Their fingers were touching, but she could not reach for him or even look at him. She doubted that he would have given up on Solange Vernet if she were still alive. Could he ever really give up being a child? Chasing after dreams? Raging in despair because he was not Émile or Monet? Why should she believe him?
He took hold of her hand again. “And I promise, before the year is up, I will tell my father about us. And we will marry if you will still have me.”
She almost pulled away again. If she would still have him? What choice did she have? She had given him her youth. Who else would have her?
“Hortense?”
“What?” This came out sharply, almost breaking the mood.
“Will you still have me?” He almost sounded humble, like this was what he really wanted, like this was what she really deserved.
“Yes,” she swallowed hard. “Yes, of course.”
“As soon as possible?”
She could barely get the words out. “As soon as possible.” Her heart was pounding. If nothing else went wrong, it they didn’t drag him off to the guillotine, she would be Mme Cézanne with an inheritance and a future. It was terrible to feel no joy after waiting for so long.
“Good!” Just as oblivious to her feelings as ever, he got up to retrieve the bottle and pour more wine for both of them.
She forced herself to smile when they clinked glasses. There was nothing romantic about the moment. The marriage was an arrangement, necessary for her and for their son. Then it would not matter whether Paul ever became successful or not. At least they’d all have bread in their mouths.
After they had managed to consume the wine, they got up and walked toward the bedroom. Would they lie on their bed, as they had for months, two separate islands of thwarted hopes and desires? She was not sure she was ready to make love with him. And she was not sure that he was ready to, either.
Thursday, August 27
Hydrangeas were especially popular in the late nineteenth century, and they flourished in the Midi. The French word for this plant is hortensia, which occasioned the charming verbal-visual pun that makes this page so winning, giving it something of the quality of a valentine.
—Joseph J. Rischel, Cézanne10
29
WESTERBURY SAT IN THE SUN-FILLED SALON, enjoying his morning tea. Although he had no way to pay her, Arlette was still keeping up appearances. This morning she had discreetly waited for him to rise and wash up, then promptly delivered a tray with all the right accoutrements: napkin, steaming pot of tea, pitcher of warmed milk, slices of fresh bread, and a bit of jam and butter. No reason to discourage the service, Westerbury thought with a sigh. After all, what choice did she have? Like him, Arlette was stuck in Aix until things were settled. The real problem was how many more mornings would she be able to go to the baker, the grocer, and the butcher. That’s why he had to see Picard as soon as possible. Westerbury took a long, last sip, before pushing the tray away. Of course, the notary might refuse to probate the will until the judge indicted the killer. Just one of the reasons why it made no sense for him to try to get on with his life until he—or someone else—had avenged Solange’s murder.
He certainly could not concentrate on his work. Westerbury had spent most of the previous day trying to deal with the chaos the police had created during their search. He managed to put his fossils and rocks back in order, but he had not had the heart to touch the pile of papers that Arlette had stacked on his desk. How long would it take before he built up the courage to go through them? What if he had nothing new to say? What if wiser men had said it all before, and said it better than he ever could? Westerbury got up from the armchair. No. He could not let all his old fears paralyze him. He had to do something.
Westerbury brushed the crumbs off his pants and approached the tall windows that faced the Cours. He didn’t have to lean out very far to see that they had posted a gendarme at the front door. Going to the Jas would be too dangerous, but he could use the servants’ entrance and make his way to the rue Matheron. Solange had told him about the Cézannes’ apartment on one of their last good nights. The idiot had actually once proposed that he and Solange meet there. Westerbury clutched at the heavy velvet curtain. If only he had believed in her laughter and smiling eyes when she scoffed at the very idea.
“M. Westerbury. Are you through with your breakfast things?”
Good God! She certainly had a way of creeping up on you. Soon Arlette would be filling the room with her mournful sighs.
“M. Westerbury?”
“Yes, dear.” He turned to Arlette and forced a smile. “Could you bring me the cap and jacket I use for my explorations?” Best to look as inconspicious as possible while he was on the hunt.
After his successful escape from the building, Westerbury took a circuitous route to the north end of the city, criss-crossing his way toward the rue Matheron. Every few blocks, he stepped inside a doorway to see if he was being followed. When he was sure there was no one behind him, he started up again. He did not know the address, but he did know what most of the Cézannes looked like. He had “met” the mother and sister at the Jas the night before his arrest, and he once had seen the mistress, en famille so to speak. All three women were horrors. Then there was the boy, who had fully inherited his parents’ utter lack of grace. If none of them appeared, he’d still learn something, that he’d have to search for Paul Cézanne someplace else.
Unfortunately, the narrow rue Matheron offered few good doorways from which to make his observations, so Westerbury settled on a corner, where he stood in the hot sun for almost an hour. During that time, the only people who passed through the street were an old woman carrying a basket to market, and a man in a bowler off to do some business. Just as Westerbury was about to give up, the Cézanne boy came running out of a doorway. Westerbury’s heart leaped as he quickly hid behind a building. They were there. When he peered around the corner again, he saw the mistress, armed with a marketing basket, following her son. Happy lad. His father must be nearby. Westerbury pasted himself up against the wall and thought. If there is food-shopping, they must be planning for dinner. Dinner for Mama and Papa and Son, in an hour or so. He was dying of thirst. He’d have plenty of time to get a drink.
