Cezanne's Quarry

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  She took a breath, clasped her hands together and reentered the room. “Paul says,” she needed to explain, somehow, that Paul painted her that way for a reason, “Paul says that he is interested in the whole canvas, not just the subject. With the portraits, sometimes he will start in the middle, just like he starts a still life or landscape, and then he builds outward. That’s why, in his art, a face has no more significance than the chair or the wallpaper.” Sometimes she wondered if she was any more significant to Paul than apples or the wallpaper. Still, she needed to rattle on, and try to set things right. To show the judge that Paul painted that way on purpose, not because he could not do better. “It’s the whole canvas that’s important. The whole thing. That’s his new idea.”

  Just then, they heard a commotion in the street. She ran to the window. The gendarmes had Paul by the arms. He was shouting at them to let him go. His hair was sticking out in all directions, his bald head beaming in the sun. When he saw her, he yelled, “Get in touch with Maxim.”

  “Yes, dear, of course,” she called out, as he passed below. She closed the shutters. If he wanted her to find his brother-in-law Maxim, then he knew he needed a lawyer. And she knew what she had to do.

  “How are you taking Paul back?” she asked the judge.

  “In a wagon. It’s down the hill.” He was pocketing his notebook.

  “Take me and my son, please. We need to be with Paul.”

  “I don’t think it will be very comfortable. And it might be disturbing for your son to see his father—”

  Just then Paul Jr. flung open the door. “Maman, Maman, they are taking Papa. The gendarmes are taking Papa away.” Hortense was relieved to see he looked more excited than scared.

  “Please!” There was nothing she could do in Gardanne. In Aix she’d make sure that Maxim was notified. She’d even send a telegram to Zola. And she’d escape this godforsaken town.

  “I am not sure that you and your son—” Did the judge really care about what her son might feel?

  She’d beg on her knees if she had to. Grab on to Martin, and not let him out of the door. First, though, she’d play the part of a concerned and affectionate mother. Hortense took hold of her son’s shoulders and turned him around to face the judge. “Don’t you want to go back to Aix with Papa and ride with the gendarmes?”

  Paul Jr. looked back and forth between the judge and her. It was beginning to dawn on him that something serious was happening.

  “We’d feel isolated here, wouldn’t we, son? We’d worry about Papa,” she continued, smoothing down her son’s straight brown hair.

  He nodded his head slowly. “I’d like to go with my father, sir.”

  Martin stared at her son as if he knew him from somewhere, or was trying to recognize someone else in him. Hortense couldn’t tell which, and she couldn’t have cared less. What was important is that Paul Junior’s plea seemed to do the trick.

  “All right, then,” the judge relented, “but you must hurry.”

  “You stay here with the judge,” she told her son, “and I’ll be right back.” She flew to the bedroom and began tossing some clothes and hats into two cloth sacks. They would stay in the family house on the rue Matheron, where Paul had never dared to let them stay before. How could he refuse her now? It was he who was causing all the trouble. He needed her. He needed her help. She’d be the one to get in touch with Maxim, contact the Jas and, yes, telegraph Zola.

  13

  IT WAS GOOD TO BE ON HORSEBACK, away from Franc’s incessant talking. Martin was not a skilled rider, but the gendarme’s horse was well-trained, and guiding it along the uneven paths between Gardanne and Aix gave him something besides the dead boy to think about. So did the inhabitants of the wagon. Franc was none too pleased that Martin had allowed the woman and her son to come along, and ordered François, the biggest and most experienced of his men, to sit with them. Martin, in turn, had insisted that Cézanne did not need to be tied up. With four men on horses, there was no possibility of escape. And, just as Martin predicted, the presence of his family calmed down the artist, whose cries of protest had alerted the entire town to his arrest.

