Cezanne's Quarry

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  This good mood carried Martin only to the back entrance of the courthouse, where Jacques, one of the younger gendarmes, waited with a note. Martin unfolded the piece of paper slowly, and his zeal congealed into a hard lump in his chest. “We have found the boy. Come to the morgue. Franc.” Though his mouth had suddenly run dry, Martin managed to thank the officer and cross the narrow street to the prison. By the time he reached the door, he barely had the strength to open it. He stood for a moment, his hand pushed hard against it, as frenzied questions whirled about in his mind. Could he have prevented the death of the child? Had Westerbury murdered the little messenger after Martin released him? Or, had the artist managed to find and kill the boy on his way out of town? Clinging to the railing with a clammy hand, Martin made his descent into the basement where Riquel set up his operations. Franc was there, talking to the doctor, who had on his blood-stained working apron.

  “Do you want to have a look?” Riquel turned to him. “We just found him, and I haven’t had time to clean him up.”

  Coming from Riquel, the science professor who reveled in his part-time police work, this was a warning. But Martin needed to see the disastrous consequences of his own failings. He nodded, and Riquel uncovered the body. It was worse than he imagined. Insects had left black liquid holes where the boy’s eyes, nose and mouth had been. The body was bloated beyond all recognition. The smell was overwhelming. Martin’s stomach lurched. He went to a corner and vomited, without forethought, and without shame.

  The convulsions shook his entire body again and again. He was wracked with guilt, for the boy, for Solange Vernet, for his own stupidities, and for the little bits of vain ambition that had begun to move him. If the same man who killed Solange Vernet had murdered the boy—and how could it not be so?—he was up against a monster. How was he going to reason this out? What good were his paltry untested talents to him or to anyone else, dead or alive? By the time Martin’s heaving shuddered to a halt, he was hanging on to the cold stone walls for support. He forced himself to stand up and wiped off his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, we’re used to that in here.” Riquel barely glanced up from his own calm examination of the body, before covering it again with the sheet. “Franc, get one of the prison guards to bring a mop.”

  Martin avoided meeting the inspector’s eyes as he started up the stairs. They both knew that Franc would never show such weakness.

  “When?” Martin asked Riquel.

  “Probably about the same time as the woman, give a day this way or that.”

  “Before? After?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  Martin sucked in air through his mouth, as he covered his nose with his hand.

  Riquel put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I don’t think this happened after you released Westerbury.”

  Franc and the professor had obviously covered that territory before Martin arrived. If only that were true. Career be damned. The courthouse be damned. The ridicule they would all heap on him be damned. How could he continue to be a judge, knowing that he had abetted the killing of a child?

  “We don’t know who it is?” Martin dropped his arm and kept his voice as steady as possible.

  Riquel shook his head. “Not until someone reports him missing.”

  Martin took one last look at the white mound that had once been a boy. Controlling his trembling, he shook hands with Dr. Riquel and went up the stairs, out into the fresh air.

  Martin headed up the narrow cobblestoned street that divided the prison from the courthouse, to the fountain on the square. He stumbled a bit over the three low steps that led to the spouting water. When he reached his destination, he dipped in his hands, splashed his face and swiped at his frock coat, cleaning himself off. All too soon Martin heard a wagon and men on horseback clatter to a halt behind him. The search party to Gardanne was ready. Martin gritted his teeth and closed his eyes before turning to face them. He hoped to God that they would not ask him whether he was all right.

  The rest of the morning went by in a daze, as Martin fought hard to keep the images of grotesque, bloated, dead bodies out of his thoughts. Sitting with Franc on the driver’s seat of a horse-drawn wagon, he tried to concentrate on what lay ahead in Gardanne. Franc had enlisted four mounted gendarmes to go with them. He had the sense not to be solicitous, but he made it clear that he was not a man to be defeated by another murder. He encouraged the horses cheerfully and directed the few remarks he felt compelled to make to the men in uniform on either side of the wagon. The horses pulled them through a forest, over the river Arc, and onto an unshaded plain. Off to the east, a long line of limestone hills dogged their path, their rugged faces looking like chalk-white death masks, staring at Martin, mocking him. What in the world was he doing in this place?

  12

  HORTENSE HEARD THE COMMOTION AND RAN to the window. The gendarmes were slowly making their way up the narrow stone street. They looked like overgrown Napoleons with their horizontal hats and military dress, only these Napoleons wore black uniforms with white braiding and carried rifles slung over their shoulders. Agents of death, she thought, or, at least, messengers of disaster. Behind them she saw two other men, one broad-shouldered and stocky in a jacket and cap; the other younger, more slender, more formally dressed. They were knocking on doors, asking directions. They were coming for Paul, she was sure of it. Soon, all the nosy heads would be popping out of windows, watching and talking about them. She had little time to figure out how to protect Cézanne.

  Paul Jr. was on the sofa, reading. “Quick, son. Go find Papa. Tell him that some people from Aix are looking for him.” She did not want to alarm the boy by telling him the police were after his father.

  “Oh, Maman, I was just—”

  “Now!”

