Cezanne's Quarry (31 page)

Arlette did not say a word as she put a towel and clean clothes on the chair beside the tub. She must have seen the sadness on his face, the sadness that would never leave him now that Solange was gone.

“Just a few minutes more, Arlette,” Westerbury said as he closed his eyes and lowered himself into the water. It was time to consider his situation. He had promised the judge that he would not interfere, would not
act
to bring Solange’s murderer to justice. Perhaps he should lie low for a while and figure out how he was going to survive. But, if they did not jail Solange’s killer soon, wouldn’t it be his duty to track him down? At the very least, they could not stop him from thinking, going over everything again and again until he proved that Cézanne had done it. Oddly, it was something the maid had said earlier that week that had become one of his obsessions in prison.

He opened his eyes. She was still there, busying herself at the stove. “Arlette,” he asked, “are you sure that Solange was wearing gloves when she set out for the quarry?”

“Oh, yes, sir. And I looked everywhere for them at the prison, but did not find them.”

He closed his eyes again. The gloves had to be part of the answer.

M
ARTIN TAPPED AT THE DOOR LIGHTLY.
In the short walk from the courthouse, he’d lost some of his resolve. Why would she want to talk to him, or listen to the little he could tell her about his adventures of the last few days? Martin was about to walk away when he saw a hand reach out and pull back one of the lace curtains. It was Clarie Falchetti. He was caught. She swung open the door with a smile, setting off the tinkle of bells that alerted her aunt and uncle to his arrival.

“Oh, monsieur le juge, how nice to see you,” Mme Choffrut said, brushing the flour off her hands onto a big white apron, as she walked toward Martin and her niece.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. Again, I’ve come at the wrong time.” He sounded so befuddled.

“Henriette, let’s leave them alone, “ Michel Choffrut called from the kitchen. “Clarie can pour the judge a glass of wine while he is waiting to taste the bouillabaisse. Come, come,” he said, waving his wife back into the kitchen.

“You, come this way,” Clarie commanded. She grabbed one of the clay
pichets
of wine from the sideboard as she walked toward a table in the corner, as far away from the kitchen as possible. Following her, Martin caught a glimpse of shapely ankles under her swinging skirt. He lifted his glance upward, trying to squelch an unwanted warmth infusing his body. Fortunately, as soon as they got to the table, Clarie started talking. “I have a little time. I’ve set the tables. And they don’t let me get near the stove.” She sat down, poured a glass of wine, and waited for Martin to settle in. “I’m glad you came,” she whispered as she pushed the glass toward him. “I’ve been worried about you.”

He was surprised and flattered by her concern. “Really, there was nothing to worry about.”

She shook her head. “I’m not so sure.” Her large brown eyes were shining with sympathy. And seeing right through him. “A few nights after I last saw you, Franc and his men came in here, bragging about how they had ‘bagged’ a deserter. I was afraid it might be the friend you told me about.”

“Bagged.” That’s how they talked about Jean-Jacques, as if he were an animal. Martin took a swallow of wine to cover up his chagrin.

Clarie leaned a bit closer to him. “If it was your friend, I am sure you had a good reason to help him.”

Martin clutched his glass. He was not sure how he had envisioned their conversation, but this certainly was not it. Unless he started talking, said something, this beautiful, intelligent girl would think him a complete dolt. And a traitor. He glanced toward the kitchen door, which was closed, and he knew at once that this glance had given him away.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. And don’t worry, I haven’t said anything to anyone, if that is what you are thinking.”

“Oh no!” Martin was in no position to expect anything from her. “If I did such a thing I certainly would not want to implicate you.”

“I’m not implicated,” she said calmly. “I did nothing. I gave you food. You were hungry.”

This story was too generous. If she was going to protect him, part of him wanted to tell her the truth, especially since she seemed to have guessed it already. Perhaps if he explained, she would understand and take his side. But he had no right to drag her in.

“We’ll leave it at that then,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

But he did not want Clarie to move away either. “He was sick, very sick. And they were going to send him to Devil’s Island or New Caledonia. He was my oldest and dearest friend.” Martin could feel his entire face shrink into a grimace. Embarrassed by a sudden flood of emotions, he put his head down.

