Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  “We don’t need new rules!” Theo shouted back, adding her voice to the other women. “We don’t want special treatment! We want the same treatment, the same classes, the same models!”

  “And the same medals!” Carmine yelled. “That’s why you’re really afraid! You’ll have to compete with women for the prizes you’ve been keeping to yourselves.”

  “Why should I be afraid of that!” another student taunted. “No woman is better than I am!”

  Remembering Mélanie, Theo seethed with scorn. “These women got higher scores than you did.”

  That brought a deluge of cries. “Liar!” “Bribery!” “You don’t belong here!” “You belong on your backs!”

  The whey-faced student yelled out above the others. “Go find yourself a husband!”

  The scruffy fox lifted his cane above his head, waving it furiously. “Yes! A husband will teach you to paint with your tongue!”

  The men laughed and wagged their tongues at them. The crass insults gave Theo a surge of furious energy. “Did you swing the same cane at the Charity bazaar?” she yelled at the fox. “Did you beat your way through those women too?”

  “I was never there!” he yelled back, though the whey-face one suddenly turned even paler and backed out of sight. The fox looked stunned, then shrugged off the defection.

  Theo put a hand to her head, remembering the painful cut that some man had inflicted. Hot anger flowed through her. “You are just as much of a coward!” she accused the fox. “More of a coward. Your life’s not at risk—just your vanity!”

  Suddenly, the woman she had seen half-hiding in the doorway darted from her haven and ran down the street. Perhaps because of their silent communication, she came straight to Theo and Carmine. She was quite petite, barely five feet. She had a gentle, shy countenance, lit by eyes full of steely determination. The young woman pointed back down the cross street. “The police are coming,” she warned. “I saw them at the end of the block.”

  “Let’s hope they arrest these men!” Carmine said. “But with our luck, they’ll punish us for daring to protest.”

  “Go now,” one of the women students said to the protesters. “But thank you for joining us.”

  “We should leave,” Theo said to Carmine as the women began to disperse.

  “I will walk with you to the corner and circle back around. I don’t want to be arrested!” the young woman said.

  Quickly they walked down the rue Bonaparte toward the quai. “You’re American, aren’t you?” Theo asked their companion.

  She nodded. “Yes, and you?”

  “From Mill Valley, California. That’s near San Francisco. My name is Theodora Faraday.”

  “And I am Julia Morgan. We were neighbors. I am from Oakland. I came to Paris last year because the École promised women would soon be admitted.”

  “You see they will use any excuse to refuse you,” Carmine muttered, squaring her shoulders. She set her hat at a jauntier angle and plucked at her sleeves to puff them out.

  “I want to study architecture,” Julia said firmly. “This is the most prestigious school in the world. There is no equivalent.”

  “What are you doing meanwhile?” Carmine asked.

  “I am working in the architecture atelier of Marcel de Monclos and submitting my designs to international competitions.”

  “Have you won any?” Carmine asked.

  “Indeed I have. I am gaining a reputation. Surely the École will admit me.”

  “Surely they will,” Theo affirmed.

  “Perhaps,” Carmine said gloomily.

  Julia stopped when they turned the corner that brought the Seine into view. “I must go back to work.”

  “Bonne chance,” Theo wished her good luck. Tiny and soft-spoken as she was, Julia obviously had the tenacity to triumph over the forces allied against her sex. “I can cross the bridge and walk to the Charrons’ from here,” Theo told Carmine. She could not think of it as Averill’s home. He felt as much a prisoner there as she had.

  “I will walk with you—I need to burn off some of this energy, or I will go home and pick a fight with my father!” Carmine laughed at herself, then eyed Theo more seriously. “Let’s stop for a cup of chocolate and you can tell me what has been bothering you.”

  With so much happening, Theo had hoped Carmine did not notice how glum she was. “I did not sleep well,” she equivocated, then was furious with herself.

  “You did not sleep well because?” Carmine asked pointedly.

  “Let’s sit.” Theo pointed to a small café near the next corner. They went inside and Theo chose a little booth in the back, far from the other customers. The croissant she ordered was stale but the food calmed the wooziness she felt. The quiet interior and the warming hot chocolate subdued her headache as well.