  Her thirteen-year-old, her darling, started for the door. “No, wait.” She grabbed one of his arms. “Climb out the back window, I think he is painting up by the church.”

  “Maman, that’s silly,” he whined.

  “Do as I say!” She had startled him. Hortense rarely raised her voice to her son. To emphasize her point she gave him a little shove toward the bedroom door. Let Paul decide if he wants to hide or not. At least this way he would have a chance.

  Hortense heard the knock. Already! She licked her fingers to moisten them in order to smooth down her hair, then searched frantically in her bun for a pin to hold the loose strands. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she went to the door.

  “We are looking for Paul Cézanne,” said one of the gendarmes.

  “He’s not here.”

  The burly middle-aged man pushed himself in front of the soldier. “Where is he?” He was practically at her chest, sweating, his mustache almost touching her forehead. Hortense stepped back.

  “He’s out painting somewhere. I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure?”

  She didn’t like this man. He was not polite. “He paints in different places. Why do you want him? What is this about?” She could stand her ground even against a brute.

  “It is about a murder. Your lover is a suspect.” Lover! He was an exceedingly rude man. Paul was certainly more than her lover.

  “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “Well, then, we will look for him. In the meantime, we will be searching your house.” He tipped his cap and smiled. “Jean, François,” he called out, “with me.” He waved two of the men up the hill. If Paul were up there by the church, it would not take them long to find him.

  That left her with two gendarmes and a young gentleman. He took off his top hat and introduced himself as Bernard Martin, examining magistrate at the court of Aix.

  “May I?” he pointed his hat toward the entrance.

  She moved back to let them in. Her heart was pounding. She had to stay calm. She had to figure out the right thing to say.

  “The knife, the gloves, any letters. That’s all. Don’t make a mess of things.” The judge gave orders in a
low voice. Then he shifted his attention to her.

  “May we sit? I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes, of course. Would you like some coffee? Water?” Hortense could barely talk, but she was going to show them that hers was a civilized household.

  “No, thank you,” he answered. “We stopped at the well at the bottom of the hill.” At least he was more polite than the other man.

  Hortense poured herself a glass. Her mouth was going dry. Besides, if she got stuck she could sip on the water until she had a good answer.

  “The table’s fine,” he said, before she asked where he would like to sit. “I can take notes more easily.”

  Yes, she thought, as she pulled out a chair and sat down. The table would be fine. If her hands started shaking, she would have a place to hide them.

  Hortense watched as Martin removed a pencil and a small notebook from his pocket. He seemed weary and overburdened. He was very young to be a judge, almost too young to wear that hat and sport that beard. His light brown hair was matted against his forehead, which glistened with sweat. He was almost good-looking. When he turned a little gray he would have more distinction. He would have a position in life. He had, despite the expression on his face, much to look forward to.

  “And now,” he said, after turning to a clean page, “Madame?—”

  She almost said “Cézanne,” answering too quickly. Was this a trick? Paul always told her she talked too fast and said too much. She had to be careful and make a show of being utterly honest. “I am Hortense Fiquet, born in the town of Saligney in the Jura in 1850.”

  He had dated the page and was writing this down.

  “Then you are not married?”

  “Engaged.”

  “But you have a son.”

  “Yes, Paul. Born in 1872.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With his father.”

  “Painting?”

  “No, watching.” Even though Paul hated anyone to watch him work.

  “Then you have been together a long time.”

  “Yes, we met in Paris in 1869. I was. . . .” If she told him she was a model, would he think she was a common, loose woman? She took a sip of the water. He waited, pencil poised. “I came to Paris when I was nineteen, and worked as a model for only a little while until I met Paul. We have been together ever since. Now I model only for him.” The judge had nice gray-blue eyes, but he was making her nervous, never taking them off her. She could hear the sounds of the men opening drawers, going through her things in the bedroom.

  “May I ask why you haven’t married?”

  She thought this might be coming. Hortense drew herself up. “Paul is waiting to get his father’s permission.” This did not seem to surprise the judge. Had he been to the Jas already? “As soon as Paul is established, we are sure his father will agree. We expect that to be any day now. His paintings are becoming better and better known. He has many of them with a dealer in Paris, who shows them constantly.” This was only half true. “Father” Tanguy had not sold a painting in months, and Paul still owed him for paints and supplies.

  He wrote none of this down, just watched as she talked. Did he see her as a rejected woman? How much did he know about Paul and that witch Solange?

  “Mme Fiquet, I must ask you some difficult questions.”

  She would soon find out. She folded her hands in front of her, ready for battle.

  “Did you know about Cézanne’s relationship with Solange Vernet?”

  Without any hesitation, she answered. “No, actually I don’t believe there was a relationship.”

  “Then you knew Mme Vernet?”

  “No.” Paul had certainly never bothered to introduce them.

  “Did you know a Charles Westerbury?”

  Since he probably had some way to check on this, she admitted that she had been to one of his lectures.

  “Not the whole course, then?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. Marie had been so horrified, and Paul so scornful. Yet he had gotten involved with their circle. The judge was maddening. He kept staring at her, waiting. One of the gendarmes had just come into the living room across from them.

