Cezanne's Quarry

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  His big mistake of the afternoon had been to ask the witness about Cézanne. The question evoked a bitter diatribe. Paul Cézanne had come late to the circle, very late, having attended only two or three sessions, and had brought with him all the advantages of his sex. Trained in art institutes, heir to a fortune, connections in Paris. How could she, the daughter of a poor widowed literature professor—who had, by the way, had the foresight to name his only child after the ancient prophetesses, the Sibyls—how could she compete for the right to make an artistic contribution to Westerbury’s great work? How could she even speak when Cézanne glowered at her so? Who would take her seriously as the “artist of the Aix landscape” when a man, the scion of a wealthy family, laid claim to the same title?

  Solange Vernet and Westerbury had been the sun and moon of a shining new world, the only place Sibylline Beauregard felt welcomed and accepted. Cézanne had threatened that world. Did she think him capable of destroying it?

  “Mlle Beauregard,” Martin jumped in while she took a long pull from her cigarette, “were you aware that Solange Vernet and Paul Cézanne were lovers?”

  The impossible happened. Sibylline Beauregard was speechless. The silence was broken by a familiar sound, the movement of Old Joseph’s chair as he turned to survey the scene. Would Martin have to order his greffier not to look around every time he asked that question?

  The noise did not disturb the witness, who sat across from Martin, holding her cigarette aloft between two fingers. “No,” she roused herself, “no, how is that possible?”

  What was going through her head? That she had missed the opportunity to console Westerbury?

  “No,” she shook her head again. “No, it is just not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was a beast. So uncivilized, despite all that education, all that travel. A beast.”

  “Was he violent?”

  “I don’t know. But he was rude. Very. He could only talk in outbursts.”

  “But how did he act toward Solange Vernet?”

  She sucked on the holder, and blew out a long stream of smoke.

  “Now that you bring it up, he was extremely polite to her—and to the maid. He seemed afraid of the men. Or angry with them, I couldn’t tell. And with me, of course. Because I was a rival. Now that you bring it up,” she repeated slowly, “I really never knew why he was there.”

  Martin waited. He had given her the reason. But when she spoke again, it was not about Solange Vernet or Cézanne, but about Westerbury.

  “Oh, poor Charles, poor, poor Charles. Did he know? What he must be going through! Do you know where he is? I must go to him. What he must be suffering.”

  “Are there any indications that he knew what was going on?”

  “How would I know? Oh, Charles, he couldn’t have—”

  “What? Killed her?”

  “I didn’t say that!” Sibylline Beauregard cried in indignation. “Never say I said that!”

  “Certainly jealousy is a motive for murder.”

  “No! No! It can’t be. He would give his life for her! Because of her weakness!”

  Surely the witness had gotten it backward. It was quite likely that Solange Vernet had given her life for Westerbury. Because of his weakness. And his rage.

  “What about his work, his great work?” Mlle Beauregard pleaded, “No! He must finish it.”

  “Very well.” Martin rose. He had had enough. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. I think you can go now.”

  “No. He didn’t kill her. You can’t believe I meant to imply. . . . Where is he? Who is with him?” She stood up as if she was about to run to rescue Westerbury, wherever he might be.

  “Please sit down, Mlle Beauregard.”

  She backed down onto the edge of the chair, her hand holding the cigarette over her heart, her face lifted in horror.

  “He’s not. . . . He didn’t—”

  “He’s in jail. I am thinking of charging him with Solange Vernet’s murder.”

  “He’s alive, then, and well.” She sank back in relief. There was still some hope that her dream might come true. “Surely, you are not going to keep him in that awful place long? When are you going to let him go?”

  “When the time comes. And when I know more.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Mlle Beauregard, thank you again. I’m going to ask my clerk to escort you out.” Martin had to get rid of her. He was so tired. Fortunately, Joseph had heard Martin’s dismissal and rose to the occasion. If slowly. The hunched old man even offered his arm as he led the witness out of Martin’s chambers.

