s brew?
Having slept for so long, I found myself restless and in want of diversion. I picked up a novel I’d brought with me, Chéri by Colette. But a melancholy story about separated lovers wasn’t the smartest choice of reading material given my circumstances. I always traveled with two books for just such instances. The Shadow on the Glass by Agatha Christie was a far better choice, and I read contentedly for a half hour until Sebastian came up with my dinner. He sat and talked to me while I ate, waiting until I had finished to ask me why I’d gotten in the car and driven off during the night.
I didn’t want to tell him the whole truth. So I told him the part that I assumed would make sense to him.
“The more we stay, the more disturbed I am by this place. It finally seemed like too much. I couldn’t sleep. I felt as if I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get away.”