Cezanne's Quarry

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  But he was not like Westerbury at all. He did not have time to ponder the origins of the world, or look for the ancient sea shells still lingering in the meadow. His only thought was to measure his steps for half a kilometer until he could scan the horizon for two trees “intertwining their branches like lovers.” Even though he caught sight of them right on target, a twinge of doubt assaulted him as he dragged the spade through the still meadow toward the pines. What if the letter wasn’t there? What if someone had discovered it before him?

  Martin quickened his pace. As soon as he reached the trees he began probing the ground for newly turned earth. He found the spot almost immediately. The digging did not take long. Westerbury had either been too hopeful or too distressed to really bury the letter. Martin grabbed at the sack, turning it round and round until he found the opening. The pages tumbled out of the envelope. He gathered them together and sat down under the pines, holding the letter to his chest. This was it. The pages stuck to his moist fingers as he tried to wipe away the dirt and the few tiny insects that had penetrated the sack. That’s when he caught a slight whiff of lavender, the scent he remembered from his encounter with Solange Vernet in the bookstore. Martin smoothed the delicate purple-tinged pages out on his knees and closed his eyes. Tell me, please tell me, Solange, who killed you. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and dried his hands on his trousers before he began to read.

  The handwriting was surprisingly childlike, as if composed in a schoolroom. At first it was neat and precise, but it grew more erratic as, Martin presumed, weariness and emotion had overtaken the writer. He went over the letter again and again until he made out every word, even the few that had been smeared by sweat or blotched by tears.

  My Dearest Charles,

  You must read this before we can meet again. You must understand why I became so upset with you, and why I was so deeply hurt by your accusations. At last you must know everything.

  You accused me of having an affair with Cézanne. Indeed, dear Charles, nothing could be further from the truth. You accuse me of betraying you. Of betraying us. But isn’t that the same thing? Didn’t you always tell me that in our hearts we were one? Worse, you accuse me of granting him the one favor that I have not granted you. How could you? That is why I had to send you away. I was too angry with you. And too ashamed for both of us.

  Now that I am a little calmer, I realize that I must share the blame for your wild accusations, because I have not told you everything. I am weak, Charles, not like you. I cannot conquer the world. Yes, we have both known poverty, and yes, as you said, I have, unlike you, kept part of my past a secret. This was not because I wanted to be mysterious or alluring, as you seem to think. It is because the past shames me. Despite your love, despite all you have done for me, I cannot overcome it. Not completely. Especially not after seeing Cézanne on the Cours the first time. I cry as I write this. When you know everything, you may not even want me.

  The first time I saw Cézanne was not in Aix. It was in Bennecourt, almost twenty years ago. I was sixteen. I don’t know how old he was. I had been sent to live with my aunt, to work on her farm. When summer came, the inn needed extra help, and my aunt offered my services so that I could help to pay for my upkeep. For weeks at a time young artists came to stay at the inn. Sometimes they brought their wives and lovers, but usually not. I even saw Zola then, before he was famous. I was fascinated by them. I had only a few years of schooling before my mother died. Despite my ignorance I wanted to hear them talk and laugh, to see their paintings, and to know what they were reading to each other. Oh Charles, it was all so new to me, the world of art and the mind. I listened as I cleaned the pots and the dishes in the kitchen. My aunt said I was too pretty to serve the men.

  I have never told you about my aunt, my father’s sister. She was an ugly, cruel woman. I could not wait to get away from her. But I could not figure out how to do it. We women are different from you men. We cannot just set out in the world. It is full of dangers for us. This I know, Charles, I know this in the depths of my being. I hesitate before telling you the worst part.

  Solange Vernet had scratched out a number of lines at this point.

  I was curious. I’ll admit that. I wanted to know everything about these men, these vacationers from Paris. And when the other servants told me that they went to the river in the moonlight to swim together, I had to see it. How foolish we are at that age. I knew nothing. I had never seen a man naked. At least my father had kept me from that. I had only seen my little brothers. But that was not why I wanted to see them. I think I wanted to see their joy, to know what freedom and happiness looked like.

