Headline

by Imogen Robertson

  After the giddiness of Christmas, the days that followed felt peaceful. Sylvie encouraged her to go out still in the mornings and Maud spent them wandering round the museums, but she left her sketchbook at home and let the works she saw flood over her. She studied individual works, feeling her fingers twitch with the urge to experiment, but avoided her easel. It was a holiday, after all, and should be treated as such. She strolled by the Seine, watching the smoke rise from the barges. It felt as though an early spring had come even as the weather continued cold and damp.

  On 30 December Maud spent the morning at the Musée Carnavalet among the histories of Paris and admiring the caricatures of Jean-Pierie Dantan. After lunch she and Sylvie walked together in the gardens watching the students and their models eating pancakes which steamed in the cold air. Sylvie was affectionate, but seemed more subdued than usual. Maud wondered if she was preparing for another attempt to give up the pipe. Later she read contentedly in the flat and was surprised but pleased to hear Morel’s voice in the hallway just before the usual hour for supper. She heard the brother and sister speaking but remained in her room until the waiter brought their food. She joined them with the expectation of pleasant conversation, but Morel was quiet and withdrawn. Sylvie was silent too. Maud wondered if they had received bad news from home, or worse, that Morel’s business in Paris had suffered some reverse and they would have to leave at once. She was ashamed that her reaction to the idea of their leaving was purely selfish. She would have to find miserable lodgings again while the weather was still bitter, and although the money they had given her already would keep her going through the spring, it would not permit any comfort. She needed another month’s wages for that. The way they both piled her plate high and filled her glass made her feel even more sure it was all going to be taken away. She ate and drank hungrily, like a peasant who has sneaked into a feast. When she could eat no more she felt a sudden wave of disgust at herself, the animal which fear of poverty had made her. She was too hot; the rich food had made her sleepy.

  ‘Might we open the window for a moment, Sylvie?’ she said at last.

  ‘Not just now, dear,’ she said without looking at her.

  Morel wiped his mouth and stood up from the table. With a clarity that felt unnatural Maud noticed that his lips were still a little greasy with the sauce. He went to the side dresser and opened it with a key from his waistcoat pocket. Maud watched fascinated as he removed a small striped box and handed it to her.

  ‘Could you tell us about this box, Miss Heighton?’

  He looked so grave that she laughed. ‘You know I cannot. I have never seen it before.’

  He looked away from her, out into the street. ‘Open it, please.’

  She did so, though it took a slight effort to pull herself up from the table. She set it down, then took off the cardboard lid. ‘I don’t understand. What is this? Oh, Lord.’

  The box contained a blaze of white light. Maud blinked to clear her vision and saw a tiara, made only it seemed of diamonds and air.

  ‘Take it out, please.’

  She did. It was far lighter than she had expected. There was one large central stone the size of a pigeon’s egg, surrounded by curling fronds of smaller stones. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said again, and reached forward to touch that central stone. It shone like the crystal glasses Morel kept for his whisky. ‘Is it yours, Sylvie? Oh, my dear! Please tell me you didn’t steal it!’

  Sylvie gave a sharp bark of laughter and lit a cigarette. Morel continued to stare out of the window as he spoke.

  ‘My sister found it in your room this morning, Miss Heighton. It belongs to Madame de Civray.’

  ‘How could you, Maud?’ Sylvie said.

  Maud was confused; the room was so warm she could feel sweat trickling under her hair on the back of her neck. ‘How could I what, Sylvie? Stop being so silly. I’ve never seen it before in my life, and it was most certainly not in my room this morning. This is some sort of joke. And it isn’t funny.’

  Sylvie was watching her with a sad smile. Morel remained at the window with his back turned. ‘Some moment of madness, much regretted now I am sure,’ he said.

  Maud was too surprised to be frightened yet. ‘Are you suggesting I stole it? You can’t be. I would never do such a thing. Sylvie, you had all those packages with you. You must have picked it up by mistake.’

