Headline

by Imogen Robertson

  Maud looked sideways at Yvette. Her eyes were bright and her face a little flushed. ‘Come on.’

  She took her through a dirty yard into a kitchen that opened straight off the cobbles. The table was scrubbed and the floor was being swept by a child about seven years of age dressed in a wool shift but bare-footed despite the season. At the head of the table sat a thin middle-aged female with black buttoned boots and a plum silk dress. It was of an old-fashioned style and for a second Maud was struck by her resemblance to Tanya’s aunt Vera. This woman seemed like the dark face of the same coin. She was drinking tea from a delicate service decorated with birds of paradise. She looked up when she heard them approach and smiled. Her lips were dark red, and she spread them to show her yellow teeth.

  ‘Yvette! How nice. And you’ve brought a friend.’

  Yvette clicked the knife shut and slipped it back into her pocket. ‘Maman. I hope you are well.’

  Maud did as she was told and took no part in the negotiations other than nod her assent to the price agreed and offer the necessary advance. There was a bitumen delight in offering up her stock of money so easily, without noting each small amount paid and making impossible calculations for her keep in the future. This had to be done and this was the cost. The future would take care of itself.

  Much of the discussion between Yvette and the woman in purple she did not understand. They spoke in a French Maud did not recognise – some sort of slang that was slippery and bewildering. The money was folded and placed in an embossed silver purse. The woman nodded to them and returned to sipping her tea with her little finger crooked away from the cup. The streets outside were quiet – the apaches, it seemed, had left for the hunt.

  Yvette did not speak to her again until they had reached Place du Tertre. She hesitated there, looking at the cafés, the noise and light biting away at the wintry edges of the square, but when Maud asked if she wished to visit one of them, she shook her head. ‘I need to breathe.’ She took Maud instead to the terrace below the Sacré Coeur, and there they took possession of one of the benches that faced away from the new cathedral, its shocking white and squeezed domes ghostly behind them. Maud opened her umbrella, not a rich silk and tortoiseshell beauty like Tanya’s but something more modest from Printemps, and held it over both of them. Their bodies touched shoulder to thigh and warmed each other. Yvette lit a cigarette and folded her arm across her chest. ‘Go on then. Ask.’

  ‘Is that your mother?’

  She turned away, looking towards the west of the city. ‘I don’t know. She always said she was, but she takes in babies from time to time for a fee. The little ones always work as pick-pockets for her. I did until I was thirteen.’

  ‘Like Fagin.’ Yvette said nothing and Maud glanced at her. ‘He’s a character in a book, Oliver Twist, by Dickens.’

  ‘I know who Fagin is, Maud. The nuns taught us to read. That’s where all that . . . what Nina was saying came from. The stories I used to tell of the rich men and women coming to save us from life on the Butte.’

  Maud thought of Yvette as a child telling stories about the heroes who were going to rescue her and her playmates, thought how often she had woken in her sickness to see her at the end of her bed with a book in her hands, thought of her attention and mimicry in the studio, of her retreats into the peace and warmth of opium. Maud had hidden from her misery in drawing, in paint; Yvette obviously had her methods of escape too.

  ‘I never thought of you as having family, Yvette.’

  ‘Thought I just sprang up with the weeds from between the cobblestones, did you?’

  ‘I suppose I did in a way.’

  Yvette grunted. ‘It’s not much of a family. Maman rules a little shit-heap and sells souls to do it. I thought I was better than that, but who knows. Maybe I will end up back there.’ Maud said nothing. ‘Thanks for not telling me I’m wrong.’

  ‘I hope you are, but sometimes it takes chance or accident to cut our moorings.’

  Yvette glowered out over the city like an angry angel. ‘I’m not sure I believe it is ever possible. We are all set on a course the first day we open our eyes. Tanya with her money, you so proper and good. I shall earn what I can and spend it on dope, remembering books and dreaming myself into them. I am only putting off what has to happen by keeping away from the dens now.’

