The Witch of Painted Sorrows (30 page)

Chapter 34

I returned to school a day later, bringing Moreau the paintings that he’d requested. He assessed them quickly and said he was satisfied that I’d painted them.

That was because I had.

These weren’t the paintings I’d showed him that first day but ­copies—close enough to the originals to look familiar, but at the same time done in my hand.

Did he know I’d tricked him?

Now, looking back, I think he did, for he assessed them in seconds and seemed relieved to move on and discuss that day’s work.

I watched Serge watching Moreau, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed. Was he that frightened of my talent that he would sabotage me? More than ten thousand artists submitted paintings to the Salon. Thousands competed for a prize. What difference did one more make?

After class, I tried to visit my grandmother but was not allowed in by orders from the doctor. It seemed my visits impeded her improvement too greatly. I went home and spent the rest of the day and night and then the rest of the week miserable, missing Julien, confused as to what to do next, and trying to distract myself by working on my
Sleeping Cupid
.

On Wednesday of the following week, a package with a label from a jeweler on rue Royale awaited me when I came home from school. Opening the fine leather box, I found a single luminous pink pearl hanging from a ruby station necklace.

Sandrine— Are you ready to exchange her necklace for mine? I miss you. —Julien

I fingered the smooth pearl. I wanted him back. Wanted to be with him. Should I submit to seeing a doctor? Would Dr. Blanche even agree to help me?

I put the necklace away and went to Passy.

Sitting across the desk from Dr. Blanche, fully prepared to discuss La Lune with him, I found I couldn’t speak. Every time I started to explain what had brought me there, I began to cough. I felt as if La Lune was inside of me, tickling my throat and holding my lips closed. I wondered if they looked bloodless to him, like the lips of the women in the paintings.

They couldn’t speak to tell their stories either.

Embarrassed and frustrated, I croaked out a question about my grandmother. I told him I was unhappy at not being able to see her and wanted to know why he was keeping me away. And I was. I had never been so alone in my life. Maison de la Lune echoed with my footsteps, and I felt as empty as the house.

I left Passy dejected and returned to rue des Saints-Pères.

The painting of Julien became the only thing that mattered to me and, other than attending classes, my only interaction with the outside world. I worked almost nonstop preparing my submission for the École. I’d come to believe that if
Sleeping Cupid
was accepted, Julien would come to the opening and see the painting and accept me as I was. Both the dark and the light of me.

The morning of March 1, I awoke from nightmares with a feeling of dread. It was the day submissions were due for the 1894 Salon. After dressing, I went to the studio to prepare
Sleeping Cupid
for the walk to the École.

The bell tower was in shadows. Without any sun shining through the windows, an atmosphere of melancholy clung to the pillows and coverlet on the daybed. It seemed to be sitting in the chairs, adhering to the walls. The only light came from the portrait sitting on the easel in the middle of the space.

Julien Duplessi depicted as an adult male Cupid. Julien’s body, his face, but with an angel’s iridescent feather wings. An erotic otherworldly creature. Luminous and shining. Long torso, longer legs, and between them, the partially erect proof of his arousing dream.

A nude painted of lust, painted in lust. It was provocative, to be sure. Too much so? Moreau would be surprised. I had brought a sketch of Leda and the Swan to his atelier, and he’d approved that. But I knew she didn’t have the chance that Cupid did. More than ten thousand paintings would be submitted, and only three thousand would be chosen. Of those, only a handful would be anointed. To be one of them, a painting not only had to be superlative; it had to stand out.

The entrance to the school was crowded with throngs of painters all dropping off their paintings on this one day. I stood on line, not seeing any of my classmates until I made my way inside. A group of them had already been through the line and were watching the goings-on from the sidelines.

Gaston saw me first, came over and told me that after I was done they’d be at La Palette if I wanted to join them.

“All year leading up to one day,” he said, shaking his head. “We deserve to get good and drunk.”

He cocked his head toward my covered canvas. “Are you pleased with how Leda turned out?”

“I’m too nervous to know.”

“That’s how I felt, too,” he said. “May I see?”

Before I could refuse, he lifted up the cloth and after a moment emitted a long slow whistle. “Now, what’s this? Not the painting you’ve been working on.”

“No, I thought this would have more of a chance.”