Clarie laid her fingers on his. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. I just recited for you what I know. That is my story. Have you told anyone else?”

Martin shook his head, not daring to look at her.

“These last few days must have been terrible for you, with Franc’s bragging.”

Clarie’s sympathy threatened to breach the dam holding back Martin’s grief and remorse. He squeezed his eyes closed.

“Here,” she reached in her apron and pulled out a napkin. “Take this. We should talk about something else before they come back.”

This time they both looked toward the kitchen door, behind which they could hear the reassuring sound of her aunt and uncle talking above the hissing and slamming of pots and pans.

“I’m sorry.” Martin laid the napkin down as a sign that he had regained his composure.

“It must be difficult for you to be so far away from everything you have known.”

“What about you?” he asked, in a voice he wished were steadier. “Aren’t you doing the same? Leaving your family to go north?”

“Yes. Maybe that’s why I’m so curious about you. I can see your loneliness.”

It was disappointing to think that her interest in him was motivated by pity. Yet Martin had no right to expect more than the help she had already given him. “It will be different for you,” he reassured her. “You’re going to school. You’ll have companions. Just like I had when I went to Paris. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”

“No, just south of Paris, to Sèvres. The school’s in an old ceramic factory. But it’s supposed to be very nice. I don’t think they’ll let us gad about in the city the way you men do.”

Clarie did not say this with bitterness. The amusement had returned to her eyes. Her lips were pursed into that wonderful long, crooked smile. How much better it was to be thought of as a carefree student than as a law-breaking judge. If only for the moment.

“I was not one of your biggest ‘gadders.’”

When she burst out laughing, the solemn spell seemed almost broken. “I’m not surprised. You are very serious. Anyone can tell that. And,” she said, pointedly, “a very morally upright man. I know that. Really, I do.”

This reference to their secret threatened to darken the mood again, until Clarie continued.

“I bet you half-agree with your inspector that young women should not be teaching in secondary school.”

“Oh, no!” He objected, even though he knew she was teasing him. She had a way of being honest and playful at the same time. He was not sure how he felt about that.

“No?” she arched her eyebrows.

“Well,” he entered into the game, “maybe I would have—”

“Would have?”

“Yes.” He sat back and took her in. Franc had called her a gypsy. Marthe DuPont had half-jokingly cautioned him not to fall in love with a dark-eyed Arlésienne. Clarie Falchetti was very attractive, and she was getting him to say all sorts of things. “Maybe I would have even a few weeks ago.” he explained. “But this case has changed my thinking somewhat.”

“Yes?” Clarie drew the word out in expectation. Of course she was interested in the case. Wasn’t everybody?

“The victim. Solange Vernet. I’ve learned more about her. She was a remarkable woman, in many ways. She came from a poor family, but she found a way to make something of herself and not be at all unwomanly. In fact, she was very gracious and beautiful.”

“And how would you know that?” She was very direct, this one.

“From witnesses.” This was only a little lie. “And,” he might as well confess it now, “I met her once briefly in a bookstore.”

“Oh.” Clarie sat straight up, waiting.

“We were both looking for a book on science.”

“That’s right. Her husband—”

“Lover—” The word did not seem to embarrass her. He liked that.

“Right, her lover was a geologist, a lecturer. If I hadn’t already passed my exams, I might have gone to hear him.”

“You took exams in science?”

“In everything. Is that so surprising?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Although he was surprised, a little.

“I didn’t do so well the first time.” She cast her eyes down for an instant, as if embarrassed. “I’ve not had much schooling. Only the nuns. Poor Papa, had to take me to Nîmes twice to take the tests, and when I passed them we had to go up to Paris for an oral examination in front of a panel of professors.” Clarie put her hand on her hip and tilted her head before she added, “Imagine that.”

He hardly could, but he was not about to admit it.

“I know what you are thinking. All this to learn how to teach girls.”

