by Betsy Draine
14 September 1886
What a rascal he is. Today he made Papa cross and received a spanking (but not too hard). It all had to do with a broken vase in the courtyard. Yet ten minutes later he was laughing and running about as if nothing had happened, and even Papa was smiling again. I tried making him sit still so I could draw him, but he refuses to hold a pose. What can you expect? He gets bored so easily. And besides, how hard it is to draw a smiling face! I did a quick sketch of him today, but I couldn’t seize his likeness. How could anyone? It’s always changing. Now off he goes with his friends. And they follow him into the woods carrying those big sticks to knock walnuts from the trees. A knight with sword raised high, leading his soldiers onto the battlefield. And they seem happy to follow. Antoine, oh he’s a good fellow, they tell me. I know he is, I say. And what I don’t say but think is that my brother is the kindest boy of any his age. What lies in store for him? What kind of man will be become? A good one, that’s for sure. Yes, of that I am certain.
I turned to the sketchbooks to see if I could find the drawing of her brother, and sure enough, there he was, captured in charcoal: a bright-eyed, towheaded boy of ten or eleven, face half turned toward the artist, mouth wide with laughter, his neck and trunk barely suggested by quick black strokes. A skillful drawing for a young artist, I thought, and a sweet face.
But soon I felt the time slipping away and began skimming more quickly. By nineteen, Jenny Marie had exhibited at local fairs and competitions; by twenty, she was earning money from her portraits; and at twenty-two she was off to Paris to study at the Académie Julian.
18 October 1892
Arrived this morning in Paris, the city of my dreams, and I can hardly believe I’m here. At the academy we were introduced to our teachers and toured the studios where we will be working. The studios are so grand. I met several girls my age who are also enrolled and have even found a flatmate. Her name is Aimée Laurance, from Lille, and she is already a very good artist—she showed me her sketchbook. She has taken a small apartment in Montmartre and needs someone to share expenses. Well, that’s me. Or Papa, to be more exact. He has agreed to support me in my studies at least for a year. So tomorrow I say goodbye to my hotel and take up my new life—as a student in Paris, where young artists come to study from all over Europe. Paris, the capital of the art world!
And there, I thought, I will leave you until tomorrow, for I had reached a logical stopping point after a good afternoon’s work. I glanced at my watch; it was already half past five.
I was relaxing with my feet up on one of the patio chairs, reading about the Cathars and wondering whether I should call my sister again, when I heard someone crunching over the pebbles of the terrace. It was Madame Martin carrying a tray of drinks.
“Would Madame care for an aperitif ? I can offer you a kir, white wine, or sparkling water.”
“Merci ! A kir would be lovely,” I replied. I watched as she carefully poured white wine into a glass already lined with a half-inch of cassis liqueur. I thought of asking her to call me Nora, since “Madame” felt so formal, but then I realized this would raise the question of whether I would call Madame Martin by her first name. Instinct told me she would feel more respected if I addressed her as Madame, so I stifled my American impulse toward familiarity.
“Thank you, Madame,” I said. “I’ve just spent hours in the library, and it’s time to clear my mind.”
“That is our habit,” the older woman replied. “Generations of Cazelles have come here at the end of day to find repose.”
“It’s the perfect spot,” I agreed. “How long have you worked for the family, Madame Martin? Which barons have you served, out here on the terrace?”
“Before Baron Charles, I served his father, Baron Pierre. And my mother served his father, Baron Antoine.”
“Really? Then your mother must have known Jenny Marie, his sister.”
“Mais oui, Madame. My mother esteemed Mademoiselle Cazelle very highly.”
“Then I have a question, Madame Martin. I don’t know much about the naming tradition in France, so I’m probably all wrong, but the name Jenny doesn’t sound French to me at all.”
Madame Martin looked pleased, as if her pet pupil had just come up with a smart question. “You’re right.”
“Since the Cazelle family is so traditional in other ways, what led them to pick a name like that?”
