Текст книги "The Devil in Montmartre. A Mystery in Fin de Siecle Paris"

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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THE DEVIL IN

MONTMARTRE

A MYSTERY IN FIN-DE-SIÈCLE PARIS

GARY INBINDER

PEGASUS CRIME

NEW YORK  LONDON

In memory of my parents, Eli and Loretta

THE DEVIL IN

MONTMARTRE

1

PARIS

OCTOBER 10, 1889

A NIGHT AT THE MOULIN ROUGE

A chattering crowd bustled along the sidewalk on the Boulevard de Clichy; cabs and carriages rumbled up the damp street in a long procession at the foot of Montmartre hill. A steady, chilling, autumn rain had engulfed Paris for most of the day. Now in the evening hours the downpour had turned to drizzle pattering in the gutters and pooling on the pavement.

Pedestrians approaching their destination shook out the droplets and closed their umbrellas. They swarmed toward a beacon of modernity, a man-made radiance beaming from dozens of Edison’s electric bulbs glimmering like fireflies in the misty Paris night.

With its electrically illuminated rotating blades, The Red Mill advertised its presence in the Jardin de Paris. Brainchild of a pair of savvy entrepreneurs, Joseph Oller and his manager, Charles Zidler, the sensational new music hall had opened just in time to haul in thousands of well-heeled tourists flocking to Paris during the waning days of the great Universal Exposition. Among them were two elegant women riding in a closed cab. The driver pulled up to the front entrance. An attendant holding an umbrella opened the door and helped the women out of the carriage. The first was tall, fair-skinned and handsome. In her late thirties, she was fashionably dressed in an emerald green Doucet dress. She stepped down to the sidewalk and turned to assist her friend, a gaunt woman of the same age, an inch shorter than her companion and similarly attired in burgundy silk.

As the women entered the dance hall, the reverberating jabber of patrons and the shuffling of their shoes on wooden floors was drowned out by an orchestra playing a quadrille at breakneck speed. Occasionally, a high-stepping dancer would show all of her legs and more, crying, “Hoop-la,” to be followed by shouts and applause from an appreciative audience. The Moulin Rouge had quickly gained a reputation—it was a place to ogle the provocative dancers, get roaring drunk, and pick up girls. No one raised an eyebrow at the presence of two women without gentlemen escorts. Such things were frowned upon elsewhere, but after all, this was Montmartre, where the catchphrase was à chacun son goût. Most everything was tolerated, as long as you paid up at the end of an evening.

The two women flowed with the crowd through a gallery, its walls lined with posters, paintings, and photographs evocative of modern Paris, including Monsieur Eiffel’s controversial tower, then paused on a raised walkway near the long bar, its mirrors reflecting dozens of bottles and sparkling glasses. They found a little corner where they could observe the scene while avoiding collision with bustling waiters bearing refreshment to the multitude of thirsty patrons standing and seated round the mezzanine, main floor, and balcony.

Marcia Brownlow, the frail woman dressed in burgundy silk, took everything in with cool detachment and the keen eye of an artist. She was a noted painter, the founder of a school of West Coast American Impressionists, who had exhibited and won a Silver Medal at the Universal Exposition. Her sparkling green eyes darted round behind a mask of powder and rouge framed by auburn hair swept up in a pompadour. The illness that ate at her lungs had given her a macabre beauty; on first sight she gave the impression of a pretty corpse on display in its silk-lined coffin.

The hall was vast, the ceiling high and vaulted, like a temple devoted to the gods and goddesses of amusement and pleasure. Marcia drank in the colors, the shapes, and inhaled the smells; the greenish-golden glow of hundreds of electric bulbs and gas jets, filtered through smoky haze from countless cigarettes and cigars. Red, white, and blue bunting draped the balconies; dancers kicked and whirled, displaying flashes of white, lace-trimmed linen and black stockings. The odor was a potpourri of tobacco, perfume, rain-dampened clothing, and sweat. She stored each fleeting sense impression, like photographs and sachets in a dresser drawer, wondering: Can I paint it? Will I have time, or will the memory fade and die with me?

Betsy Endicott, heiress to a railroad fortune, patroness of the arts, and Marcia’s companion for more than a decade, contemplated her friend with worried eyes: How long can she last in this place? Can I get her back to California before Paris kills her?