  “Tell me,” Carmine insisted.

  “It is as terrible as Mélanie’s death,” Theo warned. “Worse.”

  “Worse?” Carmine laid a hand over hers. She wore coquettish little black lace gloves. Theo stared at them in fascination, her mind trying to find some escape. But there was none. “The little girl that I helped Mélanie rescue from the fire is dead. She has been murdered.”

  For once, Carmine was speechless. Theo told her of Averill’s discovery of the body and of yesterday morning at the café—how her cousin had begun a poem about the murdered girl that he could not finish and needed to see her at the morgue.

  “Artists are ruthless. If they are not, then they are not artists,” Carmine said. “Seers must not lie about what they see.”

  Theo smiled faintly. “Paul says the same.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “It was something I thought I believed. Perhaps I still do, but with my head, not my heart. My heart just wants to mourn.”

  “I think perhaps your head is judging the impulse of your heart. You want to find a way to exorcise the horror, but your head says it is selfish or unseemly. Your heart is more honest.”

  “Perhaps you are right, but it is hard not to feel guilty.”

  “No emotion is more useless than guilt. Your art is as worthy a tribute as any tears.”

  Theo continued about the visit to the morgue. “It’s a horrible place—a ghoulish picnic.”

  “Death makes people feel alive. Especially the death of strangers.” Carmine gave a philosophical shrug.

  When Theo at last described seeing Alicia’s pale corpse, what detachment she had faltered. She had to fight off crying yet again. Carmine gripped her hands more tightly. Theo managed to finish the rest of the events, ending with her silent trip back to Montmartre with Averill. “I promised to visit him this afternoon. He’s worried.” Theo felt wretched for her fury at the morgue. Anger and grief had flung her about like the waves of a tempest.

  “So you are all suspects, I suppose?” Carmine broke into her thoughts.

  “Yes.” Theo bristled. “I told the detective to investigate that blue-bearded creature I saw at the catacombs and then at the morgue. He looks like he would enjoy murder.”

  “This is truly bizarre, Theo.” Carmine paused. “But it is less bizarre if it is deliberate.”

  “Deliberate?” Theo stared at her blankly. Of course murder was deliberate.

  “I believe Alicia was not taken at random. She was taken because you rescued her.”

  Theo stared at her. “No one hates me like that. No one would devise such a convoluted way to torment me—by torturing an innocent child!”

  “Hate. Love. How could anyone do such a thing? The Tarot said you are in the middle of a battle between good and evil. What you describe is the epitome of evil.”

  It was too terrifying to believe. Theo envisioned the images of The Devil and the gleaming Moon spread out before her. She saw Death. The memory was a sinister undertow pulling her toward darkness. “I still don’t trust the cards. Mélanie was certain the Tower was about her entry into the École des Beaux-Arts. It made perfect sense to all of us.”

  “The
cards did not mislead us, we misled ourselves,” Carmine said earnestly.

  Theo still felt deceived and knew Carmine could see it in her face.

  “The cards did not cause the fire. The cards could not have caused Alicia’s terrible murder.”

  Theo frowned. “But they didn’t help me stop it.”

  Carmine leaned forward. “More cards will give a clearer picture. Let me give you another reading. Take what help you can, Theo.”

  “Not now.” Not ever would be better. The cards had allure when they were a charming myth, something half-believed for the pleasure of it. Not as a premonition of horror. Theo pushed away her chocolate and stood. “I promised Averill I would visit him after the protest.”

  Carmine stood as well. “I still want to walk with you.”

  They left the shabby little café, crossed the Pont du Carrousel, strolled alongside the Louvre, and continued into the gardens of the Tuileries. The cool green of the ordered park and the rain-like music of the fountains helped soothe Theo’s frayed nerves. “Look, the giroflées are blooming.”

  Carmine smiled. They knelt briefly to sniff the fragrant wallflowers. Their bright gold contrasted with the vivid scarlet of the geraniums and charming faces of the purple pansies. As difficult as it had been to relive yesterday, Theo was glad she’d shared her unhappiness with Carmine. Sensing her mood, Carmine linked an arm through hers and they walked in silence through the gardens and along the boulevards, sharing the comfort of each other’s presence until they reached the entrance to the Charrons’ residence.

