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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

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THE GRAND HOTEL TERMINUS & BOIS DE BOULOGNE

OCTOBER 14

Betsy Endicott and Marcia Brownlow shared a lavish suite at The Grand Hotel Terminus. On this morning, Betsy stood at a window overlooking the broad, tree-shaded avenue. A street-cleaning wagon pulled by a team of horses rumbled by, wetting the pavement with water spraying from its large, cylindrical tank.

She held back the white lace curtain and gazed across the thoroughfare at a great heap of mansard-roofed masonry, the Gare St. Lazare. She recalled how Marcia had admired Monet’s painting of the immense, steam– and smoke-filled cast iron and glass train shed. The railway station stirred thoughts of a longed-for journey, her desire to be on board a fast steamer to New York.

She frowned at the leaden skies; the droplets running down the window pane seemed to mirror the tears Betsy had shed over her companion. Marcia lay in bed under the care of Sir Henry Collingwood, an eminent Harley Street physician. Like Betsy, Marcia, and many other affluent foreign tourists attending the Exposition, Sir Henry had chosen The Grand Hotel for its convenient location, luxurious furnishings, first class service, and modern accommodations. The fact that Sir Henry occupied a suite on the same floor as Betsy and Marcia was providential.

Three days earlier, following their evening at the Moulin Rouge, Betsy and Marcia had breakfasted meagerly on a baguette and coffee served in their suite. Neither of them had much of an appetite, and the tension between them smoldered like a smoking match. The tense mood was aggravated by Betsy’s hangover and Marcia’s chronic illness. Between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of baguette, Betsy rubbed her aching temples and blinked her bloodshot eyes. Her behavior got on Marcia’s nerves, and she finally broke the silence:

“You drank too much last night, dear. But then, you almost always do.”

Betsy looked daggers at her friend. “You needn’t remind me of my faults, Marcia. I’m well aware of them, and I feel damned awful. You might show some sympathy.”

Marcia smirked. “Darling, I feel damned awful every damn day, but then I don’t whine about it.”

Betsy always tried to make allowance for Marcia’s illness when faced with her sharp tongue. But Betsy had reached the end of her patience; her self-control snapped. Her hands shook; her face reddened and her lips trembled. She dropped a butter knife; it clattered on the china plate. “I might not drink so much,” she sputtered, “if you were more careful of your health and showed a little consideration for me too. We’ve remained in this damp, dreary place because you insisted and I indulged you. But I can’t help wondering why we’re still here. Staying for the closing ceremonies had seemed an insufficient reason, but perhaps last night you were so good as to have given me a clue.”

“You said a clue, my dear? Are you playing detective? Or perhaps you’ve hired a professional to track my comings and goings.” Marcia’s voice oozed sarcasm, further infuriating her companion.

Betsy rose from the table. Her eyes flashed and she wrung her hands as if restraining them from lashing out at her friend. “All right, Marcia. Let’s have it out, here and now. We’ve stayed in Paris because—because you’ve formed a relationship with that little blonde bint at the Moulin Rouge!”

Marcia laughed at Betsy’s jealous accusation. But her laughter soon turned to violent coughing. Now more worried than angry, Betsy came around the table and began rubbing Marcia’s shoulders in an attempt to give her some relief. But the coughing fit persisted and between coughs Marcia wheezed and gasped for air. She shot to her feet, shoved Betsy aside and knocked the chair over in the process. Marcia grabbed a serviette from the table to cover her mouth, and then staggered toward the bathroom. Halfway to her destination she convulsed, hemorrhaged a great clot of blood into the serviette, and keeled over onto the carpet, where she remained unconscious.

Betsy screamed in shock at her friend’s sudden collapse, but soon regained her composure. She immediately went to the telephone to call the front desk for medical assistance, but then remembered that Sir Henry Collingwood was staying nearby. Not only was Sir Henry a noted physician, he was also a fine amateur watercolorist and a great admirer of Marcia’s work. They had become acquainted at the American Art exhibit and Marcia, Betsy, and Sir Henry had dined together on several occasions.

Betsy ran to Sir Henry’s suite and knocked frantically. Fortunately, the physician was in. In the meantime, Marcia had regained consciousness and had crawled across the carpet toward a settee. When Sir Henry and Betsy entered the suite they saw Marcia grasping at an armrest, trying to pull herself up like a helpless infant. Sir Henry knelt beside her, gently placed a hand on her shoulder, and whispered into her ear. Marcia nodded her understanding. Sir Henry lifted her in his arms and carried her to bed.

