February 19, 1873
Maman talked to me today about Edgar. Estelle has noticed our close friendship and expressed concern about my reputation. Maman warned me to protect myself from gossip and said if my reputation is lost, it might hurt my chances for a good marriage. She respects and admires Estelle, who graciously accepts her increasing blindness and family misfortunes without complaining. I suppose I should heed her warning. But how can I resist dear Edgar’s attention?
March 3, 1873
I hardly know what to write. I’m afraid Maman will never forgive me if she reads these words so I’m hiding this book in the attic.
Papa found one of Edgar’s drawings yesterday, a woman with no clothes on. Papa thought it was me. It wasn’t, but he wouldn’t believe Edgar, or me. He held the picture up and yelled at poor Edgar. He tried to explain that it was a sketch of someone he had known in Paris, but Papa wouldn’t listen and said he would meet Edgar at dawn in the park and for him to bring his weapon. Edgar said, “Take a hold of yourself, this is ridiculous nonsense. You’re an artist, you know better.” I may have fainted because the next thing I remember is sitting in the bathtub with Nicole scrubbing my back. Maman doesn’t know, or if she does, she hasn’t said anything. This is terrible. Everything is ruined.
Anne put the journal down. In 1873 if Marguerite had posed naked and anyone knew, this would have destroyed her reputation and chances for marriage. Had Philippe fought a duel to defend his daughter’s honor? She guessed not, since both had lived on. Either that, or both were terrible shots. She felt enormous sympathy for the girl. Had she married? Homer didn’t know, and there were no more entries in her journal after that spring. Anne sincerely hoped that Marguerite had recovered from her youthful love affair and married a worthy husband, though she suspected that Edgar would remain in her heart forever.
But what impressed her most was Estelle’s abiding concern for the welfare of those she loved despite her many challenges. Anne felt ashamed. She had been selfishly preoccupied with her recent problems, many of which she had brought on herself. She needed to take a leaf from Estelle’s book and find her own source of strength.
Chapter 34
March 1873
Mardi Gras was over. The big celebration dubbed Fat Tuesday took place without the De Gas and Musson families’ participation in either the grand parade or final ball on February twenty-fifth. The failure of the business had taken its toll, and no one felt festive. Also, the news about the bankruptcy had spread, and the family wished to stay out of the limelight.
Estelle understood that her husband cared deeply about the tragedy and that, even if he didn’t talk about it, was acutely aware of his part in bringing financial ruin on the family. Her father shared the blame with his bad investments in Confederate bonds. Estelle feared for her children’s future.
She expected that Edgar would leave soon. He had been spending hours in his studio painting the cotton office. There was still something feverish about him. One morning, she saw him sitting in the parlor looking dispirited.
“Edgar, what’s wrong?” she asked.
He raised his eyes. “I’ve booked my passage back to France. I leave tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“It’s time, for several reasons.” He lowered his gaze. “I don’t wish to impose myself on you all any longer, and I don’t wish to bring shame on you all. I’ve finished as much of the cotton office paintings as I can. Perhaps I can sell the bigger painting and be of some help to the family.”
“Dearest Edgar, how kind you are,” she said gently. “How could you bring shame on us? Have you told the others you’re leaving?”
“No. You’re the first to know. I don’t want any fuss, only a ride to the train, which I won’t miss this time.”
“I’m so sorry about the way things have turned out,” Estelle said.
“Me too. Sorry for you, my dear cousin . . . and about your eyes.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have become accustomed to my failing eyesight. I do quite well, as you’ve seen, and I’ll always be able to see in my mind’s eye the things of beauty in this world—the palm trees with their green fronds, the roses, the golden evening light, the faces of my children, even your wonderful paintings. No, especially your wonderful paintings. I know you paint things as they are, Edgar, and I expect that you will soon be recognized as a great artist.”
His face softened, and a tear ran down his cheek.
“Thank you for your belief in me, and for the generous words,” he said, looking up at her. “I’m so pleased to have spent this time with you. No one else has cared about me with such—with almost motherly concern. Rest assured that I’ll look out for you in the future and ensure that your welfare is protected.”
“You are dear to me, too, mon cousin,” she said, moving to embrace him.
They stood with their arms around each other for a while. Estelle hoped he would talk more to her about the reason he wanted to leave so abruptly and wondered if it involved the fallout with Philippe. She didn’t want to pry, but did want to understand.
She said in a small voice, “Edgar, have you said good-bye to Marguerite?”
He started, and a flush spread across his cheeks.
“No. Philippe has forbidden me to talk to her. Let me just say that we had a misunderstanding.”
Estelle observed his embarrassment and wanted to learn more, but held her tongue.
“Will you write to her?” she asked.
“I plan to. She’s a lovely young woman, and I admit I was captivated by her, almost mesmerized, in fact . . . but the life of an artist is not one easily shared with another. I need time for my art, and I’m on the brink of doing some good work. I’d like to sell some of it and help ease your financial burdens. I can work better in Paris, and it’s time to go home.”
