by Betsy Draine
Then I remembered there was a small Fragonard outlet in Saint-Paul. Anyone at our conference could have bought the bottle there, tampered with it, and placed it on the shelf at the factory.
“I realize that,” said the lieutenant when I voiced my thought. “First Isabelle La Font is poisoned, and now we have a similar incident involving a member of your group. It seems more than a coincidence.”
“Are you saying this was a personal attack?”
“It’s best not to jump to conclusions. Even so, do you remember who was standing near Madame Bennett when she was sampling the perfume?”
I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the scene. Maggie, Klara, and I were closest to her, Jane Curry too. I thought it odd that Jane had come with us on the trip to Grasse, given that her husband was in the hospital mending from his operation. She did spend the morning with him, but she said he kept ordering her to get out of his room. “He’s in a bad state,” Jane said. “I mean, in his mood. His bones will get better, but he’s not in his right mind. The doctor said I should leave Bruce on his own today and they’ll do tests.”
At the perfumery, Jane was unable to relax and get into the tour. She kept to herself, saying little. Others asked questions and made comments, but she didn’t. And I don’t remember her sampling perfume. It was natural that her mind would be elsewhere, with her husband. But then, could she have kept herself inconspicuous because she was orchestrating a poisoning? Did she have any reason to hurt Shelley?
“What about the men?” asked the lieutenant. “Where was Monsieur Didier?”
“By then the men were at the café.”
“But before they went there?”
“Didier was in the sampling room with the rest of us, but he left abruptly, when the sampling guide started her pitch.” Was that because he’d set the scene in motion and wanted to be out of the way, beyond suspicion, literally? What about the others? Anyone could have placed that bottle on the table. But how could anyone predict who would pick it up?
Then I recalled Ben wandering around the women’s display area before he left with Ray and Thierry. Could he have poisoned his wife? Someone who knew Shelley well enough might predict she’d try a perfume named Dare. And Shelley was consistently nasty to Ben. It wouldn’t be the first time a mild-mannered husband exacted revenge on his shrewish wife.
The lieutenant seemed aware of my distraction and kept silent, perhaps hoping I would offer my thought. When I didn’t, she asked, “Did you see anyone offer the bottle to Madame Bennett?”
“No, she was holding it when she called me over.” Shelley was the one who handed the bottle to me—what if I’d been the target? Was Shelley trying to poison me? No, she sprayed herself first. She wouldn’t have done that if she knew the perfume was poisoned. It was a muddle. Maybe the theory of a random attack by a factory worker made sense after all, coincidence or not.
“I’ll let you know if there is any change in her condition,” said the lieutenant. Then she confirmed the arrangements for my visit to the asylum, which was scheduled for the afternoon. She wanted to know whether I was still willing to speak with Juliette La Font. Of course I was.
“Excellent. She’s expecting you. Present yourself at the reception desk when you arrive and the director will meet you. His name is Dr. Salles.” There was a pause on the line. “One more thing, Madame Barnes. About Fragonard, I’m not sure what’s going on. You will be careful, yes?”
Saint-Rémy-de-Provence is less than two hundred kilometers from the Riviera. Though we were taking the autoroute, Montoni figured on three or four hours, given the rain and a stop along the way for lunch. Ben was with Shelley at the hospital in Grasse. Jane was spending the day in the hall outside her husband’s room, in Cagnes-sur-Mer. Didier was at the gendarmerie being interrogated, and Maggie, heartbroken over losing Emmet, remained at the hotel. Thierry stayed behind with her to offer consolation. The remainder of our troop set out in the gloomy rain to visit the lunatic asylum where Vincent had been confined. Along the way, I reviewed what I knew about his stay there.
