Hortense reached in her purse and unfolded the telegram. The message was uncharacteristically terse. “Arriving on the 10:00 from Lyon. Zola.” Émile could have said even less. There was only one daily train to and from the north every day. One connection to everything she had ever known. Hortense wondered if he had also contacted Paul. Would Zola have complained about her meddling too?
She crossed her arms and turned her back to anyone who might be watching her. She was not in a mood to be pleasant, not after the row they had had last night. She waited until their son had gone to bed to show Paul Zola’s telegram. Paul never came home before dinner, anyway. He spent his days at the Jas, painting. Apparently, now it was the chestnut trees. Hortense sighed. She wished he’d paint something that actually sold. He just went along doing what he wanted to do, not caring about what was happening to her or their son, not giving one thought to the possibility that he might be thrown in prison, which is precisely what she was trying to prevent. But instead of showing gratitude, he accused her of interfering in his affairs.
Paul even told her that the murder of Solange Vernet was none of her business. “Do you really think I could be a murderer?” he had shouted. “Can you really believe that?” She had finally answered, “No, of course not,” although she did not know what to think. There had been a kind of madness in his pursuit of Solange Vernet. An irrationality that went beyond Paul’s usual doubts and temper tantrums. How was she to know whether he had done it? He never told her anything. He probably said more about what was going on in his head in any one letter to Zola than he revealed to her in a year.
And it wasn’t as if she had tried to keep Zola’s arrival a secret. She just did not want to mention it until she was sure Zola would come, because she didn’t want to get Paul’s hopes up. After all, she had told Marie about the telegram, and she could have told Paul if she had wanted to. Evidently, though, brother and sister were not talking much these days either. Or Marie did not want to admit that the only one who knew what needed to be done was Paul’s mistress, the taken-for-granted Hortense Fiquet.
Hortense managed a smile and a wave for Paul Jr. as he signaled her from the north end of the platform. He’d stay put for a while, so that he could be the first to spot the train. All she had told the boy was that Cézanne’s friend was coming for a visit. Even at his age, he knew who Zola was, although he hadn’t seen him for years. She had warned him not to shout out a greeting. They needed to keep the great Zola all to themselves.
Hortense crossed her arms again. What had really gotten to her, the night before, was that Paul seemed more upset about “involving Émile” than the possibility that she might think he was a murderer. What did her opinion matter? Or her feelings? When she realized that he cared more about what Zola thought than she did, Hortense had been ready to give Paul as good as she got. Until she saw the look in his eyes. It had always been there, that look of being hurt when he was angry. Hurt that his work never turned out on canvas exactly the way he saw it in his head, that no one recognized what he was doing. These days, she saw the hurt more and more often.
She opened her purse and took out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. She couldn’t be crying when Zola arrived. She had to be strong and alert and ask all the right questions if she wanted to find out the truth. Paul must have told Zola something. Just last month, when they were up north, Paul had spent two whole weeks circling Zola’s grand estate like a dog in heat, waiting to get in. It had been just like him not to check first and find out that Médan was filled with guests. Instead, he settled the three of them across the river with the excuse that he was painting the landscape. When Zola finally admitted him, he had gone alone. And he never told her about anything they had discussed.
Hortense put her handkerchief back and stared out toward the tracks. After the visit, Paul had, for the first time, made fun of his friend, saying his belly was growing even faster than his wealth and fame. The way Paul described it, Zola received him in his huge study like some kind of pasha, dressed in a pure silk smoking jacket, surrounded by expensive antiques and books, offering only the best cigars and wines. Maybe that was the real source of his upset: Paul could no longer stand it that his childhood friend was so much more successful than he was. Or maybe he was afraid that if Zola knew too much about the murder, he would include it in one of his novels. But how was she to know unless he said something to her?
“Maman, it’s coming.”
Hortense peered toward the north and saw the gray wisps of smoke. She pulled at her gloves and patted her hair again. As the locomotive chugged and hissed its way into the station, those standing on the platform backed away to escape the noise and the smoke. When the train finally came to a halt, Hortense spotted Zola almost at once. It was just like him to be standing in the vestibule, legs apart, hands behind his back, absorbing every detail. Although he was a relatively short man, he always managed to seem larger than life. Yes, he had grown fatter, just as Paul said, and he was decked out in an expensive travel suit and bowler. Still, seeing him for the first time in years brought tears to her eyes. Much was the same: the high forehead, the stubby nose, and the ever-attentive, almost feminine eyes. This was the famous oft-caricatured Zola. But this was also Émile, growing older like the rest of them, his short bristly beard flecked with gray, his eyes undoubtedly a little dimmer behind the famous pince-nez. This was Émile, who had rescued them again and again, paying off bills when Paul Jr. had been deathly ill, giving them loans he knew would never be repaid, encouraging Paul’s work, and urging him to return to Paris. Émile, the friend. Perhaps even Émile, the savior.
Hortense waved and moved toward Zola as he jumped off the train. She grabbed his arm and steered him through the bustle toward a relatively quiet corner of the platform.
