Sacre Bleu (25 page)

“That was the last they spoke of it for weeks, but Papa and Lucien cleared out the storage shed, and every day, after the bread came out of the ovens, Papa would disappear into the shed and stay there until supper time. Soon, Lucien took over all of the baking so Papa could paint. One day, Papa came storming through the bakery, ranting about having to have light and how color doesn’t exist without light.”

“Is that why there’s a skylight in the shed?” asked Gilles, who was hoping he could steer the confession toward issues of carpentry, where he had some expertise.

“Yes! Yes!” said Régine. “I thought Maman would throw him out, she was so angry. But the more she complained, the more Papa locked himself in the new studio, and poor Lucien was caught in the middle. He was running the bakery, going to school, taking his painting lessons at Monsieur Renoir’s studio around the corner—too much for just a boy. Marie and I should have helped more, but Maman had divided the family into two camps, not the
men
and the
women,
as you would think, but between artists and real people. We were only allowed to help Lucien enough to keep the bakery running, and no more. He, like our father, was a foreign creature, and until he came to his senses, we were to treat him as such.”

“I thought that’s how she felt about every man,” said Gilles, feeling sorry for Lucien and Père Lessard, who had, for the carpenter, taken on a mythical quality. Mère Lessard spoke of him in alternate tones of adoration and disdain. One moment he was so pure and heroic that no man could ever live up to his memory, the next a feckless, irresponsible dreamer who should serve as an example of how far a man-turned-fire-bringer could fall from grace.

Régine patted her husband’s arm. “Whatever you do, you must never tell Maman what I am about to tell you.”

“Never,” said Gilles.

“Maman was away at Grand-mère’s—she’d been gone for days. There was a woman. A young woman, a redhead, I think. I didn’t get a good look at her, just a glimpse, but I saw Papa lead her through the bakery and out to his studio one day. They went in and locked the door. Papa didn’t come out for supper that evening, and he didn’t answer the door when we called for him to come up. The next morning, he didn’t even check on Lucien while my brother made the bread.

“By the next evening Marie was ready to burn the shed down, she was so angry, but I said we couldn’t be sure. He might just be painting her. After all, he didn’t even flirt with girls who came into the bakery like all the other business owners on the butte. Marie said that she was going to check.

“It was midwinter, and it had been snowing for two days. We could see smoke from Papa’s stove out our bedroom window, but little more. Marie put on her winter boots and climbed out onto the roof and made her way to where she could look down through the skylight. I tried to stop her, pull her back into the window, but she would not hear of it. She walked on the peak of the roof, a foot on each side. It was so slippery, she nearly lost her footing with every step. She got to where she could see in the skylight and her eyes went wide, and not as if she were frightened, but in a big smile, like Christmas morning. She turned to say something to me, lost her footing on the peak of the roof and began to slide toward the street. I saw her go over the side and could feel the ground shake when she hit.”

“That’s two stories,” said Gilles.

“She must have landed flat on the back of her head. The doctor could find no broken bones, and there was no blood, but she was unconscious.”

“And did your father come out then?”

“No. I screamed and ran out to Marie. Some of his artist friends, Cézanne and Pissarro, who were down from Auvers, were warming themselves across the street at Madame Jacob’s
crémerie;
they came running and helped move her into the bakery. Lucien was at his lesson and Maman wasn’t due back until the next morning. Madame Jacob’s daughter ran for the doctor. Cézanne and Pissarro pounded on the studio door but got no answer. When I assured them that Papa was inside, they broke down the door. We found him there, lying on the floor with a handful of brushes and loaded palette, alone. Dead.”

“Mon Dieu!”
said Gilles.

“The doctor said it was his heart, but he was dried up, like he’d been in the desert without water for days. Marie lingered for three days and never woke up.”

“And the girl? The one you saw go into the studio?”

“I never saw her come out.”

“But the painting? Couldn’t you find her from that? Find out what happened?”

“There was no painting,” said Régine, dabbing her eyes. “Not one. Empty canvases. Papa had been painting for months by that time, hours and hours every day, and we never saw a painting. Not even Lucien saw one.”

Gilles took her in his great arms and held her while she sobbed against his chest. “It is not your fault,
chérie.
Bad things sometimes happen. You couldn’t have known.”

“But I did know. I could have stopped them. I could have stopped Lucien when he first took that girl into the studio. It was just like Papa. I just watched. They love the painting so much, I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“And your mother never knew why any of this happened.”

“No. It would have only hurt her more. She can never know, even if Lucien doesn’t wake up, she can never know.” She broke down again then, and Gilles held her tighter.

“Never?” said Mère Lessard from the staircase.

Gilles wondered how a woman of such substantial size could move so quietly, even on a creaky staircase.

L
UCIEN LAY UNCONSCIOUS FOR EIGHT DAYS.
A
S WORD OF HIS CONDITION
spread around the butte, neighbors and friends stopped by the bakery to offer food, help, and relief for Mère Lessard, who did not want to leave her son’s bedside.