A couple of toffs in evening dress interrupted: “Will you ladies join us for a drink?”

Marcia and Betsy had inadvertently paused in a prime area for pickups. Betsy blushed and squeezed Marcia’s hand protectively. “I’m sorry,” she replied with a hint of annoyance, “we’re meeting friends.” She then pulled Marcia away into the stream of humanity flowing in the direction of the dance floor.

Gazing after the elegantly dressed pair as they merged with and vanished among the throng, one of the toffs nudged his companion in the ribs and remarked, “I guess we’re not their type.” His companion grinned and nodded knowingly and the two continued their hunt, setting their sights on more promising quarry.

The two women jostled their way to the end of the bar. Marcia stopped abruptly near a narrow stairway leading down to the dance floor and drew her friend’s attention to a man seated at a round table set on the main floor’s perimeter. “That’s the artist who painted the portrait we admired in Joyant’s gallery.”

Betsy observed a well-dressed young man with a thick black beard and dark, intense eyes peering through a pince-nez. Despite his impeccably tailored clothes, there was something simian about his physiognomy. She also noticed a short cane, suitable for a dwarf, hanging from the back of his chair. The artist concentrated on the dancers while drawing in a sketchbook, his hand moving swiftly and efficiently in concert with his darting eyes. He occasionally put down his charcoal stick, took a draft of cognac, and then continued sketching furiously where he had left off.

Marcia smiled and tugged at her companion’s hand. “Come on, Betsy, I’ll introduce you.”

Betsy turned to Marcia with a quizzical squint. “You’ve made that gentleman’s acquaintance, dear?”

“Oh yes, in the American Gallery at the Fair. You weren’t there that day, I’m afraid. At any rate, he liked my paintings. Come on, you’ll find him clever, and we can talk to him about that portrait.”

Marcia yanked Betsy onward, and it was as though the consumptive had been wonderfully reinvigorated by the sight of her fellow painter. They arrived presently at his table, blocking the artist’s line of sight.

The man put down his charcoal and looked up with an irritated scowl, an expletive forming on his lips. However, upon seeing Marcia Brownlow, his frown turned to a shrewd smile; the expletive remained unuttered. Placing his powerful, hairy hands on the table, he rose a few inches, made a slight bow and greeted the intruders in impeccably accented, aristocratic English. “My dear Miss Brownlow, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this honor?”

There might have been a hint of sarcasm or condescension in his overly formal greeting, but Marcia chose to shrug it off. “My friend and I saw some of your work at Monsieur Joyant’s gallery. We were intrigued by one of your portraits.” Marcia caught herself; she had failed to introduce Betsy. “Pardon me, Monsieur, I was so pleased to see you I forgot to introduce my friend. Miss Betsy Endicott, may I present Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec, a young artist of considerable promise.”

Betsy smiled diffidently and extended her hand. Toulouse-Lautrec grabbed the digits, gave them a friendly American shake, and let go. Then he turned to a passing waiter, snapped his fingers and shouted, “César, two chairs, another bottle, and glasses for the ladies, please.” The waiter rushed off to fill the order and the artist grinned at Marcia and Betsy. “You’ll do me the honor of being my guests, won’t you?”

Betsy hesitated, but Marcia was quick to reply. “Yes, of course we will.”

While waiting for the chairs, Marcia realized that they were blocking Lautrec’s view. “Pardon us, Monsieur,” she said, pulling Betsy back toward a railing separating the low mezzanine from the main floor.

Lautrec smiled appreciatively and continued sketching until the waiter brought the chairs and a fresh bottle of cognac. Once they were seated, the attentive waiter filled their glasses before scurrying off to see to his other thirsty customers. Lautrec produced a gold monogrammed cigarette case and offered the women a smoke. Betsy declined but Marcia took a cigarette, leaning over the table as Lautrec struck a match and gave her a light. Betsy frowned, but remained silent. She could deny her friend nothing, and Marcia seemed so far gone in her illness that insisting upon abstinence would have been cruel, not to mention futile.

The quadrille ended to raucous applause and shouts of “Bravo!” The floor cleared and the orchestra took a break. Lautrec and Marcia maintained a stream of art-related conversation while Betsy mostly listened and observed. At one point, the subject changed to automobiles.

