by M. J. Rose
“I don’t want you to include what Thérèse said.”
For the first time, I noticed his eyes were bloodshot and the glass he held in his hand shook a bit.
“It’s just a game, Eugène,” Madame said.
He laughed sardonically. “With Cocteau and Jules writing? It’s not a game. This thing will be performed on a stage six months from now, with Picasso turning the spirit of my fiancée into a hideous beast. I won’t have it.”
Picasso raised an eyebrow. “Don’t hold back on how you feel about my paintings.”
Eugène waved his hand. “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t pretend you are insulted, Pablo. You’ve discussed this yourself. You’re proud that you walked away from the kind of easy beauty that others still hold on to.”
Madame, ever the hostess, quieted Eugène down. “We won’t write about that part of the séance. We’ll make up another spirit who belonged to one of the other guests.” She looked around, her eyes alighting on me. “Delphine, do you have a spirit we can borrow?”
As I shook my head, Anna said, “Delphine’s spirit hasn’t moved on. She’s haunted by one who is alive.” Her voice was distant, her eyes unfocused. She looked as if she were in a trance again.
“How extraordinary,” Madame said. “Cocteau, we have to use that moment exactly. Anna coming in on the middle of all this commotion.” Then Madame turned to me. “Are you haunted, Delphine?”
“Not that I know of,” I said, as lightly as I could.
“No, she’s the one who does the haunting,” Mathieu said softly. I wasn’t sure anyone heard him but me.
It was one thing for all of them to come for a party and stay overnight but quite another not to have the choice about leaving. The entrapment was weighing on the group. While I should have been excited at the thought that Mathieu was trapped with me here, instead I was filled with a sense of dread. The more time we spent together, the more difficult it would be for me to let him go again.
Sebastian was only pretending to enjoy working on the play. He glanced over my way too many times and studied Mathieu’s face with too much scrutiny. I was waiting for my twin to question me, still not sure how I would answer his queries about what this man he’d never before heard of meant to me. I think he was secretly glad for the company staying longer. He and I had been here alone with Madame for almost a week now, and the hours passed more pleasantly for him with a houseful of guests.
By dinnertime, most everyone except Anna and me had imbibed too many cocktails. The meal was a complicated affair. Eugène was even moodier than he’d been earlier. Cocteau and Picasso were more ribald. Madame’s personality was exaggerated, her actions and speech a bit more theatrical. She seemed almost desperate for excitement.
The roast chicken was a bit overcooked and the potatoes a bit underdone, and I thought the wine was too dry. The air crackled with anxiety, although I couldn’t quite locate its fountainhead.
At some point, Madame asked Eugène—who was still sullen—about his next project. He was headed back to Egypt, he said. Madame regaled us with stories of her own time there, about how she had visited the pyramids and slept inside one of the tombs for two evenings.
“Talk about Surrealism,” she said, and nodded at Picasso. “Nothing about that experience comes close to anything in our reality. There were so many spirits residing in those stone walls we felt we were at a party.”
“Surely they weren’t all glad to see you,” Cocteau quipped.
“Surprisingly, none of them tried to frighten us away.”
Ever the gracious hostess, Madame asked Cocteau and then Picasso what they were up to next. And then she moved on to me. I was hesitant. I didn’t know who at the table other than Mathieu and my brother knew exactly what I was doing there. They’d all acted as if I were just another guest.
“I’m still in the midst of my current commission,” I said.
“Don’t be so coy,” Picasso teased. “A commission for whom?”
I looked across the table at Madame.
“For me. She does portraits that reveal the sitters’ innermost secrets.”
“Really?” Jules asked her. “You’ve decided to allow the world to see your secrets?”
“No, no. I brought Delphine here to help me find the château’s secret so I could discover its hidden treasure.”
“What a perfect sojourn for a treasure hunt. Storm and all,” said Jules. He turned to me. “How exactly do you suss out someone’s secret?”