Just one for Solange, his dear girl; that had been his intention. Just a little something to buck him up for the battle. Then Westerbury dedicated a second drink to science and its practitioners, and a third to Sir Charles Lyell, the greatest of them all. He found that the creamy green liquid went down so well, when you had the time to sip at it, that he had to order another. Who cared if the barkeeper gave him a suspicious look as he got out the bottle and water again? He had no other customers, and Westerbury wanted more. He watched impatiently as the man poured a bit of the absinthe into a tall glass. As soon as he was done, Westerbury added a spoonful of sugar and mixed in the water. Fortification, that’s what was required. So he wouldn’t give in. So he’d be the avenger, the truth-seeker. As long as they let him. That thought brought him up short. And, indeed, when he glanced behind him, he spied a gendarme peeking in the window of the café. Their eyes met, but the policeman did not enter. Instead, without giving any indication of whether or not he recognized Westerbury, he left. Time to move on. Westerbury sent some coins clattering across the zinc counter and left. He made sure no one was trailing him, then headed back toward the rue Matheron.
When he turned the corner, he saw Cézanne almost immediately, ambling toward his townhouse, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. How homey, Westerbury thought, how gallant. How disgusting! A rage tore through him, driving him toward Cézanne. “Murderer! Coward!” he shouted. By the time he reached the startled artist, his hands were poised to take him by the neck and strangle him. Cézanne threw the flowers aside. He grabbed Westerbury’s arms, and, with surprising strength, pulled him away.
“Say something!”
Cézanne remained mute, holding on to Westerbury with an iron grip.
“Say something. Co
nfess. You did it!”
“No,” Cézanne shook his head, “no.”
Westerbury managed to push him up against a wall. “Let go of me!” Westerbury demanded, and amazingly, Cézanne did just that.
Westerbury’s hands clenched with fury. He threw a punch right in the artist’s ugly face.
Cézanne did not move. So Westerbury threw another, this time drawing blood from the murdering coward’s nose. Still Cézanne remained motionless.
“What is wrong with you? Talk to me. Tell me what you did to her!”
“Nothing. I did nothing.” The artist began shifting his head from side to side. Seeking help? Or making sure that no one was about to hear them? What did it matter to Westerbury? He had him now.
“Oh yes, that’s right. When Solange was a mere girl, you did nothing. You scoundrel. Nothing!”
Cézanne swallowed hard, and looked straight at Westerbury. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Westerbury’s arm shot out in an attempt to take another strike at Cézanne’s face. This time the artist fended off the blow, but still did not hit back.
“What’s wrong with you? Do I need to knock it out of you?”
“I didn’t remember. And when I found out—”
“You killed her!” Westerbury’s next blow was again blocked by the artist’s strong arm.
“No, no. I couldn’t. Never.”
This time Westerbury aimed for Cézanne’s belly, and knocked some wind out of him. When Cézanne bent over to cover the pain, Westerbury hit him in the head again, sending him reeling to the ground. With a yelp of pain he realized he had struck so hard that he might have broken something in his hand. So he began to kick Cézanne on his legs and back, while the artist tried to protect himself by rolling into a ball.
“Tell me the truth!” Silence again. Why was the idiot taking the punishment and not striking back? Westerbury drew back, breathing hard.
“Tell me the truth!” he roared. You could not engage in an honorable duel if only one of you was manly enough to fight.
Cézanne peeked out from hands cupped around his face. “I told you. It wasn’t me. I couldn’t kill anyone.”
Was he supposed to believe the lying coward? Before he was able to strike another blow, Cézanne scrambled on all fours to the wall of the house across from his own and turned around to face his assailant, his legs folded up against his body. “You knew before she died that she did not love me. You knew, didn’t you?”
Cézanne was begging to have his humiliation confirmed. “Love you? Love you?” Westerbury retorted. “Of course I knew!” He kicked hard at the artist’s calves. Cézanne did not even cry out.
He did not have to because, before either of them noticed, they had company. Franc pinned Westerbury to the wall, in one swift straight-arm motion, while a gendarme pulled Cézanne to his feet.
“You were supposed to stay out of trouble,” Franc said, and smiled, showing the full range of his hideous tobacco-stained teeth.
That smile so enraged Westerbury that he grabbed at the inspector’s hair, pulling it hard. He only reached the greasy mane because his arm was longer than Franc’s, but certainly not stronger. The brute punched him in his side so hard that he nearly vomited with the pain.
“Let him be.” Westerbury heard Cézanne’s voice through the ringing in his ears. “Let him be. We were just talking.”
“Just talking, huh? I should take you in too. Lucky for you that you have a rich father.” Franc’s voice was full of disdain.
Through blurred vision, Westerbury saw Cézanne meekly picking up the flowers. Even though he had a rich father, even though he was a native, the lying, murdering coward did not try to challenge Franc.
“Are you going to fight me, or just walk back to the prison peaceably?” The burly inspector still had Westerbury by one shoulder. Franc pressed him hard against the stone wall and shook his fist in his face.
