by Betsy Draine
Let’s focus on the menu, I said to myself. But when appetizers were mentioned, Maggie said she wasn’t hungry. Thierry took her hand again, this time entwining his fingers through hers. In the singsong tones of southwest France, he implored her to share a first course of duck-liver scallops. (It sounds better in French: Escalopes de foie gras de canard et truffe blanche.) The final lure was Thierry’s confession that as a boy he raised geese for their foie gras and learned to feed them corn mash through a tube.
“They don’t mind at all,” he said. “They’re used to it, and it’s done gently, so to them it’s a pleasure, the pleasure of being fed. They are happy geese.” The way he said “ah-pee geese” made Maggie smile.
Toby picked up the theme of pleasure and suggested that he and I share the apple salad with crispy baked Pont-l’Evêque cheese. I couldn’t resist the idea of eating both cheese and dessert before dinner. For our main course, we weighed the merits of going native with a braised cheek of beef in red wine sauce or posing as Parisians with a galantine of chicken. The men went with the city fare and the women with country cooking.
I was grateful for Toby’s social ease. Engaging Thierry first, he soon had Maggie describing the day’s events in Saint-Paul while we were away at Saorge. The couple had spent the morning at the hotel, sheltering from the rain and making futile phone calls. The morgue wouldn’t release Emmet’s body. The hospital in Cagnes-sur-Mer wouldn’t describe Curry’s condition. And the hospital in Grasse denied having Shelley as a patient.
On the subject of Emmet, Maggie spat fire. “I could have killed that bloody bureaucrat. What a feckin’ idiot! If he was standing before me, I would have wrung his neck!”
Thierry offered a calmer description of the phone call. “The clerk wouldn’t let Maggie speak to the coroner. Maggie was—how you say? Very, very angry.”
“Outraged,” Maggie said. Her face embodied the term. “For God’s sake! They have his blood samples, his tissue samples. What more do they want?”
“Calmes-toi, calmes-toi,” Thierry counseled. In English telling someone to “calm yourself ” sounds patronizing. The phrase is so much kinder in French, and the way Thierry said it was consoling. So was the bottle of Bordeaux red that he selected. Sipping the velvety wine, we resolved the matter of Emmet. Thierry promised that he would help Maggie give him a proper burial when the time came.
Appetizers arrived, and we switched the conversation to our food. Thierry explained the difference between white and black truffles to Maggie, while Toby and I savored our warm cheese over a cider-dressed salad.
“Is there any news on Bruce’s condition?” Toby asked Maggie.
“Yes, there is. Jane called in the afternoon. He has a brain tumor, and they’re going to operate.”
“Jane must be devastated,” I said.
“It’s better news than she was expecting. The operation’s fairly safe. And Jane thinks it may return Bruce to himself. ‘My old curmudgeon,’ is what she called him.” A pause. “Lord, that was good.” Maggie smacked her lips, taking her last taste of foie gras.
“What about Ben?” Toby asked. “Have you seen him?”
“He showed up here before lunch, looking for Shelley. Apparently when he arrived at the hospital this morning they told him Shelley had been discharged and had left in the care of her husband. When he found out Ray had checked out of the hotel, he put two and two together.”
“What did he do?” Toby asked.
“All he knew for sure was that his wife was missing. He tried calling the police but couldn’t get through. The last I saw of him, he was heading for the gendarmerie at Vence.”
“That fits with what Montoni was telling us in the penance room,” said Toby. “He’d been having an affair with Shelley for years. I wonder if Ben had an inkling of it?”
At that point, our main course arrived. Toby looked sour when he saw his serving: a roll of white meat the size of a hot dog, surrounded by wiggling cubes of chicken jelly. Pretty clearly, the dish was cold—not what you want on a wet winter night after a day of mortal danger. But he tried some and cheered up at the taste. He poured himself another glass of Bordeaux and continued his report on Ray’s confession.
“Ray said he met Shelley at an art opening at his school. Ben was there as a judge of Ray’s students’ work. From that night, Ray and Shelley were hot at it. Ray’s wife guessed he was having an affair and left him. He said he was relieved—he couldn’t handle two women at a time. As it turned out, he couldn’t handle Shelley by herself.”
