“Any more and I won’t be able to breathe.”
Her fingers knotted the ribbons at the small of my back. “Men think they control everybody, but a girl can wrap any of them around her finger with a bit of bosom. Why don’t you borrow a pair of my earrings? They tinkle a lot. He’ll like that.”
I took the earrings with a mumbled merci and crossed back to my room, where I pulled on my petticoat, then the dress. My breasts swelled nicely at the neckline now.
“What will you do when he comes here some night looking for you?” Françoise asked. She had followed me and was looking at me with concern.
I frowned at the dark circles under my eyes and reached for the rice-powder box. “I don’t think he will. He seems too honorable, too much of a gentleman.”
“But what if he does?”
“Then I’ll spread my legs for him like the rest of them, won’t I?” I snapped.
“Oh, Rachel, don’t go, don’t do this to yourself. Maybe I should—”
“Vincent needs me,” I said firmly. “That’s the end of it.”
She left with a sigh and shake of her head, and I finished my preparations. A bit of rouge so I wouldn’t look so pale, lips painted into a ruby-red Cupid’s bow. A touch of rosewater behind my ears and between my breasts, Françoise’s tinkly earrings. I stared at my reflection and remembered how Vincent once wanted me to pose for a brothel picture. That’s exactly where the girl in the mirror belonged—she wasn’t me at all, she was a stranger with a painted mask. And I hated her.
I couldn’t let a policeman see me like this. I peeked down the stairs, then darted outside, pulling my cape shut to hide my dress and the hood up to hide my face. At that hour of the morning the streets of the quartier reservé were empty, so that was easy, and in the centre de ville I took a roundabout way to avoid snooping eyes. A gendarme walking the Rue Neuve gave me a fright; I pretended to examine a dressmaker’s window display, praying all he’d see was my plain black cape. He passed without comment, and I ducked down the next street before he could look back. As I walked I tried not to think about what Vincent would say. I hoped he’d understand that anything I did was for him.
A smile and tinkle of the earrings persuaded the Hôtel-Dieu’s gate porter to escort me personally to Dr. Rey. The nun on duty in the men’s ward frowned but said nothing, probably thinking I was just another whore with the clap. Dr. Rey rose from his chair when I walked into his office, and he looked puzzled until I pushed back my hood.
“Mademoiselle Rachel! I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Here, allow me.” I untied my cape, and he hung it on a hat rack by the door. His eyes lingered on my bosom before he remembered his manners and gestured to a chair. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve come to talk to you about Vincent,” I began, folding my hands together in my lap. “I’m worried about him.”
“I’ll be frank with you, Mademoiselle, so am I. As you know, there was nothing wrong when he was admitted, but now—”
“Monsieur Roulin told me he is in the isolation room, allowed neither visitors nor occupations. That alone would drive a man mad, Doctor.” At Dr. Rey’s nod of agreement, I opened my eyes wide and leaned forward. “Isn’t there something you could do?”
He cleared his throat, obviously struggling to keep his gaze on my face. “I lack authority in this matter, Mademoiselle. Superintendent D’Ornano ordered that Vincent be isolated, with the support of Mayor Tardieu.”
“You’re Vincent’s doctor.”
“I am not in charge. Dr. Delon, my supervisor, is the one who admitted Vincent. He and the others listen to Superintendent d’Ornano before they listen to me. I’m sorry.”
I fumbled in my reticule for a handkerchief, my act forgotten as I started to cry. A helpless look appeared on Dr. Rey’s face. “I wish there was something I could do. I do not like seeing him in such misery.” He paused, then added, “Or those who care about him.”
Now was my chance. I swallowed my tears and dabbed at my eyes. “I’d be grateful, Doctor, if you could speak again to your superiors,” I said and took as deep a breath as I could muster, to make my breasts heave under the red dress. “I would owe you a great deal.”