“I understand,” Estelle whispered.
“Good-bye, my dear,” he said at last.
“Will Achille take you to the train again?” she asked.
“I haven’t asked him yet, but I will. He’s less distracted these days than René seems to be.”
“Yes. René has taken the news very hard. How are you planning to announce your departure to everyone?”
“I’ll tell them at dinner tonight. Don’t go to any special trouble with the meal. I’ve already packed my things and arranged for the paintings to be sent on.”
“Very well.”
Edgar spent the rest of the day in his room, only reappearing for dinner. He left the next morning with Achille. No one expressed regret to see him go, and his uncle and brothers sighed with relief.
Estelle called on her friend Sophie the following day. They sat in the Fontenots’ front room.
“This is a pleasant surprise; what brings you here, my friend?” Sophie said, offering tea.
“Edgar has gone home. He left yesterday.”
“What? He left without saying good-bye? Why? Mon Dieu! Now I understand what’s wrong with Marguerite. She’s been crying for days. I wonder if she knew he planned to go. I’ll have to talk to her.”
“So, he didn’t propose, then,” said Estelle.
“Well, if he did, she didn’t accept.”
“You must be relieved,” Estelle said. “I’ll go now. I only wanted to bring you the news. You’ll be wanting to spend time with Marguerite.”
“Yes. Thank you for coming,” Sophie said, and escorted her friend to the door.
On the way home, Estelle thought they might never know what had happened between Edgar and Marguerite. She believed he cared about Marguerite, but accepted his explanation that he was first and foremost an artist. He needed to return to Paris to continue to paint with a plan of earning his living and contributing to the family’s expenses. She liked him the better for it and felt satisfied that he had left having accomplished at least one work while in New Orleans that he considered worthwhile. She remembered his words: Only if I can face the truth about something important will I be able to create a
great painting. He had learned the truth about the family’s lost fortunes at last. She remained convinced that because of this understanding, he had created an important work of art.
Estelle opened the front door to her home. How much longer would they live there? And René, so proud, how would he hold his head up now that the business had failed? How would he support her and the children? Despite his flirtation with America, she, Estelle, was his wife. She would do her best to reawaken his interest in her. It would be easier, now that she was no longer pregnant. She resolved to remake some of her finer dresses. That would be less expensive than buying new ones, in addition to making her more stylish. And she would sing again, alone this time, with him accompanying her on the piano.
Chapter 35
January 1971
Dressed in a suit, Anne arrived at work with her letter of resignation. She wanted to leave her desk in good order before she left, so she was sorting out the papers cluttering the top when her phone rang.
“Anne, Tom McDermott here. Could you stop by my office, please?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, surprised. Why did the museum director want to see her? She hoped she would not get a dressing down. Clasping the letter in shaking hands, she told herself not to drop it. She hoped to leave her job with as much dignity as possible. She stood tall but advanced with sinking spirits to the director’s office.
“Come in,” he said, after the secretary announced her arrival. “Take a seat, here on the couch.”
She sat down, and he eased himself into a stuffed chair at her side.
“I want to thank you for reporting the forged painting of Estelle De Gas,” he said.
Anne gasped. “Oh, I thought I’d made . . . um, you’d made . . . or rather, you thought I’d made a mistake,” she stammered.
“It appeared that way at first, but Mary Wharton discovered the painting. It was most definitely a forgery, and a good one, that seems to have been executed at the request of Sam Mollineux.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she stared at him wide-eyed. “How did Mary find the painting, and how did she know about the forgery?”
“Turns out Mary had suspected Sam of wrongdoing for a long time. You may be aware that she and he were an item a few years back. They broke up, rather publicly and with some bitterness, I understand. I’m not privy to all the details, but it seems that while she and Sam were together, she noticed a stranger spending a lot of time looking at the museum’s painting of Estelle. Sometime later, at Sam’s house, the same person turned up. Sam tried to shoo him away. She recognized that same man when he came into the museum two days ago carrying what looked like a painting. Her suspicions aroused, and realizing that Sam was away, Mary got a key to his office, located the forgery, and removed it. Like you, she recognized it right away as a replica of the museum’s painting.”
“Amazing! A forgery, just as I thought. What has happened to Sam?”
“He’s disappeared. We don’t know where he is, but we’ve alerted the police and the FBI.”
“Sir, I may be wrong, but there may be a conflict of interest by the FBI,” she said.
“How so?”
“I believe he works for them.”
“Is that so? Interesting. Well, that’s their affair. Anyway, he’s no longer working for the museum.”
“How authentic is the forgery?” she asked.
“Impressively authentic. The forger used French oil paints that would almost pass for those used by Degas. Mary said they must have been smuggled into the country, because otherwise customs would have confiscated them.”
Anne inhaled deeply and raised her hands to her mouth.
“I may have the answer to that question,” she said. “A friend of mine saw a man who resembled Sam on the riverbank late at night last October. He received a package thrown to him from a boat. Perhaps the paints. . . .”