There are many theories about Vincent’s illness. Some think his disorder was schizophrenia, some say manic depression; others attribute his condition to malnutrition, lead poisoning from his paints, the abuse of absinthe, or the late stage of syphilis. Freudians have their own opinions. The first doctor to offer a diagnosis was an intern at the hospital in Arles, where Vincent was treated after he slashed off part of his ear in a state of delirium. He concluded that his patient had “a kind of epilepsy.” Soon after Vincent was admitted to the asylum at Saint-Rémy, its director, Dr. Théophile Peyron, accepted that diagnosis, and some recent scholars agree with it.
They suggest that Vincent suffered not from the familiar kind of epilepsy that erupts in physical convulsions but from a more insidious form that generates attacks accompanied by anxiety, hallucinations, and loss of consciousness. Those were the symptoms Vincent described. Brain disorders ran in the Van Gogh family. One of Vincent’s aunts, an uncle, and two cousins were epileptics. Two other uncles, his grandfather, and his sister suffered from some kind of mental illness. Vincent’s younger brother, Cor, committed suicide, and there were suspicions of other suicides in the family going back several generations. Whatever the exact nature of Vincent’s affliction, it was probably genetic.
Vincent had been considered odd since childhood, but as he matured he suffered full-blown fits, which occurred during emotional crises or perhaps caused his emotional crises. In any case, the fits grew worse during his stay in Arles. The ear-slashing episode occurred a few days before Christmas of 1888. Vincent spent two weeks in the hospital, then was released. Within a short time, neighbors complained to the police about his wild behavior. When he didn’t, or couldn’t, change his ways, the police used force to return him to the hospital. This pattern was repeated over several months. He finally agreed to seek help and had himself committed to the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole on the outskirts of Saint-Rémy, a few miles from Arles.
The asylum is in a converted monastery nestled in a pleasant valley at the foot of the Alpilles mountain chain, near the ruins of the ancient Roman city of Glanum. The Romans selected the site for its healing waters, strategic advantage, and beauty. The monastery of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole, built in the eleventh century, takes its name from a Roman mausoleum. Van Gogh became a patient there in May 1889 and stayed until the following May. The doctor and nurses treated him kindly. They even encouraged him to paint during the periods of calm between his attacks. He did some paintings in his room, on an easel set in front of the window. In time, he was allowed to take his easel out on the grounds; he painted the flower gardens, the buildings, and the gate that kept him safe. The regimen agreed with him. His stay led to tremendous productivity—nearly 150 paintings and almost as many drawings. But in the end he wanted his freedom back and asked for his release. From there, he left for Auvers-sur-Oise to seek the help of Dr. Gachet, and three months later he was dead.
It was two o’clock by the time our van turned onto the little road leading to the gates of the monastery. The drive had been rough, through splashing rain, as trailer trucks churned ahead of us on the highway, throwing muddy spray against our windows. Lunch at a rest stop along the autoroute didn’t offer much respite. The fare was no worse than what you’d get at an American counterpart along the interstate, but no better either. In France you have higher expectations.
We parked alongside the wall of the monastery and hurried through the gate, trying not to get soaked. I recognized the circular stone fountain on the path leading to the arched entryway to the main building. Vincent depicted it in paint and in charcoal. Once inside, we walked along a corridor bordering a lovely cloister, which I recognized from another one of his paintings. The walls of the corridor had that clammy smell of old wet stone. The supporting columns of the cloister were finely shaped, and the quadrangle they enclosed contained low green shrubbery. It was a peaceful spot, designed for contemplation. Vincent had
spent hours here, and I could picture him sitting on one of the flat stone surfaces spaced between the pillars of the colonnade.
The corridor led into a large hall, which in former times served as the refectory. Now it was used as a reception area and exhibition space. There was a ticket counter and a little shop displaying books about Van Gogh, picture postcards, and the like. While Ray paid for the tickets, I glanced at the exhibition of paintings done by current patients in the art therapy program. They were the work of amateurs, and it showed. Most tried to imitate Vincent’s style, with baleful results. But one woman had made portraits of her fellow inmates. They were unforgettable—faces distorted by anxiety, anger, fear, delusion. Just one of her subjects, a gaunt painter before her easel, evidenced hope. She wielded her brush like a trowel, as if trying to dig herself—paint herself—out of her mental grave.
