The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  Maxine nodded.

  “I didn’t know you could buy things like that.”

  “You can’t, at least not very often,” Maxine said. “That was a nice piece. It wasn’t from a real carousel, just an imitation. Still, I made a pretty penny on that one. You’re in the market for a carousel figure, are you?”

  “No,” Cady snapped. It’s not like she had any money, or anyplace to put such a thing, for that matter. She had a sudden, humiliating vision of trying to stuff a carved carousel horse into one of her Hefty bags. Anger surged within her, hot and fierce, stomach-churning.

  She had to get out. She rushed toward the door.

  “Good-bye, Cady,” said Maxine. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Go to hell.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  1900

  ANGERS

  FACTORY OF GUSTAVE BAYOL

  Maëlle

  Monsieur Bayol offers Maëlle a position not as an apprentice but as a domestic servant.

  Maëlle is brutally disappointed, but since she is homeless and without resources, she is in no position to refuse.

  “My wife could use some help,” Bayol says as he leads her to his house, which adjoins the carousel factory. The brick structure is not fancy; it is merely a series of small rooms crowded with furniture and books.

  Madame Bayol is a broad-faced, unsmiling woman. She sighs when Bayol introduces the “new girl” to her. Maëlle smooths her skirts again, hoping she is presentable; she hasn’t seen herself in the mirror since she left her home, more than twenty-four hours earlier.

  “Don’t mind her,” says Monsieur Bayol to Maëlle. “My wife thinks I work too hard. Perhaps one day I will close my famous carousel factory and make small toys for children,” he teases. “I shall sell my concern to Monsieur Coquereau, or Monsieur Chailloux. Or perhaps Monsieur Maréchal will take it off my hands.”

  “You say that as a joke,” replies Madame Bayol, “but it is what you should do.”

  He laughs and leaves the two women standing alone in the parlor, each disappointed for her own reasons.

  “He is a foolish man,” mutters Madame Bayol. “As most men are. Come.”

  Madame Bayol shows Maëlle to a small room off the kitchen. It is furnished with a narrow cot, a coiled-rag rug, and a low chest of drawers topped by a pitcher and a chamber pot.

  “You may leave your things here,” Madame Bayol says. “Wash up, and then you will help me to prepare lunch. The married workers go home to eat with their wives and families, but the others eat together here.”

  A pot of soup simmers on the stove, and a cast-iron dish, still hot from the oven, holds a piece of beef surrounded by haricots verts, cabbage, and potatoes. Madame Bayol instructs Maëlle to place a chunk of meat in each wide bowl, then cover it with broth. Maëlle’s stomach growls as the aromas waft up, teasing her nose. She hasn’t eaten since her picnic of baguette and ham on the train.

  Madame Bayol places a board with bread and cheese on the table, and tells Maëlle to bring up two bottles of wine from the cellar.

  The men file in, donning their jackets to appear presentable before sitting down to the midday meal. Maëlle pours wine; though the men have washed the sawdust and grease off their hands and faces, the scent of masculine sweat fills the air.

  After the eight men are served, Madame Bayol invites Maëlle to sit beside her at one end of the table. A few of the workers look even younger than Maëlle; they sneak occasional glances at her, but no one addresses her directly. The younger men eat in silence, ceding lunch conversation to their elders. Maëlle catches the names of a few of them. It does not take long to learn that Monsieur Coquereau, the head joiner, is a joker; he laughs and teases throughout the meal. Monsieur Chailloux is quiet, his mind elsewhere, presumably on his designs for future carousels. Monsieur Maréchal, the factory foreman, is stern and unsmiling and sits hunched over the table, focused on his food.

  But Maëlle’s gaze finds its way, repeatedly, to Léon Morice. He sits to the right of his master, and throughout the meal Bayol seeks his apprentice’s advice regarding several aspects of their work: whether they will be able to meet the expedited schedule for the delivery of a carousel to the city of Nice and whether it is possible to add extra space inside the figure of a cow to place a bellows, so the animal will make a lowing sound as it moves.