I explained a bit, using the stock answer I’d worked out when my brother first began getting me commissions in Paris six years ago.
All but Anna and Eugène were fascinated and asked me quite a few questions. I was uncomfortable being the center of attention, especially when Picasso said, “I think I’d like to commission you to paint my portrait. I’d be curious what you might discover.”
I felt blood flood my cheeks. Picasso was famous for not sitting for any of his friends the way most artists in his circle did.
“And I’d also like to do that,” Jules said. “Maybe you could discover the enigma that disturbs me. A series of events in my childhood that I can’t quite remember.”
“Sounds like Sigmund Freud would be more likely to help you than Delphine,” said Yves Villant.
The conversation was lively, but I wasn’t enjoying it.
“I think I’d like to hire you, too. My secrets are not buried deep, but I think they’d make for an interesting portrait,” Cocteau said.
“A scandalous portrait,” Picasso added.
“My sister can be hired, of course,” said Sebastian.
“I know! Why don’t we have an auction, now, here?” Picasso suggested. “Delphine will paint the secret portrait of the highest bidder.”
“No, no, that would be … I’d be very uncomfortable,” I said.
“Please, Delphine, do agree. We’re all so bored,” Madame pleaded. “You’ll make the money, of course, and I’ll match it and donate the same amount to my orphanage in town.”
“I couldn’t,” I demurred.
Madame implored, “Not even for the poor little girls?”
My brother was looking at me, exhilaration in his eyes. The more I did, the more famous I became, the better it was for his reputation. And now there was the added benefit of even more money.
“I’ll start,” Picasso said, without waiting for me to acquiesce. “Fifteen thousand francs.”
I knew that at the time, Ambroise Vollard was getting close to one hundred thousand francs for one of Picasso’s paintings. My mother’s were selling for twenty-five thousand. At parties in New York, I got twenty-five dollars for the evening, which had seemed like a fortune, since my rent for the whole month at the studio was only sixty dollars.
One American dollar was worth twenty-five francs in 1925. Picasso’s offer of fifteen thousand francs was six hundred dollars. A fortune. I was stunned by the amount.
“Sixteen thousand francs,” said Jules.
“Seventeen thousand,” offered Yves Villant.
“Eighteen thousand,” said Mathieu.
I shuddered. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might bid. What would I do if he won? I couldn’t draw him again.
“Twenty thousand,” said Picasso, with a devilish laugh.
“Twenty thousand two hundred,” said Jules.
“Twenty one thousand,” offered Picasso, jumping again, hoping, it seemed, to end it.
But, to my surprise, Mathieu bid five hundred francs more. There was a lull in the back-and-forth, and then Picasso stunned us all by bidding five thousand more.
I didn’t think he wanted the portrait as much as he wanted to win. I was just relieved that Mathieu hadn’t continued bidding. The idea of putting the blindfold on again for him frightened me.
“Once we’re done with our dinner, let’s begin,” Picasso said.
“Oh, good, a show!” Madame said, clapping. “Anna, let’s add to the excitement. You’re clairvoyant. Can you see wha
t Delphine will see? Write it down, and we’ll seal it in an envelope and take bets on whether you guessed correctly.”
“I don’t think any of Monsieur Picasso’s secrets will be revealed,” she said.
“And why is that, Anna?” Madame asked.
“I can’t be certain of the reason, only the outcome.”
“And what outcome do you see?” I asked.
She shook her head and continued staring at me. “I’m not quite sure. Only that there won’t be a portrait of Picasso.”
“She’s right. There won’t be. Because I’m outbidding him,” Eugène said. “Thirty-five thousand francs!”
No one said a word. The room was utterly silent.
Finally, Madame broke the silence. “The orphans will be most appreciative, Eugène.” Then, as an afterthought, she looked at Picasso. “Will you best him, Pablo?”
He shook his head. “As much as I’d love to see Delphine’s portrait of me, I bow to Eugène’s generosity.”