Later that afternoon, Betsy paced the drawing room carpet, occasionally glancing down at the skillfully woven nymphs and goddesses based on a pattern by Boucher. She stopped at a faint bloodstain that had defied the hotel’s attempts at removal. She supposed this memento of Marcia’s illness would be charged to their bill.

Her long, slender fingers fussed nervously with the pink ribbon and lace trim of her Doucet dress. Finally, she settled back in an imitation Louis XV armchair and glanced at a small gold and diamond decorated watch pinned to her breast. It seems like he’s been with her forever. What’s taking so long?

The large, ornately decorated bedroom doors swung open and Sir Henry entered the drawing room. Betsy sprang from the chair and almost tripped as she ran to him. “How is she, Sir Henry? I must know—I must know this instant!”

The eminent physician smiled soothingly. “Please calm yourself, Miss Endicott. Let us sit and discuss this over a cup of tea.” He took Betsy’s hand and led her to a round table in the angle of a bay where tea had been set up in a fine silver service. The hour was too early for a formal tea, but Sir Henry felt the beverage would have a quieting, restorative effect.

Sir Henry Collingwood was as smooth as silk. Tall, aristocratically handsome, and dressed to perfection in a gray Savile Row cutaway and striped trousers, with a fresh pink carnation boutonniere, he exuded self-confidence without seeming overbearing. He served Betsy tea, his keen blue eyes studying her facial expressions, gestures, manner, and attitude carefully. He had made a fortune in Harley Street treating high-strung, wealthy society women, and he observed their histrionics with the analytical eye of a critic watching Bernhardt or Modjeska from his box at the theater.

Sir Henry had a perfect sense of timing when in consultation; he knew precisely when to speak, and when to listen. The drawing room was silent except for the ticking of a mantelpiece clock. He stroked his neatly trimmed brown moustache and smiled beneficently before addressing Betsy in his suave, Oxbridge accent:

“I’ve examined Miss Brownlow thoroughly and had a long, frank talk with her as well. I’m pleased to inform you that she’s making good progress towards recovery.”

“Oh thank God!” Betsy cried. She wept, as he had anticipated she would. Sir Henry reached into his breast pocket, offered her a perfumed handkerchief, and then waited patiently for her to regain her composure.

“However,” he continued once he had ascertained that Betsy was sufficiently collected to comprehend what he had to say, “I have strongly advised her to enter a sanatorium, and she has agreed. I know of an excellent facility near Zurich, and would be honored to recommend Miss Brownlow to the Director, with whom I’m well acquainted. Moreover, should you wish to retain my professional services for the journey, I would be pleased to accompany you and introduce you to the Director and his staff. It’s a lovely place in the mountains, with clean, fresh air and beautiful scenery, ideal for sketching and painting.”

Betsy said nothing and looked down at her hands cradling the teacup. Sir Henry read her reaction and determined she would need some persuasion. The sanatorium he proposed was world-renowned, its reputation well deserved, and the journey by train relatively short and not taxing. “Miss Endicott, I believe the sanatorium is Miss Brownlow’s best hope.” If there was another option she preferred, he could be flexible and accommodating. He waited patiently for her response.

After a moment, Betsy looked up with a worried frown. “I was hoping Marcia and I could return to America. We reside in California, where the climate is moderate, sunny and quite healthy. Is there a sanatorium in the American West that you recommend?”

There was an excellent sanatorium in Colorado Springs and Sir Henry knew the Director there as well. The long journey would be harder on Marcia, but he calculated that the benefits to all concerned might outweigh the additional risk. “Ah well, I do know of a fine place in Colorado, quite as good as the Swiss sanatorium. Of course, there’s the question of a longer trip. Can you manage first class accommodations on a fast ship and a special train as well?” He was almost certain she could, but he thought it prudent to ask.

Relieved by this alternative, Betsy put down her cup and smiled broadly. “Of course I can. My preference for the Atlantic crossing is the City of Paris. She holds the record, and she has excellent accommodations. Of course, we’d have to cross the channel and take the train to Liverpool to catch her. But frankly, British ships are the best. I don’t put much trust in the French steamers.”

Sir Henry smiled. “Of course; the City of Paris would be splendid.”

“As for the trip from New York to Colorado,” Betsy continued enthusiastically, “I know the President of the railroad quite well. I can wire him and have my private Pullman hooked up to a special train, ready for us upon arrival.” She paused a moment. “And of course, I would appreciate your continued medical attendance until we have reached our destination. That is, of course, if you can spare the additional time away from your practice.”