  After the men have finished the soup, Maëlle and Madame Bayol whisk the plates away and make coffee. Appreciative murmurs arise when Madame Bayol serves the men narrow slices of cherry tart topped with a drizzle of sweet cream.

  “I would like to announce a new commission,” says Monsieur Bayol, addressing his staff. He extracts a cream-colored piece of stationery from his jacket’s breast pocket and holds it up, waving it in a theatrical gesture. “I have received a letter of instruction from a Monsieur Yves Clement, proprietor of a country home not far from Avignon.” Fitting half-lens glasses upon the bridge of his nose, Bayol reads: “I wish to commission a carousel, with pigs, dogs, cats, horses, and rabbits, for my beloved wife, Josephine, on our fifth anniversary. We are dearly waiting for our family to come, and hope to fill the halls of Château Clement with the laughter of children. A carousel from the famous house of Bayol will be the perfect addition to our historic château.”

  Nods and murmurs are shared up and down the table.

  “I have instructed my advocate to make inquiries into the affairs of the family,” Bayol adds. “But I believe the Clement carousel will be a grand opportunity indeed.”

  The men grunt their agreement, their chairs screeching as they push away from the table. Talking excitedly, they thank Madame Bayol for lunch, hang up their jackets, and file out of the kitchen to return to work.

  Maëlle watches as they leave, longing to join them in the atelier. Instead, she turns her attention to washing the dishes. When the women are alone in the kitchen, she asks Madame Bayol, “Is this ‘Clement carousel’ a private commission, then?”

  “Yes. It is rare but not unknown.”

  “It is hard to imagine a family ordering a carousel. They must be wealthy indeed.”

  “Perhaps not wealthy enough,” Madame Bayol answers, scraping flour from her baking board. Pride tinges her voice as she adds, “My husband is a true master. His talents demand the highest fees in all of France. Perhaps this family does not have enough money. This is why he asked his advocate to make inquiries; a commission such as this is not to be taken lightly.”

  “But they own a château.”

  “Many châteaux are owned by families of dwindling fortunes,” Madame Bayol says, shaking her head as she stores the leftover flour in a canister. “After the wars, and with the economy of our Third Republic . . . things have changed. The families are merchants and farmers, not the aristocracy of old; in fact, many bought their châteaux recently from the displaced aristocracy, not realizing how much they cost to maintain.”

  Maëlle had never thought about this sort of thing. There was a château outside her hometown of Concarneau; it was said a vicomtesse lived there, a solitary old woman whose royal title had survived the Revolution. Maëlle used to walk by, noting the faded curtains in the windows and the weeds in the drive, but she had always assumed these were genteel flaws, indications of a kind of discreet wealth that someone in her position would never fully understand.

  Needless to say, the cabinetmaker’s daughter had never been invited in.

  * * *

  • • •

  As the week goes on, Maëlle learns about the carousel business by listening in on the discussions over lunch and paying attention to the men’s chatter while she washes the atelier windows and sweeps piles of wood dust off the floor. It is fascinating, and she has enough food and a warm place to sleep, but she itches to be allowed to work and create as she knows she can, alongside the carvers and painters.

  She is thrilled when Monsieur Ma
réchal teaches her to make gesso, the thick white primer used to seal the wood of the carousel figures before pigment and metal leaf are applied. In a double boiler, she adds amber flakes of dried rabbit skin glue, chalk whiting, and garlic cloves, stirring constantly to be sure it doesn’t burn.

  Madame Bayol exclaims and throws open the windows as the stench fills the kitchen, yet to Maëlle it smells like progress.

  Whenever she is cleaning the factory, she watches the process and learns.

  First, Monsieur Chailloux’s drawing is approved by the master. Then a life-size cartoon of the figure—a donkey, a horse, a cat—is sketched onto paper tacked up on the wall. The design is then transferred onto large pieces of wood only about an inch thick. After they are cut to the specifications, these are laminated together and held in a vise until the glue has dried. Only then does the sculpting begin: Léon and the other apprentices do the bulk of the preliminary work, carving away great chunks of unnecessary wood, and leaving the crudely modeled body for the master’s artistry.