  At times, Cézanne, who was wearing a gray cap hastily provided by Hortense Fiquet, sat silently, watching the receding road. Other times, he chatted with his son, who insisted on sitting next to him. Martin overheard Zola’s name as they were crossing the Arc. The artist was pointing to a particular spot near the river with one arm while he held on to his son’s shoulder with the other. He seemed to be recounting a story from his own childhood. Martin drew closer, but could not hear what they were saying. The woman had told him that Cézanne and Zola were the best of friends. If that were true, and the famous author decided to get involved, he would be a formidable adversary.

  Martin was struck by the artist’s seeming nonchalance. He could not tell whether Cézanne was trying to demonstrate his innocence, or just putting on a brave face for his son. The artist had no such tender concern for Hortense Fiquet. Their conversation before getting into the wagon had been loud enough for all to hear, an argument about whether or not they should stay in the family apartment. Evidently, Cézanne would have to go to the Jas and beg for the key, and he did not want to do that. Once the journey was under way, the two of them never exchanged a word. She sat with the bags beside François, across from her son and lover, staring at the road before them. Paul Cézanne seemed to dote on his son, but this was clearly not a happy family.

  Were there happy families? Martin stroked the neck of the gentle, snorting chestnut horse. If there were happy families, then how did they hold on to their happiness when fate could intervene so cruelly? Dead fathers, dead children. The child lying in the morgue had been small, much smaller than Cézanne’s husky boy, and probably younger, too. The dead boy might not have had a father who doted on him, who took care of him, who had made sure that he was fed and clothed and sheltered. If he had, he would not have been so willing to hire himself out to strangers. The dead boy would never know the joys and sorrows of manhood. Or the inevitable failures and self-doubts that Martin knew all too well. He looked again at Cézanne talking to his son, holding him close. Could this man have really killed the boy?

  As soon as they entered the square in front of the Palais, Martin saw a carriage parked at the main entrance. His hands tightened around the reins. This was not a good sign.

  Without pausing to investigate, Franc skillfully maneuvered their little entourage down the narrow street that led to the back of the courthouse and the front of the prison. They passed through in single file as the horses’ hooves slowed to a mournful, drumming cadence. Martin could not keep his eyes off the low yellow building that held the dead body of the little messenger. A reminder, as if he needed one, gripped at his stomach: this investigation, and these deaths, were his responsibility. This is what it meant to be a judge. A real judge with murders on his hands.

  In oblivious high spirits, Franc jumped off the wagon and ran over to Martin. “Your little visit yesterday must have tipped off the Cézanne clan,” he said under his breath. “We’ll see if they got out the troops.” He, too, suspected that the artist’s relatives or lawyers had arrived.

  So did Cézanne, who began to scuffle with the gendarmes as they tried to get him off the wagon. He lurched backward until he had caught the attention of Hortense Fiquet. “Go to the Hôtel de la Gare. I’ll meet you there. Quick. Papa could be here.” Once he had spit out this vital message to his mistress, Cézanne was noticeably calmer, but leaned pitifully toward his son, dragging the men along with him.

  “Let him go,” Martin ordered. “Let him say good-bye to the boy.”

  Franc threw up his hands in exasperation. He nodded to the men, seconding Martin’s command, but could not hold back a protest. “What are you doing? We have him where we want him. If his family is here, we have a chance to humiliate him. Crush him. Wring everything he knows out of him.” Franc held up a thick clenched fist.

  “Whatever he did,
it’s not the boy’s fault.” Martin said, and, ignoring Franc, turned to stroke the warm, panting creature that had carried him from Gardanne. If only he had the animal’s steadiness and strength. He heard the inspector’s heavy footsteps as he impatiently headed toward the door. Martin took a deep breath and handed the reins to one of the gendarmes. For good or ill, now was the time for him to take full command. He could no longer depend upon Franc, even with all his experience. He could rely on no one but himself, his training, and his reason to see that no more boys would be hurt and no more decaying bodies found.