“We saw the Daimler exhibit at the fair, and I sketched the motor car,” said Marcia with an enthusiastic gleam in her eye. “The automobile powered by an internal combustion engine has great potential. Of course, it’s in its infancy, like the railroad locomotive seventy years ago.” She turned to Betsy and sighed wistfully. “I’d so love to ride in an automobile before I die.”

Betsy looked down, touched her friend’s hand and pursed her lips. She tried to speak, but could only choke back a sob.

Lautrec observed the women closely and guessed at the intimacy of their relationship. He was touched, for an instant, but wished to change the subject to his paintings. Joyant had told him Marcia’s companion was a wealthy American collector of new art; Lautrec figured that with a damp, cold winter coming on and Marcia’s consumption, the women would not remain too long in Paris.

“My cousin Dr. Tapié admires the automobile. I should not be surprised if some day he turns up driving down the Champs Elysee in one of those things, ha, ha.” He drained his glass before addressing Marcia on a subject closer to his heart. “By the way, I recall you mentioning one of my paintings at Joyant’s gallery. Could you please tell me to which one you were referring?”

“Of course, Monsieur, it was the portrait of a very beautiful young woman. She was blonde with blue eyes and seemed to gaze at the viewer with the most wistful smile. Please excuse me for making an observation that might seem impertinent; for want of another word, the portrait’s prettiness and charm distinguishes it from your other work.” Marcia smiled enigmatically at Lautrec while awaiting his reply.

Lautrec stared back at Marcia with a bewildered look, as though he did not know how to respond. His English was very good, but perhaps due to a subtle nuance of expression he had misunderstood her? At any rate, he sensed that this prize-winning American woman artist had insulted him. But he regarded this discussion as the beginning of a negotiation, and he was not going to strangle the newborn deal in its cradle with speculations as to her meaning regarding this particular painting’s “prettiness.” In short, if Marcia’s rich patroness wanted to buy his pretty picture to please her dying lover he would be more than happy to oblige, provided of course that the price was right.

“Ah, Miss Brownlow, you have seen my portrait of Virginie Ménard. She is a lovely girl, is she not?”

“Indeed she is, Monsieur. I’ve sketched her myself at the Atelier Cormon.”

Marcia’s revelation surprised her companions, Betsy more so than Lautrec. “Marcia,” she said with a hint of exasperation, “you never said anything to me about this young woman.”

“Betsy dear, must I tell you everything? At any rate, I did tell you that Cormon invited me to his Atelier. And it just so happened that the young woman we admired in Monsieur’s painting was modeling there that day.”

“Did we admire the young woman? As I recall, it was the painting that intrigued us, not the model.”

Lautrec found this incipient lover’s quarrel amusing and somewhat arousing as well. So much so that he was tempted to provoke it further. Nevertheless, he prudently tried to steer the conversation back to business. “Mademoiselle Ménard is much sought after—as a model, that is. And she dances divinely. You shall see her tonight, in the Can-Can.”

“I can’t wait,” Betsy muttered peevishly.

Marcia glanced at her friend. “Cheer up, darling. What you need is a drink.” Then to Lautrec: “Let’s have another bottle, Monsieur. This round’s on us.”

A blaring cornet fanfare announced the Can-Can. A troop of pretty young women dressed in spotless white shirtwaists and long, flowing skirts of diverse bright colors—blue, green, red, yellow, and pink—trotted onto the dance floor in high-heeled shoes. Forming a line, they raised their skirts and white lace-trimmed petticoats above their waists and began their rhythmic high-kicking dance to the cheers, whistles, and applause of the adoring crowd.

To Lautrec’s unerring eye and calculating brain the dancers were a problem in geometry and physics; fluid energy, flashing color, transforming forms and shapes in motion. He worked like a fiend to render them on paper the way the very latest in fast photographic lenses and shutters would capture the moment for posterity. And the focal point of his composition was the lovely, wild-eyed, and uninhibited maenad of Montmartre, the incomparably exquisite Virginie Ménard.

Marcia saw Virginie with her artist’s eye, as Lautrec did, and she longed for her sketchbook and pastels. Ill as she was, Marcia could drink almost anyone under the table and she had kept pace with the insatiable Lautrec. Betsy, on the other hand, was fuddled. Her head was swimming and, as her bleary gray eyes tried to focus on Virginie, she saw two ineffably beautiful girls moving in concert like Siamese twins. Betsy rubbed her eyes, blinked, and turned her attention to Marcia. She noticed how her companion fixed upon the dancer as if at that moment nothing else existed. That sobering realization wounded Betsy like a knife stabbing her in the heart.