I was frightened. The idea of painting Picasso’s portrait had intrigued me and challenged me as an artist. Even titillated me a little as a woman. It was impossible not to be curious about his reputation. But there was nothing about Picasso that scared me. I hadn’t sensed that his secrets would have disturbed me. But with Eugène, I wasn’t as sure. The aura around him was turning brown-black. The shadows were as dense as the ones I’d glimpsed when Gaspard had been talking about thousands of Cathars who had been slaughtered for believing in a different version of heaven and hell.
As we finished our main course, my anxiety increased. I didn’t want to do the portrait of Eugène but couldn’t think of how to get out of it. On top of the money Madame was paying us, this windfall would help Sebastian.
Dessert was served—a delicious tarte au citron—but I only pushed it around on my plate. Mathieu noticed and with one glance told me he was worried for me. But what could I do? All that money would solve my brother’s problem.
“I think you should do the drawing downstairs, here, where we all can watch,” Madame said.
I looked over at Sebastian to save me.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said. “Delphine doesn’t do her best work in a large crowd.”
“But you worked that way at the parties in New York,” Madame countered.
“Since then, she’s changed how she works,” he answered solemnly. “She prefers to work alone.”
“I think it would be best in the studio,” I said.
Eugène stood up. “That’s fine with me.”
As we left the dining room after dessert, Sebastian caught up with me. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m worried. The atmosphere in the house is darkening.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. “It’s too much pressure, isn’t it?”
“It is, but what can we do now? You should have stopped it when it started.”
We reached the staircase, where Eugène was on the steps watching us, waiting for us.
“Sebastian, why don’t you come, too? It will be more comfortable for your sister if you are there.”
Chapter 46
The drawing session commenced fifteen minutes after I’d left both men on the steps, requesting a bit of time to prepare my sketch pad and pencils.
“Eugène, why don’t you have a seat here?” I motioned to a chair. “And Sebastian, over there.” I pointed to another.
Eugène sat down and fidgeted for a moment while I explained what I’d be doing and asked if he had any questions. He said he didn’t. He continued to be restless, which bothered me. His aura was darkening to an even deeper muddy hue, and I didn’t spend as long as usual learning his face. I wanted to get the session over with as quickly as I could.
I put on my blindfold and immediately began to draw. As usual, not knowing what I was sketching, unclear of the images that emerged from the shadows in the darkness of the silk.
From across the room, I could still sense Eugène’s discomfort. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes, fine.”
After a few more minutes, I felt Sebastian shift in his chair behind me. It was subtle, but the air around him moved. His cologne wafted toward me. It was unusual for him to become disturbed during a session. Trying to ignore his tension, I kept at my work, starting a second drawing and then a third.
After ten minutes more, I laid down my pencil, took off my blindfold, and studied my work.
“These images are all so familiar,” I mused out loud.
I’d drawn similar sketches once. I was sure of it. But when? And then I remembered. These were almost identical to the drawings I’d done of Thérèse Bruis almost five years ago.
Before I could stop him, Eugène was up off his chair, and looking at what I’d drawn.
“So it is you!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been looking for you for years.”
“What are you talking about?” I was becoming more and more frightened.
“I’d heard about you but never knew your name,” Eugène said with disgust. He turned to Sebastian. “And you, have you always been your sister’s manager?”
“I have.”
“Always?”
“Yes, since she was in L’École. Why?”
“And normally”—he turned to me—“next you would paint this? Do a full oil painting?”
“Yes, usually I do.”
“I don’t want that. I’ll pay you, of course. But I don’t want a painting of this.”
Sebastian was standing behind me, looking at the drawings.
The first was of two women in a sickroom. One in a bed, the other standing, adjusting her pillow. It was harmless. Kind, even. In the second drawing, the woman who had been adjusting the pillow was holding it aloft. And in the third drawing, she was smothering the woman in the bed with it.
I looked at Sebastian. “What is going on?”
