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

Автор книги: Gary Inbinder

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

The young woman sang in a husky mezzo-soprano about her life on the streets to the accompaniment of an old man fingering a wheezing, out-of-tune concertina. The working-class patrons paid little or no attention to her; a couple of men played draughts while another watched, one in a dark corner behind Lautrec laid his head on his arms and snored, another plied his woman with liquor while groping her under the table, the few remaining men and women smoked, drank, stared into space, and grumbled about the weather, work, politics, and life in general.

Lautrec recognized his subject; she was Delphine, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge. Too hard-boiled and streetwise to be called pretty, there was still something attractive about her; dark hair and eyes, dusky skin, flat nose, thick sensual lips, large, even white teeth, perhaps all evidence of her mixed blood. He rendered her honestly with a facial expression reflecting the worldly resignation of her lyrics.

Delphine finished her song, turned toward Lautrec, and stared defiantly. He responded with a casual smile and a tip of his black bowler. She sauntered to his table, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “I know you, Monsieur. You’re the artist who hangs round the Moulin. Buy me a drink?” The ultimate phrase of her greeting might have been a command rather than a request, had it not been for a questioning upturn to her inflection and a curious aspect in her large brown eyes.

Lautrec had already made a quick study of her gestures, mannerisms, shabby dress, poor but proud demeanor. He immediately replied, “But of course, Mademoiselle. Name your poison,” and beckoned the bartender.

Delphine ordered absinthe. The bartender brought her drink; she took a swig, then for a while said nothing while Lautrec finished his drawing. Then: “I’m a good friend of Virginie Ménard; did you know that?”

Lautrec put down his charcoal and looked up at Delphine. “Yes Mademoiselle, I recall her mentioning you on occasion.”

“Oh, really? And I suppose you know that she’s gone missing. No one’s seen or heard from her for almost a week.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle, I have already been informed of that fact.” Lautrec exaggerated his toffee-nosed accent and continued smiling as though he were baiting her. He enjoyed picking fights; it broke the monotony and this woman looked tough enough to make it interesting.

Delphine drank some absinthe; her hand trembled and there was a noticeable quaver in her voice. She put down her glass and glared at Lautrec. “Have you also been informed of the fact that a woman’s body was found stuffed in a shit-hole on the street in front of your studio?”

“Yes, my landlady has told me as much.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Would you care for another absinthe?”

Delphine leaned over the table; her hand gripped a bag containing a razor. Her husky voice deepened and hardened into a sotto voce snarl: “If I thought—if I believed you had done anything to harm Virginie, I’d slit your ugly throat, here and now.”

Without a flinch or the slightest change of expression, he replied, “You might try to slit my throat, Delphine, but I’m quite capable of stopping you. I fear you’d be seriously injured in the process. So for both our sakes, please don’t think of trying. Nevertheless, I assure you I’ve not harmed Virginie, nor do I know her whereabouts. As for the unfortunate young woman in the cesspool, I know nothing about her either, and I wouldn’t jump to conclusions by assuming she’s Virginie. At any rate, this is a matter for the police. Have you gone to them with your concerns?”

Delphine backed off; she sighed and shook her head. “Monsieur Lautrec, people like me don’t go to the police; they come to us.” She paused a moment to calm down; then: “May I have another drink?”

He signaled for the bartender. The woman’s passionate concern for her friend had an effect on Lautrec. He dropped the sarcasm and tried to put her at ease. “Maybe she suddenly took off from Paris for some good reason. Perhaps she went to Rouen? I believe she has relatives there.”

Delphine shook her head. “She’d never go back there; she hates it. I know you were close to her, Monsieur. Didn’t she tell you about her aunt?”

Lautrec looked down at his sketch; for a moment he was at a loss for words. Virginie had tried to tell him about her life, the abuse, her fears, her nightmares, but he would not listen. As usual, he had cut her off with sarcasm; it was his defense mechanism. He had enough trouble struggling with his own monsters. Finally, he looked up with sad eyes: “I’m sorry, Delphine. I hope she’s all right but there’s nothing—nothing I can do.”

“I understand, Monsieur.” She turned her attention to the sketch. “May I see it?”

“Of course you may.” He handed her the drawing.

She studied it for a while before pronouncing: “It’s really good. Is it—is it worth something?”