He flushed at my careful words and moved some papers on the desk. “I know you would be grateful, Mademoiselle, I know all of Vincent’s friends would be. Monsieur and Madame Roulin have been most persistent about helping him, as has Reverend Salles.”
“Have you spoken to Vincent’s brother?”
“Reverend Salles has been exchanging letters with him, and I myself will write him soon. Monsieur van Gogh is concerned that Vincent not be kept here without just cause.”
I twisted my handkerchief in my hands. “Then will you help? S’il vous plaît?”
He looked at me then, and I forced myself to lock eyes. For Vincent. For Vincent. “I will try. And if you come back in two days, I will arrange for you to see Vincent, regardless.”
I wanted to spring up and embrace him, but I only smiled. “Thank you.”
Dr. Rey retrieved my cape from the hat rack, but instead of giving it to me, he placed it around my shoulders himself. His hands stayed there as I tied the ribbon around my neck—the first time he’d ever touched me—and I knew what it meant. I was wrong. Sooner or later, I’d be seeing him at Madame Virginie’s.
When I arrived at the Hôtel-Dieu two days later, I half-expected Dr. Rey to have changed his mind. But the porter let me pass, and the nun in the men’s building led me to the main ward as if she’d known I was coming. If she recognized me as the hussy who’d come the other day, she kept her thoughts to herself, explaining instead that Dr. Delon had given orders for Vincent to be taken from the isolation room. I sighed with relief. Dr. Rey had kept his promise.
Vincent was reading by the potbellied stove again, and he jumped from his chair to crush me in an embrace. “I can’t believe you’re here. However did you manage it?” I told him I’d talked to Dr. Rey, carefully omitting any details of the visit. Vincent studied me with raised, then furrowed, eyebrows, and I held my breath: had something in my voice given me away? “That was kind of him,” he said slowly. “To allow you to come.”
I tried not to fidget. “So you were moved from the isolation room this morning.”
He took me by the hand and sat me beside him. “They leave me there for weeks, then take me out again without any explanation. Dr. Delon said I could have visitors, books, pen and paper…I can go to the house with an orderly, pick up some painting supplies, and work if I want.” He shook his head. “The strangest thing.”
“Perhaps it has something to do with the police investigation,” I said.
He gave me another searching look. “Dr. Rey wants me to stay at least another fortnight. I don’t know if he told you, but I had another attack. A short one, only a few days.”
“Actually, Monsieur Roulin told me.” I squeezed his fingers. “I’m sorry. Are you feeling better now?”
“I get very tired, and sometimes I feel quite muddled. Once I’m working again, that will help. Dr. Rey says in a week or so maybe I can go painting outside the hospital, as long as an orderly goes with me. He thinks being out of the isolation room will soon put things right.” Vincent traced a pattern on the back of my hand. “I’ve worried about you, Rachel. Has anyone given you any trouble, the police, anybody?”
“No, everything’s fine,” I said brightly. “I want you well and out of here, that’s all.”
“So do I.” He gazed into my face. “Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t everyone just leave us alone?”
My bright tone melted away. “I don’t know, mon cher. I don’t know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Decisions
He is entirely conscious of his condition and talks to me of what he has been through and which he fears may return, with a candor and simplicity which are touching.
—Reverend Mr. Salles to Theo, 19 April 1889
A
t first Vincent was
as eager to leave the Hôtel-Dieu as I was for him to go. He complained about being stuck inside when spring was coming, about having to take medicines and eat hospital food, about being around nuns and sick people all the time. The police had dismissed the charges filed by the petitioners—on whose authority Roulin couldn’t find out—so he was free to leave whenever Dr. Rey deemed him well enough. The doctor reminded him that he shouldn’t rush things, said he needed to stay a while longer.
“I’m not going back to the Place Lamartine,” Vincent told me one day as we sat before the stove. “Soulé’s probably rented the house to someone else anyway—our arrangement only goes to the end of this month. Reverend Salles thinks I could find something near the hospital.” I offered to look at lodgings for him, but he shook his head. “I should look myself, so I can examine the light and space for my studio. Reverend Salles said he’d come with me, I’m guessing so he can help persuade a landlord to rent to the fou rou.” He smiled wryly. “It’s already the beginning of April. Surely I can leave here soon.”