A pair of angry gray eyes glared at Virginie and those eyes were now clear and cold as ice. She’s been playing around behind my back. The beautiful dancer rekindled memories of Marcia’s past indiscretions.

Betsy’s eyes narrowed, her rouged lips tightened and, beneath the table her fists clenched, nails digging into the flesh of her palms until they bled. She turned toward Marcia who, like Lautrec, was unaware of anything except the dance and one particular dancer. Her heart racing and her breath coming fast and shallow, one singular thought repeated itself in Betsy’s jealous mind: You promised to be faithful to me, Marcia. You promised. . . .

The early morning hours: the orchestra packed their instruments and departed; the dancers were gone; a broadly smiling Zidler counted receipts and locked his safe; the crowd dispersed to home, to bed, or to such further amusement as might be found at that hour in a cheap hotel, brothel, gambling house, or opium den. Toulouse-Lautrec shuffled off into the shadows on his stunted, painfully misshapen legs aided by his button-hook of a cane; Betsy staggered toward a cab supported by her seemingly sober, consumptive companion.

Electric and gaslights winked out; the raucous, riotous Moulin Rouge transformed into a mausoleum haunted by spirits of the evening past. Into this crypt waddled the charwomen, armed with brooms, buckets, and mops to clean up the revelers’ rubbish.

Virginie Ménard nee Mercier walked alone through dark, narrow streets snaking their way up Montmartre Hill to her rented fourth floor room on the Rue Lepic. Her heels clicked on the cobblestone pavement, footsteps echoing in the shadowy canyon of locked and shuttered shops, houses, and three– and four-story tenements. She lifted her skirts to step around puddles and muck. A yowling black cat chasing a rat rattled a garbage can and darted across her path. She stopped, shuddered, and crossed herself. Her large blue eyes glanced round, searching the murky recesses outside the dim aura of flickering yellow gaslight. She took a deep breath and walked on.

She hated being alone on the streets at this hour, but the money she made from her dancing and contacts at the Moulin Rouge seemed worth the risk. One of her fellow dancers, Delphine, a tough girl raised on the Paris streets, had given her some tips. Virginie carried a straight razor in her purse and Delphine had provided a tactic for self defense. “Slash at the bastard’s eyes,” she said, “and kick his nuts, then you scream like hell and run in the opposite direction.” All right in theory, Virginie supposed, but she dreaded putting it into practice. She preferred to rely on the police and good neighbors in this quarter, who tended to look out for each other.

Virginie relaxed as she spotted the familiar front door at number 62. She had tipped the concierge to wait up for her and longed for the comforting refuge of her room. Walking quickly, she soon reached the entrance and was about to ring when a soft voice startled her. She turned round, wide eyed and trembling, remembering Delphine’s warnings and the razor in her purse.

The man, who had emerged silently from the shadows, tipped his hat and smiled reassuringly. “I’m sorry if I surprised you.”

Recognizing the intruder, Virginie unwound. “Oh, it’s you. You gave me a start.”

“I apologize, my dear. Here, this will calm you.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a monogrammed gold cigarette case.

Virginie took a cigarette, held the man’s hand and leaned over as he gave her a light with a match. She inhaled and then exhaled gray smoke, her tension relieved. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

2

DR. PÉAN’S CLINIC & A SIDEWALK CAFÉ

OCTOBER 14

A large rectangular window flooded the operating theater with brilliant white light. Jules Émile Péan stood erect, dressed to perfection and dramatically posed, like an actor in the spotlight about to declaim his soliloquy to a silently anticipating audience. Universally acclaimed as one of the world’s greatest surgeons, Péan occupied the Olympian summit of the French medical profession. Before him stood four acolytes, young physicians hand-picked by the master to assist in his most daring and spectacular operations. Among the chosen few was Toulouse-Lautrec’s cousin, Tapié de Céleyran, an admirer of the Daimler automobile exhibit at the Exposition.