Westerbury glanced down at his limp, helpless hands, one bloody and starting to swell, the other streaked with black pomade, the symbol of his tragically ephemeral victory against the French police. What choices did he have? Get beaten to a pulp, or surrender. So he stepped ahead of Franc, holding himself with the rectitude born of dignity and honor, as he marched back to his own cruel purgatory. Perhaps this time the dim-witted Arlette would be smart enough to come looking for him and get him out.
30
THE SCENE WAS ALL TOO FAMILIAR. Franc and Westerbury blustering away at him. This time together, in his chambers, replete with mutual recriminations. Martin sank back in his chair. God, he was weary.
“Where’s Old Joseph?” Franc demanded. “We’ve got him here. Let’s get him to confess right now and have it all written up nice and official.” The inspector was so eager to put Westerbury away that he had not moved from the doorway that divided Martin’s office from the foyer.
“I sent my clerk out for a long lunch because we had no witnesses scheduled for today,” Martin said evenly. He could not imagine what would make Franc think that Westerbury was about to confess to anything. “As for you,” he said to the Englishman, who was sitting in one of the witness chairs across from his desk, “let’s see what we are going to do with you.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong, I told you. I just tried to find the murderer, which is more than I can say for either you or that brute over there.” Westerbury’s eyes were glazed over. He had been drinking again.
“He claims he’s done nothing!” The inspector scoffed. “I told you that we saw him kicking the artist right in the middle of the street. Assault, disturbing the peace, disobeying the conditions of his release, and assaulting an officer of the law.”
“Just defending myself. Trying to hold you back by your greasy hair.” Westerbury held up his pomade-streaked hand for one and all to see.
“Why, I should—” Franc made a lunge for the Englishman.
“Stop! Enough!” They were like two children, the one the schoolyard bully, the other the weakling, driven by drink to challenge him. “Is Cézanne going to press charges?” Martin had to insert some rationality into the proceedings and get them away from him.
“No! He wouldn’t dare.” This was Westerbury.
“That,” Martin said coldly to the Englishman, “is most certainly not for you to decide.”
Martin turned to his inspector. “Did you talk to him? Does he want to press charges?”
“No, he’s just as cowardly as this one. Maybe getting a bloody nose scared him. Give him time to think it over, though. I bet he’ll come running to you, complaining.” Franc’s legs were set in an open stance, ready to pounce and pound.
No complaint, then. Martin sighed. He had a number of choices. He could fine Westerbury on the spot, throw him in jail, or wait for someone to file charges.
Martin reached for his pen, still not sure what to write on the order, when Westerbury decided his own fate.
“You know as well as I do that he did it,” he pleaded with Martin. “You read the letter. She hated him. She hated him for what he saw twenty years ago. He watched her being raped and—”
Suddenly there was silence. Westerbury stopped short, no doubt realizing his blunder. Martin gripped his pen. He had kept his word to the Englishman by downplaying the importance of the letter in his conversation with his inspector, and the idiot had let the cat out of the bag. Without even looking up, he knew that Franc was staring down at him. Keeping his hand as steady as he could, Martin began writing. “Mr. Westerbury, we’ll keep you in prison for forty-eight hours, which should give you a nice long time to reconsider your actions. The next time it will be for much longer, at least a week, I guarantee you.” All he could think about was what he was going to say to Franc once they were alone.
Westerbury was on his feet. “I will die for her if I have to.” The chivalrous knight’s last stand—and a feeble one at that, considering his ineptitude.
“There’s a gendarme outside?” Martin’s mouth had run dry. He had to get Franc out of the room.
“Tell him to take the prisoner away. We can catch up when you are done.”
The inspector nodded. He stood stock still for another moment, making sure he communicated the full depth of his displeasure. Then he grabbed Westerbury by the shoulder and began shoving him out the door.
As soon as they were outside of his chambers, Martin opened his cabinet and searched frantically in the folds of Solange Vernet’s dress for her letter. When he found it, he grabbed the envelope and placed it on top. He slammed the door closed and replaced the key in his desk, beating Franc’s return only by an instant.
The inspector returned, eyes narrowed, fists slightly clenched, as if he were about to “soften up” some petty criminal. It took a supreme act of will for Martin to remind himself that he was not charged with anything. Yet. He rose to speak first.
“As I told you, I promised Westerbury that I’d try to keep the contents of the letter confidential for as long as possible.” His heart was pounding so hard that he was sure that Franc could hear it.
“And you also told me that it contained nothing important, no new information.”
“I am not sure it does.”
“Well, Westerbury thinks so. And it seems like you trust a criminal more than you trust me.” The inspector was so enraged that bits of spittle were flying onto his chin.
“That is not so. I was trying to keep my word. And I am not sure the Englishman is a criminal. Being a pompous ass is not yet a crime, as far as I know.”
“Being a murderer is.”
“I am not convinced he did it.”
“Then who did?” Franc shouted.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. It was one of them.”
“And your proof is?” In the midst of battle, Martin somehow was finding the nerve to hold his own.
“Let me see that letter.” This was more than a demand, it was a threat.
Cezanne's Quarry Page 28