But once Dr. Rey gave Vincent permission to go outside and paint, his urgency about leaving seemed to fade. Now I was restless and pestering, asking every visit when he might be released. A fortnight passed, another week beyond that, and he sidestepped my questions—about a new apartment, about moving his things from the yellow house—with the vaguest of answers. “Soon, ma petite,” he’d say. “Soon.”
One fine afternoon near the end of April, I came to the hospital to find Vincent painting in the courtyard garden. It was the warmest day so far that spring, and the flowers displayed all their colors, as if competing to see who was prettiest. The tidy flowerbeds surrounding the fishpond blended daisies, roses, all manner of blossoms, while a sweet aroma of herbs and orange trees perfumed the air. “Why don’t you take a rest so we can talk a while?” I said.
Vincent frowned at his canvas, then wiped his brushes clean. “Looks like a shower,” he said as we walked around the flowerbeds. “I need to get back to work in a few minutes.”
I put my hand on his arm. “I have to talk to you first. I’m worried about you. You don’t seem to want to leave here, and I really think—”
“I’m glad you mentioned that. There’s something I need to discuss with you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Dr. Rey offered me an apartment up the street that his mother rents out. I went to look at it with Reverend Salles.”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Does it have plenty of space for your work?”
“It’s only two rooms, but there’s good light. Madame Rey will give me a reduction on the rent, so it won’t cost much.”
“Oh, dearest, I’m so relieved. I was afraid that you were giving up somehow.” He didn’t answer, and I could tell by his face—“Vincent, what is it?”
“I’m not taking the apartment.”
I stopped walking and stared at him. “Are you going back to the yellow house?”
“Do you think the good people of Place Lamartine would allow that?”
“Then where will you go?” As soon as I asked the question, I thought I knew the answer. He was going to Paris to live with Theo and Johanna. Paris was so far away….
He kicked at a pebble on the path. “I’m entering the asylum at Saint-Rémy.”
The walls were closing in.
Vincent caught me before I crumpled to the ground, and he half-dragged, half-carried me to the low stone wall edging the fishpond. “Lean over, put your head between your knees,” he instructed, then yanked up the back of my blouse and pulled at my corset laces. His fingers were warm through the thin cloth of my chemise. “Damn corset—there. Breathe deeply.”
Slowly the world stopped spinning. “Can you sit up?” he asked after a few minutes. I nodded, and he dipped his hand into the cool water to pat my face. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought about asking Reverend Salles or Dr. Rey to do it.”
“Why are they sending you there?” I asked when I felt able to speak.
“No one is sending me. It was my idea,” he said, dipping his hand into the pond again. “It’ll only be for a few months. I talked it over with Dr. Rey, and he agrees this is best. When I looked at the apartment, I realized I am terrified of living alone.”
“You wouldn’t have to be alone,” I said. “I could live with you and help you—”
His jaw locked into the familiar stubborn line. “I won’t force you to be my nursemaid. Rachel, please listen to what I’m saying. I need rest and calm to regain my strength, or one day I won’t be able to work.”
“Couldn’t you stay here? Things are going so well…every day you seem better…”
“I need to leave Arles for a while.” Reverend Salles and Theo had already arranged everything, he said, with Dr. Peyron at Saint-Rémy. Theo would pay for Vincent to have his own room, and Dr. Peyron said he could have a second room for a studio. As he spoke, I kept picturing the high walls, the cold stone walls that I’d seen as a child. He took my hand, his voice filled with sadness. “I am unable to look after myself right now—I’m different from what I used to be. You and I have been deluding ourselves for quite some time. I’m not well.”
I knew he spoke the truth, maybe I’d known it for a long time, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “Will I be able to visit you?”
