She sighed and went back to her task. There was some correspondence – bills for the most part, but there were also the papers she needed: a birth certificate in the name of Sylvie Morel, born 1 January 1888, in Toulouse. She had lied about her age, just a little. Just as she couldn’t stop herself thieving just a little under Maud’s nose from the jewellery shop. Maud took it and put it in her hand-bag, along with any other piece of paper with the name Sylvie Morel on it, and then she made a fire in the grate and burned the rest.
After that she went into Sylvie’s room, took a pair of suitcases from under the bed and packed them with the dead woman’s clothes – the delicate lace underthings, a pale chemise and long white skirts. A dark blue tea-gown, collars and cuffs. She filled the lacquered jewel-box with the loose trinkets scattered on the table-top, fitted in brushes and combs, stockings and shoes. Everything a respectable Frenchwoman might take with her on a trip to England. She would not ask Yvette to wear them, but they gave the proper impression as they travelled, and selling them in London would give them some money. Might they travel a little around England before deciding where to settle?
She thought of the plans Sylvie had been making with Morel: the vision of her pulling the trigger returned and she felt the soreness in her heart. Regret and hope folded their arms around her like twin angels. She took the two suitcases into the hall and checked that the papers in the grate were fully consumed and the embers dark. Suddenly the lights fizzled and went out. She closed her eyes and waited, a ghost among ghosts, to see who might come for her, but there was no sound apart from the gentle fall of the rain against the glass. The power had finally gone in this building as the water wound its way in, that was all. The ghosts were gone. She went back into the hall, picked up the suitcases and left.
Portrait of Madame de Civray oil on canvas 31.7 × 26.7 cm
The warm earth tones of this portrait give it an unusual intimacy, as does the casual posture of the sitter. Note the reflections of light on her evening clothes and jewels. Uniquely among the anonymous paintings in the de Civray collection, this picture has at some point been clumsily re-touched: you can see with the naked eye the uneven patch of colour on the table in front of the Countess. X-rays suggest that this patching was done to cover an egg-shaped white object that lay there in the original. Some have suggested this was the golconda diamond that Madame de Civray had removed from the Empress Eugénie tiara and converted into a pendant at some time before World War I. Her removal of many of the original stones from the tiara was discovered only after her death, and was greeted with horror in France where the tiara had once formed part of the crown jewels. She left no explanation for what some regarded as an act of vandalism, other than a note in the case itself which said only, It was a fair trade. The pendant was eventually bequeathed to the Smithsonian Institute in New York, in spite of protests from some French newspapers.
Extract from the catalogue notes to the exhibition ‘The Paris Winter: Anonymous Treasures from the de Civray Collection’, Southwark Picture Gallery, London, 2010
‘So, Tanya, I have come. What do you want of me? Talk quickly, honey, I’m already late.’
The Countess looked around the drawing room in Rue Chalgrin and seemed to approve. The room was lit only by fire and candles, giving it the feel of an eighteenth-century salon. She dropped the furs from her shoulders and took a seat on the sofa, her arm stretched out along the back. Tanya stood to one side of the fireplace, her hands clasped in front of her as if about to recite or sing to the company.
‘I want you to leave Maud Heighton alone, and Yvette. I want you to never mention either of them again. Or the Morels. Please do not employ any of your Pinkertons in France or anywhere else to look for them or enquire after them – and if you ever hear of them again, please do not give any sign you know anything of them.’
The Countess’s face had grown serious while Tanya spoke. She raised her eyebrows. ‘That is a great deal to ask, Miss Koltsova. In light of what has been taken from me, a very great deal. Why should I do this?’
Tanya stepped away from the fireplace and put the stone she had been holding on top of the table in front of the Countess. The woman looked at it, but did not pick it up. ‘That is my diamond, I assume.’
Tanya went back to the fire. ‘It is, though I do not think you could ever prove it. Not if Henri has done his work well.’
The Countess looked up again. ‘And the rest, Miss Koltsova? The other twenty stones Henri chiselled out and gave to Morel? Where are they?’
