Cezanne's Quarry

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  “Franc probably just went along with my aunt and uncle to get on their good side,” Clarie continued, as she dipped a cold carrot into the aioli. “They are so worried about me.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Clarie shook her head vigorously as she chewed. “I’m excited about the school. And I can always come back home.”

  At least she has a home to come back to, Martin thought, as he plunged a piece of fish into the garlicky white sauce.

  “Don’t you long to get back to Lille?”

  “No.” Not the Lille of his mother’s expectations and his memories of Merckx.

  “You mean,” Clarie said, “they don’t have a young woman back there waiting to marry you? That’s my aunt’s greatest fear, that there is someone already.” She smiled and glanced back toward the kitchen, where the clatter of dishes assured them that the Choffruts were still busy. “If you do,” she whispered, leaning closer to him, “don’t tell her until I leave for Sèvres, or she might ask Franc to find someone else to try and keep me here.”

  Martin found this less amusing than Clarie did. “Actually,” he said as he slowly swirled a piece of potato around his plate, “before I left Lille I was almost engaged. The only problem was that I didn’t want to be.”

  “Why?” She stopped, suddenly serious. “I mean, why were you supposed to marry her and why didn’t you want to?”

  “She is the eldest daughter of distant relatives to whom my mother and I owe a great deal. She’s a handsome, fine young woman, but—” he did not want to be unkind to Marthe DuPont. “Her father’s a monarchist. A rich, influential monarchist,” he said, as if that would explain everything.

  “And you don’t love her.”

  “We’re very different. She . . . for example, she took some poor souls to Lourdes this month on the National Pilgrimage.” Martin stuffed the piece of potato into his mouth. He had said too much already. He certainly did not want to talk about the letter he had just received from Marthe, describing “her” poor and “her” sick, and begging him to come with her next year to witness the miracles.

  Clarie gave him a wry smile. “Not loving her is enough of a reason not to marry. Anyone who describes his fiancée as a ‘handsome, fine young woman’ certainly does not love her.”

  Martin was shocked. Marthe DuPont would never have said such a thing. Neither, he was sure, would Solange Vernet. Perhaps Franc was right. This one was indeed a bit wild. Not for the first time, he caught himself imagining what she would look like with her dark hair unfurled from the Arlésienne knot she wore on top of her head. He focused on his plate. He was not used to the clamor of feelings that Clarie aroused in him, wanting to be nearer to her at the very moment he felt like pulling away.

  “Sorry.” It was Clarie’s turn to concentrate on her plate as she toyed with her food. “This is not my affair. I know how fortunate I am. My father would never pressure me into an arranged marriage. I shouldn’t have. . . .”

  Martin was struggling to find the most gracious way to accept her apology, when they heard the bell. In walked Franc, setting off the all-too-familiar pounding in Martin’s chest. How in God’s name did his intrepid inspector always know where to find him?

  “There you are,” Franc said as he marched through the empty restaurant right up to their table. “I looked for you at the Palais and decided to see if you were out and about.”

  “Hello Franc,” Martin pushed himself to his feet. Before he had time to make the obligatory offer of a seat, Franc had pulled out the chair beside Clarie. “Do you have any more of that?” his thick, callused finger pointed at their meal.

  Clarie got up immediately. “Certainly. Besides, you two probably want to talk for a few minutes alone.”

  Martin was about to protest, when Clarie hastily added, “It’s all right. The aioli can wait, and so can I.” She had her back to Franc and gave Martin a look which seemed to say more, a warning not to do anything foolish. Before she left, she touched Martin’s hand ever so lightly to calm him down. This gesture did not escape the inspector, who winked at Martin as Clarie headed toward the kitchen.

  Martin ignored him. He could barely stand to look at Franc’s grizzled, hardened face. This time he was more irritated than frightened by his inspector’s unexpected appearance.

  “Look, if they’ve got something in the kitchen for me, I’ll move over to another table and eat with the aunt and uncle,” Franc said. “Don’t worry. I won’t ruin your tête-à-tête.”