  Carmine kissed both Theo’s cheeks and walked back toward the park. Theo remained outside, still hesitating. She hungered for Averill’s comfort, the sound of his voice, his touch—yet the thought of him feverishly writing his poem about Alicia was a physical pain that made her shy away. But she had promised, so she went up the steps to the door and pulled the bell.

  Her favorite of the maids, Bettine, greeted her warmly and asked if she was joining Madame Charron’s gathering. Theo heard skittish laughter from the parlor. The sound cut across her nerves like a serrated blade. It was Friday, and every Friday her aunt’s friends took turns playing hostess at their cocaine parties. The drug was quite the rage with Parisian society ladies, having taken over from morphine. They considered cocaine quite harmless, but Theo knew it could be utterly destructive. When young Henry Faraday inherited the ranch she had called home, he sold off everything—the house, the land, the horses she loved—and partied for a year. Much of the money entered syringes. Another chunk went for liquor bottles and loose women. The rest to gambling. And for the car, of course, the one he crashed and died in—too drunk to crawl out before the gasoline fumes ignited and burned him alive.

  Theo looked askance at the parlor, dreading that sharp, artificial exuberance. “No, Bettine,” she began, but just then Aunt Marguerite appeared in the salon doorway. She looked startled to see Theo but beckoned to her. There was no escape.

  “Do I look presentable?” Theo whispered to Bettine.

  “Yes, miss. Everyone else in tea gowns, of course,” the maid warned.

  Theo entered the parlor with its traditional Toile de Jouy wallpaper of frolicking shepherds and shepherdesses and its plush red velvet sofas. Vases of fragrant pink and white tea roses were set about on the tables with artful casualness. Theo greeted her aunt formally and was introduced to her friends. She was glad she had not worn black for Mélanie today. Her muted lavender shirtwaist was a suitable color for mourning but would not lead to questions she did not want to answer and answers these women did not want to hear. She perched on the nearest chair, hoping she could flee soon. Tea was being served in the best sterling service. On the table in front of the largest sofa, a platter of elaborate petit fours was all but untouched. With their smooth marzipan coating tinted in various pastels, they looked exquisite but hardly real. On a separate table, jeweled hypodermic needles were laid out. The atmosphere was hectic, the women laughing too much, their movements quick and nervous.

  “It seems a sprightly party, Madame Charron,” Theo lied, smiling too brightly at the ladies gathered in the parlor.

  “Sprightly indeed.” Her aunt’s eyes glittered with excitement. To the others she said, “Theo is quite artistic, you know. She is the ward of my brother-in-law, and he permits her to study painting.”

  Permits? Theo prickled.

  A woman in chartreuse ruffles straightened her already perfect posture and frowned severely. “The world of modern art is degenerating.”

  Beside her, a lady in puce said fervently, “True, but women can help lead it back onto its true path of virtuous ideals. We have forsaken our spiritual mission.”

  Theo fought the urge to argue. What miniscule chance she had of changing their minds would shrink to zero with the cocaine buzzing through their veins. Her aunt was unhappy enough without Theo making a scene. Instead she composed a painting in her mind with the wildly clashing colors of the gowns lurid against the red velvet sofa. She put the petit fours in the center, sugary sweet, their pastel tints vapid versions of the bright green and pink dresses.

  “You are fortunate that your guardien indulges you so,” Puce said archly, “but of course he is also a painter.” From her tone Theo could not tell if the woman thought he was her father or her lover.

  “Yes. He understands the artistic impulse,” her aunt answered for her.

  “I am very fortunate,” Theo affirmed. She knew how lucky she was to have been given this world. She had freedom and money enough to keep that freedom. But if she had to, she would tend bar and paint on her own, as she had in Jagtown on the fringe of Mill Valley.