  Franc waved the prisoner and two guards inside, where they stood in silence until Martin caught up to them. When they got to the main floor, the faithful Old Joseph was waiting to give Martin and Franc a report. “The whole family has been here for an hour,” he said in a low voice, “the mother, the father, the sisters, and the son-in-law, who is the lawyer Maxim Conil. They came pounding at the great door, demanding to get in. I finally got someone to unlock it. The father can’t walk much, so we couldn’t exactly insist that he go around the back.” The clerk looked around and added in a confidential whisper, “He barely made it up the stairs.”

  Heads had already appeared at the railing above them. Martin recognized Marie, who was with another, rounder woman and, most fashionably dressed of all, a male, undoubtedly the lawyer, Maxim Conil. One of the sisters saw Cézanne in tow and cried out, “Paul!” Martin and Franc stepped aside to let the grim-faced artist and his guards pass.

  “I don’t suppose you want me to sit in and listen to the testimony,” Franc said. “He could be dangerous, you know.”

  “No.” As much as he knew it would displease his inspector, he had no intention of letting him, or anyone else, intervene. “Sit with the family. Watch their reactions. We’ll compare notes afterward.”

  This time Franc did not even bother to argue. He must have seen a new determination in Martin’s face.

  At the top of the stairs, Marie had already grabbed her brother and was hugging him and crying. Martin hurried past, only to be confronted by the dandy. “Maxim Conil, attorney. I will be representing Paul Cézanne and attending any interviews. He is a member of an important and established family in Aix—”

  As Martin put up his hand to halt this little speech, the white-haired old man sitting on the bench leaned forward and, with two hands on his cane, launched himself into a standing position. “That’s right, Maxim, you earn your keep,” he said before he fell back again and began muttering through his walrus mustache. “For once, let someone, anyone, earn their keep around here.”

  “As you know,” the lawyer continued intrepidly, “I have a right, if you allow me, to be in the room with my client.”

  “Yes, yes.” Martin could see that Conil would try his patience, but he did not want to argue about the rights of counsel in front of the entire family. He would allow Conil to stay only so long as he did not interfere.

  Having made his point, the lawyer stepped aside, while Martin went over to the bench. “Monsieur, Madame Cézanne, I will be speaking with Paul in my office, along with his attorney. M. Franc, my inspector, will stay out here with you. If you have any questions, I’m sure he can help you.”

  Before they had time to respond, Martin went through the door to his chambers, which was being held open by Old Joseph. Once the suspect and the lawyer followed, the clerk closed the door behind them, effectively blocking out the family. Martin took off his coat and hung it up. He loosened his cravat and opened the window. He hoped there might be some exchanges between Cézanne and his brother-in-law during these deliberately slow actions, but they barely looked at each other. Cézanne sat in one of the two chairs opposite Martin, his hat still on his head. He stared up at the ceiling. Conil remained standing, impatiently tapping his foot.

  “We need to know what this is about,” he said.

  “You must know what this is about,” Martin murmured, “or you wouldn’t all be here.”

  “We do not. We fear Paul will be falsely accused of some heinous crime and we are here to protect him.”

  “Very well. I am investigating a murder, the murder of Solange Vernet.” This they knew. No one yet knew about the boy.

  “What could Paul possibly have to do with that?” Conil was annoying.

  “That is what we are here to find out.” Martin looked squarely at Cézanne, but the artist refused to meet his eyes, or those of his brother-in-law.

  “First you should see this.” Conil slapped a document on Martin’s desk. “This is an affidavit, signed by M. Louis-Auguste Cézanne and myself, guaranteeing the presence of Paul Cézanne in Aix for necessary interviews and proceedings. He can reside at the family town house, rue Matheron, 14. M. Louis-Auguste has put up the Jas and the apartment as a guarantee of his son’s presence.” Martin pushed the document to the side of the desk without reading it. Clearly, the family was trying to save themselves from the embarrassment of an imprisonment.

  “I will take this under consideration.”

  “No reason to consider, we have given you ample guarantee.”

  “It’s not yours to give,” growled Cézanne, coming to life.

