“You threatened to take the auction to another house?” April said, starting to laugh again.
“Per Birdie’s advice, yes I did. She gave me an indication of the value of the estate, and I made sure to equate this into commissions and premiums that would be lost if this auction did not stand alone. The Boldini, of course, was the linchpin. Maybe I’d let Olivier have a little vertu, but not the Boldini.”
“That was a dangerous game. But, my god, a brilliant one.”
April let the air run out from her lungs. She had that weird feeling, the one you got after narrowly avoiding a car crash or almost getting run over by a cab.
“Madame Vannier was very grateful,” Luc said. “When Birdie explained how much more the estate would generate with the items grouped together. And the journals, they gave provenance, non? Just as you said. Because we learned these things were owned by Victor Hugo’s heretofore unknown daughter.”
“It’s true,” April said, nodding earnestly. “I know you thought provenance was an excuse, and on some level it was, but there’s nothing more important in an auction. And Marthe de Florian has the most fascinating provenance I’ve ever seen in my job.”
“If not for your efforts, your dogged pursuit of provenance, there’d be no separate auction.” Luc smiled. “As a small token of her thanks, Madame Vannier said I could give you this.”
Luc reached into his leather satchel as April tried to fully process the information. An auction for Marthe: the attention, the press, the private views. All the frenzy she deserved.
“This is for you,” Luc said and plopped Mickey Mouse on the table.
April’s mouth dropped open.
“It was once a present from Boldini to Lisette Quatremer. Madame Vannier wanted you to have it.”
Before she could think, April reached out, snatched the mouse, and held it to her chest. Though he still smelled of dust and old people, Mickey was perfect.
“Are you sure?” April asked. “This is a relic, an heirloom, potentially worth many thousands of dollars to the right collector.”
“What’s an heirloom unless it means something to the person who has it?”
April’s eyes watered. It was a long time before she could bring herself to release the animal. Even as a man stepped onstage and welcomed the crowd, April could not let go.
As the instruments started to ting, Luc scooted his chair closer and placed a hand on April’s thigh. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his. The gesture was congenial, mostly, but with the full weight of what happened behind them. At once April remembered the first time she saw Luc, smoking that cigarette in the dust-ridden flat as she wondered how the hell she could comb through the clutter, the mess in the apartment and in her life.
April thought of their first meal together, at the Café Zephyr, when she nearly toppled over the low-lying fence. She thought of the rooftop deck at the Galeries Lafayette, the moment when April finally understood Luc was not just a smirky, salty lawyer with an inflated sense of self. There were more restaurants, more chats, all the hours spent in Marthe’s home explaining to Luc exactly how special each piece was. And, of course, there was Bastille Day, the firehouse, her bedroom—a mistake to be sure, but one April didn’t altogether regret making.
She leaned toward Luc. It was nearly too loud to speak.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything. For every big and little thing.”
“Ah, I’ve done nothing,” he said. “We’ve had fun, haven’t we?”
April nodded, biting her lip, tears running down her face.
“Ah, sweet Avril. No tears. It’s not over. It will never be over. And tomorrow is the best part.” He paused and gripped her hand tighter. “Tomorrow … tomorrow we see Agnès.”
Chapitre LXIX
New York Times
MME. CHARCOT SEEKS DIVORCE
Granddaughter of Victor Hugo Charges Her Husband with Desertion
PARIS, Feb. 15 – Jeanne Charcot, née Hugo, granddaughter of Victor Hugo, has filed a petition for divorce in the Paris courts against her husband, Dr. Jean Charcot, son of the famous nerve specialist, and head of the French Antarctic Expedition, on the grounds of desertion.
The petition creates the liveliest interest in Parisian circles where both parties are prominent.
Madame Charcot had been divorced previously, having been, before her marriage to Dr. Charcot, the wife of Léon Daudet, eldest son of the late Alphonse Daudet. Shortly after she was married to Charcot the latter had a dispute in a theatre with Léon Daudet, and a duel was fought, in which Charcot was slightly wounded.