Maggie shook her head. “So it was Shelley you saw coming out of Ray’s room the other night. I must have been daft to even give him a thought. He’s spineless.”
I agreed. “He was Shelley’s puppet; she jerked him on her strings.”
“She’s a hard character, all right. I’ll give her this much, though. The woman sticks to her principles.”
“I don’t follow you,” I said.
“Remember the trolley debate? Didn’t she say she’d push the fat man off the bridge to save herself ?”
“That’s right, she did.”
“Well, what did she do when you cornered her in the attic? I’ll be damned if she didn’t push him down the stairs.”
“You mean Ray?” I said.
“He’s chubby enough for the role. Take it from me.” That brought smiles all around, though Thierry blushed.
Maggie seemed to be emerging from her funk. “Now, what about your sister? Tell me what’s bothering her. She was in a desperate state when we left tonight.”
I explained about Navré’s engagement, Angie’s shock, and her impulsive decision to take her religious vows. Maggie couldn’t bear to hear it.
“She’s an angel, your sister. Too good for her own good. It’s a shame, but there’s always a cagey man waiting to take advantage of a trusting woman. How could you let her remain so naïve, Nora? She needs someone to stop her from this folly and teach her how to take care of herself in the real world.”
My reaction was defensive. “She’s a grown woman. I can’t make up her mind for her. Maybe the place that can teach her how to live is Grace Quarry.”
“Bollocks. Her heart may be broken for now, but what she needs is a good man, not to give up on life by retreating to a convent. Look at me. I was crushed when Emmet died, the poor thing. But Thierry has given me something to look forward to.” Thierry blinked. “I don’t know where this thing is going, but it’s better than turning your back on love. Angie isn’t cut out for the convent, any more than I am. I’m going to tell the girl as much.”
“I wish you would,” said Toby. “I couldn’t agree more.”
A part of me agreed as well. I wondered what Sister Glenda was telling Angie back at the hotel. I thought of Maurice La Font, who chose the life of a monk in order to do penance, blaming himself for what had been an accident. He entered the monastery out of guilt, not piety, and in the end he returned to the world. Was Angie about to embark on a similar path? For her, the convent was a refuge from disappointment. That wasn’t the best of reasons to choose a monastic life. True, she was duped by Navré, but she put herself in the way of that danger. As Toby joked, she wanted to be a nun with “benefits.” And that wasn’t part of the bargain.
The waiter appeared with a silver scraper and made a show of scooping crumbs from the tablecloth. He laid out clean silverware. Ah, dessert. A welcome respite from troubled thoughts. Apple tart with crème d’amande and vanilla ice cream for Toby, poached pear crumble with whipped cream and caramel for Thierry, and for Maggie and me, warm chocolate cake with crème anglaise. Yes, there was something to be said for the sensual side of life.
It was late when we got back to the hotel. We found Angie and Sister Glenda in the sitting room, which otherwise was deserted. Glenda, who had been keeping Angie company until we returned, rose to leave as we arrived. “I’m ready for bed,” she said. “It’s been a long day.” She smiled at Angie. “Think over what I’ve been saying, won’t you, dear
?” Angie smiled back, weakly. She looked drained. We said good night to Glenda, and she went upstairs. Thierry excused himself to go upstairs as well but said he’d be back in a few minutes.
“Did you and Sister Glenda have a good talk?” I asked, taking a seat next to Angie on the couch. Maggie and Toby sank into two oversized chairs.
“I suppose,” said Angie listlessly. “How was dinner?”
“Great,” said Toby. “Sorry you weren’t with us.”
“We brought you some chocolate cake,” said Maggie, taking a napkin from her bag and unrolling her stash.
“No thanks. I’ve already had my dessert.”
“Take a taste. It’s good.”
Angie gave in and took a bite. “You’re right. It’s delicious. Thanks, Maggie.”
“Listen, Angie,” Maggie said, “we’ve been talking about this idea you have of going into the convent, and I’d just like to say a word.”