“If he wakes,” instructed the matriarch, “first make him drink some water, then remind him that his mother told him that girl would lead to no good.”

Régine was able to keep the bakery running, with the help of Gilles, who rose early and kneaded the bread dough in the heavy oak tray.

Two Parisian doctors were called, examined Lucien, found no reason for his coma, and each went away murmuring prescriptions of “wait and see.” Mère Lessard would not allow Lucien to be taken to the Hôtel-Dieu, the ancient hospital next to Notre-Dame Cathedral.

“That is a place where you go to die, and my son is not going to die.”

But by the end of the week, the visitors were taking on the aspect of mourners, offering to light candles and say prayers, and there was little talk of recovery, hope, or Lucien’s future. Mère Lessard and Régine took turns squeezing water from a cloth over Lucien’s cracked lips, and from time to time he would swallow, so drop by drop he was kept from dying of thirst.

On the seventh day, Régine took the morning train to Auvers-sur-Oise to fetch Dr. Gachet. She returned that afternoon with not only the good doctor, but Camille Pissarro, who had been visiting. Dr. Gachet, whose practice bent toward homeopathy, began adding tinctures of herbs to the steady drip administered by the women, and on the eighth day Lucien opened his eyes to what looked like the white-bearded face of God.

“Welcome back, Rat Catcher,” said Pissarro.

Mère Lessard pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and hurried from the room to hide her tears.

“Oncle Camille,” said Lucien. “How?”

“I came with Gachet. I was in Auvers, painting with Gauguin.”

“Is Minette with you?” Lucien’s voice was dry as dust.

Régine held a cup to Lucien’s lips and he took a sip of water, which gave Pissarro time to recover from the reminder of his daughter, dead now eighteen years. He looked to the doctor and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if he should speak the truth to the boy, who was obviously still disoriented.

Dr. Gachet stroked his pointed red beard for a second, as if the friction might yield a prognosis, then nodded.

“Minette is gone, Lucien,” Pissarro said. “Many years ago. Don’t you remember?”

“Blue!” said Lucien, sitting up quickly, grabbing Pissarro by the lapels of his jacket. “Did it take her?”

Pissarro looked past Lucien to the corner of the room. There was nothing there to look at, just paint on the walls, but he couldn’t look at Lucien, whose gaze was begging for answers. The old painter’s vision glazed over with tears.

“She was sick, fever,” he said. He shook his head and looked down at the floor, ashamed. “A long time ago, Rat Catcher.”

Lucien looked to Dr. Gachet. “Did it take her?”

The doctor pulled a stool up next to the bed and sat. “Lucien, you’ve been unconscious for over a week. Do you know what happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” Lucien said. “I was painting. Wait. Juliette? Oh, Oncle, the painting! You must see the painting!”

Pissarro shook off his distress and looked at Gachet with a smile. “He’ll be fine,” he said, as if he were the physician now.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Gachet. “Lucien, did you eat anything different? Any shellfish, maybe? Mushrooms you didn’t know?”

“I had fish and chips. In London. With Juliette,” said Lucien. “Where is Juliette?”

“Mother brained her with a
crêpe
pan,” said Régine, who had been standing in the doorway. “She hasn’t been back.”

“But I love her,” said Lucien. “And the painting isn’t finished.”

Gachet stood. “Why don’t you rest a bit, Lucien. Camille and I will go look at your painting.”

I
N
L
UCIEN’S STUDIO
, D
R.
G
ACHET AND
C
AMILLE
P
ISSARRO STOOD IN FRONT
of the blue nude of Juliette.

“Extraordinary,” said Gachet.

“It reminds me of Renoir’s olive trees. In those days he had gone to the South and was working through a theory that all shadows were made of blue light—he would paint them no other color. His whole palette was built up from blue.”

“Really, Camille? She reminds you of olive trees? Let me check your pulse, my friend, you may be dead.”

“I meant the colors.”

The studio door opened and they turned to see Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, looking quite rumpled, as if he had been recently unpacked after having been stuffed in a small box for a long time.

“Bonjour,
messieurs.” Henri had met Pissarro at Theo van Gogh’s gallery, where both were showing paintings. The moment Toulouse-Lautrec entered, the air in the studio had changed from the rich, nutty smell of linseed oil, with the slight astringent note of turpentine, to a choking miasma of patchouli, musk, absinthe, tobacco, and secretions of well-ripened lady-parts, possibly of the deceased. Dr. Gachet surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trousers after shaking Lautrec’s hands.

“I have seen your work, monsieur,” said the doctor. “Your lithographs in particular are very striking. I am a printmaker myself.”

“I have heard,” said Henri. “I look forward to seeing your work. But now Lucien, I was told that he is awake?”

“An hour ago, perhaps,” said Gachet.

“Then he will recover?”

“It appears so. He’s very weak. Dehydrated.”

Henri removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Thank God. I tried to rescue him but was unable to convince him of the danger.”