I was too nervous to ask him what he thought of it. But I didn’t have to. He told me.

“Are you out of your mind?” Gaston asked.

“I’d say far more clever than mad.” Serge had come over to see my painting and eyed it with disdain. “Played a trick on all of us, didn’t you, Sandrine? Pretended you were doing something tame and cautious while all the while planning a shock like this.” He paused as he stepped back to examine it from a greater distance. Other students noticed what was going on and gathered round, all examining my submission, talking and whispering among themselves.

“It’s perverse and decadent. And they will reject it,” Serge predicted. “Women are not allowed to paint male nudes. Not one has ever been accepted. And being Moreau’s darling won’t make any difference. You wasted your chance.”

I thought I detected a smile.

“Unless the committee is in the mood to prove one century is ending and the future is upon us,” Gaston said hopefully.

Other students came and went, reacting with shock and scorn. Other than Gaston, no one had a kind work to say.

Had I made a mistake? Would the committee reject my painting without even judging it simply based on its subject matter? No matter, it was too late to do anything about it.

I’d reached the head of the line. Marching into the auditorium, painting in hand, I held my head up and tried to prepare myself for what was about to happen.

Monsieur Moreau and four other teachers sat at a long wooden table at the far end of the room. They appeared weary, which was not unexpected since they’d been looking at submissions since early that
morning. Judging from the lines, they would work late into the night and probably have to return the next day.

“Mademoiselle Sandrine Verlaine,” I said for the benefit of the clerk who logged in each painting and gave it a number.

“Mademoiselle Sandrine Verlaine, one thousand five hundred and eighty,” he called out.

I shuddered involuntarily at the coincidence that the number I’d been assigned was the same as the year of La Lune’s birth.

I put the canvas on the easel facing the judges and pulled off the cloth.

There was a moment of silence, then an intake of breath, and then Monsieur Moreau spoke.

“A surprise indeed, but well done, Sandrine.” He had used my first name for the first time. “Very well done.” He smiled at me, and I could see that he was proud. “Brave and bold. Very well done.”

The other professors were not as forthcoming. One was frowning. Two had implacable faces that I couldn’t read.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” said the clerk who was recording all the entries, and I was dismissed. At least Moreau had been impressed.

Outside my classmates were waiting.

“How did it go?” Gaston asked.

“Moreau seemed pleased.”

“Now that you’ve committed your first brazen act of defiance, you must be ready for a drink,” Serge said.

And I was.

Six of us traipsed off to La Palette, where Gaston ordered a bottle of champagne and we drank to our luck.

It seemed the café was filled with nothing but art students that afternoon. Nervous, hopeful, excited, and depressed. Bottles came out full and quickly went back empty. Everyone had delivered his best, and now the wait began. The hours and days and weeks before we found out if we had been accepted loomed.

My thoughts were a jumble. I was exhausted. I’d slept so very little
for the last two weeks. I’d been lonely without Julien, worried about my grandmother, and obsessed with my painting.

But there was another reason for my fatigue. I was carrying not only my own emotional burdens but also La Lune’s. Where did she end? Where did I begin? Again the smell of violets permeated the air; I felt waves of nausea rise in me.

As much as I missed Julien, so did this creature inside of me. As much as I wanted to paint something worthy of acceptance and worried about my ability, so did she. The double dose of emotions, aspirations, and expectations had exhausted and depleted me.

We had just finished our champagne when Heloise, Adele, and Stephanie, three models who posed for us in Maître Moreau’s class, arrived to celebrate our accomplishment. Gaston ordered another bottle, and after we toasted with that one, we moved on to our next stop, the popular Café du Bagne.

Themed bohemian cafés and cabarets were all the rage. Built around exotic concepts, they were much more than eating and drinking establishments; their very atmosphere was entertaining, and the stranger the environment, the more popular the venue.

One of the oldest, the Château d’If, had opened its faux-­drawbridge door in the early 1880s. Designed to mimic the prison of the same name made famous by Dumas’s
The Count of Monte Cristo
, it boasted cells and dungeons.

L’Abbaye de Thélème dressed its waitstaff as monks and nuns, and patrons could hide away in medieval confessionals to sip their absinthe in private.