Lautrec smiled. “If I may?” She returned the sketch and he signed it. “There, Mademoiselle, you may have it as a memento of our meeting on this stormy midnight in a dingy boîte. As for its value, depending on the laws of supply and demand, in a few years it might indeed be worth something. On the other hand, if you’re not inclined to wait for an upswing in the market for my work you may take it to Salis, the proprietor of Le Chat Noir. Tell him Henri said it was worth free drinks for a week, no less.”

“Thank you Monsieur.” She crooked a finger as if to return the favor by taking him into her confidence. He leaned forward, and she whispered: “Watch out for Rousseau.”

“Who is Rousseau?”

“A fat pig, Monsieur. One of the inspectors running the investigation. His paid snoops and snitches are crawling all over Montmartre and Pigalle. He’s already questioned me, and your friend Bernard. His partner, Lefebvre is all right, but Rousseau’s a bastard. If he thinks you’re guilty, he’ll stop at nothing. He planted evidence on a friend of mine and got him twenty years transportation to Guiana.”

“Thank you, Delphine. I’ll be on my guard.”

They sat together for a while, smoked, made small talk, and finished their drinks. The rain let up and the boîte emptied. Delphine and Lautrec were among the last to leave. The sleeping man in the corner watched them go, making a mental note of the hour. With a half-opened eye and keen ear, he had been watching and listening all along.

8

OCTOBER 17

A THEORY OF THE CASE

So Achille, you think Virginie Ménard’s our victim?”

“Given what we’ve got, she’s our best likelihood,” Achille replied. “I base my conclusion on the post-mortem examination, Chief Bertillon’s identification analysis, the missing persons’ report, and Inspector Rousseau’s inquiries.

“Mlle Ménard’s from Rouen; she’s an orphan, born Virginie Mercier, raised by her uncle and aunt. Ménard’s a stage name, taken from her former employer and benefactor, now deceased. Assuming we’ve identified the victim, I’ve developed a plan for proceeding with the investigation. Do you want to wait for Rousseau? He’ll be here shortly.”

“No, I have his report. Let’s start without him.”

They held their early meeting in Féraud’s office. Achille had prepared a chart with a map of Montmartre indicating Virginie’s route from the Moulin Rouge to her flat, including a timeline. He’d set the chart on an easel, and referred to it with a pointer.

“To my knowledge, no one has seen or heard from Mlle Ménard since Sunday the 11th at approximately two A.M. The last person to speak to her was a friend, a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, Delphine Lacroix. According to Rousseau’s interview with Lacroix, Ménard did not feel threatened by anyone, nor did she express any specific concern about her safety at the time. But she had in the past expressed her fear of walking the streets unescorted at that hour, which of course is understandable. Following Lacroix’s advice, she carried a razor in her purse for self-defense.

“Under normal conditions, it would take Ménard about thirty minutes to walk to her flat. She tipped the concierge to wait up for her, and the woman was concerned when Ménard didn’t arrive on time. The concierge waited about one half-hour before checking the front door. She found a note in the girl’s handwriting indicating she would be out of town for three days, but there was no indication of where she had gone or for what purpose.

“After three days had passed the concierge became suspicious and reported the missing girl to the police. The report was considered routine until the body was discovered in the cesspit. Sergeant Rodin notified us immediately and Rousseau questioned the concierge. She told him that Ménard was a ‘good girl’ with regular habits; she also provided information about Mlle Ménard’s relatives in Rouen.

“I contacted the Rouen police to see if they could locate Mlle Ménard. They made inquiries, but turned up nothing. However, they did provide some interesting information about her relationship with her aunt and uncle. According to the locals, the Merciers abused the girl and treated her like a servant. Moreover, there’s a neighborhood rumor that the aunt and uncle cheated their niece out of a small inheritance, and that she discovered their malfeasance and threatened legal action.”

“Ah, they had a motive!” Féraud broke in.

Achille shrugged. “Perhaps, but further inquiry traced the rumor to a former employee of the Merciers who bore them a grudge.”

The Chief nodded knowingly and said, “I see; please continue.”

“The Merciers are butchers, so initially I thought they might have had the skill to cut her up. And they were out of town around the time the victim died.”

The Chief’s eyes widened. “Now you may be on to something!”

Achille frowned and shook his head. “They have an alibi. They went to Louviers to visit relatives. There are plenty of witnesses to confirm that. Further, considering the results of the post-mortem, I believe the victim’s wounds are more likely the work of a surgeon rather than mere butchery.”

The Chief sighed and leaned back in his chair. “All right, Achille. So it looks like the aunt and uncle are in the clear. What else have you got?”