Prior to going on holiday, Sir Henry had referred his patients to an old school chum who was quite good when it came to splitting fees. Therefore, he was not worried about his practice, even if he had to leave it in his friend’s capable hands for another month or two, or longer. Moreover, the journey would give him time to get better acquainted with the handsome American heiress. He figured that even with the best of care, Marcia could not last much more than a year. Betsy would need consoling, and Sir Henry was quite the willing bachelor. And he was not overly concerned about the true nature of Betsy and Marcia’s relationship. He believed he understood women and, in his opinion, Betsy could be quite happy with the right man, that is to say a man like Sir Henry Collingwood.

“My dear Miss Endicott, I shall wire one of my colleagues and make appropriate arrangements for my practice. You needn’t worry in that regard. If you and Miss Brownlow are agreeable, I shall most certainly accompany you to Colorado.”

Marcia Brownlow appeared doll-like as she sat, her back supported by two plump down pillows, in the midst of an immense Louis XV canopied bed. Betsy reclined on the bedcovers beside her friend. She clutched one cold bony hand between her warm, soft palms as if by that operation Betsy could reinvigorate her dying companion.

When Marcia hemorrhaged and collapsed on the floor, her last thought had been: This is the end—so be it. But upon regaining consciousness, a strong will to live had given her strength to crawl to the settee and struggle to get back on her feet. She was thirty-nine, older than her mother had been when she died of typhoid. The last time Marcia looked in the mirror she saw her dead mother staring back at her—gaunt, pale, and exhausted from her battle with death.

Her dry, un-rouged lips smiled wanly, her green eyes gazed searchingly at Betsy. Marcia sighed as she wondered: Why persist in this farce? But she would not succumb to despair; as long as she lived and had the use of her eyes and hands, she would draw and paint. And she had discovered a new source of inspiration, Virginie Ménard. She would try to explain her fascination with Virginie to Betsy, but before making the effort she again sighed deeply.

Taking the sigh as a sign of discomfort, Betsy asked with a worried frown, “Are you all right, dear? Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m quite well, I assure you. Frankly, I’m getting cabin fever lying in this catafalque of a bed day and night. This afternoon, I’m going to insist that Sir Henry let me get up and walk about.”

This was what Betsy wanted to hear. “I shall insist upon it too! If the weather permits, I’ll hire an open carriage and take you for a ride through the Bois de Boulogne.”

Marcia smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be splendid.” She paused a moment to collect her thoughts before pursuing a touchy subject. “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, these last couple of days. There’s something I must explain to you; I want you to understand—”

Betsy apprehended her meaning, and interrupted: “Let’s not discuss anything unpleasant, dear. It’s unnecessary; I understand perfectly.”

Betsy understood nothing, and her moods shifted unpredictably between passivity and aggression. At times, she would confront danger or adversity with an almost inhuman composure. At others, she used wealth to avoid unpleasantness, purchasing a first class cabin ticket on the next luxury steamer bound for somewhere else.

Marcia thought she knew all Betsy’s moods; she would plead for comprehension and hope for the best. “Please dear, what I have to say is important. It’s the truth, and it’s not what you think. I’m going to tell you everything about Virginie Ménard.”

Betsy dropped Marcia’s hand. “No, no, no! I don’t want to hear it!” She put her hands over her ears like a petulant child.

Marcia put her arms around Betsy and held her until the tension subsided. “Darling,” she whispered, “believe me, I don’t want any more lies on my conscience. Not now; it’s too late for lies.”

Betsy retrieved a lace handkerchief, wiped her tears and blew her nose gently. “All right, Marcia, I’ll listen. I apologize; I’ve promised the doctor not to do anything to upset you.”

Satisfied that Betsy had pulled herself together, Marcia began her “confession” with the past as prelude. Years earlier, Marcia had impersonated a man to achieve success in the male-dominated art world. Calculating and opportunistic, she had entered into the deception on the theory that it was a small price to pay for recognition, patronage, and lucrative commissions. Betsy was one of the wealthy women she had deceived.

Betsy listened patiently, but she could not help interrupting: “Please Marcia, why dredge up the past? It’s too painful.”

“Life is painful, dear. You’ve been kind, generous, and forgiving but those lies I told you still weigh on my conscience. I’m now confronted with the horrible realization that my art, my life’s work, has been a lie. Since childhood, I’ve tried to see beauty in nature, to capture beauty’s essence and transform it into art. And my paintings have been popular and sold well because I painted the world as people wanted to see it, not as it really was. But can beauty exist without truth? I’ve asked myself that question over the years, without having reached a conclusion.

“When I first saw Virginie, her beauty ignited the flame of my artistic passion, a flame, I might add, that had been guttering of late. I wanted to paint more than the beauty I saw; I needed to get under her skin, to penetrate her very essence. I desired the most intimate knowledge of her, to discover her secret so that truth and beauty could be merged into one ineffable image on canvas. That’s why, after sketching Virginie at the Atelier I invited her to a nearby boîte for drinks and conversation. Despite our different life experiences, we seemed like kindred spirits, sharing our innermost secrets. She opened up to me, revealing a world I could have hardly imagined. She had suffered a cruel childhood and was haunted by a memory of her aunt and uncle slaughtering Virginie’s pet pig, Buttercup.”