“That was her mother’s decision. Isabelle. Of course, she wasn’t a Cazelle by birth. Baron Émile met her when he was studying at the Sorbonne. It’s true she was from an aristocratic line, which made her acceptable to the family, but she was one of those radical women devoted to all sorts of new ideas. That’s where we get to Jenny Marie’s name.”
“Then it was a choice for the name to be nontraditional?”
“Yes, you could say that. In fact, Jenny Marie was named after Jenny Lind, the famous opera star from Sweden.”
I’d heard of Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale. She’d been an international star in the nineteenth century and later had done many good works for charity, but I’d never thought about her as a role model for women. Of course, she would have been.
Evidently, Jenny’s mother thought so. She named her daughter after Jenny Lind, in tribute and perhaps in hope. True to her mother’s wishes, Jenny Marie had lived life her own way, as an artist and an independent woman.
“What else can you tell me about Jenny Marie Cazelle?”
Madame Martin paused. After a moment’s silence, she replied. “She was always serious, that one, even as a girl. And strong-willed. That was true throughout her life.”
“In what way?”
Madame Martin looked thoughtful. “It must have taken courage to leave the château and to go live alone in Paris to pursue her career, don’t you think? In those days, women didn’t fly off by themselves so easily. But you see, Maman knew Mademoiselle Cazelle both in her youth and after she came home, after the First World War. She used to say Mademoiselle Cazelle was a brave one, a woman who was true to her beliefs, first to last.”
“Did she mean by that her dedication to her career?”
“I suppose so.”
“Or perhaps she meant something else. What were her other beliefs? Was Jenny Marie religious, for example?”
A laugh lightened the mood. “Au contraire! Maman always said that however aristocratic her blood, Mademoiselle Cazelle was a daughter of the Revolution. She believed in liberty, equality, and fraternity. That’s why she stopped calling herself ‘de Cazelle.’ As soon as she started signing paintings, as a girl, she dropped the ‘de’ from her name because she thought it stank of aristocratic pretension.” As if realizing suddenly that her employers used the “de” and that she might seem to be criticizing them, she stopped short. I waited for her to continue.
“Yes, Maman always said Mademoiselle treated her as one of the family. Maman was just the cook, and Mademoiselle was the sister of the baron, but when Mademoiselle died, it was as if my mother had lost her own sister. I never saw her weep like that again.”
“Do you remember when she died?”
“I was only five years old, but I’ll never forget my mother weeping that time. It was near the end of the war, but we didn’t know that. My father was away, and we feared he would never return. Then suddenly the two elders of the Cazelle family died within months of each other. It was a catastrophe.”
“That would be Jenny Marie and her brother, Antoine. How did they die, if I may ask?”
Madame Martin stiffened and replied, “It is not easy to talk about those days. It was a terrible time. And these matters are private to the family. It’s not for me to discuss.” She bent to pick up her tray and depart.
The distant sound of shifting pebbles made us both look to the side, to see Fernando entering one of the garage stalls with a rake and hoe in his grasp.
“Could I ask you one more indiscreet question?” A change of subject might get Madame Martin to stay. “It’s about Fernan
do. Am I the only one who has found him difficult?”
“How do you mean, Madame?”
“Well, a bit rude and not very friendly. Pas sympathique.”
Madame Martin nodded her head knowingly. “I can tell you about him. You see, Madame Marianne has a forgiving heart. Fernando’s father was a mason who came from Portugal to work on the Château of Beynac, years ago. He was well respected in the village. And he was training Fernando to work beside him. But when Fernando was young, only about sixteen, he was arrested for stealing objects from an excavation at the castle.”
“Did he go to jail?”
“Yes, he did. The objects were of archaeological value, very precious, very old. He spent two years in prison.”
“Then how did he get a job here, after such a disgrace?”
“The mayor heard Marianne was starting her cooking school, and he asked her to take Fernando on. Fernando’s father is so well regarded that the mayor wanted to help the son get back on his feet. And many believe the accusation was false. There’s some prejudice against the Portuguese around here. Madame Marianne says we should remember that, when Fernando acts resentful. If he spent time in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, he would naturally feel angry from time to time. And the authorities never leave him alone, like that poor inspector from the Bureau of Antiquities who was killed the other day. He was here pestering Fernando the very day before he died, so I don’t wonder that Fernando is upset.” She hesitated, and began to blush. “I have said too much. I am turning into an old gossip. But I didn’t want you to have the wrong impression of Fernando. He is a good worker.”