  The second time I went to watch them, my aunt and her lover caught me. They had been looking for me because they wanted to make sure that I brought them the week’s wages. My aunt’s lover called me a whore and decided to teach me a lesson. He was so big and blond—a brute of a man. He grabbed me by my arm and hair, and dragged me into the woods. My aunt even held me down as he lifted my skirt and took me again and again. He covered my mouth so that no one could hear my cries. I was frantic. I thought I would die. My eyes went round and round looking for help. And then one of the artists appeared through the bushes on his way back to the inn. It was Cézanne. I will never forget his dark eyes staring at me. He stood still, watching me. And he did nothing. Nothing. I will never forgive him for that.

  And, dear Charles, do you want to know the irony? Cézanne did not even recognize me when we first met in Aix. He still does not recognize me. It was you who kept telling me that I was a desirable woman. It was you who gave me the courage to pursue a plan of revenge once I understood that I meant nothing to him that horrible night so long ago. I decided that I would mean something, everything. I decided to seduce him so that later I could reject him with as much cruelty as possible. When I found out that he was still trying to make his name in art, I decided that once he had fallen in love with me, I would ridicule him both as an artist and as a man. That’s why I laughed when you accused me of making love to him. I almost slapped his face the first time he tried to kiss me.

  I owe so much to you, dear Charles. My happiness. My belief that I am a woman worthy of being loved. And because of you, I could not carry out my plan. Why be cruel to someone who is obviously so unhappy? Why take vengeance on another human being when you have everything you want, everything you always wanted, except of course a child. I could not carry out my plan. It was beneath us. Now I am hoping he will grow discouraged and go away.

  There was another hiatus and row of scratching out before she began again.

  I said I would tell you everything. For my shame does not end with one night in the woods. My aunt’s lover was the village constable. His name was Alain Duprès. You should have seen how he strutted around, catching the poor poachers and starving little pickpockets. So righteous, so exacting in his punishments. He even wore his saber, the emblem of his paltry office, to mass on Sunday to show how important he was. But he was just as poor as the rest of us. This is why he was pursuing my aunt, to inherit her pitiful piece of land. I grew more and more sure that he didn’t love her. For soon after that night, he took me aside, and told me that I had become his second mistress. He warned me that if I ever told anyone about our “lovemaking” he would give me a beating that would scar me for life. Lovemaking! Oh, Charles, you wondered why you were my first lover. It was because you were so different from all the men I knew. You can’t imagine how much I risked when I surrendered to you. That is why I cried that first night. I was so afraid that I would feel the shame and humiliation again.

  Yes, Charles, Alain Duprès was the man on top, the only one. I never knew when he would meet me on the road as I was heading home from work, and force me to come to his cabin. This went on for two long, cold seasons, until the next spring. Sometimes I felt that he would crush my very being. This is why I was so horrified when you accused me of letting Cézanne “mount me.” You cannot imagine how cruel your accusat
ion was.

  I wrote my father, begging him to let me come home, promising him I would do all the housework, care for the children, and hire myself out to anyone who wanted me. But I did not tell him why. I was too ashamed. And then I found out that I was with child. I knew the signs. I had seen my poor mother go through it again and again, until it finally killed her. At first I refused to believe it. I thought of throwing myself into the river. I was desperate. If my aunt knew, she would have thrown me out. My father would have never taken me back. I talked to one of the servants. She told me there were women in Paris called angel makers. If I could get to Paris, they would spot me as soon as I got off the train. She was sure I looked that desperate. I never told her who the father was. I was too afraid. She probably thought it was one of the guests, one of the artists, but those young men hardly knew I existed.