Betsy listened sympathetically to a story of physical and mental abuse, until she interrupted: “Please dear, that story is too awful to relate. And what in heaven’s name has it to do with art?”

“That story has inspired me. But there’s more. Virginie told me about a revenge fantasy. It gave her strength to endure her aunt’s beatings. The fantasy took place in the slaughterhouse where the Mercier’s had slaughtered Virginie’s pet. Madame Mercier came out of the chute, naked, covered with filth, crawling on all fours and grunting like a swine. Buttercup followed, walking upright with a prod in her human-like hand. Prodding Madame’s rump, the anthropomorphized pig growled in Virginie’s voice, ‘Move your arse you ugly sow, before I flay it raw!’

“Virginie waited by the gate, mallet in hand. When Madame entered the shed she glanced up in terror as the girl gleefully poleaxed her squealing aunt. Then, assisted by Buttercup, Virginie hoisted, stuck, boiled, singed, scraped, butchered, and dressed Madame Mercier, grinding what was left into feed for her porcine friends. Pretty little Buttercup always got the most generous portion.”

Betsy made a face as though she’d smelled something offensive. “How disgusting. But then, you were always drawn to the macabre. Thank goodness it hasn’t affected your painting.”

Marcia smiled. “Virginie’s tale of cruelty and imagined revenge gave me an idea. I would paint her experiences as an indictment of child abuse. It would be something entirely new, at least in my art; a plea for tormented children, the victims of indifference and intolerance.

“Until now, I’ve avoided social comment like the plague. I’ve spent my life earning good fees and prizes painting pretty pictures for the well-heeled bourgeoisie, so I suppose my deathbed conversion will strike many as insincere. Do you think I’m a hypocrite?”

Betsy took Marcia in her arms and held her close. She pitied her longtime companion, but could not forget Marcia’s past transgressions. Even in her present condition, Marcia might be lying to cover-up an affair. Betsy closed her eyes, her jealous mind conjuring a vision of the beautiful dancer.“No, dear,” she whispered, “I’d never think that of you.”

Marcia, Betsy, and Sir Henry rode in an open barouche down a shady avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, past the race course and round the serpentine lake. The weather had changed for the better. The afternoon was unseasonably balmy with a few wispy clouds in a bright blue sky. Sir Henry considered it a good opportunity for Marcia to get some fresh air and sunshine. She sat across from Betsy and Sir Henry, half-lulled to sleep by their monotonous chatter, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and the rumble of carriage wheels.

Marcia looked tiny sitting by herself on the broad leather seat; she seemed to be fading away by the hour. Her wasted body was wrapped in a pure white, furbelow-frilled dress, her gaunt skull half hidden under a black ribbon-trimmed and flower-bedecked straw hat and small, fringed parasol. A crocheted shawl draped her bony shoulders.

Marcia’s bright green eyes fixed on Betsy, who giggled like a schoolgirl while flirting with the handsome English doctor. She’s far away from me now. So much the better. Marcia did not want her friend to be shackled to a corpse. Life is for the living; the dying dwell in a twilight world of their own, a sort of limbo between the quick and the dead. A wry smile crossed her rouged lips. Où sont les neiges d’antan? Villon’s poem had taken on a new meaning for her. She would soon join those beauties of yesteryear.

Marcia turned her attention to the trees and their dying leaves. Bright red, orange, and old gold, they fell from branches, drifted in the mild breeze, floated for an instant before landing on the surface of the mirror-like lake. How beautiful. She had devoted her life to beauty, her art. But her art was dying, too. Why had she committed herself to something so ephemeral? Beauty was fragile and transitory, like the floating leaves. Truth endured, though it could be ugly. She predicted the new art would be ugly in its uncompromising honesty, reflecting a changing world, a fin de siècle ethos oriented toward darkness and despair.

She had changed her mind; she would not return to America to die in a sanatorium. She had not yet told Betsy or Sir Henry, but she intended to remain in Paris. Marcia wanted to finish one last great testament, her painting of Virginie’s suffering, but her will had been dissipated by disease, oozing out of her like gummy sap from a dying tree. She closed her eyes and sought inspiration in a vision. The image of Virginie Ménard appeared shining through Marcia’s closed eyelids like a celestial being floating in a golden nimbus. A single tear formed a rivulet running slowly down her powdered cheek, but no one noticed.