“That she hated me? No, never.” The artist’s body was limp, his voice barely audible. “Never. She hated me. Because I was a coward.” He was talking to himself more than to Martin. “I loved her so much. I thought she loved me. She was always so beautiful, so gracious with me.” He looked up at Martin. “Are you sure it was me? Did she say she hated me?”
He was pitiful. “Should I read you her words? Will that help your memory?” Martin said as he got up to open the door to his cabinet.
Cézanne held up his hand and shook his head. Martin caught his breath in relief. He had gotten carried away, and forgotten that the letter was hidden among Solange’s clothes. He did not want to go fishing for it in front of the suspect and Joseph. As he closed the door, he caught a glimpse of the forlorn white and green striped dress folded neatly in a box and saw before him the image of the older Solange, of the woman that Sophie had become. He shut the door and held his hand against it, as if his physical force could hold back these images.
“M. Cézanne,” he said quietly. “Did you ever see Mme Vernet without her gloves?”
“Do you mean . . . did I see her . . . unclothed?”
“No,” Martin retorted sharply. “I asked about her gloves. When she went out.”
Cézanne shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“When we found the body, she was not wearing them. Did Mme Fiquet tell you we were looking for them in Gardanne?”
“No, no.” His head was still shaking in confused denial.
Too confused. Too complacent for Martin’s taste. He let go of the door to his cabinet and sat down. “We think,” he said through clenched teeth, “we believe, that they might be covered with paint and blood. Your paint. Solange Vernet’s blood.”
“I’ve told you.” The artist was rocking back and forth in the chair. “I’ve told you. I have not been near her for months.”
“M. Cézanne, if you denied seeing Mme Vernet being raped as a girl, and we know that you did see this heinous crime, how can we believe you when you say that you did not kill her?”
“I did not. I could not. This is impossible.”
“Maybe you did it in your sleep. In your dreams.” Martin hoped his sarcasm would smite the artist.
“No, no. I sleep either in Gardanne or at the Jas. Ask anyone.”
Said in all innocence. Where Cézanne slept, of course, did not matter. Solange Vernet’s rendevous with death must have taken place in the late afternoon or evening. Martin stared at the artist. Had he been so obsessed that he could commit a murder in his waking hours and not know it? Only an alienist could answer that question. If Martin were dealing with some kind of madman, he was well over his head.
But Cézanne did not look mad or crazy. He looked sad, broken down. Martin took one more stab at provoking him. “You know now, don’t you, that you had run across Solange Vernet when you were young and strong, and you chose not help a poor girl—”
“Yes. Yes!” Cézanne obviously did not want to hear him say it again. “What do you want me to do, tear out my eyes? Tell the whole world what a coward I am? That I am blind! What do you want me to do? All I know is that if she said it, it must be so.”
If she said it, it must be so. The poor bastard was still in love with her. In love with the fantasy of his own making. In love with a corpse. Martin sighed. It all seemed so hopeless. It would be so much easier if he did not believe Cézanne. Incapable of lying, isn’t that what Zola had claimed? Westerbury’s words also rang out with the same egotistical, passionate truth. I aspire to greatness! I loved her! That’s enough to prove my innocence! These two were more alike than either of them was willing to admit. To decide between them, Martin needed evidence. The gloves, the knife, the boy, more witnesses. Something!
Cézanne was staring at him. Martin rose to his feet.
“You may go.”
“Huh?”
“I cannot prove whether or not you killed her. Yet. Do not leave town.”
“Well, I didn’t do it,” the artist said as he picked up his cap and, with furtive glances at Martin and Joseph, got up to leave. “I didn’t.”
“And,” Martin said, needing to pound in one more time that Cézanne had betrayed Solange Vernet when she most needed him, “I cannot put you on trial for having witnessed a crime twenty years ago, even though we all know now that you did.”
Cézanne paused for just an instant before his escape. Martin hoped that he was considering who “all” might be, and that he realized that their number included his most hated rival, the man Solange Vernet really loved, Charles Westerbury.
As soon as Cézanne was fully out of his chambers, Martin opened the window all the way, hoping to air out the sadness and disgust that were weighing in on him. There was barely a breeze. But there were the reassuring sounds of life two stories below. Men carting their loads, women off to do the daily shopping, a priest with a heavy wooden rosary hanging from his waist. All of them going about their normal lives, at peace with their thoughts, be they of heaven or the next meal. None of them weighed down by the burden of knowing that they may have caused the death of a boy, and of a friend. None of them a complete failure in everything.
“Sir?”
Joseph was becoming more and more irritating, but at least this time his intrusion saved Martin from a useless descent into self-pity.
“Sir? Is there anything that you need me for?”
“Yes.” Martin wanted neither solicitude nor advice, so he had to keep the his clerk occupied. “Keep checking to see if anyone else on the witness list has reappeared and make the appointments.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martin did not turn around, but he was sure that Old Joseph had bowed his head ever so slightly, accepting his orders. “When you’re done here, I’ll do the locking up.”
“All right, sir.”