  At least, Charles, I managed to garner a little courage. This is what saved me. One night, when I knew my aunt and her lover were together at the farm, I went into his cabin looking for money. I wanted just enough to get to Paris. He owed me that much. But—perhaps God or the Virgin was with me—what I found was a bag full of gold coins. I put one in my pocket, and stuffed the rest into my sack. They would take me to Paris, they would allow me to pay for a place to stay until I found work. I had no idea how much money was there. I could not believe my luck. I don’t know what got into me then, but I wanted to tell Duprès that I had gotten back at him a little. I wanted him to know that at least one person knew what a hypocrite he was. So I left him a note. I could not write very much in those days, so I remember it well. It said “I know who you are. Sophie.” And then I stole into the night, walking as fast as I could to the station, and waited there for the train.

  When I arrived in Paris, I was made to pay very dearly for my sins. The angel makers did find me before I even left the station. I went with three of them to a hovel on the outskirts of Paris where I saw other girls, some younger than me, waiting their turn. I do hope my child became an angel. I nearly became one of the eternally damned. All I remember was pain and blood, blood that seemed to flow for days. One of the angel makers was very kind. When I finally came to my senses, she held my hand tenderly as she told me that I would be barren. She was also the one who found the money. The Virgin smiled on me again, for she did not steal it or divide it with the others. She kept it for me. She had a plan.

  At first, when she told me about it, I became very frightened. Was I to be robbed? Left destitute, and alone in this vast city? She looked into my eyes, while she held my hands, trying to gain my trust. She told me that she did not care how I had gotten all the money. If I had robbed the man who had done this to me, so much the better. She needed to know if I had a family to return to. She was sure I could not make my way on my own.

  I told her that I had no family, that I had been rejected by them and was afraid of them. Thankfully, she did not question me further. She had much experience with girls like me, who had gotten into trouble and wanted only to escape. She then told me that she knew where I could find work if I loaned the money to someone. I was still very frightened. What did I know about these things? I felt so alone.

  She explained that she had a sister who had a shop that was in debt. This sister, she said, was the kindest woman in the world. Everyone who knew her called her Aunt Marie because she helped everyone. And now she needed help. This sister, like me, was barren. She had always longed for a daughter.

  When I met Aunt Marie I felt, for the first time in months, that maybe I was not among the damned. She was so kind. I gladly helped her. What could money have done for me? She gave me everything, her love, her home, her livelihood. She was more of a mother to me than my own mother had been. This, my dear Charles, is the real secret of my success. This is how I became a rich woman. Aunt Marie and her sister Berthe became my family. Berthe bribed the other angel makers to tell anyone who had asked that they had never seen me. I don’t even know if anyone ever came looking for me.

  The last paragraph was written in a more deliberate hand, the letters large and neat.

  There. Now you know everything. I don’t know what I want from you. I can imagine you reading this, rushing to the apartment, and going down on your knees asking for my forgiveness. If you still want me, that is, now that you know that I am not the pure angel you thought I was, and that I killed my only child. What you feel is your affair. What I can tell you is that I can’t see you here, not now, while the walls still echo with your terrible words. Give me a little time, time to think, to pray, to walk out in your beloved nature before you respond.

  Solange

  Martin dropped his arms to his sides and fell back against the tree. Poor Solange. The mystery of her past had turned out to be a sordid tale, like so many others. And yet she had risen above it to make something of herself. Martin sighed. Poor Westerbury. The fool had every reason to be ashamed. Their argument had been his fault. Whether or not he had intended to be cruel, he had been so. Horribly cruel. Martin did not understand everything that had gone on between them, but he knew this: Westerbury should have run to Solange Vernet and fallen on his knees, despite her wishes. She was worth everything, every risk. Despite their terrible quarrel, she had continued to shore up the Englishman’s fragile pride, confirming his best image of himself. He could have saved her. No wonder he was so tormented.

