Cezanne's Quarry (36 page)

He took hold of her hand again. “And I promise, before the year is up, I will tell my father about us. And we will marry if you will still have me.”

She almost pulled away again. If she would still have him? What choice did she have? She had given him
her
youth. Who else would have her?

“Hortense?”

“What?” This came out sharply, almost breaking the mood.

“Will you still have me?” He almost sounded humble, like this was what he really wanted, like this was what she really deserved.

“Yes,” she swallowed hard. “Yes, of course.”

“As soon as possible?”

She could barely get the words out. “As soon as possible.” Her heart was pounding. If nothing else went wrong, it they didn’t drag him off to the guillotine, she would be Mme Cézanne with an inheritance and a future. It was terrible to feel no joy after waiting for so long.

“Good!” Just as oblivious to her feelings as ever, he got up to retrieve the bottle and pour more wine for both of them.

She forced herself to smile when they clinked glasses. There was nothing romantic about the moment. The marriage was an arrangement, necessary for her and for their son. Then it would not matter whether Paul ever became successful or not. At least they’d all have bread in their mouths.

After they had managed to consume the wine, they got up and walked toward the bedroom. Would they lie on their bed, as they had for months, two separate islands of thwarted hopes and desires? She was not sure she was ready to make love with him. And she was not sure that he was ready to, either.

Hydrangeas were especially popular in the late nineteenth century, and they flourished in the Midi. The French word for this plant is
hortensia
, which occasioned the charming verbal-visual pun that makes this page so winning, giving it something of the quality of a valentine.

—Joseph J. Rischel,
Cézanne
¹⁰

W
ESTERBURY SAT IN THE SUN-FILLED SALON
, enjoying his morning tea. Although he had no way to pay her, Arlette was still keeping up appearances. This morning she had discreetly waited for him to rise and wash up, then promptly delivered a tray with all the right accoutrements: napkin, steaming pot of tea, pitcher of warmed milk, slices of fresh bread, and a bit of jam and butter. No reason to discourage the service, Westerbury thought with a sigh. After all, what choice did she have? Like him, Arlette was stuck in Aix until things were settled. The real problem was how many more mornings would she be able to go to the baker, the grocer, and the butcher. That’s why he had to see Picard as soon as possible. Westerbury took a long, last sip, before pushing the tray away. Of course, the notary might refuse to probate the will until the judge indicted the killer. Just one of the reasons why it made no sense for him to try to get on with his life until he—or someone else—had avenged Solange’s murder.

He certainly could not concentrate on his work. Westerbury had spent most of the previous day trying to deal with the chaos the police had created during their search. He managed to put his fossils and rocks back in order, but he had not had the heart to touch the pile of papers that Arlette had stacked on his desk. How long would it take before he built up the courage to go through them? What if he had nothing new to say? What if wiser men had said it all before, and said it better than he ever could? Westerbury got up from the armchair. No. He could not let all his old fears paralyze him. He had to do something.

Westerbury brushed the crumbs off his pants and approached the tall windows that faced the Cours. He didn’t have to lean out very far to see that they had posted a gendarme at the front door. Going to the Jas would be too dangerous, but he could use the servants’ entrance and make his way to the rue Matheron. Solange had told him about the Cézannes’ apartment on one of their last good nights. The idiot had actually once proposed that he and Solange meet there. Westerbury clutched at the heavy velvet curtain. If only he had believed in her laughter and smiling eyes when she scoffed at the very idea.

“M. Westerbury. Are you through with your breakfast things?”

Good God! She certainly had a way of creeping up on you. Soon Arlette would be filling the room with her mournful sighs.

“M. Westerbury?”

“Yes, dear.” He turned to Arlette and forced a smile. “Could you bring me the cap and jacket I use for my explorations?” Best to look as inconspicious as possible while he was on the hunt.

After his successful escape from the building, Westerbury took a circuitous route to the north end of the city, criss-crossing his way toward the rue Matheron. Every few blocks, he stepped inside a doorway to see if he was being followed. When he was sure there was no one behind him, he started up again. He did not know the address, but he did know what most of the Cézannes looked like. He had “met” the mother and sister at the Jas the night before his arrest, and he once had seen the mistress,
en famille
so to speak. All three women were horrors. Then there was the boy, who had fully inherited his parents’ utter lack of grace. If none of them appeared, he’d still learn something, that he’d have to search for Paul Cézanne someplace else.

Unfortunately, the narrow rue Matheron offered few good doorways from which to make his observations, so Westerbury settled on a corner, where he stood in the hot sun for almost an hour. During that time, the only people who passed through the street were an old woman carrying a basket to market, and a man in a bowler off to do some business. Just as Westerbury was about to give up, the Cézanne boy came running out of a doorway. Westerbury’s heart leaped as he quickly hid behind a building. They
were
there. When he peered around the corner again, he saw the mistress, armed with a marketing basket, following her son. Happy lad. His father must be nearby. Westerbury pasted himself up against the wall and thought. If there is food-shopping, they must be planning for dinner. Dinner for Mama and Papa and Son, in an hour or so. He was dying of thirst. He’d have plenty of time to get a drink.