With slow, gentle steps, the little man retreated into the alcove to begin working through the list. It was unlikely that any of the remaining salon participants would return to town before the Proc. And when the prosecutor did come back, it was very likely that he would take the case away from Martin. Or worse, prosecute him—depending on what Franc knew or was willing to tell about Merckx. There was a chance that Zola’s telegram—if he actually sent it—would reveal something. In the meantime, Martin had to do the one thing he was good at, think through everything again and again, persevering even though he knew that his hopes were hanging on a very thin thread.
28
HORTENSE WAITED FOR HIS RETURN ALL day and all night. She finally got Paul Jr. to bed by telling him that his father and Zola had decided to spend more time together, exploring old haunts. She knew this could not be true. Émile had made it quite clear that he had important affairs to see to. Besides, whether Paul or Émile were aware of it yet, it was obvious to her that something had changed between them. The extravagant gaiety of the night before—the praise for her dinner, the retelling of schoolboy jokes for Paul Jr.’s benefit, the toasts to old friends and teachers—seemed forced to her. She needed to know what they had really talked about and what Paul had thought of the visit. Had he finally come to terms with the fact that Émile had passed him and everything else in Aix by? Is that why he was wandering about, hiding from her?
Had he betrayed them again by sleeping at the Jas? Or was he in jail? Hortense got up from the sofa to peer at the clock over the fireplace. Two o’clock. She sat down again and stared at the worn Persian rug that covered the floor of the salon. Why was she even worrying about how Paul felt about Émile? What would it matter if he were to go on trial for murder? Why hadn’t one of them come and told her what had happened with the judge? Why hadn’t she heard something from somebody? Anything! Didn’t they know it was her future too? And her son’s? If Paul did not return by dawn, she would start wandering the streets herself. She’d look in all the cafés. She’d go to the prison. If she had to, she’d demand to see the judge and plead her case. And if all else failed, she would do the thing tha
t she had been forbidden to do for so many years: she would go to the Jas.
Just then, Hortense heard a key in the door lock, and Cézanne came stumbling into the family’s apartment, more disheveled than ever.
“Where have you been? I’ve been insane with worry!” Hortense cried as she got up to meet him.
“Walking.”
“Walking? Since when?”
“I’m not sure. Since I saw the judge.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No,” he stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. “But that’s a good idea, dear Hortense. Let’s sit down and have a glass.”
She held him away from her and took a good look at him. He didn’t smell of drink, but his eyes were reddened and dull. With fatigue? Defeat? What had happened?
She followed him into the kitchen. Were they really going to talk, like two adults who actually cared for each other? Or would they begin shouting again?
Her fingers were trembling as she switched on the gas light and uncorked one of the bottles of red wine that they had opened the night before. She poured two glasses and set them on the table, where Paul had already slumped down, his head in his arms. She’d have to be careful. When they were young and in love, she had been so good at gauging his moods. She’d happily chatter away when he wanted to be silent, and instinctively knew when he was ready to tell her what was in his heart, pouring out all his hopes and dreams in great torrents of words and gestures. That had been so long ago.
“Paul?” she touched his arm.
He reached for the glass and took a long drink. Too long. He was not a drinker. He began to sputter and cough. Hortense got up and poured him water from the faucet.
“Thank you. Thank you. I’ve been such a fool,” he pronounced between gulps. “Such a fool. I went after a wisp of a dream, not knowing it was my worst nightmare. I didn’t see what was right in front of me.”
“You mean—” Was he talking about her and their son?
“Everything! Everything! You know”—there were tears in his eyes from his coughing spell—“I pride myself on being able to see what others don’t, below the surface, deep into things. And yet I have been blind to everything.”
“Like Paul Jr. and me.”
He gave her a look of incomprehension, then he nodded. “Yes, like you and our son.”
She wished he sounded more convinced, and convincing. “And Émile?”
“What about Émile?”
She thought for a moment about how to put it. “Did you see something about Émile too?”
“Hah, Émile,” he gave a bitter laugh. “Émile. The big man.” Paul sniffed in, swallowed, then said, “I still love him like a brother, you know. I always will.” Of that she had no doubt. Even during their best years she had suspected that Paul loved Zola more than her. “But,” he went on, “sometimes I feel that he is looking at me under glass, like one of the specimens in his novels, wondering why I haven’t. . . .”
Paul took another gulp of wine without finishing his sentence. He did not have to. Why he hadn’t stayed in Paris, and made something of himself, fulfilled their boyhood dreams. When Paul was courting her, Émile had told her more than once about how he and Paul were going to conquer France together. Paul, who had always protected him when they were in school, was supposed to take the lead. Stories told long ago, Hortense thought. Stories that would never come true. It was best that she change the subject.
She took a sip of wine, not because she really wanted to drink, but because she wanted so much for this to be like a real conversation, going from one thing to another, until they got to the heart of the matter. “Did he talk to the judge?”
“Yes,” Paul said quietly.
“Do you know what he said?”
He shrugged.
“Surely he helped you.”
