Cezanne's Quarry (28 page)

The last paragraph was written in a more deliberate hand, the letters large and neat.

There. Now you know everything. I don’t know what I want from you. I can imagine you reading this, rushing to the apartment, and going down on your knees asking for my forgiveness. If you still want me, that is, now that you know that I am not the pure angel you thought I was, and that I killed my only child. What you feel is your affair. What I can tell you is that I can’t see you here, not now, while the walls still echo with your terrible words. Give me a little time, time to think, to pray, to walk out in your beloved nature before you respond.

Solange

Martin dropped his arms to his sides and fell back against the tree. Poor Solange. The mystery of her past had turned out to be a sordid tale, like so many others. And yet she had risen above it to make something of herself. Martin sighed. Poor Westerbury. The fool had every reason to be ashamed. Their argument had been his fault. Whether or not he had intended to be cruel, he had been so. Horribly cruel. Martin did not understand everything that had gone on between them, but he knew this: Westerbury should have run to Solange Vernet and fallen on his knees, despite her wishes. She was worth everything, every risk. Despite their terrible quarrel, she had continued to shore up the Englishman’s fragile pride, confirming his best image of himself. He could have saved her. No wonder he was so tormented.

Martin folded the pages and put them back into the envelope. Solange Vernet loved Westerbury, needed him. She knew his weaknesses, his rashness, and yet she still forgave him enough to set off to the quarry as soon as she thought he had declared his love anew. Unless, Martin sat up alert, unless she thought the author had been Cézanne. No, Martin hunched back again. No, this was not possible. Her letter rang with truth. Westerbury was the love of her life. And as insane as it was, Martin felt a kind of envy for that pitiful example of manhood.

Would anyone ever love Martin enough to forgive him for who he was? For all the things he was not? Westerbury and Solange had risked so much to be together. He had told her everything about himself, and she had taken the chance that he would be kind and interesting, and honest enough not to be after her fortune. Martin had never ventured and lost in love. He had never risked his heart. When had he become so cautious? When his father died? When he began to hide his new beliefs from his mother? When he stopped arguing with Merckx, allowing his friend to follow a path that had become more and more destructive? He should have sent him back to the army. Or, better, he should have chosen to risk everything by really helping his oldest friend to escape. Martin’s half-measures had been as fatal as Westerbury’s hesitations. But at least the Englishman had loved and been loved in return.

A gray cicada wriggled its way out of the bark of the tree behind Martin, brushing against his cheek. Although the insects were everywhere, he had not been aware of their nagging rasps for a long time. He had to move on. What difference did it make who he was, or what he could become, unless he managed to get out of this mess? Regret would get him nowhere. Martin got up and dusted himself off, before starting across the meadow. Think! That’s what he was good at. Reasoning things out. What had the letter told him?

That Cézanne was a more likely suspect than Westerbury. That the Englishman was almost certainly innocent. The letter had given him no motive for murder. Quite the opposite. And Cézanne? Why hadn’t he helped the poor girl all those many years ago? Undoubtedly, had Westerbury come across the violation of an innocent young girl in the woods, he would have played the gallant and thrown himself into the fray. Perhaps that is why Solange Vernet loved him. She knew he would have tried to save her.

But the painter had not, and Martin wondered whether Cézanne’s inaction still haunted him. What if he had finally recognized her? And, what if she had accused him of cowardice, mortifying him until he couldn’t stand it any more? Or, more likely, he had tricked her into coming to the quarry in order to press his cause, and she had finally, scornfully—and fatally—rejected him. Martin had every intention of pushing Cézanne to the limit, until he knew the answer to these questions.

H
ORTENSE ARRIVED ON THE PLATFORM A
full twenty minutes before the train was due and took her place by a post with a good view of the incoming tracks. She wanted to be sure that she would have Zola to herself for as long as possible. She needed to tell him her side of the story, and to find out what he knew about Cézanne’s dealings with Solange Vernet and Charles Westerbury. She’d have to keep him away from Paul, Paul Jr., and who knows who else. There would be no peace if any of Zola’s many admirers found out that he was in town.

