Susan Anderson - Murder On The Rue Cassette

Paris, April 15, 1874

Elena breathed in, dazzled by the paintings. As she gazed at them, the Siege and the Commune seemed distant memories. France had arisen from its ashes, shimmering in a glorious rebirth, the brightness of the works blinding her.

Her friends had labored so hard and for so many years, shunned by the Salon and their stuffy convention. God knew many of the critics had derided them. Yet the artists persisted.

Turning slowly, she regarded one work, then another and another. Paintings by Degas, Pissarro, Cezanne, Monet, Boudin, Renoir, Morisot, and a host of others she did not know and who did not know her, not yet.

The studio was stuffy tonight with all of Paris here.

Pardon, Madame. Sorry, I did not see your train.

Quite all right, Elena muttered, fanning herself.

You too? I cant breathe, Etienne said. He ran a finger inside his collar and patted his cravat. Such hideous dabbling. He pointed to a painting of a ballerina in blue tulle.

Elena lifted her train, draping the fabric over her arm. And do keep your voice down or Ill leave.

She gestured toward the four walls. The paintings express a feeling, the grasp of a moment, she said. Not that youd ever understand.

She watched him squint at a canvas and shake his head. Again she tried to explain the artists vision, but hed made up his mind not to like them. He was so tedious. His taste was so difficult, so bourgeois, his eyes blind to anything new.

See how she holds her linen? Shes just finished her dance. Her hair is unkempt, still wet in spots from exertion, her skirt filled with light and movement and air. She turns her head toward us, and in that sweet gesture, Renoir has captured the secret of being a child.

Too old to be a child, and her hairs not coiffed. Is it hair?

And the legs, are they legs? a man asked bustling toward them. He had a pinched face and was short. Cottony-looking if you ask me. He stood close to the canvas and lifted his nose.

Etienne inclined his head and smiled at the man. My point exactly.

You dont understand, Elena said, turning to the newcomer.

Another man approached. Allow me to explain, he said. He pulled at his red goatee.

Oh, Pierre, your paintings are exquisite, such distinctive brush work. Congratulations. But do I know the child?

The portrait of a girl, thirteen or perhaps fourteen, and from a prominent family. The painting is an impression of a fleeting moment, like all the works here. His hand encompassed the room.

He was interrupted by a woman with a large bosom wearing a mauve dress. She peered into her lorgnette. Such a darling child.

Darling? Renoir asked and turned away.

Elena took Renoirs arm and whispered, Take the praise, forget the rest.

Etienne strode away, wiping the shoulders of his frock coat. I havent time for these sketches.

From the moment they entered the room, shed seen Etiennes discomfort as he scanned the oils and pastels. It was obvious he didnt understand them. The chatter stopped and she felt a hundred eyes on them as they made their way through the crowd. His clothes ill-suited the event and he hadnt known what to say. Hed avoided her glances. It was a mistake, their coming. Especially since several of her ex-lovers were there, some of them boorish in their celebration. Artists and poets, after all, and in Paris-what did he expect?

Elena shook her head. Impossible. Shed show him, shed show them all. Perhaps next year shed have a canvas ready to hang if she put her mind to it, and finally shed have the recognition she deserved. But she must steal away from the crowd. She must prepare-thats what one of her friends told her-and then shed be a part of the grand sweep of history, and in Paris where she belonged. Her heart swelled. She shut her eyes, drunk with the heady mix of linseed oil, varnish, and dreams.

And whats this? Etienne threw his hand toward an autumn scene. Not at all like Bougival. Nothing is drawn properly. Trees dont look like that-sticks with fur on them? And Ive never seen that color in the leaves before.

But the light, its the blast of light at sunset. Dont you see? Sisley has painted a moment.

No, I dont see, Etienne said. No wonder these painters were rejected. Their works are not worthy of the Salon.

With that, Elena spun around. Her head down, she marched out of the room, Etienne smoothing his stuffed shirt and tripping to keep up with her. At the door she told Berthe Morisot shed return soon.

In the carriage ride to his home, she listened to the wheels on the cobbles and her mind darted here and there, capturing nothing, coming to rest on their affair. In time perhaps shed cure Etienne of himself. If they remained lovers, that is. But shed wanted to be seen with him tonight of all nights, a special night. She had not wanted their affair to be kept a secret any longer. His eyes tonight were ragged-how they revealed the confusion in his soul. She knew shed remember them long after shed cooled toward him. Well, she would just have to make it up to him. She knew how to do that.

She was awakened from her reverie by a black-suited servant who opened the door.

Etienne led her into the parlor. Wait for me here, he said. I must change before we go.

Youre too cautious. She kissed him hard, grinding into him. Wheres your butler? Lets couple in front of him. Give him something delicious to think about.

That would melt his reserve. She knew how to handle famous men, and he was one of them, admired, lionized for his learning. He had his own following, the hangers on, the simple creatures. But this was Paris, where such things mattered, and he excited her, so different from the others. She must be brazen.

When he returned she said, In my belly, a seed of our love. I am two. She kissed him again. His misgivings seemed to melt. She knew they would. Each time she thought of ending their liaison, the strength of his passion quelled her doubts. Besides, she needed him tonight. No, they must remain together, at least until the child is born. By then, she had no doubt her ardor would cool. It had drifted already. There was too much life to taste, and she could not stop for longer than the spirit lingered. What remained would be a husk, the dregs of life. Few people understood that, but Elena was one of the lucky ones.

Sicily, April 17, 1874

A hard time Serafina had of it, crossing the piazza to answer the commissioners call. Too early in the day, not even the statues were awake. God, her toes were frozen. They made walking on the cobbles doubly difficult in boots worn too thin for comfort. She must have them re-soled. Next week when her stipend arrived, if it was on time. And there was that feeling again in her stomach, the growling of some prehistoric animal. Her own fault, shed dredged up ancient memories best forgotten, and on an empty stomach, too.

The commissioner stood at a row of windows gazing out at something, perhaps the piazzas early morning stragglers, his hands clasped behind his morning coat. He smiled when she entered. His eyes were a bit rheumy, she felt, perhaps an ague coming on. She pressed a linen to her nose.

His office was a corner monstrosity on the second floor of the municipal building. As she walked toward him, portraits of Oltramaris previous chiefs of police stared down at her like portly specters. A greasy cobweb dangled from the ceiling, almost touching the clutter on his desk, a rococo affair in flaking gilt.

The seat she usually occupied when she met with him was taken by another man whose bulk spilled over the sides. Clothed in a frock coat, striped pants, and wearing an arm band and silk skullcap, he looked out at her from a face framed in mutton chops and layered in loose flesh. A top hat sat on one knee and the corners of his mouth were downcast. His eyes, grey and bloodshot, pleaded with her from across the room. She knew shed seen him before, but at the moment, her mind played tricks.