  “Oh?” This could be interesting.

  “As Maxim well knows, most of the property is already divided between my sisters and me—”

  “However,” the lawyer smoothly intervened, “Marie and Rose, my wife, and I, have agreed, as you will see,” he said pointing to the signatures, “and surely Paul will want to guarantee—”

  “It does not matter, my father controls everything anyway.” Cézanne said, and turned his head away, disengaging himself from the talk about money.

  Doling out the property before death was a tried-and-true strategy for evading the inheritance tax. Martin was not surprised to hear that the old banker had found a way to protect the family fortune while still holding on to the purse strings. He had his son over a barrel.

  “In any case,” Conil continued, undeterred by his brother-in-law’s lack of tact and good sense, “this is a solid guarantee of my client’s continuous presence in Aix and its environs as long as you need him as a material witness.” Getting no reaction from Martin, he took a seat and folded his gloved hands over the silver head of his walking stick

  “Well, then,” Martin began as he perused the documents Old Joseph had gathered and demonstrably ignored what Conil had laid before him, “I think we have the most basic information. Paul Cézanne, born Aix, 1839, et cetera. So let’s talk about the more immediate past.” The sweat prickled down Martin’s neck and through his beard, yet the artist did not remove his cap or jacket. Martin could not decide whether his immobility signaled resignation or stubborn resistance. “M. Cézanne, where were you on the day and the night of Monday, August 17th?”

  “At the Jas, painting, or in Gardanne,” he said with a shrug. “I can’t remember. I go practically every day and come back at night. It depends on what I am working on.”

  Martin was stunned. Cézanne did not seem to grasp the significance of this question. Hortense Fiquet had, and evidently had lied for him.

  “If this is about Solange Vernet, I know nothing about it,” the artist added, as if this were enough to end the discussion.

  “That is for me to decide.” Martin paused to let it sink in that he intended to exert all of his state-sanctioned authority. “When did you last see her?”

  “Before we left to go north to stay with my friends, Renoir and Zola. You can check on that. That was most of June and July.”

  “You did not see her at all this summer?”

  “I saw her about a week ago, but she refused to see me.” Cézanne emphasized his words with bitterness.

  “Where did you see her? Why did she refuse to see you?”

  “On the street, the Cours, by her apartment. I don’t know. She wouldn’t let me in; she said she did not want to see me any more.”

  Were those tears in his eyes? Was he a lamb with the roar of a lion? His voice had gotten sof
ter, less aggressive, and Martin had hardly begun.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why!” Cézanne exploded. The roar had returned. He was breathing hard.

  “Had she communicated with you in any way? Had she written you letters?” If what Cézanne said was true, then why would Westerbury have been so jealous?

  “Never!” the artist crossed his arms, striving to seem indifferent, despite the contrary evidence in his eyes and voice.

  “Had you written her letters?”

  “A few.”

  “And what were these about?”

  “You know.” The shrug was an attempt to be dismissive.

  “No, I don’t.” Martin did know that whatever the artist did write had angered the Englishman enough for him to tear up the letters, crack apart one of Cézanne’s paintings, and throw the whole lot into a fire built on one of the hottest nights in the middle of August.

  “Tell me what was in those letters,” Martin insisted again.

  The brother-in-law was bouncing in his chair, waiting to jump in, although both he and Martin knew there was nothing to object to in any of these questions. The scratching of Old Joseph’s pen had stopped, and he turned his head slightly. Martin did not move, willing to let the silence go on indefinitely. The artist was stubborn, but evidently guileless. Martin could wait him out.

  The lawyer, however, could not keep quiet. “May I talk with my client for a bit? I know nothing about this.”

  “May you let him leave the room?” Cézanne retorted. “Not everyone needs to know my business.”

  Excellent. Martin would love to carry on without the lawyer. “M. Conil, I think M. Cézanne wishes to talk with me alone.”

  “Paul, this is not very smart.”