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 can’t 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 I’ll leave.”

She gestured toward the four walls. “The paintings express a feeling, the grasp of a moment,” she said. “Not that you’d ever understand.”

She watched him squint at a canvas and shake his head. Again she tried to explain the artist’s vision, but he’d 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? She’s 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 hair’s 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 don’t 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 Renoir’s arm and whispered, “Take the praise, forget the rest.”

Etienne strode away, wiping the shoulders of his frock coat. “I haven’t time for these sketches.”

From the moment they entered the room, she’d seen Etienne’s discomfort as he scanned the oils and pastels. It was obvious he didn’t 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 hadn’t known what to say. He’d 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. She’d show him, she’d show them all. Perhaps next year she’d have a canvas ready to hang if she put her mind to it, and finally she’d have the recognition she deserved. But she must steal away from the crowd. She must prepare-that’s what one of her friends told her-and then she’d 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 what’s this?” Etienne threw his hand toward an autumn scene. “Not at all like Bougival. Nothing is drawn properly. Trees don’t look like that-sticks with fur on them? And I’ve never seen that color in the leaves before.”

“But the light, it’s the blast of light at sunset. Don’t you see? Sisley has painted a moment.”

“No, I don’t 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 she’d 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 she’d cure Etienne of himself. If they remained lovers, that is. But she’d 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 she’d remember them long after she’d 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.”

“You’re too cautious.” She kissed him hard, grinding into him. “Where’s your butler? Let’s 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 commissioner’s 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, she’d 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 piazza’s 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 Oltramari’s 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.