She straightened up and turned to leave, smiling apologetically as she said, “I must return to the kitchen. Enjoy your kir, Madame.”
For a good while I sat sipping my drink, thinking about what I’d just heard.
7
IFOUND TOBY IN OUR ROOM, leaning over the bed, examining a large sheet of parchment. He turned his head my way and grinned, without rising from his bent position.
“You look like an ostrich. What have you got there for prey?” I asked.
“A map! And we’re on it. Come take a look.” Toby always wears a sheepish smile when he’s made an impulsive purchase.
“Did you get a chance to apologize to Fernando?”
“I did. Briefly.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing. He grunted. I think that means a ceasefire.” Well, at least Toby had made an effort. “Now let me show you something.”
I knew that whatever this map was, I’d better like it. There was no need for me to feign enthusiasm. I was so struck by the total effect of the artistry that the writing didn’t register until Toby said, “See, it’s the diocese of Sarlat, with all the churches drawn in black like little steepled huts and inked over in red. Look, just along the river here, there’s Beynac, and right above it is Cazenac—that’s the church on the hill opposite Cazelle.”
“But the style doesn’t look local. It doesn’t even look French.”
Toby put a finger on a small bit of script at the lower right corner: “Amsterdami. Apud Guiljelmum Blaeu.”
“Dutch, mid-eighteenth century,” he informed me. “The midline crease has been mostly ironed out, but you can see the map was stored folded in a boxed set of prints. It comes from a collection of maps of the ecclesiastical domains of Périgord.”
“It’s beautiful, and one thing you can be sure of. There was a wealthy patron behind the project. Someone who loved the Church bought the talents of an exquisite printmaker, this William Blau.”
“I’m going to ask the baron about it. I got the print from a Dutch antique dealer in St. Cyprien. But she told me her father purchased the set from a family in Beynac in the late 1930s. She doesn’t have a record. There was so much chaos during the war, she said. Important papers were lost.”
“You know, this lull before the dinner hour would be a good time to find the baron. Why don’t you see if you can consult him while I take my shower, and then we’ll go out to eat?”
It was nearly an hour before Toby returned, looking bemused. He raised his eyebrows high and announced, “I’ve had quite a time with Baron Charles. Let’s get going, and I’ll tell you on the way.” Our destination was a café Toby had spotted on the main street of St. Cyprien. He wanted to return for the fricassee of rabbit that he’d seen on the chalkboard.
“Want me to drive, so you can talk?” I asked, moving to the driver’s seat.
He gave me a sideways smile and settled in as my passenger.
“This family is full of surprises,” he announced. “Did you know we are living in a hotbed of heresy?”
That word again. “You mean, as in the Cathar heresy?”
“That’s my guess. When I showed him the map, the baron nearly pushed it off the table. He said he had nothing but contempt for the wars of the Church and their genocide in Périgord.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I asked him, but I didn’t entirely follow. I think it goes back to what you were reading aloud to me when we went to Castelnaud. Charles kept pointing at the Cazenac church symbol and saying ‘this holy site’ didn’t rightfully belong to the Church. It belonged to ‘the pure’— whoever they were—and their champion, Bernard de Casnac. He also kept mentioning Toulouse.”
“Did you ask him if his family might have commissioned the set of maps?”
“That’s what got him agitated. He said his family would never give tribute to the wolves of Rome. Leave that to the lords of Beynac, he said.”
“So it looks like there’s a family feud between this little castle and the big one on the opposite cliff ? And it has to do with Rome and the Cathars?”
“That’s what I understood, but, I tell you, this is one touchy topic. I’m not going to ask again.”