  Martin folded the pages and put them back into the envelope. Solange Vernet loved Westerbury, needed him. She knew his weaknesses, his rashness, and yet she still forgave him enough to set off to the quarry as soon as she thought he had declared his love anew. Unless, Martin sat up alert, unless she thought the author had been Cézanne. No, Martin hunched back again. No, this was not possible. Her letter rang with truth. Westerbury was the love of her life. And as insane as it was, Martin felt a kind of envy for that pitiful example of manhood.

  Would anyone ever love Martin enough to forgive him for who he was? For all the things he was not? Westerbury and Solange had risked so much to be together. He had told her everything about himself, and she had taken the chance that he would be kind and interesting, and honest enough not to be after her fortune. Martin had never ventured and lost in love. He had never risked his heart. When had he become so cautious? When his father died? When he began to hide his new beliefs from his mother? When he stopped arguing with Merckx, allowing his friend to follow a path that had become more and more destructive? He should have sent him back to the army. Or, better, he should have chosen to risk everything by really helping his oldest friend to escape. Martin’s half-measures had been as fatal as Westerbury’s hesitations. But at least the Englishman had loved and been loved in return.

  A gray cicada wriggled its way out of the bark of the tree behind Martin, brushing against his cheek. Although the insects were everywhere, he had not been aware of their nagging rasps for a long time. He had to move on. What difference did it make who he was, or what he could become, unless he managed to get out of this mess? Regret would get him nowhere. Martin got up and dusted himself off, before starting across the meadow. Think! That’s what he was good at. Reasoning things out. What had the letter told him?

  That Cézanne was a more likely suspect than Westerbury. That the Englishman was almost certainly innocent. The letter had given him no motive for murder. Quite the opposite. And Cézanne? Why hadn’t he helped the poor girl all those many years ago? Undoubtedly, had Westerbury come across the violation of an innocent young girl in the woods, he would have played the gallant and thrown himself into the fray. Perhaps that is why Solange Vernet loved him. She knew he would have tried to save her.

  But the painter had not, and Martin wondered whether Cézanne’s inaction still haunted him. What if he had finally recognized her? And, what if she had accused him of cowardice, mortifying him until he couldn’t stand it any more? Or, more likely, he had tricked her into coming to the quarry in order to press his cause, and she had finally, scornfully—and fatally—rejected him. Martin had every
intention of pushing Cézanne to the limit, until he knew the answer to these questions.

  22

  HORTENSE ARRIVED ON THE PLATFORM A full twenty minutes before the train was due and took her place by a post with a good view of the incoming tracks. She wanted to be sure that she would have Zola to herself for as long as possible. She needed to tell him her side of the story, and to find out what he knew about Cézanne’s dealings with Solange Vernet and Charles Westerbury. She’d have to keep him away from Paul, Paul Jr., and who knows who else. There would be no peace if any of Zola’s many admirers found out that he was in town.

  The tiny station possessed only four tracks, two for passengers and, across the way, two for the freight trains that rumbled through much more frequently. At least there was an overhang on her side to protect her from the sun. Hortense patted the hair around her ears and repinned her hat. She wanted to look her best. She did not want Émile’s pity; she wanted his help.

  She didn’t mind the wait. What else was there to do in Aix except wait? Wait until Paul told his father about them. Wait until the old goat died and they got their share of the estate. Wait until they could all—finally!—return to Paris.

  At least there was some life at the station. Women and children were coming out on the platform, excited about a day trip to Marseilles or a loved one’s arrival. Vendors in blue workman’s smocks were maneuvering their baskets of fruits and drink into place in order to sell refreshments through the open windows of the train during its stop. A few middle-aged men, probably on their way to cut a deal in the port city, stood by checking their watches. The hawkers and businessmen waited in stoic silence, while the mothers talked to their children, telling them to stay back and stay quiet. Hortense peered around the post looking for her own son and smiled. He was the liveliest of the lot, inspecting the wares and luggage that lay about, and scanning the crowd for boys his own age. Every few minutes, he ran out to look down the tracks. He loved watching the trains come in. It probably reminded him that there were other places in the world.