  Sylvie turned to Morel. ‘The Countess just leaves her treasures lying around – the temptation must have been too much. Have you not noticed how unhappy Maud has been this week, Christian? How distracted and upset? She has been walking the streets of Paris by herself.’

  ‘The museums, dear,’ Maud explained. ‘You don’t like them.’

  Sylvie carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Without even taking her sketchbook. I think it began just before Christmas. And you know, Christian, I think she almost wanted me to find it. It was sitting on top of her bed, plain as anything.’

  Morel smiled sadly at his sister. ‘Perhaps the effects of opium have, as some have suggested, destroyed her moral sense. This cannot be forgiven, Sylvie.’

  Maud tried to smile, her eyes going back and forth. ‘Sylvie, Mr Morel, do stop. It’s not kind. You know I’ve been happier these last weeks than I think I ever have been before. Do stop.’ Her head swam and she put her hand on the table. Her limbs felt alien and unwieldy. She felt she had somehow forgotten the trick of moving them.

  Sylvie sighed. ‘The papers are full of such things. Poor women, trying to be respectable then falling into temptation. So sad. How long have you been a victim of opium, Maud?’

  Maud tried to speak firmly, but her mouth had become dry and her voice came out thicker and lower than usual. ‘I have never touched that drug, as you well know.’

  ‘Please don’t deny it, Maud. I thought I smelled some strange scent in the air but I had no idea, not until I looked under your bed after finding the tiara.’

  ‘There is nothing there. You are talking nonsense.’

  ‘Oh, but there is!’

  Maud would wake up in a moment. Didn’t this feel like a dream? Her body so reluctant to obey, her vision blurred. She stood up. There was nothing under the bed. She would show them and that would be an end to it. She had to keep one hand on the wall of the corridor to stop from falling as she went. They followed her and she thought she could hear Sylvie’s sympathetic sigh as she stumbled. She shoved open the door to her room and fell to her knees by the bed, then stretched out her arm under it until she touched something. A tray. Her fingers feeling fat and unhelpful, she pulled it towards her. Sylvie must have put it there as a joke. Part of her stupid joke. She was a child at times. She realised she was speaking out loud, but the words were emerging ugly and slurred. She managed to pull the tray out from under the bed. It was not the cloisonné treasure of Sylvie’s but a dented metal serving platter like those used in the most down-at-heel restaurants. On it was a cheap-looking brass spirit lamp, a bamboo pipe, a porcelain bowl the shape and size of a door knob. She picked it up, confused and lost in a deep fog that made her arms impossible to lift. The world began to feel very far away. ‘That’s not mine.’

  Sylvie and Christian had come into the room after her and were standing just in front of her window looking serious and sad, and watching Maud as if she were some exotic, but faintly repulsive reptile. An elegant couple visiting the freak show. Maud could see the volume of Ruskin she had been reading lying open on the windowseat.

  ‘Did you see if she was carrying anything when you left Madame de Civray’s home, Sylvie?’

  Sylvie tilted her weight to one side. ‘She was carrying a few things, and she seemed very excited.’

  ‘You had boxes – that box. I was carrying some for you but all I took from that house was the portfolio! The photographs!’ The words stumbled through her lips and she was no longer sure if she spoke French or English. It seemed suddenly very important that they saw the photographs. If they did, they would understand. They would stop this.
She half-crawled towards them, towards the side-table to the left of the door where the portfolio lay, but her hands wouldn’t work. She fell towards them, knocking the photographs onto the ground as she went. Neither Sylvie nor Christian made any move to help her.

  ‘Poor Maud!’ she heard Sylvie say.

  The last thing Maud was aware of was Sylvie stepping over her body to leave the room.