“Hortense,” he put down his luggage, lifted her gloved hand to his lips, and kissed it in greeting. Then he turned to see Paul Jr., who had come up behind them. Zola took hold of her son’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length, admiring him. “Look at this strapping boy. My, my, how you have grown. So handsome, too. Just like your Papa said.”
Paul Jr. smiled, bouncing up and down on his toes. The famous Zola!
“Alexandrine did not come with you?” Hortense asked, only out of politeness. She doubted that Zola’s wife had any interest in a rescue mission. Alexandrine had always treated her and Paul like interlopers.
“No, no. As I told Paul in July, I was hoping to finally come down here this summer, to refresh my memories about the place—and to spend some time with all of you, of course—but Alexandrine,” he pursed his lips and shook his head, “her health. And when she heard about the cholera scare, that was it. We decided to go to Mont Dore instead. Better for her, you know.”
How nice to have a solicitous husband who took your complaints seriously. And God knows, Alexandrine was always complaining. “Let’s go.” Hortense linked her arm in Zola’s and began maneuvering him through the station. Her son picked up Zola’s bag and followed closely behind. “Should we hire a carriage, or walk?” she asked. “It’s not very far.”
“Walk. Definitely.” Zola responded enthusiastically. “I’ve only got today and tomorrow morning. I should get a good look at the town. I’m doing another Plassans novel.”
“What’s Plassans?” the question came from behind them.
“M. Zola’s name for Aix.” Hortense whispered to her son. “Shhhhhhh.”
“That’s right.” Zola patted her on the arm and then turned back toward Paul Jr. “Shhhhhh. Let’s not let anyone know I’m in town. We’ll take the back streets. I don’t want to pass any booksellers. Although,” he confided to Hortense, “they may not even recognize me in this place.”
False modesty. Even so, she was surprised that they were moving so easily past the other passengers, when Zola came to a full stop, staring ahead of him. Her eyes followed his. There stood Paul in his cap, wrinkled pants, and worn-out jacket. That morning he had sworn he was returning to the Jas and wo
uld have no part of “this business.” She should have known that he would not be able to resist seeing Émile. The two men stood stock-still for a moment. Then they stepped forward and hugged each other. When Paul leaned back to look at Émile, she saw tears in his eyes. “At last I’ve got you back here,” he said.
“Yes,” Émile nodded, “at last.”And then they hugged each other again.
“Well, we must make the most of it. Did you bring some tramping clothes?”
Hortense’s heart sank. Would the two of them be at it again, and leave her out as usual? “But Émile,” she interrupted, “we don’t have much time.”
Émile slapped Paul on the back and shrugged. “Neither, my dear, do we. Wouldn’t it be possible to say all we have to say at supper? Or,” he glanced at the boy, “afterwards?” As she began shaking her head, Émile took her hand. “I promise I will find out everything I can while we are visiting the old haunts.”
Hortense shot Paul an angry look. After everything he had said last night! It was bad enough that Émile announced he was only staying the day. She had to get him into the courthouse to show the judge once and for all how important their connections were.
“Come on, Hortense,” Paul stepped forward and put his finger under her chin, directing her eyes toward his. “Émile has not been back here for years, and he doesn’t have much time.” How, Hortense wondered, did he know that? Émile must have sent a longer message to the Jas. Before she could say anything, Paul had turned toward his old friend. “I’ve hired us a donkey cart. We’ll go to the river, tramp around, and be in town by supper. And I’ll tell you everything that’s been going on,” he looked back toward Hortense, “I promise.”
Hortense found Cézanne’s drawling Provençal accent, which seemed to grow stronger with each passing day, especially irritating when he was attempting to mollify her. Even though she was bursting with things to say, she was speechless with fury.
“Can I come too?” Paul Jr. finally piped in.
“No, young man, no. This afternoon is for your father and his old friend. But, as soon as I get somewhere I can change, I think I’ve got something in that pack for you.” Émile pointed to the bag by the boy’s side.
“Well,” said Hortense, “since the daily train doesn’t leave until noon, at least you’ll have time.”
“Time for—”
She tilted her head toward the boy.
“Yes, yes,” Émile coughed. “I’ll find the time to do what needs to be done.”
“Excuse me, could you be—” a young man who had been selling oranges was standing before Émile, cap in hand. The station was rapidly emptying out around them.
“Zola? Yes.” Émile stretched out his hand. He never ignored a working man.
“Thank you,” the young man said as he shyly reached for Zola’s hand. “My family read parts of Germinal in the papers. My father was a miner near Gardanne. You told the truth. That’s what it’s like for us. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you.” Émile reacted in a way that was meant to be modest and gracious, although Hortense, having observed this scene before, knew that deep down Zola had great pride in what he had accomplished.
“Come, come.” Paul clapped his friend on the back. “We must be going! Get you out of town.” He smiled at the orange seller in mock apology as he led Zola away. The man stood back, still in awe. With his arm on Zola’s shoulder, Paul led him out of the station. Gesticulating with his other hand, he probably was detailing the plans for their outing. It was so irritating to watch the two of them carry on. No wonder Paul did not dare look back at her. He knew she had every reason to be angry with him.