  You ruined it already.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I read the letter.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t see anything in it that gets us anywhere. It’s still either Cézanne or the Englishman. Who else?”

  “You don’t think the earlier rape is important?” As much as he resented Franc’s presence, he knew this discussion was essential.

  “Not unless Cézanne can identify the rapist. Did he say he could? What did he say about it?”

  Martin sighed. “Nothing really. He claims he doesn’t remember it at all, except that it could be the source of the nightmares that he put on canvas during those years. He may be telling the truth. He seems to be completely without guile. Maybe seeing Sophie Vernet violated unbalanced him in some way. Especially because he did not act to help.” Martin shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Well,” Franc shrugged, “even if he could remember something, fiddling around with the servants happens all the time. It’s probably too old and too minor a crime to prosecute. You know that better than me. Certainly no one would commit a murder to hide it.”

  Martin clenched his jaw and poured himself a glass of water from the pewter pitcher that Clarie had set on the table. It was so like his hypocritical self-righteous inspector to describe the brutality of what had happened to the young Sophie Vernet as “fiddling around.” Yet Franc was staring at him, waiting for confirmation.

  “It is past the statute of limitation on rape,” Martin finally conceded. “So you don’t think the earlier crime is important?”

  Franc pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t think it gets us anywhere.”

  “Then what about the money?”

  “What do we know about that?”

  “Nothing.” Another dead end.

  “Then I say that we get the Englishman to confess.”

  “I don’t think he did it. How could he, after he read that letter?”

  “Oh, come now,” Franc said disdainfully. “I’ve seen more murders than you. The letter doesn’t prove anything. People are harder, more greedy, more evil than you think they are. But you’ll learn.”

  Martin took a sip of water. Even though Franc was much more experienced than he, Martin did not agree with him. If Westerbury had any feelings for Solange Vernet—certainly if he felt the passion for her that he proclaimed to the world—the Englishman could not have felt anything but the deepest remorse. After their quarrel, he should have gone to her immediately, on his knees. He should have begged forgiveness.

  “So let me try to get it out of him.”

  “No,” Martin set down his glass, “I will not send a case forward with a false confession.”

  “Then you may not go forward at all.” The words came out of Franc’s mouth one by one, like drops of water plopping into a dark, hidden cistern.

  Their eyes locked. Merckx again. Perhaps the only way out was to let Franc wrap up the case and get his promotion. But this would serve neither truth nor justice. And Martin still clung to the hope that if he solved the case, he could save himself.

  “Aunt and Uncle say there’s plenty.” Clarie had reappeared facing Franc. “And they would like you to join them as soon as they get done in the kitchen.”

  “Then, in the meantime, why don’t you sit down and start your dinner.” Franc patted the chair beside him.

  Clarie sat down without a word and picked up her knife and fork. She’s being polite for my sake, Martin t
hought. So he followed suit. Clarie speared a piece of fish and began eating it.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.”

  Clarie shrugged and kept chewing, keeping her eyes on her plate.

  “I hope M. Martin hasn’t been filling you up with stories about Zola and his godless novels,” Franc said, persisting.

  “Not yet,” said Martin. He smiled at Clarie, trying to include her in the joke. But she would have none of it.

  “M. Franc!” Henriette Choffrut called out in her lilting high-pitched voice.

  At last.

  The inspector got up and, without another word, tramped across the room. After he had shaken the hand of each of the Choffruts and taken his seat, Clarie leaned over to Martin and whispered “Godless novels! The hypocrite! Let’s eat and get out of here.”

  They finished their meal in silence. Then Clarie cleared their plates and announced to her aunt and uncle that she needed some fresh air before they started on the preparations for the evening meal.

  “Of course, of course.” Henriette Choffrut’s voice was higher and more excited than ever, as if she still believed that Martin was an attractive enough prospect to keep Clarie in Provence.

  “Come,” Clarie said to Martin as soon as they were outside. “Let’s see if there is a place to sit on the square.” Martin had to hurry to keep pace with her, as she led him to the Hôtel de Ville. Since the market was closing down, they had no trouble finding a bench under a plane tree. Across the way, farmers were shouting and laughing as they took down their stalls.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said as soon as they sat down. Her eyes shone with an urgency he had not seen before. “I don’t trust him. I meant it when I called him a hypocrite.”