When we arrived at the Café du Bagne, there were queues of Parisians waiting outside, but Serge knew one of the managers, and we trooped into the club en masse. Decorated to resemble a penitentiary eating hall, the café featured gray and somber walls covered with graffiti of the kind inmates would leave behind. The long wooden tables were etched with more of the same. The waiters, dressed as convicts, dragged papier-mâché balls and chains as they brought our drinks.

Serge and Gaston ordered absinthe, but I stayed with wine, not ready to succumb to the smoky depths the powerful liquor offered.

At about ten o’clock we all decided that we were hungry and went to Au Lapin Agile, where we gorged on onion soup with a thick crust of melted Gruyère cheese, spicy sausages, and crisp
pommes frites
.

Heloise and Stephanie and Adele were still with us, and somewhere along the way we had picked up two more models whose names I didn’t know. We were a group of eleven now. Noisy and boisterous and wanting the night to last forever.

It was there, for the third time since I’d arrived in Paris, that I thought I saw Benjamin. But this time it was certainly him. He’d arrived with two other men. One was absolutely William Lenox.

I’d been mistaken when I believed I’d spotted him on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, so I had assumed I’d been wrong about the man in the carriage on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, too. But I hadn’t been wrong. Benjamin was here and he was walking right toward me.

Chapter 35

My husband looked directly at me but didn’t recognize me. His eyes barely rested on my face. He was too busy looking first at Heloise and then Stephanie.

Of course he didn’t recognize me. I was wearing a man’s jacket, shirt and cravat, and hat. I was sitting with half-nude models and bohemian artists. No New York society matron was at our table. The woman he knew wasn’t there.

What was he doing in the restaurant? Had he tracked me to Paris, or was his being here a coincidence? Certainly, now that my father was dead and Benjamin was running the bank, he would have reason to be in Paris. The branch in New York was still tied to the French branch.

“Sandrine.” Heloise squeezed my arm. “Where did you go? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I did,” I said, trying for levity but not sure I’d managed to keep my voice light enough.

“But there are no such thing as ghosts,” she said. “Am I right, Gaston? Serge? Are there such things as ghosts?” she called out.

“Of course there are.” Gaston laughed. “Let’s go to Hell. You can see ghosts and more there! Everyone in agreement then? Hell will be our next stop?”

The facade of Cabaret de l’Enfer screamed at us from across the street, trying to terrify and attract us at the same time. Sandwiched between ordinary buildings, the monstrous dark gray plaster face with wild eyes and Medusa-like hair opened its mouth wide and invited us in. The frightening face’s lines were sinuous and artful, and reminded me of—yes! This was the club Monsieur Dujols and his friends owned and that Julien had designed. Although he’d told me about it and promised to bring me here, he never had.

And as soon as I walked through the open mouth and over the threshold, I understood why Julien hadn’t wanted me to see this. The darkened rooms were cooler than they should have been. The lights were red and orange. It was a tour de force of horror. The walls were sculpted bas-reliefs of guillotines in action, skulls and bones, winged dragons fighting with devils, and snakes wrapped about skeletons. I felt as if I’d stepped into one of Hieronymus Bosch’s visions of hell. Dark corners dripped with stalactites; there were coffins instead of couches.

“Enter and be damned. The Evil One awaits you!” the maître d’ snarled as he welcomed us.

Music from the opera
Faust
emanated from a giant cauldron hanging over a fire. The mammoth brass container was filled with male and female musicians all dressed as devils and playing various stringed instruments painted red. Incense burned coal-red inside of brass censers. The club smelled like a Roman Catholic church.

It was a magical, terrifying atmosphere, at once dangerous and tempting. The end of the world, the end of a century, and a vision of what awaited us in the next.

“I don’t I like it,” Heloise said. “It’s full of ghouls. It’s scary.”

“It’s all make-believe,” I said, and laughed.

“Don’t you mind the smell?”

I sniffed again, taking more of it in. “No, it’s wonderful.”

Heloise looked at me strangely. “It’s blasphemous.”

“To you perhaps, but I’m not a Christian. To me it’s exotic and foreign.”

We all sat down on a long coffin couch. The tables were tombstones. Everywhere you looked you were reminded of death and carnage, from the murals to the black hangings painted with sayings about mortality. An imp somersaulted across the floor. Another approached to take our orders. Serge and Gaston ordered absinthe again, and I followed now, craving its soothing warmth.