  “Theo is living in Montmartre now,” her aunt said, rather slyly, Theo thought. Hoping to stir up some controversy? Theo saw disapproval on most faces, but at least one duplicated the envy she sometimes saw in her aunt’s eyes. Then her aunt touched Theo’s arm and gestured to the hypodermics. “Two of us bought new accessories. Tell us your opinion.”

  “Show me your new…accessories,” Theo said, feeling utterly hypocritical. But she could endure another few minutes before making her escape.

  “I found this at—”

  “Don’t tell her where you got it,” her aunt said sharply. “She may be biased by the maker.”

  Theo knew that argumentative edge. With great caution she examined the gold syringe set with peridots and emeralds. Beside her, Aunt Marguerite proudly displayed a silver syringe set with moonstones, opals, aquamarines and turquoise. At last Theo said, “The gold is a beautiful, balanced classical design and is perhaps the most technically excellent. But the silver has an innovative beauty that I find more appealing.”

  That seemed to satisfy them, if not provide a clear victory. Theo begged for tea to distract them from further discussion. She guessed that her aunt’s prize came from L’Art Nouveau, Theo’s own favorite luxury shop, filled with gorgeous objects in the most modern and inventive styles—glass by Tiffany and dazzling jewelry by Lalique. Her uncle would not see it, or her aunt would have bought something more conservative.

  “I knew you would love it,” Aunt Marguerite whispered conspiratorially as she handed Theo her cup of tea. Her aunt smiled with delight, and for a moment Theo saw the vivacity that must have once sparkled in her. That vibrant Marguerite should be holding salons for poets and artists, not cocaine parties for bored ladies of the bourgeoisie. The Marguerite that Theo liked was all but crushed by evil Uncle Charron. She was not permitted to hold any opinion that differed from his—unless it was frivolously feminine enough not to threaten his authority. Perhaps Theo could encourage her to live vicariously a bit more. She would invite her aunt to help her choose a new dress from a creative designer in one of the less expensive boutiques.

  As if to prove she had a happy marriage, Aunt Marguerite began to brag about her children. She emphasized Francine’s docility and spoke fervently of how pleased Averill’s father was with his success at medical school. Theo knew how well he did depended on h
ow ardently he was pursuing a poem and how much absinthe he drank. It was his sister Jeanette who’d urged him to quit school, to leave home before their father broke his spirit. Become a poet. He’d listened to Jeanette and left, despite his mother’s tearful entreaties to stay. But when Jeanette died, he yielded to Marguerite’s tearful entreaties to return.

  When the conversation flagged, Theo begged a headache. Her aunt excused her. “You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? You won’t want to miss a chance to see Eulalie—” she gave Theo another sly sideways glance. “—or Averill. I don’t think either of them is home just now.”

  Did her aunt know she was attracted to Averill? Could she possibly approve? Theo managed a bland smile as she rose. “Thank you, Madame Charron. Your meals are always delicious.”

  She left them to their gossip—she was probably the main topic now. In the hall, she asked Bettine when Averill was expected home. It did not matter so much now that she was committed to dinner, but she was surprised when Bettine gestured down the hallway. “Monsieur Averill is at home, mademoiselle.” Bettine gave a nervous glance down the hall then whispered, “He is in his father’s study.” No one was supposed to go into Uncle Urbain’s study unless invited.

  Theo thanked Bettine and made her way to the end of the hallway, bright in the glow of the crystal chandeliers. She hesitated, then knocked lightly at the door of the study. “Averill, it’s me,” she called, wanting him to know it wasn’t his father.

  After a long pause, Averill responded, “Come in.”

  Theo turned the handle of the door and went inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I, whom some call poet,

  within the muted night

  I am the secret staircase;

  I am the staircase Darkness.

  Within my deathly spiral

  the shadow opens its dim eyes.

  ~ Victor Hugo

  HERE NO lamp shone and heavy burgundy velvet curtains muted the sun. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, Theo inhaled the opulent scent of books, their expensive paper, ink, and leather mingling with aromas of pipe tobacco and lemon-polished wood. Ahead of her, the massive carved desk gleamed dully. But no one sat behind it. Papers were scattered across the top, their black-spattered whiteness striking in the gloom.