Hortense was left to trail the two men to the donkey cart. She’d have to find some way to amuse her disappointed son, to shop and cook their dinner. She was left to stew all day, and to figure out what the great Zola could do to help them.
23
MARTIN WENT BACK TO HIS ROOM to change for the courthouse. He had to hurry, before Franc began to ask questions. He slung his vest over the chair, unbuttoned his shirt, and wiped his face, chest, and neck with the towel hanging by his basin. He pulled his frock coat, top hat, and cravat from the armoire and threw them on the bed. How ridiculous these expensive clothes looked, flung about in his shabby little room. Ridiculous and utterly necessary. These, Martin thought as he slipped on the jacket, are the signs of my rank, my coat of arms, my only protection. He needed to look every bit a judge if he were going to prevail in the inevitable confrontation with his inspector.
After yanking his cravat into place, he was almost ready. Only the most important task remained: concealing Solange Vernet’s letter. He carefully stuffed the delicate envelope into the inside pocket of his frock coat and ran his hand over its front, smoothing away the bulge.
When he got to the Palais, he was not surprised to meet Franc halfway up the grand staircase.
“Where have you been, sir?”
Martin detected an accusatory tone in Franc’s voice. “On a wildgoose chase,” he answered as he leaned against the polished wooden railing, in a pose of equanimity.
“Sir?”
“Our prisoner, in his ravings yesterday, mentioned a hidden letter. Something Mme Vernet wrote just before she died. I went looking for it. It didn’t say much that was relevant to our case.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it? I could have sent one of the boys.”
“I wanted to see it myself first.” Martin kept his voice even, and goaded himself to keep looking Franc in the eye, searching for any sign that the inspector knew more about Merckx’s visit to Aix than he was saying.
“So what’s in the letter? Can I see it?” Franc moved a step closer to Martin.
“All it said was that she loved Westerbury and planned to break off with Cézanne.” This was, of course, far from all that had been revealed. Who, Martin wondered, was playing the more deceitful role—him or his inspector?
“A whore, just like I thought she was. Still, I should read it. Maybe I’d see something else in it.” Franc was as aggressive as ever.
Martin shook his head, acting out the scene that he had imagined all the way to the Palais. “Westerbury told me where to find the letter only on the condition that I would not show it to anyone until absolutely necessary. I have to keep that pledge, at least for the time being, if I am going to get anything out of the Englishman the next time we talk.” Martin expected his inspector to complain about this agreement, but he was not about to give in. It was less a matter of the Englishman’s sensibilities than his own. For he realized at that moment that he did not want Franc poring over Solange Vernet’s confessions. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. If he hadn’t caught himself, his hand would have gone up to his chest in a protective gesture. Instead, he gave his frock coat a little tug while he watched Franc trying to contain his impatience.
Martin broke the silence first. “I understand you found the note.”
“Yes, I left it on your desk.”
When? Martin wondered. But he did not ask. Not when he was about to stir up a hornet’s nest. “I’d like to see Westerbury right away. I need to clear a few things up.”
“And then?” Franc’s terseness spoke louder than his words ever had.
“I’ll need to see Cézanne, first thing in the morning.”
“Why? You’re not thinking of letting the Englishman go again, are you?”
“I’ll decide after I talk to him. In any case, you can keep someone on him.”
Franc clapped his hand to the side of his leg in exasperation. “Don’t you understand? You’ve got your man. This case should be easy.”
“I want to make sure I have the right man.”
“Look,” Franc pointed up toward Martin’s chambers. “When you see that note, you’ll see it’s in the Englishman’s hand.” The hand that anyone could have copied from Westerbury’s posters.
“You’ve got him! Unless there was something in that letter—”
“Only as I told you. She was go
ing to break it off with the artist. That makes him the more likely suspect.” Martin still did not understand why Franc so adamantly preferred the charlatan geologist to the failed artist as a suspect. Unless it was because a foreigner would be so much easier to prosecute. “Let me talk to the Englishman again,” Martin continued, “and I’ll decide what to do with him.”
Franc’s mouth and mustache hardened into a straight, grim line.
“Westerbury?” Martin’s heart began to pound, but he kept his voice calm.
Still, Franc did not move.
“I think,” Martin was trying desperately to maintain the upper hand, “that you have to trust me to know what to do with the suspects. At this critical point in the case, it is best if we each concentrate on our own jobs.”
“I have been doing my job.”
“I know you have. But what about the boy?”
“What about the boy?” This came out almost as a growl, as if Franc were making a monumental effort to keep his emotions under control.
“Do we have any idea who the boy was? Do we know what part of town he was from? Hasn’t anyone come to you about a missing child?” These questions were so obvious that, despite his own efforts to remain calm, Martin’s voice kept rising. “Surely, if we know who he was and where he was from, we might be able to track down an important witness, someone who saw him getting paid to take a message.” Someone who saw the real murdering rapist.
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