Just one for Solange, his dear girl; that had been his intention. Just a little something to buck him up for the battle. Then Westerbury dedicated a second drink to science and its practitioners, and a third to Sir Charles Lyell, the greatest of them all. He found that the creamy green liquid went down so well, when you had the time to sip at it, that he had to order another. Who cared if the barkeeper gave him a suspicious look as he got out the bottle and water again? He had no other customers, and Westerbury wanted more. He watched impatiently as the man poured a bit of the absinthe into a tall glass. As soon as he was done, Westerbury added a spoonful of sugar and mixed in the water. Fortification, that’s what was required. So he wouldn’t give in. So he’d be the avenger, the truth-seeker. As long as they let him. That thought brought him up short. And, indeed, when he glanced behind him, he spied a gendarme peeking in the window of the café. Their eyes met, but the policeman did not enter. Instead, without giving any indication of whether or not he recognized Westerbury, he left. Time to move on. Westerbury sent some coins clattering across the zinc counter and left. He made sure no one was trailing him, then headed back toward the rue Matheron.

When he turned the corner, he saw Cézanne almost immediately, ambling toward his townhouse, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. How homey, Westerbury thought, how gallant. How disgusting! A rage tore through him, driving him toward Cézanne. “Murderer! Coward!” he shouted. By the time he reached the startled artist, his hands were poised to take him by the neck and strangle him. Cézanne threw the flowers aside. He grabbed Westerbury’s arms, and, with surprising strength, pulled him away.

“Say something!”

Cézanne remained mute, holding on to Westerbury with an iron grip.

“Say something. Confess. You did it!”

“No,” Cézanne shook his head, “no.”

Westerbury managed to push him up against a wall. “Let go of me!” Westerbury demanded, and amazingly, Cézanne did just that.

Westerbury’s hands clenched with fury. He threw a punch right in the artist’s ugly face.

Cézanne did not move. So Westerbury threw another, this time drawing blood from the murdering coward’s nose. Still Cézanne remained motionless.

“What is wrong with you? Talk to me. Tell me what you did to her!”

“Nothing. I did nothing.” The artist began shifting his head from side to side. Seeking help? Or making sure that no one was about to hear them? What did it matter to Westerbury? He had him now.

“Oh yes, that’s right. When Solange was a mere girl, you did nothing. You scoundrel. Nothing!”

Cézanne swallowed hard, and looked straight at Westerbury. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Westerbury’s arm shot out in an attempt to take another strike at Cézanne’s face. This time the artist fended off the blow, but still did not hit back.

“What’s wrong with you? Do I need to knock it out of you?”

“I didn’t remember. And when I found out—”

“You killed her!” Westerbury’s next blow was again blocked by the artist’s strong arm.

“No, no. I couldn’t. Never.”

This time Westerbury aimed for Cézanne’s belly, and knocked some wind out of him. When Cézanne bent over to cover the pain, Westerbury hit him in the head again, sending him reeling to the ground. With a yelp of pain he realized he had struck so hard that he might have broken something in his hand. So he began to kick Cézanne on his legs and back, while the artist tried to protect himself by rolling into a ball.

“Tell me the truth!” Silence again. Why was the idiot taking the punishment and not striking back? Westerbury drew back, breathing hard.

“Tell me the truth!” he roared. You could not engage in an honorable duel if only one of you was manly enough to fight.

Cézanne peeked out from hands cupped around his face. “I told you. It wasn’t me. I couldn’t kill anyone.”

Was he supposed to believe the lying coward? Before he was able to strike another blow, Cézanne scrambled on all fours to the wall of the house across from his own and turned around to face his assailant, his legs folded up against his body. “You knew before she died that she did not love me. You knew, didn’t you?”

Cézanne was begging to have his humiliation confirmed. “Love you? Love
you
?” Westerbury retorted. “Of course I knew!” He kicked hard at the artist’s calves. Cézanne did not even cry out.

He did not have to because, before either of them noticed, they had company. Franc pinned Westerbury to the wall, in one swift straight-arm motion, while a gendarme pulled Cézanne to his feet.

“You were supposed to stay out of trouble,” Franc said, and smiled, showing the full range of his hideous tobacco-stained teeth.

That smile so enraged Westerbury that he grabbed at the inspector’s hair, pulling it hard. He only reached the greasy mane because his arm was longer than Franc’s, but certainly not stronger. The brute punched him in his side so hard that he nearly vomited with the pain.

“Let him be.” Westerbury heard Cézanne’s voice through the ringing in his ears. “Let him be. We were just talking.”

“Just talking, huh? I should take you in too. Lucky for you that you have a rich father.” Franc’s voice was full of disdain.

Through blurred vision, Westerbury saw Cézanne meekly picking up the flowers. Even though he had a rich father, even though he was a native, the lying, murdering coward did not try to challenge Franc.

“Are you going to fight me, or just walk back to the prison peaceably?” The burly inspector still had Westerbury by one shoulder. Franc pressed him hard against the stone wall and shook his fist in his face.

Westerbury glanced down at his limp, helpless hands, one bloody and starting to swell, the other streaked with black pomade, the symbol of his tragically ephemeral victory against the French police. What choices did he have? Get beaten to a pulp, or surrender. So he stepped ahead of Franc, holding himself with the rectitude born of dignity and honor, as he marched back to his own cruel purgatory. Perhaps this time the dim-witted Arlette would be smart enough to come looking for him and get him out.

T
HE SCENE WAS ALL TOO FAMILIAR.
Franc and Westerbury blustering away at him. This time together, in his chambers, replete with mutual recriminations. Martin sank back in his chair. God, he was weary.

“Where’s Old Joseph?” Franc demanded. “We’ve got him here. Let’s get him to confess right now and have it all written up nice and official.” The inspector was so eager to put Westerbury away that he had not moved from the doorway that divided Martin’s office from the foyer.

“I sent my clerk out for a long lunch because we had no witnesses scheduled for today,” Martin said evenly. He could not imagine what would make Franc think that Westerbury was about to confess to anything. “As for you,” he said to the Englishman, who was sitting in one of the witness chairs across from his desk, “let’s see what we are going to do with you.”