“After her benefactor M. Ménard died, there was only one man in her life, Toulouse-Lautrec—”

There was a loud knock; Rousseau entered. “Good morning, Chief, professor. Sorry I’m late. That was one hell of a storm last night. Water and fallen branches all over the place. A bloody mess.”

“Yes,” Féraud replied. “The sewers in my neighborhood backed up; my damned cellar’s flooded. Anyway, Achille’s been briefing me about Virginie Ménard. We’re concentrating our attention on her as the probable victim.”

Rousseau walked round the easel and stood next to Achille. “That’s right, Chief. If you ask me, it’s Ménard for sure.”

Achille addressed his partner. “We need to question everyone on her route. Even at two A.M. it’s likely someone saw, or at least heard something.”

“Right, professor. I’m on it.”

Turning back to Féraud: “We believe she died during the afternoon or evening of the 14th and the body was dumped in the cesspit during the early morning hours of the following day. That means she lived at least three days after the disappearance. We know she was heavily drugged when she died. But we don’t know where the death occurred, and we’re still searching for her head and limbs.

“I’m going to check the records at Doctor Péan’s’ clinic, most particularly those relating to a vaginal hysterectomy performed the afternoon of the 14th. Lautrec was there, but I’m looking for a doctor who was present and might have a connection with Virginie Menard. I’m also going to check to see if there are any drugs missing from the dispensary. Which brings me to the subject of Péan’s opinion regarding the mutilation: he thinks only a surgeon would have had the skill to cut her up that way.”

“So, you think we’re looking for a runty sawbones?” Rousseau interjected.

“I thought of that, but no. I believe we’re looking for two individuals; a doctor and his stunted accomplice. What’s more, despite the location of the body, the cigarette case, and Mlle Ménard’s relationship with Lautrec, I think the accomplice is a short individual who a witness could mistake for Lautrec. In other words, I think the case was stolen and planted in the cesspit with the body by someone with a strong motive to pin the crime on the artist.”

“What makes you think that?” the Chief asked.

“Although he lives like a bohemian, Lautrec’s an aristocratic intellectual with a fine sense of honor. He doesn’t seem the type to cut up a girl, dump the remains in the nearest hole, and leave a calling card.”

Rousseau smirked. “Aristocratic intellectual, eh? Sounds like the Marquis de Sade.”

Achille glared at his partner. “I wouldn’t compare M. Lautrec to Sade.”

“Have it your way, professor,” Rousseau grunted.

Féraud narrowed his eyes skeptically before asking, “You’re not completely ruling out Lautrec, are you?”

“No Chief, not completely,” Achille replied. “However, as I’ve already indicated, I believe only a surgeon would have had the skill to perform the hysterectomy and amputations so neatly. On the other hand, Lautrec knows anatomy, he’s observed operations, and by all accounts he’s highly intelligent with strength and manual dexterity much like that of the most skilled surgeons. So, for the time being I can’t rule him out as a suspect.”

Féraud leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fiddled with his watch fob; a habit when confronted with a thorny issue. Rousseau turned to Achille, shrugged, and made a face as though he’d smelled a fart. After a moment, Féraud opened his eyes and said, “The accomplice makes sense if we accept Dr. Péan’s opinion. Do you have an individual in mind?”

“Searching the records I found a file on a circus performer, a dwarf named Joseph Rossini who lives near the victim.”

“Jojo the Clown?” Rousseau broke in. “I put him inside for pimping, awhile back. A mean little bastard; the girls hated him. He had a method for dealing with whores if he thought they weren’t handing over all their earnings. First offense, he’d strip the girl, tie her to a bed, and whip her ass with his belt. Second offense, he’d cut her with a stiletto. And if the bitch was stupid enough to cheat him a third time, well then he got really rough. Anyway, he’s got a job in a circus and a clean record since he was released from prison.” Rousseau turned to Achille with a grin. “And he’s proved to be a good snitch, on occasion.”

“Well,” Achille replied, “I think we list him as a possible suspect. We might want to shadow him, see if he can lead us to the killer. Which brings me back to Lautrec; I want to question him myself, but I don’t want to bring him in on a warrant. Despite the evidence, I’m not convinced he’s our man. So I want to lay my cards on the table. Instead of doing a warrantless search behind his back, I want to get his permission to search the studio and his apartment. I also—”

“Wait a minute,” Rousseau interrupted. “You want to tip him off?”