All this heat about churchly things made me think of Madame Martin’s declaration that Jenny Marie had turned away from religion on Revolutionary grounds. However, being anticlerical in honor of Bastille Day seemed quite a different thing from being anti-Rome in deference to a medieval sect. I also wondered how the chapel of the Black Virgin fit in with what we’d heard. I had assumed that the activity at the chapel—clean altar cloths, fresh flowers—meant that the Cazelles were pious Roman Catholics. Apparently not.
These musings were put to rest by our arrival in the little cathedral town of St. Cyprien. The café occupied the corner of a busy street, but there was a sheltered terrace in the back. We took a table outside and enjoyed the late light of midsummer. The waiter suggested a bottle of chilled Beaujolais; we accepted. It paired nicely with the savory rabbit. We ate with relish, recounting our separate afternoons. I told Toby what I had learned in the library about Jenny Marie and what I had learned about Fernando from Madam Martin. Over coffee, we made our plans for the next day.
Toby wanted to visit Lascaux II in the afternoon. This elaborate copy of Lascaux, famous in its own right, is located just a few miles from the original. It was built in the 1980s for the general public, who were no longer permitted inside the authentic cave. Toby thought that by visiting the facsimile we might learn something that could have a bearing on the investigation.
“Look,” he said. “We now know of two people who might have wanted to kill Monsieur Malbert—Marc and Fernando. Three, if you count the guide, who would have had the same motive as Marc. Both Marc and his uncle had access to Lascaux. As for Fernando, we don’t know how he could have entered the cave, unless one of those two was helping him. We need more information, and one way to get it is to take the tour and refresh our recollections of what happened.”
“Isn’t this kind of thing the inspector’s job?” I asked. “I’m here to find out about Jenny Marie’s paintings. I need tomorrow afternoon to work on her journals.”
“Then I have an idea. In the morning, I’ll go to the cooking class, and you go to the library. You can work straight through lunchtime. Then in the afternoon we’ll go to Lascaux II and
get a bite on the way. They give tours till six. I’ll ask Marianne to call and reserve tickets for us.”
Except for having to skip cooking class, I liked the plan. I now had so many questions about Jenny Marie that I could hardly wait to get back to her papers. I’ve also always liked mornings. Getting to work in the library before others were up and reading through the lunch hour would suit me very well.
“Okay,” I conceded. “But let’s find Marianne when we get back and explain what we’re doing. I don’t want her being surprised if I miss the class. If we tell her tonight, it will be all right.”
The next morning, the dawn of Midsummer’s Eve, I tiptoed down the dark hallway toward the main salon, which was dimly lit by the faint light coming through the windowed doors at the back of the room. I hugged the left wall, found the library door, and fit Marianne’s key into its lock. Entering, I was pleased to see nothing had been disturbed, and eagerly I resumed my reading of the journals.
Soon I was absorbed again in Jenny Marie’s life. Volume 2 of the journals found her at the Académie Julian in Paris. I’d done previous research on the Académie and was delighted to come across a firsthand account of student life there. At that time, women were excluded from the other studios, but Rodolphe Julian’s art school was open to both sexes, giving talented women a unique opportunity to pursue a career in art. The journal entries described Jenny Marie’s newfound friends at the academy, her teachers, and her daily exercises—and brought to life what for me had been a historical footnote.
20 November 1892
At last. After weeks of drawing only plaster casts, we have a live model in the studio, and a good-looking fellow he is, too, as naked as the David (though a bit of his modesty is preserved by drapery). No one is embarrassed, either, though there might have been some squeamish ladies if the men had been painting alongside us. Monsieur Lefebvre trains us separately. So here we are, thirty women sitting in a circle, each behind her easel and dressed as formally as if she were being presented to nobility. Instead we concentrate on our drawing while M. Lefebvre walks from one to the other, making comments here and there. For me today there was a word of praise, though poor Aimée was less fortunate. I confess I felt a touch of pride. Monsieur Lefebvre is a good teacher and a fine artist himself. He showed us an exquisite portrait he did of a Japanese lady with a fan. The delicate shading of blue is marvelous. The woman, of course, is a French model and doesn’t look the least bit Japanese, but her costume is authentic and she grasps the fan lightly and gracefully. I think I am learning a great deal.