Charcot left France over a year ago in an attempt to reach the South Pole. Fears have recently been expressed that his expedition has met with disaster. A relief expedition is now proposed.
Chapitre LXX
Paris, 4 June 1905
Dear God, how did everything get to this state? I did a horrible thing today, truly horrible. I don’t know that I can ever forgive myself.
It started with Boldini and one of his sour moods. Is that not always the case? My stomach hurts just to transcribe the scene, but transcribe it I must. My brain is moving too fast, the words are spilling out of me. I must find somewhere to put them.
How to explain this particular sour mood? You see, Parisians seem to be off the great Giovanni Boldini, Master of Swish. Like sheep in a herd they follow the whims of American collectors, a laughable situation to start. I cannot fathom from the bowels of which of Satan’s henchmen the idea that Americans have taste originally sprung. And “bowels” is the exact right word. Their discernment is for shit. Alas, some American or another woke up one morning and decided Boldini was entirely out of fashion. Before, you were not anyone unless Boldini painted you. Now there is not anyone who wants to be painted by him.
These cretins are all enamored of Pablo Picasso, the crazy stupid Spaniard who somehow coerced the American Gertrude Stein into purchasing his works. The man has more names than Jeanne Hugo Daudet Charcot, even if you include the extra one she will add following her divorce from Jean-Baptiste and her inevitable marriage to the next poor fool who happens upon her doorstep, or her bedchamber.
For his part, M. Picasso is legally known as: Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso.
That alone says all we need to know of the man! Insane and overdone. Not only does he have a benefactor in Mademoiselle Stein, a fortune never bestowed upon Boldini, who required no ugly American to make his mark, but M. Picasso employs a publicist! It is only that coxcomb Apollinaire, the one with the curly hair and a ruby on his pinky finger, but a publicist he has. Everyone thinks Apollinaire is so cultured and wealthy. He only looks this way because his mother dresses him. I know this for a fact!
Last night Boldini came to my flat to dine. He was too distraught to eat in his studio surrounded by paintings, by all the things once beautiful that suddenly felt like failures. Knowing the depths to which his foul moods could sink, I’d dismissed the cook for the evening once she finished preparing the meal. I would straighten up myself. I hate to clean, and with the recent odd numbness in my wrists and forearms it’s more difficult than ever, but this was the least of my worries. I let her go, knowing full well I’d have more than dishes to clean that night.
Boldini sat at my table and refused supper, all peevish like a billy goat with the flu. I told him to buck up, stop complaining, and devise a solution. Maybe he could alter his painting style. Maybe he should go to London to work a few commissions. Lord knows it will take the English at least a decade to catch on to his nonsense, at which time the tide of favor will shift back to Boldini here in Paris!
Well, he continued to grumble and drink more wine. Béatrice sat in the adjoining room trying to work a puzzle to little success. In between grunts and complaints, Boldini cast sidelong glances her way. I knew what would happen before it actually did.
“She has never gotten any better,”
he said, finishing off the last bottle of wine in the home, which is a testament to his inebriation as I am always well-stocked.
“Whatever do you mean?” I blotted my mouth with a napkin.
“You said she would walk later and talk later and read later. She is six and a half and ‘later’ has yet to happen. She looks like a young girl but remains an infant!”
“Boldini!” I snapped. “Keep your voice down! Béa may be simple, but she is the sweetest cookie of a child. I am blessed to have her as my own. We are blessed.”
“You only say that because she is pliant and does whatever you order. She thinks you’re perfect. I guess you are very fortunate, then. She will never know the real you.”
“That is quite enough!” I snapped and threw a fork down on to my plate, with less force than I’d intended, given the peculiarities with my hands and joints. “I will not entertain this mean-spirited conversation.”
“Tell me, Marthe, why is she slow?”
“She had a difficult birth,” I said, voice quivering. “You were there.”
“Yes, her birth was difficult, wasn’t it? It was very odd.”