Achille turned to Féraud. “Chief, if he’s innocent, he’ll want to help us; he’ll have nothing to hide. And I was about to say that I’d also ask him to let me take his fingerprints to compare them with the prints on the cloth and the cigarette case. If he refuses my requests I’d take that as evidence of guilt, in which case we can get a warrant and turn him over to the magistrate for questioning.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Féraud muttered. “Rousseau, have you picked up anything from tailing Lautrec?”

“Not much, chief, except to confirm that our aristocratic painter’s a degenerate little monkey. He spends more time scribbling and daubing in the brothels, cabarets, dance halls, and boîtes than he does in his studio. Oh, last night he met up with an old acquaintance of mine, the victim’s girlfriend, Delphine Lacroix.”

Féraud’s brow knitted: “Oh really? And just how long have you known Lacroix?”

“A few years ago I put the screws on her for street-walking; I sent her man up for a nice, long vacation in Le Bagne.”

Féraud smiled at Rousseau’s reference to the infamous penal colony. “I suppose the young lady wouldn’t hold a warm and friendly opinion of you. Anyway, I see the logic of Achille’s approach. If Lautrec’s got nothing to hide, he ought to cooperate, and his knowledge of the victim could be useful in helping us catch the criminal—or criminals.” To Achille: “Have you anything else to tell me before I let you go?”

“Yes, chief. We’re going to track down the shop that sold the canvas the body was wrapped in. And I’ve located Lautrec’s tobacconist. I’m going to question him about the cigarettes found at the scene; they contain opium. If they’re Lautrec’s and they were stolen along with the cigarette case, that doesn’t tell us much one way or the other, except that he’s got a bad habit. On the other hand, if they aren’t his, and I can track down the real opium smoker, well then, we’ll have something.”

Féraud nodded and began fumbling with his paperwork. “Very well, boys, carry on.”

Betsy and Sir Henry had arrived early at the Javanese Village on the Esplanade des Invalides. Notwithstanding their timeliness, they were obliged to wait in line to enter the Pendopo, a columned, thatch-roofed, open-walled hall, where they would experience one of the Exhibitions’ most popular shows, the four lovely Javanese dancers accompanied by a gamelan orchestra.

They had an almost perfect day for attending the Fair—bright, clear, and pleasantly cool following the storm. However, the tempest had left its calling card in the form of fallen leaves, branches, and muddy puddles that threatened the dragging hemlines of the female fair-goers’ skirts.

Even in such conditions, Betsy was happy and content to wait. Sir Henry amused her with anecdotes and society gossip; when her mind wandered, she could breathe fresh, botanically perfumed air and drift off to faraway places conjured by the exotic surroundings. She consciously avoided a burgeoning subliminal desire to be freed from her invalid friend. But despite Betsy’s mental evasion, her repressed fear of death’s proximity emerged like drifting clouds, casting a guilty shadow over her sunniest moments.

Sir Henry pointed his stick at a tiny creature slowly wending its way up the muddy trail. “I wonder which will reach its destination first, this queue or that snail. Will you give me odds if I take the snail?”

Betsy laughed. “Oh Sir Henry, I think I should have the odds if I take the queue!”

Sir Henry smiled and stroked his moustache. “At any rate, I hear the show’s worth it. The exotic, Oriental music and dance have had their impact on our young musicians. It may be a subtle form of colonial retribution. We’ve taken their lands by force of arms, imposed our religion, laws, and social values. Now they’re paying us back with attractive novelties that insinuate themselves into our culture. Thus, the conquerors shall be ingeniously subverted and transformed by the conquered. You mark my words, Miss Endicott, within a generation instead of waltzing to the melodious strains of Strauss we shall gyrate to heathen yammering and the banging of pots and pans.”

Betsy smiled in response to Sir Henry’s fanciful prognostication. “You forget that we Americans are former colonials. Do you think our rough frontier ways will undermine the foundations of Western Civilization?”

“You Americans are transplanted English who have strayed from the fold. Nevertheless, we forgive you. After all, our differences are political but our culture remains the same.”

“Don’t be so sure of that, Sir Henry. You haven’t experienced our Wild West.”

Sir Henry screwed in his monocle, as if to get a better look at her. “Cowboys, Indians, and buffalo herds; should be jolly fun. I look forward to it.”

Betsy laughed, but her expression changed suddenly. “I’m afraid you may not see it. When I last spoke to her about a sanatorium, Marcia seemed to have changed her mind.”