The acolytes hovered over an operating table supporting a woman in her early thirties, her nakedness covered by a white sheet. A classically educated witness might have compared the young woman to Iphigenia on the sacrificial altar. But unlike the tragic Greek princess of legend, this woman was not there to be slaughtered, but rather to be cured. An anesthetist sat beside the patient to the right of the table, one hand on her pulse, the other holding a chloroform mask.

The audience was a privileged group of physicians and surgeons, but there was an interloper among them: Toulouse-Lautrec. The artist had been attending the surgeries at Péan’s invitation, having been introduced by his cousin, Dr.Tapié. Like most, or perhaps all, celebrities, Péan was a savvy self-promoter, and he figured Lautrec’s drawings would provide good publicity for his professional services, not to mention a record for posterity.

The acolytes wore clean, white operating coats, but the high priest simply tied a towel around his neck to shelter his immaculate waistcoat from spattered blood. Thus accoutered, the stocky surgeon looked like a gourmand about to crack a lobster. Péan did not follow Pasteur’s Germ Theory, nor did he countenance Listerism, but he possessed a practical, commonsense belief in personal hygiene and cleanliness in surgery and the clinic that kept his post-operative infection rate reasonably low.

“Gentlemen,” announced Péan, “the diagnosis is Uterine Fibroids; the procedure Vaginal Hysterectomy.” With that, the surgeon chose a scalpel from among a sparkling array of instruments set out on a white cloth-draped table.

Toulouse-Lautrec observed and recorded the procedure the way he rendered the dance at the Moulin Rouge. His brilliant mind, curiously active brown eyes, and deft, charcoal-wielding hand operated swiftly and efficiently on the sketching paper, mimicking Péan’s audacious precision. As he worked on his sketch, Lautrec marveled at the machine-like functioning of the surgical team as they applied clamps and forceps without a scintilla of time or motion wasted.

Lautrec had barely completed his sketch when the diseased uterus and cervix lay in a pan. Péan removed his bib, washed his hands, and rolled down his sleeves, leaving the clean-up and dressing of the surgical wound to his assistants. Soon, two attendants arrived with a hospital trolley to wheel the patient out of the operating theater.

The drama over, most of the spectators filed out, but a few milled around while discussing the operation. One doctor remarked, “Péan is a virtuoso of the knife sans pareil. He operates on his patient the way Sarasate plays his violin.” “I agree, doctor,” chimed in another. “It’s one thing to do a neat job of surgery. But to remove a woman’s reproductive organs with such élan, such panache, is a mark of true genius.”

Lautrec closed his sketchbook, put away his charcoal sticks, and was about to leave when Dr.Tapié, who was in conversation with Péan near an easel upon which hung an anatomical drawing of the female lower abdomen, gestured for the artist to join them. As Lautrec approached, the great surgeon smiled broadly at the painter.

“Well, Monsieur, did you obtain a good study of our operation?”

“Yes, doctor, I believe I did. Would you care to take a look?”

“Of course, Monsieur; I’d be honored.” Péan held out his well-scrubbed hand and received the sketchbook. He examined the drawing with a critical eye, then smiled and returned it. “That’s splendid, Monsieur. You know, I was just saying to your cousin Tapié, ‘Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec has observed and sketched so many of my operations I wouldn’t be surprised if he could perform one himself.’”

Lautrec laughed, and the doctors laughed with him.

From Péan’s clinic Lautrec took a cab to a popular sidewalk café on the Rue Lepic, not far from his studio. There he joined his friend and fellow artist, Émile Bernard, at a small marble-topped table set up on the sidewalk under a fluttering yellow awning. The day was sunny, warm and pleasant under a clear blue sky. A variety of horse-drawn vehicles clip-clopped and rumbled up and down the cobblestones; a persistent conversational buzz pervaded the café, emanating from its diverse clientele—bohemians, bourgeoisie, working men and women, tourists, and flâneurs.

Lautrec and Bernard drank coffee and pastis. As they talked, Lautrec doodled on the tablecloth. His subject was a stocky, balding man with mutton-chop whiskers and a stained bib round his neck. The man was slurping his lunch, an immense bowl of onion soup. The man bore a remarkable likeness to Péan. Lautrec’s purplish lips grinned wryly as he drew objects floating in the soup that resembled the woman’s extirpated organs.

Bernard, a thin, intense young man in his early twenties with a thick shock of brown hair and slight beard, eyed the tablecloth caricature. “So, you attended another of Péan’s surgeries. Frankly, I find the subject morbid and rather distasteful.”