“She was a double footling breech. I don’t know why you’re haranguing me about this.”
But I did know. I knew exactly why.
“Yes, but you’d think that no matter the position, a premature baby would not be so difficult to deliver.”
“Well, I am not a doctor,” I said and stood, gathering up our plates. “And neither are you.”
“Ah, yes, but Dr. Pozzi is and he told me Béatrice was awfully large for a baby born at her supposed gestation.”
I glanced away. My lip was trembling.
“She is not my child, is she, Marthe?”
Without answer, I tramped off into the kitchen and busied myself with the cleanup. I scraped and scrubbed while Boldini continued to yell, “She is not mine!” He grew so boisterous that even Béa started crying. She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.
“Are you happy now?” I screamed, marching back into the dining room. “You have upset the one person in the world who never gets upset!”
“Tell me the truth, Marthe! I only want the truth.”
“Fine!” I said, surprised by the word. I did not mean to confess. “You are not the one who impregnated me. But make no mistake, you are her father.”
“Not anymore!”
Boldini pushed back his chair, which then toppled over and landed with a thud against the wall. He grabbed for his coat and made a fast path to the front door.
I tried to chase after him, but he shook me off. He said we were done and he would support us no longer. It took years, and then it took Béatrice, to persuade Boldini to throw a few francs our way. The man is not our sole source of income. There are a few other contributors, not the least of whom is Clem, the statesman known as “the Walrus.” Nevertheless, the financial hole into which Boldini flung us is deep indeed, to speak nothing of the emotional one. I slept not once last night as I scrambled to devise a plan.
I could locate Jean-Baptiste, I reasoned, and threaten to go public with Béatrice’s parentage, which was no kind of solution at all. First I would have to find him. The world-famous “Polar Gentleman” spent the last two years in Antarctica and is allegedly missing at sea. Even if he weren’t missing, he would have to care. His divorce with Jeanne is to be finalized any day. He is a beloved adventurer, and citizens forgive him any indiscretion. Therefore, when it comes to my accusations he has very little to lose. I suppose that’s what happens when you live on a boat.
Utterly distraught by the time dawn came, I did the only thing I could. Oh, God, I hate to think of it now! I packed Béatrice’s pink suitcase with her favorite frocks and dolls, hired a hack, and together we took the long, bumpy road out of town.
We arrived at the Home for Idiots and Imbeciles shortly before one o’clock. My face was wet with tears, little rivulets cutting through my whitening mask, and I could not speak through the sobs. Béa, blessed Béa, simply looked up at me with those dark eyes, clear and trusting. She smiled and squeezed my hand.
“Darling,” I said before we exited the coach. “This is a wonderful school. Maman will miss you terribly but you will learn so much! Here they will train and educate you to speak and, eventually, teach you a trade. Perhaps shoemaking or carpentry or gardening. When you’re grown you can return to Paris with your maman and take up a post as a clerk or laborer. We’ll live together for the rest of our days. What do you think, my love?”
She blinked at me happily like she always did. Oh, my heart!
We got out of the cab and walked into the main office, where I filled out scores of forms. The director showed me the living quarters. My eyes stung with the bleakness, the metal, the urine-stained mattress. Already my resolve dwindled.
The last stop was the playground. Here was the place I would let go of Béa’s hand and send her into the world without me. It was supposed to give me comfort, all these smiling, happy, giggling children playing in the sunshine. Instead it nearly made me vomit.
Kids climbed amongst the equipment, tripping over their own feet, drool spilling from the sides of their mouths. They might try the same thing once, twice, thrice, or more, always failing, always failing, never getting it right. Not a single person stepped forward to help them.
It was too much to take.
“All right, Madame de Florian,” the director said. “It is time to let your daughter go. Allow her to be free and learn amongst others like her.”
I loosened my grip for half a second.
Then I closed it tight again.
Sweeping Béa up into my arms, I turned and ran to the coach, leaving everyone and everything behind, even her pink suitcase. The truth was I could not have kept it. Every time I saw it I would’ve hated myself.