He dropped his flippant manner, altering his demeanor with the alacrity of a chameleon to match her changed mood. “It appears we’re moving, at last. We’ll speak of this matter later, over luncheon.”

After the dance, they lunched at the Anglo-American Bar on the first level of the Eiffel Tower. From their vantage point they could look out through plate glass windows and admire the panoramic view of the fairgrounds on the Champ de Mars. Many of the structures were ephemeral, but the great iron tower was there to stay. To some it was an eyesore, an ugly, brutal symbol of industrialization, but to most it was emblematic of French ingenuity and progress. Love it or hate it, the tower asserted itself magnificently as a prime attraction, a landmark and nascent cultural icon implanting the idea of Paris in the popular imagination.

Sir Henry studied Betsy’s fine features as she sipped a light, white wine and stared into space. A large, garishly decorated red, white and blue balloon floated across her field of vision; Betsy’s eyes focused on it and followed its progress. Her consciousness seemed to imitate the soaring object, drifting away from her troubles, at least for the moment.

“The dance was lovely, wasn’t it?” he remarked quietly, as if to bring her imagination back to earth with a gentle tug on the tether. “Much better than I’d expected.”

She turned her attention to Sir Henry. “Yes, I was thinking how much Marcia would have loved it. She would have sketched—” Betsy lifted a handkerchief to her eyes; she sobbed softly for a moment, and then controlled herself. “Forgive me, Sir Henry, I’m making a spectacle of myself.”

He reached across the table and touched her gloved hand gently. “Think nothing of it. I understand your feelings, but you have no reason to reproach yourself. Marcia Brownlow’s a great painter; she’s devoted her life to art. If she wants to complete her work outside a sanatorium, there’s nothing either of us can do. You must stop worrying about her, and start thinking more of yourself.”

“I—I know you’re right, but the past eleven years have meant a great deal to me. I’ll see to it that’s she’s properly cared for. She’s been discussing plans with an old mutual friend, Arthur Wolcott. She told me Arthur invited her to stay with him at his country home in England. If she doesn’t return to America, I’ll do what I can for her whether she remains in Paris, or goes to live with Arthur.”

Sir Henry seized an opportunity. “Ah, you think she might go with Arthur? All things considered, it might be best for her.”

Betsy’s eyes widened. “Do you really think so? I know she and Arthur get along, and she’d love the countryside and the society.”

“Yes, and since she doesn’t want to go to a sanatorium, I think it’s a splendid alternative. And here’s another idea. You might consider taking up residence in London, for a while, that is. You could visit her regularly; it’s not far by train.” He paused a moment and smiled. “Of course, I can’t claim to be disinterested. After all, if you were in London, I should have the hope of enjoying more of your company.”

Betsy blushed and said nothing; but she did nod her head agreeably. She continued gazing fondly at the handsome physician, as though he were the answer to her prayers.

Péan’s clerk was a well-dressed, well-groomed, middle-aged, officious little man with a high-pitched voice and meticulously waxed impériale, making him appear like an actor impersonating the late Emperor. He opened a leather-bound journal on a lectern near the entrance to the operating theater and flipped the pages to October 14, 1889. “Here we are Inspector, a list of the gentlemen who witnessed the vaginal hysterectomy.”

Achille went through the list, six witnesses in all. Four were well-known physicians and surgeons with practices in Paris. The fifth was Toulouse-Lautrec, and the sixth appeared to be an Englishman. “Who is Sir Henry Collingwood?”

The clerk smiled as he proudly extolled the clinic’s operations and its widespread reputation. “Sir Henry Collingwood is an eminent English physician and surgeon, a very affable gentleman. He’s on holiday in Paris, enjoying the Fair and the many attractions of our city. He takes a particular interest in gynecological surgery and therefore has come to our clinic to observe Dr. Péan’s world-renowned operations.”

“I see, so naturally I assume he would want to be present when Dr. Péan demonstrated a new and very important technique in his specialty?”

“Of course, Inspector. As I recall, Sir Henry was most keen to observe the vaginal hysterectomy.

Achille smiled amiably. “I assume you can provide me with a detailed description of the English gentleman?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you show me how many operations Sir Henry attended?”

“They’re all logged in the book. I believe the first was a few weeks ago.”

Achille examined the journal. It confirmed that Sir Henry had witnessed four gynecological surgeries: two abdominal hysterectomies (one with ovariotomy) and two mastectomies (one single, one double). Lautrec had also been present at these operations.

“I’m afraid I must take this journal to headquarters so the relevant pages can be copied. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll issue you a receipt and have the book returned by courier as soon as possible.”