The tiny station possessed only four tracks, two for passengers and, across the way, two for the freight trains that rumbled through much more frequently. At least there was an overhang on her side to protect her from the sun. Hortense patted the hair around her ears and repinned her hat. She wanted to look her best. She did not want Émile’s pity; she wanted his help.

She didn’t mind the wait. What else was there to do in Aix except wait? Wait until Paul told his father about them. Wait until the old goat died and they got their share of the estate. Wait until they could all—finally!—return to Paris.

At least there was some life at the station. Women and children were coming out on the platform, excited about a day trip to Marseilles or a loved one’s arrival. Vendors in blue workman’s smocks were maneuvering their baskets of fruits and drink into place in order to sell refreshments through the open windows of the train during its stop. A few middle-aged men, probably on their way to cut a deal in the port city, stood by checking their watches. The hawkers and businessmen waited in stoic silence, while the mothers talked to their children, telling them to stay back and stay quiet. Hortense peered around the post looking for her own son and smiled. He was the liveliest of the lot, inspecting the wares and luggage that lay about, and scanning the crowd for boys his own age. Every few minutes, he ran out to look down the tracks. He loved watching the trains come in. It probably reminded him that there were other places in the world.

Hortense reached in her purse and unfolded the telegram. The message was uncharacteristically terse. “Arriving on the 10:00 from Lyon. Zola.” Émile could have said even less. There was only one daily train to and from the north every day. One connection to everything she had ever known. Hortense wondered if he had also contacted Paul. Would Zola have complained about her meddling too?

She crossed her arms and turned her back to anyone who might be watching her. She was not in a mood to be pleasant, not after the row they had had last night. She waited until their son had gone to bed to show Paul Zola’s telegram. Paul never came home before dinner, anyway. He spent his days at the Jas, painting. Apparently, now it was the chestnut trees. Hortense sighed. She wished he’d paint something that actually sold. He just went along doing what he wanted to do, not caring about what was happening to her or their son, not giving one thought to the possibility that he might be thrown in prison, which is precisely what she was trying to prevent. But instead of showing gratitude, he accused her of interfering in his affairs.

Paul even told her that the murder of Solange Vernet was none of her business. “Do you really think I could be a murderer?” he had shouted. “Can you really believe that?” She had finally answered, “No, of course not,” although she did not know what to think. There had been a kind of madness in his pursuit of Solange Vernet. An irrationality that went beyond Paul’s usual doubts and temper tantrums. How was she to know whether he had done it? He never told her anything. He probably said more about what was going on in his head in any one letter to Zola than he revealed to her in a year.

And it wasn’t as if she had tried to keep Zola’s arrival a secret. She just did not want to mention it until she was sure Zola would come, because she didn’t want to get Paul’s hopes up. After all, she had told Marie about the telegram, and
she
could have told Paul if she had wanted to. Evidently, though, brother and sister were not talking much these days either. Or Marie did not want to admit that the only one who knew what needed to be done was Paul’s mistress, the taken-for-granted Hortense Fiquet.

Hortense managed a smile and a wave for Paul Jr. as he signaled her from the north end of the platform. He’d stay put for a while, so that he could be the first to spot the train. All she had told the boy was that Cézanne’s friend was coming for a visit. Even at his age, he knew who Zola was, although he hadn’t seen him for years. She had warned him not to shout out a greeting. They needed to keep the great Zola all to themselves.

Hortense crossed her arms again. What had really gotten to her, the night before, was that Paul seemed more upset about “involving Émile” than the possibility that she might think he was a murderer. What did her opinion matter? Or her feelings? When she realized that he cared more about what Zola thought than she did, Hortense had been ready to give Paul as good as she got. Until she saw the look in his eyes. It had always been there, that look of being hurt when he was angry. Hurt that his work never turned out on canvas exactly the way he saw it in his head, that no one recognized what he was doing. These days, she saw the hurt more and more often.