Tanya could not meet her eyes; instead she stared into the fire. ‘No one will profit by them and the guilty couple are dead.’
‘I guess you don’t want to tell me any of the particulars?’ Tanya shook her head. ‘That’s a lot of diamonds to lose, Miss Koltsova.’ There was a decanter of whisky on the table next to the diamond and a glass. The Countess poured herself a drink and continued to stare past Tanya into the flames as she sipped it. She still did not touch the huge diamond next to her. ‘Is she here? Miss Heighton, I mean.’ She stabbed a finger suddenly onto the table. ‘In this building?’
Tanya hesitated and then nodded. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘So why am I having this conversation with you, honey?’ She was looking at Tanya with fierce concentration.
Tanya remembered the maid, the dismissal, how charming the Countess of Civray could be until she stopped trying. ‘Because she doesn’t like you much any more, Madame, and thought there was a danger she might spit in your eye if she saw you. So I said I’d return your stupid diamond.’
For a moment the Countess was completely still and then she burst into laughter. ‘Oh, you girls! God, you kill me.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘It won’t be the first time I’ve negotiated with people who want to spit in my eye. Tell her – no, please ask her – to come in and bring any work of her own she happens to have with her.’
‘This is not a negotiation,’ Tanya said stiffly.
‘Like hell it isn’t,’ the Countess said and poured herself another drink. Tanya still hadn’t moved. ‘Please, Tanya, I’d be very grateful if you could ask Miss Heighton to step in.’
Tanya could not refuse her when she asked that way; all her breeding demanded it. The Countess studied the diamond in front of her, watching its colours dance in the firelight until Tanya returned with Maud beside her. Maud came in and stood in front of her, looking, the Countess thought, very much like the polite, thoughtful young English girl she had welcomed into her house before Christmas. She examined her for a while in silence. She liked it when people came to her house and admired her paintings, admired her – and she realised with a slow smile that she was not so sure she liked it when they did anything else. Well, that was one new thing she had learned – and her father always told her that the best lessons were the ones you paid for. Those you remembered.
Maud put a painting on the table beside the diamond and her whisky glass. It was a portrait of Sylvie Morel with her opium pipe. The Countess considered it for a while, thinking hard, and then looked up at the artist.
‘Miss Heighton, I’m going to guess a couple of things and you’re going to tell me if I’m right or wrong. You are leaving Paris?’
‘I am.’
‘And I think that model Yvette I am not allowed to ask about in future is going too?’
‘She is.’
The Countess sighed and leaned back again, cradling her whisky. ‘My father taught me never to come out of a bargain with what you are first offered, and I take his advice very seriously. Now this diamond is here and I’m told this lady,’ she tapped the portrait, ‘and her brother or husband or whatever he was are dead, so I think I have an idea of what happened. The guilty will not profit, you say, and I don’t think you’d be able to look me in the eye if you were taking the rest of the haul back to England.’ She saw Tanya glance at Maud, but the Englishwoman made no sign.
The Countess was impressed. ‘No – scratch that. You might be able to, Miss Heighton, but Miss
Koltsova could not.’ She drummed her fingers on the table-top. ‘Twenty, five-carat diamonds.’ She tapped at the portrait again. ‘They are worth a fortune. Not as much as this big one, of course, but still a fortune. I tell you what – I’ll sell them to you, Miss Heighton. I’ll take this picture, and every year for the next twenty years – if both of us live that long – I want you to send me the best thing you’ve painted. For that you can have my silence. I’ll also pass on any rumours I hear that might disturb your peace, and,’ she nodded to Tanya, ‘I’ll give this girl a commission to paint me, and to paint my children. Then I’ll tell everyone in Paris what a clever artist she is. How’s that?’
Tanya had blushed a little and was looking at Maud hopefully now, but the Englishwoman’s voice was even. ‘I’ll paint something for you, specifically for you, whenever I wish to. I promise I will never do any less than the best I can for you, and you shall have twenty paintings within twenty years if not before.’ She paused. ‘But for our safety, in case anyone makes the connection between the pictures, the diamonds and what has happened here, I shall not sign them.’