  She was wearing her long coat and a hat with a wide brim. Her legs still wouldn’t work, but someone was holding her up. The air was freezing cold and she could smell tobacco and brandy. It was a man – a man was holding her. She tried to push at him but her hand hardly moved. She saw it. Why aren’t you moving, hand? she thought. It must be part of the same dream. She felt the grip the man had around her body tighten and for a second she was lifted onto her toes, then suddenly set down again. There was the sound of footsteps approaching. They echoed as if they approached down a long stone corridor.

  ‘Everything all right?’ said a male voice she did not recognise.

  ‘Yes, all fine. The wife’s had a bit too much to drink. Her sister’s birthday.’ That was Morel’s voice, only he was speaking strangely, like a worker rather than a gentleman. Why was she here with Morel? There was another sound too. Water; water moving. No matter, it was just a dream – just a funny dream.

  ‘Well, we’ll all be like that tomorrow night with any luck! You need some help getting her home?’

  ‘No, we’ll have a little rest here, then it’s only round the corner. Marriage, hey?’

  ‘Too right!’ the man said and laughed. ‘Happy New Year!’ Maud heard his footsteps fade.

  ‘OK, my little rabbit? My sweet little cabbage? Oh, you’re waking up. Not for long.’ Morel was holding her face up towards him, his other arm tight around her waist. His face was so close she could see his eyelashes, delicate as the hair on a sable brush. The light came from above and from far away. She felt a high stone wall at her back and over his head she saw the blank silhouette of the Louvre. The lights on the far embankment were bright as starlight, their aura almost blue. He held her hard against him for what seemed like an age. No man had ever held her so close before. Then he looked to right and left. Such silence. She had no idea Paris could be so quiet and so full of shadows. She could hear someone whistling as they crossed the Pont des Arts above her head. Ah, so that was where she was, on the quayside under that long beautiful bridge, untroubled by horse or motor traffic. She could see the lace patterns of the ironwork. The song faded and the quiet returned; now there was just the lap of the water and the shifting of the boats tied up at the quay. None showed any light.

  ‘Time to go, Miss Heighton.’ Morel half-lifted her, half-dragged her a few feet. Her shoes scraped against the cobbles. She could feel the heat from his body. And then her right foot slipped over the edge of the quay and touched nothing. Something in her understood and she felt herself seized with panic. She started to struggle against him but she could feel the weakness flowing through her. He released her suddenly and she felt a sudden blow to her stomach, something between a push and a punch, sending her back into space. Too fast. This couldn’t be. Only as she fell did she realise completely that she was awake, that this was in truth happening to her. She struck the water as if falling through glass; the water raged up around her white and freezing, leaping into the air in a shout of spray – then there was nothing but coldness and darkness as the river closed over her.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER 1

  31 December 1909

  Having consulted at length and found out who was likely to be where in Paris on New Year’s Eve, Tanya’s aunts informed her that they had accepted the invitation of the Swedish Ambassador to join his table at the Bal Tabarin in Montmartre. Tanya was surprised until her aunts told her that Perov was a great friend of the Ambassador and instructed her to make herself as pretty as possible. She had a rather sick presentiment that Perov was planning on asking her to marry him tonight. In a slight panic she sent Sasha to the telegram office and snapped at her French maid when she was trying to arrange various items from Lalique’s latest collection in her hair.

  The streets were full of the signs of festival as they drove through Paris. Music and light pouring out of the cafés, the buildings lit up and the crowds surging back and forth. They stepped out of their car on the stroke of ten. Tanya was nervous of being too early, but there was a steady procession of ladies and gentlemen entering under the canopy and they found the grand ballroom already full and loud with the galloping music of the can-can. The walls, balcony and ceiling were hung with great ropes of flowers, the musicians were sweating over their instruments and the whole hall was brilliant with coloured electric lights. As they made their way over to the long table where the Ambassador was entertaining his party, a group of women in huge picture hats were occupying the centre of the floor, dancing, kicking their legs up in the air to show the snow white petticoats beneath their hooped skirts. Aunt Vera lifted her lorgnette just as one gentleman got a little too close and found his hat knocked into the mocking crowd by one of the dancer’s high-heeled shoes. Tanya paused, waiting to see if Vera would be too shocked to stay, but instead she laughed and watched the man struggle to retrieve his hat from beneath the feet of the crowd with apparent pleasure.