He looked down at our intertwined fingers. “Reverend Salles, Dr. Rey, and my brother are the only ones who would be permitted.” The thought of him alone in that place was too much for me, and I fell into tears on his shoulder. “Ma petite, please don’t. Three months, that’s all it will be, I promise. Please try to understand.”
It seemed important to him to have my blessing, even though the arrangements had already been made and everything was settled. I took the clean rag he offered me and blew my nose. “I do understand, Vincent. It’ll pass quickly, and it’ll be worth it to have you back strong and well.”
He kissed my forehead. “That’s my girl. We’ll spend some time together before I leave, and while I’m in Saint-Rémy I’ll write you letters and draw you pictures, d’accord?”
“Promise? You won’t forget about me?”
Something of the old sparkle leaped into his eyes. “How could I?”
Fifteen miles away, and Saint-Rémy might as well have been on the other side of France. I couldn’t say the word asylum; it stuck in my throat. “Do you want to take these books with you to Saint-Rémy?” I’d ask as we packed Vincent’s things, or I’d mention something we’d do “when you get back from Saint-Rémy,” as if he’d been going on a painting expedition or summer holiday.
There was much to arrange that last week, and it helped distract me. Madame Ginoux offered to store Vincent’s furniture and some paintings that weren’t yet dry at the Café de la Gare, but she was charging him for the space, her husband’s doing, I felt certain. Vincent’s other things were divided between cases to send to Theo and a trunk to take to Saint-Rémy. He burned most of his papers. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep those?” I asked as he tossed letters from his family and friends into the fireplace. He shrugged and said, “I never do.”
Packing the paintings was the hardest thing to watch: Vincent carefully untacking each canvas from its stretcher, carefully rolling it up, carefully tying the bundles with twine. It must have broken his heart to see those weeks and months of work come down from the walls, out from their homes in the studio, sent away as the ultimate sign of his departure. Some of the paintings had been damaged while he’d been at the Hôtel-Dieu; the spring had been rainy, and with the house closed by the police, no one had been able to light a fire to dry out the air.
“Look how it’s flaking,” he said mournfully as he stared at a painting he’d done of his bedroom, back in the fall. “Theo will have to get it relined.” He pressed newspaper to the painting’s wounds and packed it with the others. When he brought the sunflowers downstairs and started taking them from their frames, I had to go into the kitchen. That I could not bear.
H
e’d dreamed so much in the yellow house. So had I.
“Where’s the picture you began of me?” I asked when he finished bundling the paintings. I hadn’t seen it since that day of the petition.
“I reused the canvas.” At the look on my face, he added, “I had to, chérie, I was out. I couldn’t have finished as it was, anyway. I’ll start again another time.”
My frown became a smile. “In three months it’ll still be summer, you can paint me outside if you want.” He smiled back and said that sounded like a fine effect.
Finally everything was packed. Monsieur Roulin helped Vincent move things to the café, and the cases for Theo were on their way to Paris via goods train. In the morning, Vincent would be going with Reverend Salles to Saint-Rémy, and we agreed to meet at the house one last time. “You’re wearing my favorite dress,” he said when he opened the door.
Of course it was the sunshiny yellow dress I’d worn his first night at Madame Virginie’s. “I’ll never wear it for anyone but you,” I said and kissed him on each cheek.
He took my hand and led me into the studio. How strange it looked with everything gone and nothing on the walls, only the faintest scent of turpentine remaining. “I have something for you.”
“You don’t need to give me anything…,” I began, but my words faded when he brought me the last painting in the yellow house, still in its frame. One of the garden paintings, showing the place where he’d found me.
He spoke softly, and his voice quivered a little. “The other afternoon, I drew that place in pen and ink—I wanted to draw it one more time—but it came out too melancholy to be right.” A long pause. “Why were you crying that day?”
I looked up from the picture in my hands. “The day we met? You saw me?”
“I was painting behind the beech tree. You were crying so hard, I didn’t want to disturb you. Why were you so sad?”
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