The Countess considered for a second then knocked back the last of her whisky and stood up.
‘Deal. You’ll go far, Miss Heighton, and I’m glad you’re not dead. The world is more interesting with you in it.’ She slung her furs around her shoulders again then picked up the diamond and put it in her pocket as casually as if it had been a cigarette-case. ‘Miss Koltsova, have that picture mounted on canvas, framed and sent to me, please. So just nineteen to go now, Miss Heighton. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Comédie Française are having a candlelit benefit for the flood victims, and absolutely everyone is going to be there. Good night.’
She walked out of the room and left them in the glow of the firelight. As soon as the door shut, Tanya flung herself onto the sofa, filled the whisky glass to the brim and drank.
‘Oouf! That woman terrifies me!’ She looked at Maud and frowned. ‘How is Yvette?’
Maud came and sat down beside her, took the whisky glass from her hand and drank her own share. ‘She’s nervous, but she is willing to come to England and live under the name of Sylvie Morel. I’ve told her she could give French lessons to the schoolchildren of Darlington if she promises not to teach them to swear. She says it sounds a better future than the one she thought was waiting for her here.’ She handed Tanya the glass back.
Tanya looked a little doubtful. ‘Darlington is where your brother lives, is it not? Will he approve? I thought you might go to London or the West Country.’
Maud sighed. ‘Oh Tanya, if I know one thing I know I can cope with James now, and I want to see Albert, my little half-brother, grow up. I shall remain Maud Heighton so he can always disown me, and London is too like Paris. No air.’ She saw Tanya’s confusion and put her arm through hers. ‘And I absolutely guarantee there are no opium dens in Darlington. Just a great many Quakers. Yvette is giving your Aunt Vera lessons at the moment on the rates models should be paid, which are the best colour shops, and how to get the best prices.’ Tanya laughed. ‘Will you come to see us in England? When you are married? You will like the North, and however modestly you dress, the whole county will be amazed at your wonderful sense of style and flock round you like moths.’
Tanya took her hand. ‘Then yes, I shall. I will bring my husband and my two – no, my three – children and Sasha, and we will leave all the ghosts behind us.’
Maud laid her head on her shoulder and they were still there when Yvette came to find them a few minutes later. She claimed the whisky glass and sat on the floor between them as they told her of the conversation with the Countess.
‘You really won’t sign them, Maud? The risk is very small, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Maud replied, taking back the glass. ‘But I still don’t like her.’
Yvette snorted. ‘You’re buying those diamonds from her in a way, aren’t you? A picture for each one.’
‘In a way, yes, I suppose I am,’ Maud replied.
Yvette twisted round so she was looking up at them both. ‘That must make you one of the most expensive artists in the world.’ Maud almost dropped her glass and Tanya put her head back and laughed. ‘Oh and Maud, I sold that picture of Tanya you did in class to her Aunt Lila. It should be enough for travelling clothes, if you still have enough for tickets.’
CHAPTER 25
28 January 1910
The waters had finally started to recede. In Saint-Sulpice the refugees continued to warm themselves under the Delacroix frescos, huddled on mattresses, the women trying to quiet the children and the men staring at their hands as if asking where and how they would find the strength to rebuild. Charlotte was folding blankets and organising into neat baskets the different items of clothing that had been donated. In Paris, for a few days at least, it had become fashionable to be generous. The rich cleaned their closets out and congratulated themselves, knowing that the waters were losing their power and would soon slink back, like the poor, into their proper course and continue to serve them.
Charlotte felt their approach and looked up to see two smart young women dressed for travel with handbags in the crook of their arms and folded umbrellas in their gloved hands. It took her a moment to recognise them. She left her station and embraced Yvette, then shook Maud’s hand.
‘You know what happened?’ Yvette said quietly and the older woman nodded.