Lautrec stopped doodling and confronted his friend with a quizzical squint. “Morbid and distasteful, you say? Leonardo and Rembrandt attended dissections, and Gericault studied guillotined heads and cadavers at the Morgue. I assure you, my dear Émile, we artists can learn something of the human animal by witnessing its evisceration.”

Bernard made a face, registering his disgust. He changed the subject. “I’ve news from Theo; Vincent’s making progress at St. Remy. He’s working again.”

“I’m glad to hear it, though it’s his work that put him there. Rather, I should say his work and a host of other things, among them metaphysics, mysticism, hashish, absinthe, whores, the clap, rejection—and Gauguin.”

Bernard was accustomed to his friend’s cynical observations, and typically let them pass without comment. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear Vincent’s doing better. Theo worries too much about his brother and he has his own troubles, with a family to support and his own poor health.”

“Life’s no joke, Émile. We all have our crosses to bear in this vale of tears.”

Bernard used the biblical reference as an opening to a topic much on his mind of late. “Vincent and I corresponded on the subject of religion and the use of symbolism in modern art. In one of his letters he wrote something immensely profound, so much so I’ve committed it to memory: ‘Christ alone, of all the philosophers, magicians, etc., has affirmed eternal life as the most important certainty, the infinity of time, the futility of death, the necessity and purpose of serenity and devotion. He lived serenely, as an artist greater than all other artists, scorning marble and clay and paint, working in the living flesh. In other words, this peerless artist, scarcely conceivable with the blunt instrument of our modern, nervous and obtuse brains, made neither statues nor paintings nor books. He maintained in no uncertain terms that he made . . . living men, immortals.’

“Until now, I’ve looked for new styles, techniques, forms of expression suitable to our modern age. But I was wrong. What we really need is a new substance, a new essence in our art, to portray beauty and truth and to use our skill to transform souls. I believe that religious symbolism is the way forward. Not the old symbols of the Church, but something different that attempts to see modern life through the eyes of God, or at least as we conceive God would see it, and to imitate Him in the transformative, creative process as well.”

Lautrec almost snorted, “Rubbish!” but he checked himself. Instead he replied coolly, “That’s a fine ambition, and I wish you well. But as you know, I’m not religious and I certainly do not see the world through God’s eyes anymore than I see invisible, transcendent beings from the moon. For unlike God, assuming He exists, I’m mortal, changeable, fallible, and ignorant. I see the world with the keen, trained eyes of an artist who just happens to be a misshapen, ugly, dwarf. I make an accurate record of what I observe on the streets, in the dance halls, brothels, café concerts, in the surgery and morgue. What I see might be the work of God or the Devil, but that’s really of no consequence to me. It simply is what it is.”

Bernard knew that an argument with the skeptical Lautrec would prove futile, or worse. Disputes among artists were often vicious and destructive; Gauguin and Van Gogh were a tragic example. Rather than pick a fight, he asked about Virginie Ménard. “Henri, I’ve begun work on a new project, and I’d very much like to use Mademoiselle Ménard. I know she’s modeled for you in the past. I’ve gone to Cormon and checked with her concierge as well, but she seems to have disappeared. Have you seen her lately?”

“I saw her a few nights ago at the Moulin Rouge, but I’ve not seen her since,” he replied matter-of-factly. “A couple of rich American women were there that evening. As a matter of fact, they told me they liked my portrait of Virginie. I thought I was about to make a sale, but they seem to have disappeared too. Anyway, have you asked Zidler or some of his girls at the Moulin? They may know Virginie’s whereabouts.”

“Thanks, Henri, I’ll try them.”

“Well, I wish you luck. These lorettes are free, easy, and unpredictable. She could be living it up in Deauville with a rich Marquis, or sleeping it off in some hole with an apache.”

Émile frowned and shook his head. “Virginie’s not like that, Henri. That’s why I want her for my painting. I see her as an angel, a saint, or the Blessed Virgin Herself.”

Lautrec said nothing. He smiled knowingly, downed his pastis, and called for another round, paying for both.

Bernard thanked his friend. He liked Lautrec and admired his work, morbid and depressing as it was. But he often wondered: Why must he always be so damned pessimistic?