  Maud followed her gaze. The city was coming alive with light, its unnatural brilliance affronting the darkness, but the wind and rain still blew across it in waves. ‘I have been to the Caveau des Innocents.’

  ‘And within a day you are shaking hands with Charlotte and seeing her out. You can’t escape what you are.’

  Maud watched her profile, the cigarette smoke tugged away from her lips in the wind and thought of Sylvie in the graveyard, her glamour, her genteelly faked craving for opium that had so convinced Maud. She breathed in deeply as she watched the rain falling through the lamplight, then spoke. ‘After my father died and my step-mother left town, I set the fire that burned down the warehouse and our old house.’ Yvette turned away from the city and stared at her. Maud blinked rapidly but continued. ‘Everyone was telling me to stop putting off the inevitable and join my brother’s household. I could not paint well enough to earn my own living and I had no other talents. I should become a wife and mother. But I just couldn’t – I couldn’t believe that was the only choice. It seemed so wrong. And I hated that house. Then I thought about the fire and it seemed like the only thing to do.’

  Yvette put out her cigarette, grinding the butt into the damp ground. It was some time before she spoke and when she did it was almost in a whisper. ‘Were you frightened?’

  It came back to Maud at once, the smell of burning wood, the sound of her own footsteps hurrying through the empty house once the fire had caught. ‘Yes. I had to go back up the stairs after I had set it going and wait for the smoke to reach me. I thought that would make it look more real. And they did believe me, no one thought for a second I could have started it. Poor Maud, running into the street in her dressing-gown and bare feet to escape the flames.’

  ‘But you were free?’ Maud nodded. ‘I don’t think I have anything to burn down.’ Yvette turned back towards the city and Maud said nothing. She had always told herself that she set the fire for the insurance, now she wondered if that were true. Someone would have bought the property at some point. She had burned it because she loathed it, because under her mild ways and respectable speech Maud was thwarted, indignant and shimmering with rage. The fire had burned so hot the air seemed to ripple. She remembered what Valadon had said, how her fists were clenched and sore when she woke up in the mornings. Maud thought of herself as a good woman, but now she was beginning to wonder. She wished she still believed in God, believed in Him with all that passionate conviction of Miss Harris or Charlotte. Then she could pray for Yvette and herself and think it would do some good.

  ‘You still want this, Maud? I can call it off if you want.’

  She stared out over the soaking city. ‘It is what I want. I will not go meekly back to England with him free and happy.’

  ‘Then I had better explain what we agreed.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Christian Morel left for Rheims a happy man. He made himself comfortable in the first-class compartment and gazed smugly at his reflection in the polished glass as the train pulled away. He had planned this as a jaunt; a little pleasure trip to ease his mind now the task of keeping a close watch on Henri was done. Still, putting constant pressure on the old codger had done some good. He had done the recutting and polishing faster than Morel could have hoped, and done it well in spite of his indignation. What’s more, stealing from the Countess had brought extra benefits. Her gratitude to him for returning the tiara discreetly and with due deference meant he had now made some very valuable contacts with rich Americans. America was the thing. A new, ambitious nation not dead and dried up like France, crisped, its juices all run out and lapped up before Christian had had more than a taste of it. Then
he frowned, and still watching himself in the glass, raised one eyebrow. The brilliant man of business considers. Perhaps he should abandon the name Morel in Paris and disappear into that vast new continent as Gravot again. He had heard a couple of men in the club talking about Los Angeles as a place that looked likely to boom. And did he really want to swap Paris for the constrictions of Boston? He and Sylvie would travel quietly to New York, then head out west, sell the great stone in Chicago and arrive on the Pacific Coast like heroes. Yes, let Morel live and die in Paris. He stroked his chin. He was clean-shaven, a modern man. All the ambitious young men in America would recognise him as one of their own.

  He went to the best jeweller in Rheims straight from the station with his story ready and waiting on the tip of his smooth tongue. He planned to say he was selling the bracelet on behalf of his sister, a woman of fashion in Paris who had accepted it from an admirer. Now the admirer was replaced by a respectable husband and it would be better if his sister became a wife with an equally respectable bundle of banknotes rather than another man’s jewels. They would take it from him with a vague smile, but then seeing the quality and clarity of the stones their hands would twitch to close round it. He would see the gulp of desire in their throats, the sheen in their eyes as they imagined the potential profit.