  Martin slumped back in his chair. Tomorrow was Sunday, a day of rest. Rest! If only he could forget all those bloated dead bodies. And his own guilt and fear. A tapping at the door interrupted his thoughts. What now! “Come in!”

  “I was waiting for your greffier to return. But I can see that they’re still talking, so I took the liberty. . . .”

  It was Picard. Had his landlord rushed to the courthouse because he had seen evidence of an intruder? Had Merckx been insane enough to come back for something? If so, Martin hoped to God that the long-winded notary would get to the point and let him know quickly that he was done for.

  “M. Picard,” Martin stood and motioned toward a chair in an attempt to appear calm and cordial. “Please. Come in. Sit down.”

  René Picard was a portly middle-aged man, with a mustache that rose up in a curl to the left and right of his nose, and a penchant for strong cologne. He had taken the time after arriving home from the country to put on his dark blue pinstriped suit and top hat. Picard sat down, crossed his legs, which bulged like fat sausages in his pants, and began wagging his finger at Martin.

  “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  Martin’s mouth went dry. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well,” Picard said with a mischievous smile on his face, “as soon as I settled the ladies in, I went to the Cours, to see if there was anything that needed my immediate attention. And then I began to hear rumors. First, about one of my clients, a certain Solange Vernet.”

  Martin sat down and folded his hands, trying to look interested. Maybe, just maybe, this was not about Merckx.

  “After that,” Picard continued, “I could not resist going to my friend, the editor. And, I’m pleased to tell you, my boy, that by tomorrow morning when our one liberal weekly comes out, you’ll be quite well known around all these parts. A murder! Your first big investigation!”

  Martin kept his face a blank, all the while suppressing a groan. Already in the press. At least they had managed to keep the news of the boy from getting out.

  “My girls will be thrilled. And so will Mme Picard. She always knew you would go places. That’s why she’d never forgive me if I didn’t invite you for dinner tomorrow. At one o’clock sharp.”

  Martin, who had been working hard to hide his anxieties, now had to scramble to cover his dismay. Marguerite Picard had made it clear that she thought he would be an exemplary suitor for at least one of her two older daughters. He had already suffered through two family dinners, during which M. Picard held forth at one end of the table while Mme Picard, whenever she got a word in, questioned Martin in detail about his future prospects. Martin, of course, had responded as briefly and discreetly as possible. Still, his answers seemed to have provided endless amusement for the three Picard daughters, who said little but communicated with each other by rolling their eyes and making faces. He had no idea what the daughters thought of him. And he didn’t know what he was more afraid of: that they found him a singularly boring guest, or that one of them might actually find him attractive.

  Picard was never deterred by hesitation. “Food fresh from the country. Of course you’ll come.”

  “I—”

  “No, no, we won’t take no for an answer. It’s the summer. It’s Sunday. We’ve been neglecting you, scurrying out of town at the first sign of the cholera. I told Mme Picard we had no worries in Aix.
”

  “Thank you.” If he accepted immediately, maybe Picard would go away.

  “Good! And now,” Picard said, recrossing his legs. “I am at your disposal. What do you need to know about the Vernet estate?”

  “Allow me to go outside and get my greffier,” Martin rose, still a little shaky from the scare that Picard’s unexpected appearance had provoked, and started to go around his desk toward the door.

  “No need, my boy.” Picard had caught him by the sleeve of his jacket as he went by. “I’m in no hurry. We can just sit and chat.”

  That was exactly what Martin did not want to do. The story was out. He’d want to think about what he was going to say to curious people, like Picard, as well as what he needed to ask the notary about his clients.

  “M. Picard,” Martin assured his landlord, “your deposition is going to be crucial. I want to make sure we have it all down.” That said, Martin pulled away. He knew that Picard would enjoy spending the next few moments contemplating the important role he’d be playing in a delicious scandal.

  Martin made his way into the cool cavernous hallway, and closed the door behind him. Holding the knob in his two hands, he leaned back on the heavy door and waited until his breathing slowed. Then he hurried down the stairs to rescue Old Joseph from Sibylline Beauregard, who was still holding forth at the back entrance of the Palais.