  Martin took off his hat and laid it on the bench. “You shouldn’t be worrying about me. I should not be involving you in my mistakes.” His fatal mistakes, his crimes.

  “Was it a mistake to keep your oldest friend from a certain horrible death?”

  “And to lead him into another.”

  “You did not do that. Franc did. Or his men did, under his orders. I heard them. I told you.”

  Martin sighed. Was it true that women could not understand the law? “Nevertheless,” he insisted, “I am a judge, and I committed treason.”

  “Shhhhh.” She put her finger to her mouth. “Never say that again.”

  Even though there was no one near them, he knew she was right. That sentence, overheard, could ruin him, or even cost him his life.

  “And why did he come to the restaurant just now? How did he know where you were? Why is he trying so hard to be involved in your life?”

  Even though her questions echoed his own, he tried to make light of them. “He’s a police inspector. Knowing where people are is his job.”

  Clarie grimaced in exasperation, as if he was a child refusing to be reasonable. “Why did he come today? What was he telling you to do?” She looked like she wanted to shake him.

  “We were just talking.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t believe that either of our suspects did it, while Franc is convinced—”

  “I believe in you more than I believe in him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Amazingly, Clarie blushed. “Perhaps I have no right.”

  “No, tell me. You’re the only person I’ve talked to about everything.” In fact, Clarie was the only person he had talked to about anything.

  “It’s like with your friend the deserter. You knew what you had to do. You did what was in your heart. And you were right. You should trust what you are feeling.”

  “Yes, but Franc says that if I were more experienced I would see it differently. He thinks I’m naïve. He thinks that just about anyone is capable of committing murder.”

  “Oh, Franc!” Clarie sprang up from the bench and crossed her arms in disgust. “Haven’t you been listening to me? What about you?”

  “Me? Sometimes I just wonder why all this is happening now. One disaster after another. Sometimes,” Martin said softly, “I’m afraid that, if this is what a judge is, I am not fit to be one. Just not up to it.”

  Clarie sat down again and peered into his face. “Don’t say that. You’ve worked too hard to get where you are.” She waited until a fruit dealer rattled his cart along the cobblestones past their bench before going on. “Have you ever thought that it is Franc who is not fit? The way he takes advantage of everyone. You are a far better man than Franc.”

  Despite his self-doubts, Martin was heartened by the passion in her eyes and the determination in her jaw as she spoke. He loved the fact that all her intensity was mobilized for his benefit. He had to smile.

  “I’m serious!”

  “I know.” He nodded encouragement. He did not care what she was about to say; he just wanted to watch her saying it.

  “And I know there are things you can’t tell me and things I don’t understand about the law. But I do know this: you are every bit as smart as Franc. But,” she was hesitating again, measuring each word, “sometimes you are afraid to follow your instincts, when all you want is justice and you do not want to hurt anyone in the process. As for Franc,” she frowned and began to speak more rapidly, “his instincts are not about justice. All he wants is to get ahead, to be the big man around town. He doesn’t care who he hurts.”

  “Goodness.” She really did dislike Franc.

  Clarie’s determination evaporated, replaced by shock and hurt. She pulled away from him. “You are laughing at me.”

  “No! No, it’s just that. . . .” He didn’t have the nerve to tell her what he was really feeling at the moment. That there was a chance that a girl like Clarie could really care about him.

  “Just ‘that’? Perhaps you are right. It’s not my affair. What does a girl like me know about these things?”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  Before he could continue, Clarie was on her feet again. He reached for her, but only half-heartedly. He had no right to hold on to her, so he didn’t.

  She walked away, her back straight and proud. Before Martin realized that he should run after her, Clarie had disappeared around the corner.

  33

  MARTIN DID NOT BOTHER GOING BACK to his chambers. What was the use? No new evidence awaited him. No witnesses. No one to talk to any longer. Why hadn’t he listened to Clarie? Why had he allowed himself to become so entranced by his own selfish desires that he did not show her the respect she deserved? Yes, respect! Hadn’t she always listened to him? Intently. Seriously. Had she ever smiled when he was trying to tell her what was in his heart?