“Oh very well, Inspector,” the clerk replied with an air of annoyance.

This peevishness irritated Achille; the clerk had a civic duty to cooperate. But he maintained his composure and congenial smile. He needed the clerk’s cooperation, and he understood how an investigation interfered with the ordinary citizen’s routine; unlike the “old boys” (Rousseau being a prime example), he rarely resorted to intimidation. “Now Monsieur, I have a question about the dispensary. Have you had any report of missing supplies, most particularly narcotics, sedatives, or anesthetics such as morphine, chloroform, or chloral hydrate?”

“No, Inspector; the apothecary keeps those items in a locked cabinet and maintains an inventory. Any suspected theft would have been reported to the police.”

“I see; does your apothecary replenish those items on a regular basis?”

“Of course; he orders them from a chemist. I can give you his name and address.”

Achille was pleased to note the clerk’s reversion to a more accommodating manner; his little snit appeared to have been temporary. “Thank you, Monsieur; you’ve been most helpful. Now, before I leave, I’ll need to interview all the doctors who assisted in the vaginal hysterectomy. If they’re unavailable today, I’ll require their addresses. I’ll also need contact information for the gentlemen who are listed in the journal, including Sir Henry.”

The clerk nodded. “I’ll do what I can to assist in your investigation.”

Achille trusted the offer of assistance was sincere. “Thank you, Monsieur. If anything turns up that you believe might be helpful, or you have any questions regarding this case, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You have my card.”

Arthur escorted Marcia to the Luxembourg gardens, where he hired a bath-chair and gallantly pushed her up and down, skirting puddles, fallen branches, and dead leaves scattered over the winding lanes. After a while, his increase in girth and years caught up with him. Puffing from unaccustomed exertion, he pulled to one side of a wide promenade, stopped, lifted his hat, and mopped his brow.

Marcia turned her head and looked up at him with a wistful smile. “Do you recognize this place?”

He gazed up the lane that forked round a fountain, with benches to the left, shrubbery and flowerbeds bordering the right. Beyond the fountain was a pair of statues in the Greco-Roman style, more benches, and an antique urn filled with bright red flowers. Further on, a staircase led to a white balustraded walkway fronting a stand of broad shade trees.

“By Jove, you painted this scene, didn’t you? As I recall, Betsy posed next to the fountain. She wore a bright yellow dress.”

“Your memory is sharp as a tack. That was eleven years ago when I was masquerading as Mark and Betsy fell in love with a man who never was.”

“Ah, yes,” Arthur sighed and said no more.

“Betsy and I lunched at a nice outdoor restaurant not far from here. A band was playing Je suis Titania. I wonder if it’s still there. The restaurant I mean.”

Arthur needed rest and refreshment and replied enthusiastically. “I know the place well. Shall we go there?”

“Oh yes, that would be lovely.”

They found a table under a breeze-ruffled awning where several floating leaves had settled. The band wasn’t playing; the only sounds were the distant shouts and laughter of children playing with hoops and balls, the trickle of a nearby fountain, chattering birds perched in tall, denuded branches, and the polite murmuring of their fellow lunchers.

Marcia picked at her roast chicken, but she enjoyed her wine. They made pleasant small talk, until she turned to the subject of Betsy. “This place brings back memories, Arthur. Now, I feel like a pentimento in her portrait; a ghostly, over-painted figure watching from a balcony while Betsy and Sir Henry make love in the garden below.”

For a moment, Arthur was at a loss for words. Then: “I realize this is difficult for you, but you’ve already indicated your intentions. A clean, amicable break seems best. And, by all accounts Sir Henry is a decent fellow.”

Marcia smiled wryly. “As an independent, freethinking woman I fear I must question his ‘decency.’ In my humble opinion, the diagnosis and treatment of ‘female hysteria’ is a medical dodge, a pseudo-scientific means of keeping us in our place. When one of our sex asserts herself, demands her right to vote and full equality under the law, and then reacts to all the abuse, ridicule, and scorn directed at her, it’s all too easy to say she’s ‘hysterical’ or suffering from ‘female troubles’ and prescribe treatments that range from the demeaning and humiliating to the brutal and cruel.”

Arthur found the subject awkward and embarrassing, but he had written about the inequality of women and was not unsympathetic to their plight. Nevertheless, he tried to divert the unwelcome drift with a question: “Have you found Sir Henry’s treatment unsatisfactory?”