  Tanya’s heart sank a little. She was sure Perov meant to propose now and had told her aunts as much. Ribbons curled down from the balcony in a continuous stream of emerald and scarlet. ‘I must ask for time to think,’ Tanya said to herself. Above their heads hung large hoops filled with New Year’s souvenirs. She could see paper flowers and model aeroplanes, cardboard cigarette-cases and matchbooks marked 1910. She tried to look further into the crowd, but there was no one she recognised. So taken was she by looking at the faces in the distance, Tanya hardly noticed where she was being seated, but found herself next to a man her own age with an oddly pointed chin. The seat to her left was unoccupied, and for a moment she was afraid Perov would drop into it at any moment – but then she saw him at the far end of the table sitting between her two aunts and looking smug.

  The man on her right was thin to the point of emaciation and told her he was a writer. He had a monocle squeezed into his right eye which seemed to require frequent polishing. He peered up the table towards Vera and Lila. They had insisted as always on wearing the styles of their youth in bright silks, and had bullied the weeping fashion gurus of Rue Royale into supplying them with puffed sleeves and pinched waists. Or rather Vera did the bullying. Lila laughed at her for it, then cheerfully wore whatever she was told to. It should have made them ridiculous, but the two women were swiftly surrounded now as ever by a number of young men in tight-fitting dinner jackets who fought for the honour of fetching them champagne and strawberry mousse. Tanya knew they would be trying to make her aunts say something shocking enough to amuse them, and had no doubt they would succeed.

  ‘They are quite the success of the season, these Russian old maids!’ remarked the writer. ‘It shows how jaded we are become in Paris when our novelties are so . . . novel . . .’

  Tanya took the flûte of champagne offered by a waiter bending low over her shoulder and looked at him coldly. ‘You are speaking of my aunts, sir. Vera Sergeyevna is a widow, not an old maid.’

  He seemed quite unabashed. ‘Ah, you are the artist we have to thank for bringing them among us! Is it true you labour all morning in an attic and refuse any invitation that might take you away from your work?’

  ‘There are many reasons I might refuse an invitation. I attend the classes of Monsieur Lafond, but that was my whole reason for coming to Paris – so how else should I spend my mornings?’

  His expression showed a slight disgust. ‘Oh, you will destroy yourself! Leave art and science to the men. It is in our nature to innovate, to adventure into new worlds, while it is woman’s duty to support and inspire us. Do not make yourself a half-creature, learning to paint. You are in Paris – it is the place where you should learn to becom
e a woman! To charm and infuriate, to drive us to new heights. You are the work of art, my dear. Stop your lessons now before your beauty fades and your charm dulls.’

  ‘And what great heights has my sex inspired you to, sir?’

  ‘I have had my successes, though one shouldn’t expect the acclamation of the vulgar crowd for works of high art.’ The monocle was polished ferociously for a few seconds and replaced.

  ‘You must admire the genius of George Sand,’ Tanya said.

  ‘Naturally, but indeed, she proves my point.’ He jabbed his long finger towards Tanya with such vigour that his monocle sprang free from his eye and swung on the end of its ribbon; such was his pleasure in the argument he ignored it. ‘She was not a woman at all but a half-breed. Her genius proves she was not a woman but an hermaphrodite. And look at her! An unfortunate freak. Such intellectual activity crushes feminine charm like your own, the female mind becomes overheated and loses its bloom, its frivolous ability to please.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Come, Miss Koltsova, I am sure you must agree.’

  ‘I do not. But as you think I am half-witted at best, I am sure that cannot be of the least concern to you.’ She was aware as she spoke of a man sliding into the chair on her left.