Angie bristled. “I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t need another lecture.”
“Well, I won’t have another chance after tonight, and I’ve got something to say.”
Angie let out a deep sigh.
Maggie leaned forward and barged ahead. “This is the worst possible moment for you to make a decision. You’re distraught. And the fact is you’re not made for it. You’re a romantic, God help you, like me. You need love, that’s what you want. You’re perfectly normal. You’ve just had a run of bad luck, but you can’t give the whole thing up because of it. Look what just happened. A handsome man comes along and in one week your idea of chastity goes out the window—which is where it belongs, if you ask me. Then he dumps you, and right away you’re thinking of taking your vows. From the fire back into the frying pan. But what will you be thinking a month from now or a year, when the next fellow comes your way? I’m saying that—”
“Maggie, save your breath,” Angie interrupted, making a stop sign with her palm. “I’ve just been over all that with Sister Glenda.”
“And?”
“And she agrees with you.”
“She does?”
“Well, not about chastity. But she thinks I’m not ready to make a decision that will affect the rest of my life. She wants me to wait. And I’ve agreed to.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Angie,” I said. “Whatever that decision will be, you need time to think. And I’ll support you, whatever you decide.”
“Thanks. That’s what I need most.” She reached over and gave me a sisterly hug. “The truth is, I’m hurt—I admit it. I’m also confused. I don’t know what I want to do.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“It’s fine,” said Maggie. “Just don’t rush into anything.”
“Don’t worry,” said Angie. “Sister Glenda won’t let that happen.”
“She’s a wise one,” Maggie conceded. I thought so too.
Maggie looked up as Thierry entered the room, and the entire atmosphere changed. He was carrying the most adorable puppy I ever saw. “He’s for you,” Thierry said, depositing the pudgy ball of fur in Maggie’s lap. The little fellow had a wet black nose, floppy ears, and brown soulful eyes. He yipped with excitement as Maggie picked him up.
“Oh, Thierry,” she exclaimed, “he’s beautiful!”
“I know he can’t replace Emmet,” Thierry said, “but look, he likes you.”
Maggie stroked his head. “Does he have a name?”
“His name is ‘ah-pee.’”
“That’s brilliant. Hello, Happy.” Maggie lifted the pooch to face level and rubbed noses with him. In return, Happy began licking Maggie’s face like a kid with a drippy ice cream cone. She smiled with delight, and Angie burst into laughter.
Toby pulled me to him and whispered, “I’d say it was a classic case of puppy love.”
“Which one?” I asked. “The dog or Thierry?”
“Take your pick,” said Toby. “You can’t go wrong.”
Afterword
Who Shot Vincent van Gogh?
IN 2011 Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith made headlines around the world when their new biography, Van Gogh: The Life, made the startling claim that Vincent van Gogh had been murdered. The culprit, they concluded, was an irresponsible teenager in the town of Auvers-sur-Oise named René Secrétan, who was known at the time to brandish a pistol. This intriguing theory became the inspiration for our novel. Our original plan was to use the authors’ account as the backstory for our plot. However, as we examined their sources, we began to doubt the validity of their accusation. The questions they raised remained compelling, and the broad outline of the theory was persuasive, but on crucial points the evidence was weak. In the end, we parted ways with Naifeh and Smith. Even so, we began our journey with them, and we remain in their debt. Whatever conclusion one draws about their theory of the shooting, their magisterial biography is an impressive achievement.
In this postscript, our aim is to review their argument and to explain how we arrived at our own conclusions. There is much we still don’t know about Vincent van Gogh’s death. Even at the time of the shooting, there were unanswered questions. For example, where did the shooting occur? Where did Vincent get the gun? What happened to it? It was never found—nor were his easel, paints, and the other materials he was carrying that day, including whatever painting he was working on. If Vincent had intended suicide, why did he shoot himself clumsily in the side rather than in the head? And if he really wanted to die, why did he return to his lodging to seek help afterward? A prolific correspondent, Vincent left behind no suicide note, nor had he given any hint of his intentions in the days leading up to the event.