  Martin meandered through the quiet, sun-bleached streets until he stood in front of the cathedral where he had mourned Merckx. He dragged his feet along the cobblestones where flowers had lain broken and forlorn on the day they discovered Solange Vernet’s body. He rounded the corner where Franc had parked the splintered gray wagon. He had no idea what he was going to do with himself for the rest of the day, until he heard a voice calling for him. “M. Martin, monsieur le juge, we have something for you.” It was little Amélie Picard running toward him in her loose schoolgirl’s pinafore, her brown curls bobbing up and down. “Papa went to find you at the Palais. You’ve got a telegram. It came an hour ago.”

  “From Paris?” Martin’s heart leapt in his chest. Zola!

  “Come,” she took his hand. “Yes, a telegram from Paris. And it’s very long. Papa could tell from the weight of the envelope. Long and expensive, he said. You must be very important.”

  Martin stopped. “Did your father take it with him?” Please, no, Martin thought, as the disastrous image of the ever-curious notary bandying Zola’s message about the town overcame him.

  “No, no. It is here. Maman has it.”

  “Good, good.” Martin nodded sagely, hiding his relief. It took every bit of control he had left in him not to race down the street ahead of the child.

  Mme Picard was at the entrance to
the house, holding a light blue envelope. He wanted to grab it away from her and tear it open, but prudence required that he act like a judge.

  “Here it is,” Mme Picard said as she handed the telegram to him.

  “Should I go try to find M. Picard? Has he been inconvenienced?” Swallowing hard, he barely managed to get these pieties out of his mouth. His mind was racing so far ahead of him. Was there any hope?

  “Oh, no,” she answered, with a wave of her hand. “He was on his way to the office anyway.”

  “Thank you, Mme Picard.” Martin fingered the thin envelope. It did contain more than one page. He tipped his hat toward Amélie. “Thank you for coming to find me. Since it undoubtedly has to do with official business, I need to read it in private.” Thankfully, the girl was so impressed, she almost stood at attention while he squeezed past her and her mother, and, with measured steps, climbed up the stairs.

  As he soon as he was alone inside his room, he barred the door. Then he threw his coat and hat on the bed, unleashed his collar, and tore the envelope open. He turned aside the first page to find the name of the sender. Zola! There was hope.

  Martin flattened the telegram on his table and began to read.

  PARIS 18 AUGUST 1215

  M. BERNARD MARTIN

  14 BIS RUE DES ETUVES

  AIXENPROVENCE

  ARRIVED THIS MORNING VIA ALLNIGHT TRAIN FOUND ARTICLE FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL 7 MAY 1868 COPIED BELOW

  GLOTON

  CHILD MURDER STOP WE HAVE LEARNED FROM ONE OF OUR CORRESPONDENTS OF A HEINOUS CRIME THAT HAS TAKEN PLACE IN A SMALL VILLAGE NOT FAR FROM PARIS STOP THE BADLY DECOMPOSED BODY OF YOUNG LOUIS BERIOT THE 10 YEAR OLD SON OF FRANÇOIS AND JEANNE WAS FOUND IN THE BUSHES NEAR THE SEINE STOP HE HAD BEEN KIDNAPED TWO WEEKS BEFORE STOP ACCORDING TO OUR SOURCES HE WAS STRANGLED SOON THEREAFTER STOP YET THE KIDNAPER DEMANDED A HANDSOME RANSOM PROMISING THE BOYS PARENTS THAT HE WOULD BE RETURNED TO THEM ALIVE STOP FOLLOWING THE ORDERS OF THE KIDNAPER WHICH THEY RECEIVED BY POST THE BERIOTS TOLD NO ONE ABOUT THE MISSING CHILD UNTIL TWO DAYS AFTER THEY HAD LEFT THE RANSOM HIDDEN IN A CAVE NEAR THE RIVER AND THEIR SON WAS NOT RETURNED TO THEM