Our drinks came, and we sipped the green liquor and watched the ever-moving, ever-changing hellish scene around us. The corners of the room were sculpted into caverns lit by fires issuing thick, acrid smoke. Bursts of thunder erupted at intervals. Flames darted out from crevices in rocks.

Gaston asked Heloise to dance. Serge asked me. I refused at first, but he took my hands and pulled me up. “You’re too serious for your own good. You need to have some fun.”

The surprise of how his body moved against mine in time to the music exhilarated me. His hostility and familiarity confused me and excited me. The drink—the whole night of drinks—was catching up with me. I was dizzy with wild thoughts. When he leaned down and kissed me, I kissed him back, hard. He pulled me closer, reached down, and wildly, blatantly, stroked me between the legs. For a moment I forgot everything but the sensation, and then I jumped back, shocked.

“I have to find a lavatory,” I said, and ran from the dance floor.

It wasn’t just a convenient response. I had thought I was going to be sick. How could I have let Serge touch me? Even worse, what part of me was so corrupt that I had responded?

What happened next remains clear in my mind, even though I’d had a lot to drink, including that devil’s water, absinthe. But I don’t believe that my being inebriated contributed to what I remember.

I found a waiter and asked for directions to the lavatory and listened carefully to his instructions to turn this way and then that way. They were just long enough for me to get confused, and I probably made a left when I should have made a right. Or made two lefts in a row instead of two rights. But I found myself in a hallway that seemed to go on for a long time. When I reached the end, there was no visible door or exit of any kind that I could see.

I turned in a slow circle.

On my second rotation I saw a faint outline on the wall. I must have missed it before. There was an indentation suggesting a door but no handle or obvious way to open it. So I pushed on it and found myself peering into a closet. Devil, imp, and ghoul costumes hung from hooks. Horns and tails were piled on top of a long shelf. A storage room for Satan’s followers.

I could hear distant singing. Was it coming from the cabaret? It didn’t seem to be coming from behind me but from below me.

I got down on my knees and put my ear to the wooden floor. The song was amplified. There
were
revelers down below. As I knelt, I felt chilled air on my face. Coming from the floor? I felt around with my finger and found a crack. Following its circular contour, I came to an iron handle.

I lifted it. A large trap door opened up, and with it a gust of cool, perfumed air. I peered down.

Like at the opera house, a staircase cut out of rough-hewn stone descended into the earth. It was dark and impossible to see past a certain point, but I could hear, even more distinctly now, human voices chanting.

I remembered what Monsieur Dujols had told me: “If you ever decide that you want us to help you, you can find us in hell.”

I had assumed he’d been speaking metaphorically. But now I realize he hadn’t been. This must be the very spot that he had been telling me about.

These were the people who could help me. People who had the
answers. Who knew what La Lune was and how I could control her—or rid myself of her, perhaps, without losing the powers she had imbued in me. Because I knew now, if I wanted Julien back, I had no other choice.

And so I descended into the depths of hell.

A half dozen men and women, all wearing dark robes with hoods that obscured their faces, sat on the ground, encircling a pentagram drawn in the dirt. In its center, a small fire burned, the smoke emitting a rich, resinous, and salty fragrance. Torches in iron holders flickered on the stone walls and cast shadows over the complex drawing. I recognized symbols, numbers, and creatures I’d seen in the grimoire in the bell tower and in the etchings in Dujols’s library.

There were white candles arranged in a circle around the pentagram. To the right and left of the circle were deer or antelope antlers, at least four feet wide. Propped against the wall was a tall mirror with the outline of a circle painted on it, framed with a border of Jewish stars and alchemical symbols. Some I recognized; others I didn’t.

One of the men threw something into the fire. It was the color of rubies and the size of a fist. The scent of pepper, musk, and saffron filled the air, and as the object burned, they chanted:

“We evoke and conjure thee, O spirit Vauael, by the Supreme Majesty, the true God who is known by the names of Yod Heh Vav Heh Adonai, Eheieh, and Agla, to appear before us in this mirror in a fair and comely shape. We evoke and conjure thee . . .”

One of the members of the group noticed me and held up his hand to stop the others from chanting. He pointed at me. Everyone looked. Then the whispering began again, and while I couldn’t make out the words, I could tell I wasn’t welcome.