  It is magical, watching Monsieur Bayol conjure his sweet figures, cutting and nicking and smoothing for hours, days, weeks.

  Afterward, all joints are filled with putty and carefully sanded, and the master applies his final touches. Finally the figure is completely covered in several coats of gesso, each application smoothed and polished with increasingly fine sandpaper, pumice, and rottenstone.

  The gleaming, pure white creatures are as lovely as any sculpture made of stone; they remind Maëlle of grand statues she has seen in Angers’ public squares. It seems almost a shame to apply paint.

  But the creatures are brought to whimsical life through bright pigments and shiny gilt, rosettes and jewels and brass details.

  Maëlle watches the younger workers with envy. Not one is as skilled as she. Soon she makes a decision: She did not come all this way to remain in the kitchen. Maëlle starts slipping into the factory late at night, after the master and his wife have gone to bed. She retrieves chunks of wood from the discard pile to carve her creations: roses and tiny cows and pigs. She spends hours chipping and shaving, sanding and oiling. Then she leaves them atop Monsieur Bayol’s desk for him to discover in the morning.

  But it is not until she begins to apply paint to the animals that Monsieur Bayol takes her aside after lunch, to say: “These little toys you have been making are atrocious, but they do show promise.” He toys with his mustache, seeming to ponder something for a long moment, then finally adds: “I am afraid young Theodore is not working out; he does not have the delicacy necessary for the finished painting. In addition to helping my wife, you will learn to properly use the paints. Perhaps a woman’s touch would be useful, after all. Have you ever gilded?”

  “I . . . No, I am sorry, monsieur,” Maëlle said. “I have not gilded. But I am eager to learn.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, mademoiselle. This much is clear.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  PRESENT DAY

  PARIS

  Cady

  As Cady checked off the carousels she photographed, one after another, she began to wonder just how many there were in the City of Light, but neither an Internet search nor questioning of the carousel workers offered up a clear number. The man at the corner grocery near her apartment suggested she pay a visit to the Musée Carnavalet, a museum dedicated to Parisian history.

  She found the museum on the other side of the Seine in the charming Marais neighborhood, where it occupied two neighboring mansions: the Hôtel Carnavalet and the former Hôtel Le Peletier de Saint-Fargeau.

  A museum worker directed Cady to the office of a fifty-something woman named Madame Martin.

  “Bonjour, madame,” Cady said, placing her business card on the desk. “I’m photographing Parisian carousels for a publisher based in San Francisco.”

  The woman looked unimpressed. Madame Martin’s hair was cut in a neat bob, not chic exactly—at least not by Parisian standards—and was a shiny steel color, too uniform to be natural. She wore chunky, handmade jewelry: big earrings and a large necklace that seemed to make a statement—“I am here.”

  Her air of irritated impatience did not deter Cady; she was used to being the annoying kid. When she was thirteen she had snuck a peek at her file and noted that several caseworkers had described her as “socially awkward/possible disorder.” Far from feeling insulted, Cady had been relieved to know there really was something about her that put people off. The awkwardness lessened as she matured and became better socialized, though it had never fully gone away.

  But Cady imagined that many Americans felt awkward around the urbane Parisians. It was comforting to know that in this way, if in no other, she belonged.

  “Yes, yes. What is your question?” urged Madame Martin.

  “I have several.”

  “Asseyez-vous,” she said, and Cady took a seat. Madame Martin folded her hands atop her desk and gazed at Cady attentively, reminding her of Ms. Ulmer, a social worker from years ago. Unsmiling, but not unkind.

  “How many carousels are there in Paris?”

  Madame Martin raised her eyebrows. “There is no one who knows this. Not all are permanent; sometimes they are brought in for festivals or holidays. The famous ones are well known: the Trocadéro, the Eiffel Tower, the Hôtel de Ville . . .”