Martin barely managed to stop himself from saying “oh, no” again. Clarie was full of surprises. Much happier surprises than anything else he had encountered in the last few days.

“So when you graduate you will be a civil servant?”

“Just like you.”

“A republican.”

“Of course.”

“No religion?”

“Do you think we women need it?”

“Oh, no.” There he had said it again. She must think him an idiot.

“But?”

“Not but. I was going to mention another thing that has come up in this case. The reconciliation of science and religion. That’s what Charles Westerbury, the lecturer, said he was working toward. And he particularly wanted to teach this to women.”

“Good!”

Would the beautiful, sensible Clarie Falchetti have become a disciple of Westerbury, like the wretched little Sibylline Beauregard? This was a terrible thought.

“Don’t you think it is good?” she pressed.

“Surely it is one of the great controversies of the day.” How priggish that sounded. And the arch of her eyebrows signaled that she had not missed the lecturing tone.

“Here’s what I mean,” Martin hastened to explain himself. “The Church has fought so hard against science, against the acceptance of transmutation, and against the Republic—”

“And against socialism?”

She was truly surprising. He was not sure that he had ever heard a woman of his acquaintance utter that word.

Clarie did not wait for his response. “Yes, I know about socialism. My father is the biggest Red in Arles.”

“Your father?” Martin took another sip of wine. It was beginning to be difficult to take it all in. “Does this mean that there was no religion in your home?” Or that the wife and husband were at odds, as they were in so many families?

Clarie interrupted his thoughts. “There was plenty of religion in my home. There was my mother, who had no political ideas, except that she loved my father. And my father, well, he believes that his God wants justice for the workers.” She smiled. “He even goes to mass once or twice a year. And he loves the processions. He says it’s because he is Italian. He helps carry the statue of the Virgin and the crucifix sometimes.”

“Isn’t that a little odd, though. A socialist who believes—” She had described him as not just any socialist, but a “red.”

Clarie shrugged her shoulders. “When his friends object, he tells them that he is big enough to believe in the workers and God at the same time. And that his God is even bigger.”

“And you? Your studying science?”

“My father may be only a blacksmith, but he is the smartest, most generous person I know.” Her eyes were flashing as she rose to the defense of Giuseppe Falchetti. “He is big enough to let me at least try to be what I want to be. Maybe he spoiled me—” she said with increasing vehemence.

“As my father did me. I was his only child.” Martin so much wanted her to know that he understood how she felt.

“Was?” she asked softly, having been stopped in her tracks.

“He died when I was thirteen. He was a clockmaker.”

They fell silent for a moment and contemplated each other. Like him, Clarie had come from a humble background. She, too, had lost a parent and was striking out on a new path to work for the Third Republic. It was strange to have these things in common with a woman.

“When you get through with your schooling, will you teach in Arles?” he asked, finally.

“We don’t know. It’s just like you. Wherever they send us. Maybe by that time, if I’m assigned too far away, Papa will come live with me. I don’t want him to be alone when he is old.”

Clarie’s father had given his daughter his generous soul. She was quite remarkable.

They were both startled by the arrival of Henriette Choffrut, balancing a pile of dishes. “Here we are,” she said, cheerfully.

“Let me help you.” Clarie leapt up to take the load from her aunt’s arms.

“Have you ever eaten bouillabaisse before, monsieur?” the older woman asked.

“Of course.” He had to make Clarie understand that he was not so lonely and pitiful that he knew nothing of southern life.

“Good, then you can let us know what you think of this.”

While Clarie was setting down a large bowl of steaming broth, a dish of fish, and his own bowl with two toasted pieces of bread in it, Mme Choffrut placed a small clay jar on the table. “This is the rouille. It’s a bit hot, so just start with a little on top.” When she straightened up, Martin asked if she and her husband could join him. Although what he really hoped was that Clarie would stay at the table with him, alone.

“No, no. Tonight you are our taster.” Mme Choffrut gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You have to let us know if we need to add something.”

He shook his head. He surely could not do that. Then Clarie explained that they only had their supper after all the customers left. “Whatever is left over, and whatever we cannot use the next day.”