“Who are you?” one of the hooded figures asked. “How did you find us? Who told you to come?”

“I did,” a male voice rang out. The speaker pushed his hood back, and Monsieur Dujols revealed himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, this
is Mademoiselle Verlaine.”

Murmurs of approval now.

A woman with long, white wavy hair came up to me and took my hand. She must have been in her seventies, but her skin had a youthful glow. She smiled. “I’m Alexandra. Thank you for coming, and for bringing her with you.”

“I’m alone.”

“No, the woman known as the Secret Witch is with you,” Alexandra said.

She was the first person other than my grandmother who could see La Lune.

“Would you like to see her?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“Come look.” She took me by the hand and led me to the mirror leaning against the wall. They all had stood and now crowded around me. Alexandra pointed. I stared into the mirror.

I shook my head. “I don’t see her.”

“You’re not ready,” Alexandra said. “How can we help you?”

I undid the top button of my shirt and showed her the rubies. The fragrance of violets seemed to be filling the dank air. I braced myself for the nausea that followed and then forced myself to ignore it.

“I can’t take the necklace off.”

“May I try?” Alexandra asked.

I nodded.

She went behind me and tried, as Julien had, to work the clasp. When her fingers touched my skin, they were cool and soothing. After a few moments, she gave up.

Alexandra turned to Dujols. “It’s attached. La Lune is melded to her.”

“Is she harming you?” The man who asked was wearing a long purple robe with the zodiac embroidered all over it.

“Not me, no. Others.”

“Who has she harmed?” Dujols asked.

I clasped my hands together, my fingernails digging into the skin of my palms. It took enormous effort not to scream out at the pain I was causing. The effort it took to answer Dujols’s question was even greater. “My grandmother,” I whispered.

“What did you say?” Alexandra asked.

I tried to speak more loudly, but my voice wouldn’t comply. They all had to lean closer.

“My grandmother. A rabbi. An opera singer who was affianced to a man I know.”

“She’s very powerful. She had to be to survive this long,” Alexandra said.

“Who are you?” I asked her. “Who are all of you?”

“We study and try and decipher the past and uncover the secrets that have been lost over time,” she said.

I remembered what Julien had told me about Dujols and his followers.

“Is this black magick?”

“We don’t use terms like that,” said Alexandra. “We are students of ancient traditions and hidden knowledge. You can help us.”

“And we can help you,” said Dujols.

“How?”

“The book, the grimoire you found, is important, Sandrine. We can learn from it. Not only to help you but to unlock mysteries we have been trying to uncover for decades . . . for centuries.”

“And if I give it to you, you’ll help me?”

“Yes, but in order for you to turn it over to us, for us to be able to accept it, you must be initiated,” Alexandra said.

“Then initiate me.” The stench of the violets intensified. So did my need to vomit. I swallowed.

She laughed. “It takes time. You’ll need to study and learn so you understand our goals and our efforts.”

“But I don’t have time. Julien has left me. Benjamin is here in Paris, and I’m afraid of what he can do to me. My grandmother goes
mad when I come near her . . .”

I stopped explaining. I was distracted by something in the distance. The cellar was more beautiful now that my eyes had adjusted to it. Mica rocks shimmered in the firelight. Two crystal monoliths glowed as if lit from inside. They were what I had noticed. And they seemed to be pulling me. I walked to them. I found myself at the beginning of a labyrinth created with round black stones embedded in the dirt.

Alexandra pulled me back. “You can’t, not yet. It’s part of the rites and rituals, and you aren’t ready.”

“But she seems to know her way,” Dujols said.

“It’s too dangerous,” Alexandra argued.

Dujols put his hand on hers. “Let her go,” he said.

I had stopped listening to them. I was walking the path. Was making all the right turns. I could feel energy pulling me forward.

Soon their voices were far in the distance and no more intrusive than a bee’s buzzing. Reaching the center, I discovered a spiral staircase descending below.

I climbed down. The cavern was even darker. It smelled of earth. Of fungus and moss. Of fecund leaves rotting. The scent of violets followed me in.

A wooden slab with a brass handle was set into the floor. Lifting it, I looked down into a coffin-shaped hole in the ground, just big enough for a body. Dirt floor. Dirt sides.