  “Yes, I’ve photographed those,” said Cady. “They’re beautiful. I’m especially interested in the carousel carver named Gustave Bayol. Are you familiar with his work?”

  “But of course! Gustave Bayol is the most famous carousel carver of France. There are at least two of his carousels in Paris; I believe one is in Jardin du Ranelagh, and another in Bois de Vincennes.”

  “I haven’t visited them yet, but they’re on my list.” In fact, Cady had been avoiding them. The sense of betrayal she felt from her carved rabbit was still fresh. It was ridiculous, she knew. And yet . . . “I have an animal figure that I always thought was a Bayol.”

  “Is that so?” Madame Martin said, sounding curious.

  Cady took out her portfolio, set it on the desk in front of the other woman, and splayed it open.

  The photos of Gus-the-rabbit were eight-by-ten glossies. Some were in color, others black-and-white; a few were close-ups, and some had been taken from afar to give a sense of perspective. Gus had been one of Cady’s first, and favorite, models. She had experimented, using different cameras to yield different effects: in some photos Gus was mildly distorted, while others contained streaks of light or orbs that seemed to dance along the edges of the figure.

  “I am no expert,” murmured Madame Martin as she examined one photograph after another, “but it looks to me like this is from the same era, as though someone were carving in the style of Bayol.”

  Cady nodded. “I’ve been told that. I was hoping he was wrong.”

  “The delicate lilies of the valley there, you see?” Madame Martin said, pointing to the photos and warming to the subject. “Those are not what we expect to see in the work of Bayol. He was not a fancy man. Of course, Bayol had many apprentices. Léon Morice was the most famous—he went on to become an important sculptor.”

  “Is it possible this rabbit could have been carved by Morice?”

  She shook her head. “Like most masters, Bayol may have had his apprentices work on the structure of the animals, or sculpt the rough form, perhaps complete some of the painting and gilding. But he would have finished the raised details himself. They were his signature.”

  “Maybe one of his apprentices went on to sculpt elsewhere?”

  “After Bayol semiretired and went on to carve wooden toys for children, Morice and two others, the head joiner and the factory foreman, took over his factory in Angers. They continued to create carousels, but theirs were much fancier. More in the style of the Baroque carousels, like the double-decker at the Hôtel de Ville. For them, your rabbit would not have been fancy enough.”r />
  “Oh.”

  “Besides, I don’t see a plaque or a crest anywhere. Everything from the Bayol factory carries an identifying plaque, whether it was made under Bayol or by those who later bought his factory.”

  Cady nodded. “I have another question. My rabbit . . . fell and split open, and I found this inside.”

  Cady handed her the antique photograph, which she had placed in a protective plastic sleeve. Madame Martin arched one eyebrow.

  “This was inside the rabbit?”

  “Yes. There was a box, like a . . . ‘time capsule.’” Cady couldn’t think of the term in French, so she said it in English.

  Madame Martin nodded. “A secret from a different age. How exciting.”

  Cady watched as the woman studied the photograph. “It appears to have been taken around the turn of the twentieth century, right?”

  “It does,” said Madame Martin. “And this was the only photo in the box?”

  Cady nodded. “Along with a note that said: ‘Je t’aime toujours, et encore. Souviens-toi de moi.’”

  “How sweet. Perhaps an amateur carver fell in love with the servant in the photograph and made the creature for her.”

  “Maybe,” Cady said. “But see? She’s standing in front of a carousel.”

  Madame Martin brought out a magnifying glass and studied the photo, including the stamp. “Château Clement . . . ? That’s odd.”

  “You know it?”

  “I do,” she said with a nod. “My husband’s family is from that area. It is in Provence, not far from Avignon.”

  “I tried to look it up but couldn’t find any information on the Internet.”

  “I’m not surprised. The château is in private hands still, and derelict.”

  “So you think the photo might have been from a studio in that area?”