  There were few surprises in what Picard had to say. But the notary did draw out every suspicious possibility. All the money was hers, from the sale of her shop. Solange Vernet’s estate, which had gone mostly toward the purchase of the Cours apartment, would, except for an allowance to one Arlette LaFarge, go to Charles Westerbury, unless, “and this is the interesting part, unless she adopted a child before her death. Adopted.” The notary gave Martin a knowing look. “What could that mean? Surely she was young enough to still hope for a child of her own. Or. . . .” He shrugged, and then Picard did Martin the favor of waving his finger to make his point. “Something you can look into. What if Westerbury did not want to share his fortune, or have to take care of a child? What if he did not have the potency, the capability of giving her one himself?” Satisfied with his incisive reasoning, Picard relaxed into his seat, waiting.

  Indeed, what if? Martin was sure that Westerbury had mentioned nothing about adoption. But had Arlette? He’d have to go back through his notes.

  “Do you think that Westerbury and Solange Vernet could have continued living at the same level of expenditure for very long?”

  The notary shook his head. “I don’t see how, unless he really did begin to earn some money.”

  “All right, then.” Martin got up.”You’ve been very, very helpful.” Although, of course, not nearly as helpful as Picard thought he had been.

  “And we can continue this discussion tomorrow, at one,” Picard said, as he rose to offer a farewell handshake.

  Martin forced a smile. Rest would not come easily during the waning days of August.

  Sunday, August 23

  Our wives and our daughters are raised, governed by our enemies. Enemies of the modern spirit, of liberty and of the future. It would serve no purpose to cite such and such a preacher or such and such a sermon. One voice to speak of liberty, fifty thousand to speak against it.

  —Jules Michelet, The Priest, Woman and the Family, 18456

  17

  IT WAS THE ITCHING THAT WOULD finally do him in. And the heat. And the stench. And the tragic absurdity of his fate. Westerbury scratched at his beard, trying to pry loose the lice and their eggs. He began pacing again, back and forth, back and forth, the length and width of his tiny cell. How long would they keep him here? How long must he endure the waiting, not knowing, not being able to talk to another living soul? His steps quickened, and, with them, the infernal pounding in his chest. He could feel his teeth grinding against each other. He pulled at his hair in a mad attempt to rid himself of the vermin and vent his frustrations. He wanted to shout and pound on the thick iron door, demanding to be let go. But that would be useless, and it would show them that they were winning. He could not let them win.

  Calm down, calm down, he told himself. Weaker men than you, and certainly men with less intelligence, without philosophy, have survived such confinement, and survived it for years. Stoicism—the philosophy of Marcus Aurelius—is what he must aspire to. Wisdom, Justice, Fortitude, Temperance. Wasn’t that it? To practice them would lead to tranquility and make him a worthy follower of the greatest of all Romans. But, Westerbury paused mid-thought, at least Aurelius had a great country estate to run to when the battles, plots, and conspiracies became too much to bear. In this foreign land, Westerbury had only his wits.

  He sat back on the thick board suspended by two chains. This piece of wood, covered by an inch of matted vermin-infested straw, and one thin woolen cloth, was his bed, his chair, and his table. They allowed him no books, no pen, and no paper. Not even a chamber pot. Westerbury glanced toward the filthy hole in the corner, where the odor of his own urine and feces mingled with that of other unfortunates who had occupied the cell before him. Barbarous race. Barbarous, sewerless, lawless, insalubrious, arrogant race. Why bother to even think about being treated like an educated man when they can’t even treat you like a human being?