“Good heavens!” he interrupted her. “Cloak and dagger stuff. Very puzzling—shocking—the whole thing.”
“But why on earth would Sam order a forged painting?” she asked.
“Mary says he made a deal with the donors, the ones who gave the money that enabled the museum to purchase the painting of Estelle. Sam got credit for arranging the last-minute donation, and the museum hired him. Apparently, he agreed to give the donors the original painting in exchange for their generous gift. He planned to replace it with the forged painting. He was running out of time, and the donors were becoming impatient. Sam may have feared for his life.”
Anne nodded. Perhaps that explained why he carried a gun.
“Thank you for telling me all of this,” she said.
“I’m sorry if you thought we distrusted you when you reported the forgery, but you can understand why we didn’t believe you. Mary must have taken the picture between the time that you saw it and Peter went to look for it.”
“Yes. That would explain the timing. I waited until the next day to report it, and I shouldn’t have,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re glad we saved our original. Forgeries, if they’re good, sometimes take a long time to be recognized, sometimes never. If Sam had replaced the original with the forgery, we might not have noticed until it was too late. It’s happened before, even at the best museums.”
“Goodness, I had no idea,” she said.
“Thanks again for your help,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”
As she stood up to leave, she saw a painting on the wall. It depicted her own street, Esplanade Avenue.
“What a lovely painting,” Anne said, turning to face the Director. “Who’s the artist?”
“I am,” he said, smiling.
“Excuse me, but if you’re a painter, why are you working at the museum?” she asked.
“Ah, that’s easy. How many artists are like Degas, and how many make a living painting? Even he struggled at first. Most artists these days have a day job.”
“You’re right, of course.”
She smiled her thanks and left the office. Now what should she do? Sam had gone, but should she resign? Not yet, anyway. She needed the income. She tore the letter of resignation in two, tossed it into a nearby wastebasket, and glided back to her desk.
At home that evening, she could hardly make out how her fortunes had changed for the better. One question remained, however: what to do about Stella. They needed to talk. Stella accepted her invitation to meet for lunch.
They sat together at the Black Cat on a rainy Saturday morning. Many people around them were wearing costumes before heading out to watch the Mardi Gras parade later that day. Stella had dressed as she had most of the other times Anne had met her: in stylish, conservative clothes that suited her. Her hair, however, seemed fuller, Afro style. Anne wore her usual blue jeans. She fiddled with her napkin and cleared her throat as she faced her sister.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I wanted to see you again and apologize for the awful scene at the restaurant last time we met. I hope your hand and arm have recovered.”
Stella gave her a feeble smile.
“They have,” Stella said. “Thanks for asking. I’ll admit your reaction to my telling you I’m a friend of Mary Wharton’s surprised me, but I shouldn’t have been so insensitive myself. You graciously invited me to dinner at a fine restaurant, and you had good intentions. I’ll admit I’ve been the target of prejudice over the years, and I bear some resentment at the way I’ve been treated, but I’m not vengeful.
Anne listened carefully. Stella seemed to be telling the truth matter-of-factly, without hostility.
“I’m sympathetic, as I hope you know,” Anne said. “People should get along, regardless of race, but perhaps that’s a naive view.”
“I agree. People should get along and treat each other with consideration, but not everyone shares that opinion. Look at the urban renewal projects, for example. Are you aware of what’s going on there?” Stella asked.
“I am now, though I didn’t used to be. I admit I’ve been naiv
e. In college, I focused on school and ignored what was happening in the world outside. I didn’t even get involved, as many students did, in protests about the war in Vietnam. I painted a lot. It’s easy to lose yourself in art—in fact, that’s one of the best things about it. But now I’ve started a series of paintings of buildings and inhabitants in the Tremé because I want to illustrate and record the destruction of homes there.”
“Really?” Stella’s eyes lit up. “Well, that’s cool. We didn’t talk about this before, but I’m involved in a preservation group. We’re trying to save areas like that from destruction. It’s where I used to live. There are some historic buildings there, many as important culturally speaking as the ones on Esplanade Avenue.”
“There are, and I’d like to help with that preservation effort.”
Stella smiled. “So we agree. I imagined you had no clue about what’s been going on. Mary and I work all the time, trying to raise awareness.”
“I didn’t know that. I guess she and Sam have ended their friendship, such as it was.”
“Yes, and I heard about Sam and the forgery. Bummer. Must’ve been difficult for you,” Stella said.
“It was, but I learned something from the experience. I broke up with him. I believe I dodged a bullet.”
“We all dodge bullets sometimes. I’ve made my own mistakes and have had threats from people I should’ve known to avoid. Mary told me Sam works for the FBI and would never marry because of his work.”
“I suspected as much. What threats?”
“I had a boyfriend once who dealt drugs. Scary. Had to get a dog for protection. He’d show up in the middle of the night, banging on the door. Crazed out of his mind.”
“I agree. Very scary. Just curious, did he know about your plans to move into my house?”
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