Sebastian didn’t answer, but Eugène did. “Yes, you drew these before. You drew the last moments of a desperately ill woman’s life, as she secretly begged her nurse to help her die so she wouldn’t have to endure any more pain. The last moments of my wife’s life, with her nurse, Thérèse Bruis. But you drew it as a murder, not a mercy killing. And your brother blackmailed Thérèse with what you painted. He told her he was going to hang the painting in his gallery unless she bought it from him. Thérèse sold everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. And so he did it. He hung the painting. One of our friends saw it and told Thérèse. She went to see it, realized how recognizable she was, and begged your brother to take the painting down. But he refused. And then she wrote you and begged you, too. But you just ignored her. I would have given you the money. I would have bought the damn painting. I would have done anything to save her. But she didn’t think she could explain it to me. Thérèse thought I’d always see her with blood on her hands. That I wouldn’t understand that my wife had wanted her nurse to help her die. That I wouldn’t believe that Thérèse hadn’t set out to fall in love with me. That I would never accept that our love was not tainted. And because neither of you would help her keep her secret, she wrote me a letter, posted it, and then overdosed on laudanum. Thérèse took her own life because of what you drew and then committed to canvas.”
I looked at Sebastian, shocked. “You blackmailed her?”
He didn’t answer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash. Eugène had pulled out a knife. The blade shone in the candlelight.
“Watch out, Sebastian!” I screamed.
Sebastian rushed him. Pushed him. Eugène fought back. The two men overturned a chair. Crashed into a table. Porcelain figurines fell and shattered on the floor.
The studio door was flung open. Madame rushed into the room, followed by Mathieu, who grabbed me, pulled me back toward the doorway, and told Madame to hold on to me.
Their entrance had distracted Sebastian. Eugène had taken advantage of that to grab my brother in a choke hold. The knife was up agai
nst his neck, the point almost piercing the skin.
“Eugène, this isn’t a good idea,” Mathieu said calmly, as if he were talking about choosing a cigar. “Whatever Sebastian said or did … there are other ways to work out your differences.” He took another step closer to the two men. “Whatever is wrong, you can’t resolve it like this. Not like this.”
By taking slow, small steps, Mathieu had finally reached Eugène’s side. Suddenly, in one quick move that stunned us all, Mathieu pushed Sebastian out of the way and grabbed Eugène’s arm—the one holding the knife—and pulled it backward.
The push had been too rough. My brother fell backward against the fireplace, and there was a crack as his head hit the marble mantel.
I screamed.
Mathieu let go of Eugène to kneel down and see if my brother was all right.
Eugène lunged. He was blind with the fury of the fight, with the desire to get his revenge. I didn’t even know if he realized that Sebastian was the one lying on the floor and that the man he was about to stab was Mathieu.
I could see that the blade was headed for the middle of Mathieu’s back. Eugène was going to drive the knife into the flesh between his shoulders.
I tried to break free, but Madame held me back. I pushed her away and ran forward, throwing myself on Eugène, trying but failing to stop him from stabbing Mathieu.
Suddenly, there was blood everywhere. Eugène stumbled, as if stunned that he’d actually used his weapon. I knelt down beside Mathieu. I hadn’t stopped Eugène, but the impact of my jumping on him had ruined his aim. The knife had gone into Mathieu’s arm. The same arm that had been so damaged in the war.
There was so much blood. Had the knife severed a vein? The wound had to be stanched quickly. But first, I had to pull out the knife. I grabbed it and yanked, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried again, gritting my teeth, gripping the handle, I tugged as hard as I could. It gave. For a moment, I just stood there holding the knife, blood dripping on my legs, my stockings, my shoes. Seeing the scene in my mind. Recognizing it from a drawing I had done so long ago.
Then I sprang into action. “We have to stop the blood!” I heard myself scream.
Madame grabbed a linen cloth off a table and wrapped it around Mathieu’s arm, pressing it as tightly as she could around his wound.