She opened her purse and took out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. She couldn’t be crying when Zola arrived. She had to be strong and alert and ask all the right questions if she wanted to find out the truth. Paul must have told Zola something. Just last month, when they were up north, Paul had spent two whole weeks circling Zola’s grand estate like a dog in heat, waiting to get in. It had been just like him not to check first and find out that Médan was filled with guests. Instead, he settled the three of them across the river with the excuse that he was painting the landscape. When Zola finally admitted him, he had gone alone. And he never told her about anything they had discussed.

Hortense put her handkerchief back and stared out toward the tracks. After the visit, Paul had, for the first time, made fun of his friend, saying his belly was growing even faster than his wealth and fame. The way Paul described it, Zola received him in his huge study like some kind of pasha, dressed in a pure silk smoking jacket, surrounded by expensive antiques and books, offering only the best cigars and wines. Maybe that was the real source of his upset: Paul could no longer stand it that his childhood friend was so much more successful than he was. Or maybe he was afraid that if Zola knew too much about the murder, he would include it in one of his novels. But how was she to know unless he said something to her?

“Maman, it’s coming.”

Hortense peered toward the north and saw the gray wisps of smoke. She pulled at her gloves and patted her hair again. As the locomotive chugged and hissed its way into the station, those standing on the platform backed away to escape the noise and the smoke. When the train finally came to a halt, Hortense spotted Zola almost at once. It was just like him to be standing in the vestibule, legs apart, hands behind his back, absorbing every detail. Although he was a relatively short man, he always managed to seem larger than life. Yes, he had grown fatter, just as Paul said, and he was decked out in an expensive travel suit and bowler. Still, seeing him for the first time in years brought tears to her eyes. Much was the same: the high forehead, the stubby nose, and the ever-attentive, almost feminine eyes. This was the famous oft-caricatured Zola. But this was also Émile, growing older like the rest of them, his short bristly beard flecked with gray, his eyes undoubtedly a little dimmer behind the famous pince-nez. This was Émile, who had rescued them again and again, paying off bills when Paul Jr. had been deathly ill, giving them loans he knew would never be repaid, encouraging Paul’s work, and urging him to return to Paris. Émile, the friend. Perhaps even Émile, the savior.

Hortense waved and moved toward Zola as he jumped off the train. She grabbed his arm and steered him through the bustle toward a relatively quiet corner of the platform.

“Hortense,” he put down his luggage, lifted her gloved hand to his lips, and kissed it in greeting. Then he turned to see Paul Jr., who had come up behind them. Zola took hold of her son’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length, admiring him. “Look at this strapping boy. My, my, how you have grown. So handsome, too. Just like your Papa said.”

Paul Jr. smiled, bouncing up and down on his toes. The famous Zola!

“Alexandrine did not come with you?” Hortense asked, only out of politeness. She doubted that Zola’s wife had any interest in a rescue mission. Alexandrine had always treated her and Paul like interlopers.

“No, no. As I told Paul in July, I was hoping to finally come down here this summer, to refresh my memories about the place—and to spend some time with all of you, of course—but Alexandrine,” he pursed his lips and shook his head, “her health. And when she heard about the cholera scare, that was it. We decided to go to Mont Dore instead. Better for her, you know.”

How nice to have a solicitous husband who took your complaints seriously. And God knows, Alexandrine was always complaining. “Let’s go.” Hortense linked her arm in Zola’s and began maneuvering him through the station. Her son picked up Zola’s bag and followed closely behind. “Should we hire a carriage, or walk?” she asked. “It’s not very far.”

“Walk. Definitely.” Zola responded enthusiastically. “I’ve only got today and tomorrow morning. I should get a good look at the town. I’m doing another Plassans novel.”

“What’s Plassans?” the question came from behind them.

“M. Zola’s name for Aix.” Hortense whispered to her son. “Shhhhhhh.”

“That’s right.” Zola patted her on the arm and then turned back toward Paul Jr. “Shhhhhh. Let’s not let anyone know I’m in town. We’ll take the back streets. I don’t want to pass any booksellers. Although,” he confided to Hortense, “they may not even recognize me in this place.”