  “Please don’t disturb the paintings!” she said as she rose. Paul would be furious.

  Martin turned in his chair. “I’ll look through the paintings later. Leave them be. You can wait outside when you are done.” He settled in again. “You were telling me why you did not complete the course with M. Westerbury.” Now the gendarme was upending the cushions and searching behind the books. Hortense sat down again.

  “Paul told me they were a sham, that he knew more about the geology of this place than the Englishman ever would.”

  “Yet we know that Paul went to their salon.”

  Hortense sat back, motionless. Paul had taught her how to do that during those endless, long sittings. He’d shown her how to remain expressionless, to hide what she was thinking and feeling.

  “Did you know?” the judge persisted. “Did he talk about them?”

  “Not really. I am sure they were not that important to him. He was probably seeking some stimulation, which can be very hard to find in Aix. You must know that yourself. You’re not from here.” This seemed clear from his accent. Martin did not respond. “You have to understand,” Hortense continued, bravely, “Paul is an important artist, interested in science, painting, literature, the whole gamut.”

  The judge was drawing circles on the paper.

  “You’ve been to Paris, of course?”

  He nodded. The other gendarme, the bigger one, was moving about behind her, going through the kitchen drawers. He laid all their knives out on the table, one by one.

  “Why is he doing that?” She could hear her own voice rise to a high pitch. “Those have never left my kitchen.”

  Martin fingered the knives and pushed them aside. “Put them back,” he said quietly. “Sorry,” he said to Hortense. “Please go on.”

  “Well,” she swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on what she needed to say, “if you have been to Paris, then you must have heard of the impressionist group. About Manet.” Everyone had heard of Manet. “Paul is a friend of Manet. When we lived in Paris, we used to meet with him and others at the Café Guerbois practically every night. I don’t know if you have heard of Monet or Pissarro, but Paul is very good friends with them too. We’ve just visited Monet’s new place at Giverny this summer.”

  Although the judge had written down “Manet,” he did not seem moved. Maybe he did not know much about the art world. She had to make him understand that she and Paul were not merely provincials. They couldn’t just take Paul off to prison and throw away the key, even if he had been crazy enough to commit a crime of passion. She had to use the last trump card.

  “And of course his best friend is Zola.”

  This time Martin looked up, impressed. After all, Émile Zola was France’s most famous writer.

  “Oh, yes, they grew up together in Aix,” she assured him.

  “Zola” went down on the note pad.

  “They were schoolmates. Zola always said that Paul was his protector because Zola’s family was so poor. His father built the town dam near the Bibémus road. But after he died, the town ignored the family. Zola had to go to Paris with his mother to make his way right after he left school. But he and Paul kept in touch. They correspond constantly. We’ve stayed at his house at Médan many times.” Or at least Paul had. He usually avoided taking her, so that he could have Zola all to himself. “It’s a magnificent place. Filled with antiques and books and art, including several of Paul’s paintings. We were just there in July. We’re all very good friends,” she added for emphasis. She knew she was talking too much, but she just couldn’t help herself. She had finally gotten the young judge’s attention.

  “The only reason Paul is in Provence is because he believes that he will create his greatest works in this landscape. We would be wel
comed in Paris, at Médan, any time. As for Gardanne, Paul thought his son and I might like a little break from Aix while he explores different landscapes. Here, let me show you.” She got up, ready to go into the living room.

  “Just a moment, please, then we can look at the paintings.”

  Hortense was relieved that the judge had finally said something, but dismayed that he was beginning to scrutinize her meager living quarters. She chewed on her lip as she waited for him to say more.

  “How often does Cézanne come to Gardanne?” he finally asked.

  “Every day.”

  “Even on Sunday? Last Monday?”

  “Every single day and . . . let’s see . . . ,” Hortense paused, as if she were trying to make sure that what she said was correct. “Last Sunday and Monday. Oh yes, right after the Feast of the Assumption. Paul was here. He had seen the procession in Aix so often, we decided to picnic and then he stayed the night.” Hortense wished she knew exactly when that witch had been murdered. “I think he only went back on Tuesday to see his sick father.” There, she had done it. And he was writing it down.

  But then he did the most disconcerting thing. He began to leaf backward through his notes, notes he had taken elsewhere. Where? Whom had he spoken to? Hortense’s heart started pounding again. If she was going to save Paul, she had to be more careful.

  “All right, then.” He closed his notebook and got up with a grim little smile. A smile of obligatory politeness. Or pity. Perhaps he stopped questioning people who lied to him. She could feel hot tears coming to her eyes as he went through the pile of papers and gloves that the gendarmes had placed before him on the table. When he handed them back to her, with a quiet thank-you, she went quickly into the bedroom, relieved to be out his sight, while she put her things away.

  By the time she was done, the judge was already searching through the paintings stacked against the living room wall. She caught him staring at a portrait of her sitting in a chair. How she hated the way she looked, blank and unrecognizable. She never understood why it took Paul so long to produce so little. No feeling, no character. “Sit like an apple,” he would tell her. “Be still.” And for what?