We returned to Paris by nightfall, me hugging my girl for the entire trip, over every bump, around every turn. I didn’t know what we would do then, I certainly don’t know now. I only know I need Béatrice by my side. The rest I can figure out in time.
Chapitre LXXI
Paris, 14 August 1914
It is as though all the pressure built over the past few months, the past year even, has finally released in a pop heard around the world. Yes the pop is messy and loud and a bit terrifying, but throughout Paris there is an enormous sense of relief.
Germany has finally declared war. This is good news because the war, we knew, was coming. German troops already invaded French territory twice. As the papers say, the declaration forced them to take a formal stance of aggression. This will not be looked kindly upon by our neighboring countries or even those across the seas.
More than this, hope comes in the form of retribution. We might finally avenge the Franco-Prussian War! The minute the news hit the wires people were dancing in the streets. Parties erupted in every café, every dance hall, and nearly every public square. The crowds were enormous. People rode in carriages and atop white horses. They wept for joy. People kissed strangers or family members to whom they were not speaking. Flowers were sold on every street corner. It was a wedding party in which we were all the brides.
Caught up in this sweep of good feelings is Giovanni Boldini himself. When not toiling away at portraiture, including way too many of the rich Italian Donna Franca Florio, he comes to see us. No matter how many times he’s renounced Béatrice he cannot keep himself away more than a few weeks at a time. In our years together as (almost) husband and wife he grew quite fond of the girl.
At least Boldini outright admits he misses Béatrice. However he cannot extend the same platitude my way. I suppose there are too many things between us. What can I do about it now? Though I apologize for everything, I am sorry for nothing.
My Béatrice, she is such a lovely young lady. She has recently taught herself to read and to write! An amazing feat! Her musings do read more like those of a girl of six than a woman approaching sixteen, but I truly never thought we would get to this point. Though
she will never be a scholar she will remain, forever, my Béatrice.
There is more I want to write, but I cannot remember the words I’d come to tell. Plus, my hands! My hands are worse than ever, and the deadening is now starting to travel to my face. A so-called doctor diagnosed me with Phossy jaw, a condition of the factory girls. As I never had to resort to such occupational measures, the only reasonable conclusion is that the doctor is a quack.
According to Boldini, the numbness at times extends to my mind. Two weeks ago he slashed his latest round of Donna Franca Florio portraits in a fit of self-loathing, but blamed it on me. I broke into his flat, he said, and went mad, claiming they were portraits of Jeanne Hugo. The gall of the accusation! As if I would do that! As if I could even confuse the two women! They look nothing alike. Perhaps Boldini has Phossy brain from those paints he uses.
Nonetheless I feel the years encroaching. I am not old, though not young either (ha!). But as I turned forty this year it’s time to increase the henna and facial whitening agents. There are still men to charm and bills to pay. It all makes me so very tired sometimes, so very, very tired.
Chapitre LXXII
Paris, 10 February 1919
The weather is cold and damp. I could not afford to put coal in my fire today, to heat this apartment filled with my things. My hand cramps as I scratch out these words. I fear my fingers might stick to the pen.
This city is dead. The trees, the animals, even the war that once looked so promising is done, thousands of bodies still being shipped home, families hoping for this one last glimpse of loved ones, even if all they get is a corpse. What happened to the Paris I once loved? The one filled with gilt and satin? As much as Paris is dead, its soul is gone too.
And so is my own heart, my daughter, my Béatrice. She is also dead. It is either ironic or fitting or completely unfair that a girl who struggled through childbirth to enter the world left it in the exact same fashion. There was blood, so much blood, and in the end they could not save her. If only Dr. Pozzi were still alive perhaps my Béatrice, my soul, would still be here. Instead she is gone, and I am left with a different baby girl, Elisabetta. Lisette is what Béa wanted to call her when she was sure—so sure!—this baby she carried was a girl.
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