‘You talked enough in your sleep for me to guess, and there have been rumours about a woman killing herself on Pont des Arts.’ Her voice sounded deeply tired. ‘I do not know what God means by it all. Perhaps He will forgive them at the last, and you, and me for helping you.’ She rolled her sleeve up a little to show the flash of the bracelet with the five fat stones. ‘What of this?’
Yvette took Charlotte’s arm and pulled the sleeve back over it again. ‘The Countess is not looking for them. Make sure you get a good deal from one of your shop girls on Rue Royale and build another home for waifs.’
She nodded. ‘An anonymous donation? Well, Miss Harris has been concerned about some of the English dancers who perform in Paris. They get paid late and the accommodation the company provides is wholly unsuitable.’
‘Well then,’ Yvette said, ‘it will do more good sheltering them than decorating the Countess, don’t you think?’
Charlotte nodded, her round face thoughtful. She reminded Maud of the Spaniard’s portrait of Miss Stein. She had the same uncompromised beauty of intelligence and belief, handsome where so many fashionable women were merely decorative. She realised with a smile that recognising Charlotte’s spirit in the painting had made her appreciate it a great deal more. Maud shook hands with her again. ‘Give Miss Harris our best love and thanks.’
‘She will pray for you.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ Maud replied, and turned to leave. Tanya was waiting for them.
Yvette did not want to say a formal farewell to Montmartre or anyone on it, but she consented to come close enough to say goodbye to Valadon at Impasse de Guelma. Suzanne’s farewell was gruff but heartfelt, and she promised to spread the story on the hill that Yvette had found a rich protector and been swept off to Monte Carlo.
‘Good luck out there,’ she said, shaking Maud’s hand then kissing Yvette’s pale cheek. ‘I know there is a world beyond Paris, but I can’t really understand it myself.’ Then she whistled into the cold air for her dog and set off up the hill under a white sun and the cobalt wash of the sky.
Vladimir waited by the car, the engine idling, ready to drive them out of Paris and on to solid ground so they could make their way to the coast. ‘You could still call me Yvette, couldn’t you, Maud? Even if we say my legal name is Sylvie.’ Her voice was soft and cold as the snow.
‘I will.’
‘Are you ready then?’ Yvette’s voice was firmer now, more like herself than she had been since that moment in the cellar. ‘Show me this England of yours.’
Maud turned and looked down the Bouleva
rd Clichy; the flâneurs and thieves, street-hawkers and shop girls, the philanthropists, chancers and visionaries, the blandishments of Paris wrapped round its dirty, defiant soul. She put her arm through Yvette’s and nodded to the chauffeur. He opened the rear door for them and bowed. ‘Yes, I am ready.’
EPILOGUE
‘The Paris Winter: Anonymous Treasures from the de Civray Collection’, Southwark Picture Gallery, London, 2010
Press Release
Since the opening of the exhibition, the Gallery and the de Civray Foundation have been shown sketchbooks belonging to the family of the artist Maud Heighton which suggest that she is the artist behind this remarkable collection of works. Maud Heighton studied in Paris between 1908 and 1910, and afterwards enjoyed a long career as a portraitist in Darlington and throughout the surrounding area. Her reputation as one of the UK’s forgotten female Post-Impressionists has been on the rise for some time, and with the addition of these works to her oeuvre it is set to soar. Heighton was successful in her own lifetime, though it is thought that she and her lifetime companion Sylvie Morel supported their comfortable manner of living largely due to the popularity of the novels written by the latter. These were melodramas of the Parisian underworld, written under the pen name ‘Yvette of Montmartre’. Her famous book, The Death of Cristophe Grimaud, was filmed in 1932 and starred Claude Rains and Janet Gaynor. The two women owned a large house in Darlington, a cottage in Reeth, a villa in the South of France and toured regularly on the continent. Their work is likely now to reach a much wider audience, and the trustees of the de Civray Foundation are delighted to have contributed to the enhancement of their reputations. By arrangement with their heirs, the works of both women, including Heighton’s sketchbooks and the manuscripts of Sylvie Morel, are available to all interested scholars who wish to consult them by appointment and subject to suitable references.
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