  Westerbury felt the tears building again. Sniffling, he watched the dust glisten and dance in the streams of light that flowed from the tiny square window high in his cell. It was almost noon on Sunday. The daily meals and the changing light were the only way he kept track of time. By his count, he had been here for three days and three nights. The wardens came only two times each endless day, slid open the slot in the big iron door, ladled water into his cup and pushed a bowl of mush toward him. The first time it happened, not knowing the routine, he had let his meager provisions fall on the stone floor. He learned quickly to have his cup ready, and to shovel in his food with the battered spoon. The guards left the opening ajar while they made their rounds. Westerbury found himself looking forward to those few isolated moments, when he did not feel completely alone. He eagerly listened for the rattling of the food cart, the insults of the guards, and the cacophony of defiance and despair that the other prisoners shouted from their cells as they cursed their jailers, their food, and their rotten luck.

  If he had been a lesser man, Westerbury would have joined them, or at least cheered them on. But they were common criminals, thugs, and petty thieves. Not like him. They had done nothing to better their condition. They had never aspired to higher knowledge or a higher calling. Besides, he was innocent. Innocent of murder, at least. But, he buried his head in his hands as he suppressed a moan, not innocent of weakness, of not loving enough, nor of having let his poor, dear girl fall into the hands of a killer. Westerbury pulled himself up. Why play the stoic when her murder might go unavenged? Why stay here and suffer when he could be finding the monster and killing him with his own bare hands? A cleansing anger drove him to his feet. His sobs turned to rage, and he began pounding on the iron door with his fists. “I want to talk to Franc! I’ll give him what he wants!”

  Miraculously, the slot slid open. Mealtime. “Wait, wait.” Westerbury grabbed his cup. He could not bear to lose his portion of the precious water. “Wait!” he shouted. He got back in time to push the tin cup under the ladle and to face the guard. “Tell Franc I will give him the note. Tell Franc I want to speak to the judge, but before I do, I will tell him where the note is. Tell him that I am ready to tell everything.”

  The guard thrust a tin bowl through the slot. This time the substance was brown. Westerbury scooped it up. “Tell him.”

  “Don’t worry. As soon as he comes in for duty tomorrow.” The opening was so small that Westerbury only saw half of the warden’s face. The mouth had widened into a crooked grin. “He’ll be glad to hear it. He knew you’d break.”

  18

  SHOUTS AND LAUGHTER DREW MARTIN TO his window. The day was bright and sunny. It was a day that should have made almost anyone as gay a
nd carefree as the three Picard girls. Protected by oversized white aprons that covered the plaids and stripes of their Sunday best, they were picking pears from the tree which dominated the little walled garden behind the house. The youngest, perched precariously on a ladder, was ignoring the warnings of her two older sisters as she reached into the high branches. Having the best view of Martin’s window, she caught a glimpse of him before he moved out of sight. She gasped, pointed toward his attic room, covered her mouth with her free hand, and set off another gale of laughter.

  “M. Martin, we are getting pears to eat with your cheese!” she shouted, much to the chagrin of those below.

  “Amélie, leave M. Martin alone. I am sure that he is studying or thinking about serious matters.”

  Martin was not sure which of the older sisters had delivered this admonition, but he returned to the window, in the hope that no one had noticed his furtiveness, and gave what he hoped looked like a cheerful wave to all three of them. They seemed excited about the prospect of having dinner with him, while all he wanted to do was get through it as briefly and as gracefully as possible.

  Martin stepped back into the darkness and sat down at his table to make one more attempt to comprehend the words dancing on the page before him. He had been going over his outline of the case for hours, but he could not vanquish the anxieties that had haunted him throughout the night and kept circling through his mind: he was incapable of finding the murderer of Solange Vernet and the boy. He might be persecuting an innocent man. The murderer might kill again because of Martin’s incompetence. There were so many holes. The identity of the boy. The missing letter. The note. The gloves. The source of Solange Vernet’s wealth, and so much more about her past that he did not know, so many details that did not make any sense.

  Worse, he could not get Merckx out of his mind. What if he had not escaped? The gendarmes would find Merckx and discover that Martin had abetted a deserter. Martin might go to prison. All his hopes, as well as his mother’s, would end in shame and ignominy. Good God! Martin covered his face with his hands. How did I get myself into this?