  He took the tram to Place Royale rehearsing these pleasant conversations in his mind. He would seem a little uncertain when the first price was offered. He would say perhaps he should try another of the jewellers in the city, these happy few who supplied the champagne merchants with their diamonds and rubies. The jeweller would begin to sweat and gradually increase his price until he got to a reasonable amount – fifty thousand francs or so. Morel would then agree and everyone would be delighted with their bargain.

  He hopped down from the tram and tipped his hat to the statue of the old King watching the square and providing a perch for the pigeons to watch it too, and chose his first target – an elegant little shop tucked into the corner of the square with a discreet window display of luxury and taste. The doorbell rang out and the girl behind the counter smiled at him sweetly as he pushed the door open, wished him good morning and asked if she could show him anything. She had the trace of a foreign accent which reminded him suddenly of Maud, her precise and mannered French. It almost made him stumble, but as soon as he began his story of the sister and the admirer his tongue gained its usual fluency. Her expression did not change, but there was somehow a slight chill in the air. He produced the bracelet, uncoiling it from a velvet pouch he kept in his breast-pocket. She nodded at it, but did not reach out to take it. Instead she rang a tiny brass bell on the counter and an old gentleman with powdery skin and wearing a black suit emerged from a door behind the counter. He had a slight stoop and the flesh hung from his thin face in loose pouches.

  The young girl moved away, only very lightly touching his old liver-spotted hand as she passed. The old man glanced at the bracelet and at once came that tell-tale swallow. It was as obvious as licking his lips. He put his hand out and took it, then for fully five minutes examined the stones. Christian began to feel impatient. There could be no doubt about the quality of the stones, and he knew he looked like a respectable man, a man of means – the sort of man who would inspire trust in a well-brought-up Englishwoman, in fact. That he had proved in the last few weeks. The old goat should have named a price already, or at least be making himself friendly.

  Christian never thought about his father when he could avoid it, or about his father’s death, but sometimes when he was tired or under some sudden strain the images would roll back over him. For a moment, the bracelet in the old man’s hands changed, became those half-remembered gleams smeared in his father’s blood. He was there again. The crack of gunfire in the distance and the caustic smell of smoke from burning buildings. Petrol thrown onto the barricades and ignited – the stink of it clung to him. He wondered if the old man examining the diamonds could smell it. He felt his mother’s hand – he had struggled to hang onto her when she screamed and started running across the square. He would have run the other way, away from the man kneeling over his father’s corpse but he had to follow her so he did. He looked away from the man in the shop, tried to concentrate on the mosaic borders in blue and gold that ran around the top of the walls. Instead he saw the woman holding back his mother. She had the build of a peasant and his mother, so thin and uncomfortable to lean against, had not half her strength. He threw himself at the man on the ground. He saw his father’s blank and empty face, the bullet-wound in his forehead and the man pawing at his innards. The man struck at him with his elbow and he fell back slightly stunned. Perhaps he could have got up again but he did not, only watched as the man held up one of the stones. He cleared his throat. He was sweating.

  The elderly jeweller looked up finally and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We are not buying today.’ But you want them, Christian wanted to say. I know you want them. And without even making an offer? How could a man have got so old and still be such a fool?

  ‘Very well. Do you recommend any other jeweller in town?’

  Did he imagine it, or did the old goat’s eyes flicker towards the girl? ‘I respect all my colleagues in the city, but I suspect you will not find many willing to buy at this time.’ He handed the bracelet back to Christian, and he seemed in the moment the diamonds left his grip, to age a little further. He had the obvious hunger of the connoisseur, but he did not want them?