The appeal of Naifeh and Smith’s theory is that it provides answers to these questions. The authors base their argument on a series of interviews that a retired banker named René Secrétan gave to Victor Doiteau, a French doctor who maintained a lifelong interest in Vincent van Gogh’s case. In 1957 Doiteau published an article in a French medical journal summarizing these conversations: “Deux ‘copains’ de Van Gogh, inconnus: Les frères Gaston et René Secrétan; Vincent, tel qu’ils l’ont vu” (Two unknown “pals” of Van Gogh: The brothers Gaston and René Secrétan; Vincent as they saw him).
In his conversations with Doiteau, René reminisced about the summer of 1890 when he and his friends amused themselves by teasing the artist, whom they regarded as un fou, a crazy man. The boys made fun of Vincent and pulled various pranks on him. They put salt in his coffee and pepper on the tip of a brush he liked to suck on; once they even put a snake in his paint box. René had a beat-up old revolver, which he either borrowed or bought from the innkeeper Ravoux, who ran the inn where Vincent was staying. That summer, René paraded around in a Buffalo Bill cowboy outfit and used the gun to shoot small game. Vincent tolerated the immature teenager only because he was friendly with René’s older brother, Gaston, who was interested in art and who admired Vincent.
Naifeh and Smith hypothesize that behind these colorful anecdotes is a veiled confession by a man with a guilty conscience who was nearing the end of his life. Their conclusion is that, although he never admitted it, René Secrétan shot Vincent accidentally during some kind of horseplay. The shooting took place not in a wheat field, as previously thought, but near a haystack or dung heap in a farmer’s yard. Yet Vincent said nothing of this—why? Naifeh and Smith speculate that because he welcomed death at this point in his life, Vincent accepted his fate and assumed the blame himself.
On the other hand, a verdict of suicide is consistent with everything we know about the troubled artist’s life—his depression, fits (which may have been epileptic), previous self-mutilation and institutionalization, his loneliness, despair, lack of recognition, poverty, and complete dependence on his brother for financial support. Newly married, Theo was starting a family and thinking of striking out on his own as an art dealer, placing a new constraint on his ability to help his brother. That Vincent might try to kill himself at this stressful juncture came as no surprise to
those who knew him.
What exactly happened on Sunday, July 27, 1890? This much is agreed upon by Van Gogh’s several biographers. After lunch at the inn, Vincent packed up his painting gear and went out to resume his morning’s painting, as was his habit. He usually stayed out all afternoon and returned for dinner. However, on this day he failed to return at dinnertime. Hours later, he staggered back to the inn clutching his stomach and climbed the stairs to his little room. He was heard moaning. Ravoux, the innkeeper, went up to see him and asked what was wrong. “I wounded myself,” Vincent replied, and showed Ravoux a small hole under his ribs (Naifeh and Smith 850). Vincent was living in Auvers that summer so that he could be cared for by the local doctor, Paul Gachet, who had experience in the treatment of melancholy. Gachet was summoned along with another physician, a Dr. Mazery. The two doctors examined the wound but determined that nothing could be done. They sent for Theo, and Theo was at his brother’s bedside when Vincent died from his wound two days later.
Where had Vincent been all afternoon? The dying man told those who had gathered at his bedside that he had shot himself and then passed out. By the time he regained consciousness, darkness had fallen. Though he searched for the gun to finish the job, he couldn’t find it, so he made his way back to the inn (Naifeh and Smith 869).
Several witnesses at the inn who later gave accounts of what they remembered of that night were: Adeline Ravoux, the daughter of the innkeeper, who repeated several versions of her story more than sixty years later; Paul Gachet fils (“Jr.”), the son of Dr. Gachet, who put together notes for a book about Vincent’s stay in Auvers; and Anton Hirschig, a fellow Dutch artist who roomed at the inn and recorded his recollections twenty-one years later in a letter. Hirschig recalled that Vincent said, “I wounded myself in the fields, I shot myself with a revolver” (quoted in Rohan 104). Hirschig got the date wrong, though— he thought the shooting occurred in August—and he may have forgotten other details as well.