“Surely? Surely? How can you be so sure? Maybe this would be the best drama of all. Seeing his friend on trial.”
“Oh, Paul, really. He said he would help.” Besides, she was the one who had asked him to come.
Paul stared down at his glass. “Maybe there was nothing he could do to help.”
“What do you mean?” She sat straight up, alert.
“Nothing.”
“Paul,” she pleaded. “Tell me. What happened?”
“Nothing. . . . Nothing that concerns you.”
“Paul, it all concerns me. And your son.”
“Come on, now. Drink something. Relax. It’s going to be all right.”
She must have looked every bit as anxious and exhausted as she felt. But she was not giving in.
“Why didn’t you come back after you saw the judge?”
“I had to think.”
“About what?” Émile? The murder? “What?” She repeated. She wanted to shake him.
He reached over and folded her hand in his. “I didn’t murder anyone. You know that. Westerbury did it. Or some other fool.” With his other hand, he tipped Hortense’s face up toward his, and smiled a little. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t this fool.”
If he hadn’t added that tender little joke, the dam inside her would not have burst. Before Hortense could stop herself she began to cry in great compulsive sobs that shook her entire body. When she finally managed to steady herself, he was holding on to her hand, even tighter. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and looked down at his fingers entwined with hers. How she loved his hands. They were the most frightening, expressive, strong, and gentle part of him. How she longed to feel them again, moving up and down her body, forming her into an object of desire. It was an ache she had almost forgotten. Still, she pulled away and reached in her pocket for a handkerchief to blow her nose. She had to know more.
“Paul, I know you didn’t kill her.” Although, how could she really be sure? In the last few months he had stalked Solange Vernet like a starving animal tracking his prey. Maybe he had finally cornered her in the quarry and. . . . No! That was impossible. Hortense sucked in a breath and continued, “But innocent men are sometimes accused. That’s why I have to know. What did the judge say?”
Paul slumped back in his seat. “He said I was obsessed by her. That’s why he believes I might have killed her. Obsession.”
Seduction was more like it, Hortense thought, remembering all of Solange Vernet’s Parisian airs. “He talked to Émile before he talked to you?” Hortense asked.
Paul nodded.
“And he still thought that you were—”
“Obsessed. But I’m not any more.”
This was hardly a concession, since the witch was dead. Hortense felt the coldness creeping up on her again, clutching at her heart. Sometimes she thought she would never forgive him for everything his foolishness had gotten them into, for his weakness, his self-centeredness—
“Hortense,” he said, “I’m sorry for all I have put you through. For the last few months I’ve been living in a fantasy without even knowing it. A terrible fantasy of a callow, selfish, blind young man. I’ve learned a great deal about myself today. Too much. But it is over.”
He seemed so contrite. Still, Hortense was growing more and more annoyed. She had no idea what he was talking about. “What? What fantasy? What happened?”
Paul thought for a moment before responding. “Hortense, what I have always loved about you is that you have stuck by my side. You have never humiliated me. Or even wanted to.”
Obviously Paul did not realize the depth of her anger. Hortense nodded, waiting.
“Apparently,” he continued, “I had met Solange Vernet before.”
In spite of her best efforts, Hortense gasped. Was it as she had feared? Had Solange posed for Paul? Was she a long-lost love?
“But,” he continued, giving her hand a tug to get her attention, “I did not realize that I had known her. I only saw her maybe two or three times. It was only by chance that she recognized me and invited me into her circle. And then—”
“And then!” Hortense burst out. “How could you have been so
weak, so childish?”
“That, my dear, is the question. How could I have been so weak? So cowardly.”
“Well?”
“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it all day. And I still don’t know. When I saw her those many years ago—”
“Does that matter? Were you lovers back then?”
“No, nothing like that. She was a servant in the inn at Bennecourt even before I took you there.”
“A servant? Why did she remember you?”
“I . . . ,” he stopped and bit his lip. “I didn’t help her when she needed me.”
“That’s it? That’s all? And then years later, she went after you?”
“I should have helped.”
“Oh, Paul,” she said, making an effort to demonstrate her concern, “sometimes you are too tender-hearted. Too ready to give pity. I know that. Sometimes you feel things too deeply.” Not all the time, Hortense thought bitterly, not when it came to her.
Paul had closed his eyes. He was grimacing as if he were in pain. “Someone was hurting her, and I didn’t. . . .”
His hesitations were beginning to drive Hortense mad. “Paul,” she whispered hoarsely, “all I really want to know is if you were lovers these last few months.”
The question seemed to have startled him. Paul stared at her for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No.”
Hortense stopped herself before she asked whose decision that had been. Paul had just said he loved her because she did not try to humiliate him, and Hortense already knew the answer, that Solange Vernet had refused him.
“Perhaps all you need to know,” he said this with patience and kindness, as if he really cared about her, “all you need to believe is that Solange Vernet was the last mistake of my youth. I must not be a dreamer any longer, but a grown man. A man with only three important things in his life, you, our son, and my art. I know now what I am supposed to do. I’m on the right path. I will never let myself be deterred again. I promise you.”
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