  Christian controlled himself enough to give them a curt nod of farewell and went back out into the square. He had the feeling that the statue of the King was looking at him with a slight sneer. It reminded him a little of Jean Prideux, that self-righteous prig. Well, he had beaten him in the end. He crossed the square and swore violently at the driver of a tiny, ridiculous little motor-car who almost knocked him from his feet, coming out of nowhere and with no regard for the safety of others. Just when he was thinking of Prideux too – it was too much. Morel had to pause for a moment, smooth down his hair and adjust his high collar to reassure himself.

  The rival jewellery shop on the square was rather more brash in its display than the first place, and there were two women on the premises already gossiping as the assistant wrapped up their packages. The man behind the counter was younger. He looked prosperous, modern. Christian noticed with approval that the fittings and furnishing of the place made the one opposite look drab and stately. True, this man did not look the type to become emotional about diamonds, and would probably be a greater challenge to bargain with, but surely he could be relied on not to turn down such an excellent offer. And anyway, a little hard bargaining got Christian’s blood flowing. However, the jeweller did not even look at the bracelet. As Christian fetched it from his pocket the man was already telling him he had no intention of buying today and with shocking rudeness turned away from his customer. Had a new mine been discovered? Had Rheims suddenly found a river of huge diamonds flowing through their cellars? Had they all become too simple-minded to see the bargain of a lifetime laid out in front of them?

  Christian took a room at the Lion d’Or and retreated to it shivering. He had thought his business would be done by now and that he would have the whole of the next day to stretch his legs and buy foolish gifts for his wife. Instead, he ate a poor dinner that cramped his stomach all night and woke to a grey morning with the work still to do. He consulted the directory in the hotel and chose another three places of business that should, by rights, snatch the stones from him in gratitude and delight. All three turned him down.

  On the second night in the hotel he tried half-heartedly to seduce a young woman who had travelled from London to see the cathedral, but something in the way she ate her food and mispronounced her French reminded him again of Maud and he lost his appetite for the game. He wondered if he were ill. The lean-to he had rented off Cours du Commerce to house Henri and his equipment had been damp with this continual rain, and he had been bored there, watching, always watching for any
tricks from the resentful old devil. Locking him in at night with a bottle of red so he didn’t go off on his wanderings, hiding the diamonds in their place. Then that invitation from the Countess and badgering Henri to finish the job, so that the dinner would be a celebration of their cleverness.

  He had worked hard for this, Christian thought. The continual restraint, the constant watch he had to keep on his behaviour while the English miss was in their hands. There was that one night after dealing with Prideux when he had drunk whisky late into the night. Sylvie had been angry with him, afraid that drunkenness would scare off their little English bird, but Miss Heighton had slept through his stumblings and he had needed a drink. It was a strain on the nerves to arrange an accident like that, even among the chaos of Paris.

  After his story-telling to Maud he had gone in search of Madame Prideux at the raggedy guest-house where she was staying and greeted her like an old friend. He embraced her and insisted on taking her out to dinner, his second that evening, and all the time sympathised, apologised. All a misunderstanding. Letters gone astray. He showed her the stubs in his chequebook to demonstrate the amounts that he had tried to send to her. They had been cashed, he said. So he had assumed all was well. He’d been a little hurt not to receive any letter from her, of course but . . . By saying very little he all but convinced her that her own son was stealing from her. Funny. It seemed she’s rather believe that than believe she’d been fooled by him and Sylvie. He praised her brilliance at finding him against all the odds and learned she had seen him crossing Boulevard Saint-Germain but lost him in the crowd again and had spent the next four days asking after him until at last her questions had led her to his house on Rue de Seine.

  How glad he was that she had persisted, he said, at which she blushed like a virgin. To explain his use of a new name had been trickier. He told her he associated the name of Gravot with his terrible past so had decided to take his wife’s maiden name as his own. He upset himself talking to her about his struggle with those awful memories; real tears trembled on his eyelashes. It was their time in his home town that had done it, he said. He had finally visited his mother’s grave and the emotion had been too much. That was why the couple had left so quickly. But he had never, never intended to desert his dear friend Mme Prideux. How could she think it? She could not have lost faith in him? Surely?