As my companions lingered over the paintings, I approached the woman behind the counter and gave her my name. “Ah, oui,” she said, her face indicating recognition. “I’ll tell the director that you’re here.” She pressed a button on the desk phone and spoke a few words into the mouthpiece. “Come this way, please, Madame Barnes.” I signaled Toby to let him know that I was leaving. She led me back through the corridor to the cloister and pointed to a door at the end of a hallway. “Go right through there, please. He’s expecting you.”
Dr. Salles got up from behind his desk to welcome me, and we exchanged introductions. He was a slight, elderly man with sparse white hair. What was it about his face that gave it a kindly mien? Perhaps the crinkles on his brow from decades of professional concern. He wore a woolen suit.
“It’s very good of you to permit a stranger to visit your patient,” I began. “Thank you for arranging it.”
“Not at all. It’s important to maintain good relations with the police, isn’t it? If I can be of help, so much the better. What’s more, Juliette is looking forward to meeting you. I spoke to her this morning.”
“I’ll do my best not to upset her. I promise.”
“That’s good of you. You must be sensitive. She was badly shaken by the news of her sister’s death. But now she’s eager for information about what happened. I’m quite sure she will be glad of your visit.”
“I hope so. What exactly is the nature of her illness, Doctor?”
“Such information is private, madame. I cannot disclose medical details without the patient’s authorization. I am able to say this much, however. Her condition comes and goes. In the past month, she’s been much better. I was hoping to release her, but now it may be prudent to keep her with us a little while longer. She’s been coming here for years, you see. For the peace and quiet and for the painting. It soothes her. Sometimes she stays weeks, sometimes months. When she returns home she can manage well enough for a period, but inevitably the cycle begins again. You will find her completely lucid, but fragile.”
“Is there someone at home to care for her?”
“She was living with her sister, but now, alas . . .” He waved a hand disconsolately. “It’s going to be hard for Juliette to accept that her sister is gone. There’s a kind neighbor who lives next door but otherwise she will be alone, I’m afraid. She receives government assistance, but it’s emotional support that she requires now.”
“I understand. I won’t stay long. Thank you again.”
“Not at all. Shall I let them know you’re on the way?”
“I wonder if I could take a quick look at Vincent’s room first?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“Not yet, we only just arrived.”
“But of course! I’ll tell the nurse to expect you in a quarter of an hour. Naturally you must see Vincent’s room. Go back to the reception hall and take the stairs to the second floor. It’s marked. The first room on the left.”
“Thank you again, monsieur.”
“Not at all, madame. A pleasure.” He bowed and showed me out.
There was no one in the reception hall except the attendant. Our group had already seen Vincent’s room while I was talking to the director. Now they had gone off to another room for the afternoon program. There would be a lecture about art therapy, a tour of the premises, and a film on Vincent’s stay at the asylum.
I followed a sign, went through an alcove, and found the stone stairwell leading to the deserted upper floor, where in the old days the patients had their rooms. Vincent’s room was just off the landing. I found myself alone in it.
The little room felt like a cell. It had bare walls, a red tile floor, an iron bedstead, and a mock-up of Vincent’s easel. The main feature of the room was a narrow window that looked out over an enclosed garden. The window had thick bars. This was Vincent’s view of the world for almost a year, and it was here that he painted his iconic Starry Night— here, looking through the bars at a small patch of sky. He wasn’t allowed outside at night.
As I looked out at a gray sky, I could see that painting in my mind’s eye. And I realized that hardly anything in it was taken from nature. It was a vision. In the foreground, Vincent painted the top of a towering cypress tree as it might be seen from a second-floor window. But there is no tree out there, and in the painting no bars block the view. He saw a village in the middle distance, its church and spire visible, but in reality no such town exists. In the painting, there’s a row of mountains beyond the village. Yes, those are there, but all the rest—two-thirds of the canvas—is given to the night sky, a sky painted deep blue, not black, and lit by outsize yellow stars and a blazing moon. In the center of the sky are two mysterious curlicues of light. They look like whirlpool galaxies as they might be seen through a modern telescope, but that’s not possible. Galaxies were unknown in Vincent’s day. Those colliding fireballs were symbols of a cosmos in turmoil, a projection of Vincent’s inner world.
As I crossed the grounds to reach the women’s residence, fat raindrops battered my hood and my thoughts turned to that other starry night, the night that Isabelle was killed. What words of comfort could I offer to her sister? And could she tell me anything that might be useful to Lieutenant Auclair? I rang the bell. A matron in a starched white apron showed me in. She was holding a clipboard, and she checked my name against a list of visitors. Her manner was curt. “Follow me, Madame Barnes.” She led me up a flight of stairs and down a long hallway, to the very end. She stopped at the last door and rapped the rap of someone in charge. “Juliette, a visitor for you,” she said crisply. The door swung open.
Little Dancer of 14 Years. Degas’s beloved sculpture flashed into my mind. Juliette stood in exactly the young ballerina’s posture: arms behind her, shoulders back, chin slightly up, feet in fourth position. Either Juliette had trained as a dancer, or she was purposely imitating the famous statue—some kind of delusion?
“Bonjour,” I began, “I’m Nora Barnes.”
“They told me about you,” she replied. “Come in.” As she turned to show me a seat, she looked even more like Degas’s girl. She was petite, perhaps five foot two. Her long wheat-toned hair was tied low on the nape of her neck in a wide black ribbon. She wore a scoop-necked black sweater and close-fitting black pants.
“I’m sorry to come at such a private time.” I’d expected the visit to be awkward, coming so soon after Isabelle’s death, but I hadn’t anticipated how wrong it would feel. I was about to disturb the mourning period of a delicate woman. As Isabelle’s younger sister, she must have been in her sixties, but her body and face looked adolescent, almost ethereal. Still, the strain of grief on her thin face was unmistakable.
“Thank you. That’s kind of you. I’m grateful that you’ve come. You’re going to help them find out who killed Isabelle.” She sat very upright in a straight-backed chair and gestured for me to sit in the only other chair.
“I’ll do everything I can. I met your sister on the night she died. She was a beautiful woman and very gracious. It must be terrible . . .”
“It is, it is. She was my sister, my older sister. She was go
od to me.”
“I’m sure she was. Did she visit you often here?”
“Oh, yes. Sisteron is not so far. When I’m well, we live together there. Lived together.” Making the correction took all the energy she had. She closed her eyes. I thought I’d better let her compose herself.
“May I look at your paintings? They’re so vibrant.” On the walls of the small but comfortable sitting room, Juliette had hung at least a dozen paintings. There was another, just started, on an easel near the window.
“Do,” she said, her head bowed so low that I couldn’t see whether she had opened her eyes.
I walked around the spacious room, which had the feel of an artist’s studio. There was almost no furniture against the walls—no dressers, no desk, just an armoire and a narrow bed, tucked into a corner. All the focus was on the paintings. They were forceful, glowing with the intensity that only acrylic can give. She had used the properties of the medium brilliantly. Juliette’s subjects were the same as Van Gogh’s, from around the asylum: the flowering almond tree, the vegetable garden, the circular fountain, the gnarly orchard, the mountains, even Starry Night. But the colors were in a high key. Gold dominated, then magenta and marine blue. The lines were softer than Van Gogh’s.
“You did all these?” I asked. The paintings bore no signature.
“Yes. They’re mine.” She looked up at her version of the flowering almond tree. She seemed to be assessing it, probably for the hundredth time. I didn’t see pride on her face; rather, satisfaction, sober satisfaction. “You must find it absurd—all this copying of Van Gogh?” Juliette asked uncertainly.
