Immortal Muse (32 page)

Camille thought for a moment about lying, but the detective would discover that far too easily. She struggled to smile. “I'm with David, Helen's husband.” She saw her eyebrows climb with that statement. “They're separated,” Camille added. “He was getting a divorce.”

“Ah. Now that's quite a coincidence—I managed to catch both poor Bob's case and now this one, and here you are involved in both. Peripherally, I'm sure. Now . . . David Treadway; he was someone I wanted to talk to about this. Do you happen to know where he was three nights ago around 10:00 to midnight?”

“Saturday? He was with me that night. We had dinner in his apartment, then went out to the
Bent Calliope
around 9:00 and met with friends. We were there well past midnight. They can verify that.”

“I'm sure they can,” Palento said. “I had to ask—after all, he's the husband . . . separated or not. Do
you
know anyone who would have wanted to hurt Ms. Treadway?”

Camille hesitated, long enough to take a breath. Long enough to consider. “Have you talked to her current lover?” Camille said. “Dr. Timothy Pierce. He's the guy who was just here. He's a surgeon at Beth Israel. If I were you, I'd ask where he was that night, and I'd look into his background, just to see if he's really who he says he is.”

“I've already spoken to him, since he found the body. You were just talking to him—in French, was it?”

“We were talking,” she admitted. “I don't like the man, though. I don't trust him.”

“You know him that well?”

“Well enough to know that he's dangerous.”

“That doesn't necessarily make him a murderer,” Palento said. “I talked to him when we found the body. He seemed concerned enough then. Are you saying he's lying?”

“I'm saying that I think you might find him interesting, if you check him out thoroughly.”

“Strange. He's told me the same about you. Though it seems you have an alibi.” Palento stared at her for a moment longer, then lifted the two coffee cups. “I've left my partner in the other room. I should get back to him. The two of us have a lot to sort out on this case—and Bob's case as well. Good talking to you again, Ms. Kenny.”

Carrying the coffees, she left Camille, who felt trapped: Nicolas was in the other room, so was Gina Palento and another detective, probably talking to everyone who ever knew Helen. Camille wondered what Helen might have said to some of them about her. She stayed in the lounge until she saw David emerge from the other room.

“I'd really like to go now, if it's okay with you,” she told him. She could hear the trembling in her voice. She was pleased when he said nothing, but only embraced her.

She pretended that, for a moment, she was safe in his arms.

The trouble was that no one could keep her safe from Nicolas. She could only do that herself.

1789 – 1794

“I
DON'T UNDERSTAND, Jacques-Louis. Now you
don't
wish to show our portrait in the Salon exhibition? I thought you were pleased with it; I know that we certainly were.”

Jacques-Louis David managed to look sheepish. David was hardly handsome. As a young man, the left side of his face had been sliced open during a fencing incident, and the wound had left him with a distinct asymmetry when he smiled. The scars also held a tumor that swelled that side of his face and affected his ability to both eat and speak well. Jacques-Louis slurred his consonants. In a society that valued wit and discourse, that was a severe social disadvantage; it was only his skill as a painter that allowed him to survive.

As Marie-Anne waited for an answer, David glanced over at the portrait in question leaning against the wall, one of several of David's works gathered in his Paris studio in preparation for this year's Salon exhibition. There, caught in an ornate and gilded frame, Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier, Marie-Anne's husband, sat writing at his desk, dressed in black with a white periwig and looking up at Marie-Anne. She stood at his side, her own white wig covering her auburn hair, a white dress with a lace collar and a blue fabric belt, leaning on his shoulder while gazing serenely out at the viewer. Many of the devices of their shared passion for chemistry were also on exhibit in the painting: a bell jar, a barometer, a gasometer, and a water still sat on the desk in front of them, while a flask and a tap were on the floor nearby.

David had painted the portrait only the year before; the Lavoisiers had paid him 7,000 livres for the work. Marie-Anne had also been taking drawing lessons from him. Doing so also allowed her access to his great soul-heart, another of the vast ones; she doubted that he even felt her touch on him.

Most of the other paintings in the warehouse were older works, and safely free of controversy, but not all. The huge ink-and-pen sketch of
The Oath of the Tennis Court
, David's unfinished large-scale painting, was pinned to the wall across from Marie-Anne's portrait, along with
The Lictors Bring to Brutus the Bodies of His Sons.

“I know I told you that I wanted to borrow the portrait, but—” David pressed his lips together tightly, sucking in his breath with an audible wet sound. “Marie-Anne, I must ask you to forgive me for what I'm about to say, and understand that I have no choice in the matter. You know that my sympathies are with the Jacobins and Robespierre, as I suspect are yours and Antoine's . . .” He shrugged. “I will just say it baldly. I've been told that if I display your portrait it might incite public agitation, since Antoine has been outspoken about tax reform and social issues.” David shook his head. “This wasn't my choice, but the Academy's—forced upon them by the royals. I can't show my
Brutus
, either; they say it's nothing but a Republican symbol. They want no paintings in this Salon that have any possible political interpretation at all.”

“Then why
are
you placing your paintings there, since so many of them lately are intended to have exactly that effect?” Marie-Anne interjected, and David shrugged. She knew why; she could feel it in the shifting patterns of his green heart: the Salon was still the premier event for French painters; it was still a showcase where careers were enhanced, and David was nothing if not passionate about his career. Politically, he might be an anti-royalist, but he also wanted to make certain that his career continued to advance, no matter who was in charge. “Jacques-Louis, Antoine and I aren't Jacobins
or
Royalists,” she continued as David looked down at the floor. “
Oui
, Antoine has his position in the Ferme-Générale, but he's a lowly gunpowder administrator. Neither Antoine nor I care who runs the government as long as that government is good, and as long as we're allowed to pursue our studies—all we want is fairness for everyone. Look at me, Jacques-Louis—I have neither an abiding interest in tax collecting nor in taking down the king. We're not advocates for either side—so neither should be our portrait painting.”

“This wasn't my decision,” David repeated. “I'll have the painting returned to your house. And again, my apologies both to you and to Antoine.”

Marie-Anne gave a sigh. There was no use arguing—or rather, it seemed there was nothing
but
arguing when it came to politics these days. “You needn't apologize for what isn't your fault,” she told him. “It's the times we live in. I'm sorry for you, since it means that your newest paintings won't be in the Salon.” She embraced him; he returned the gesture half-heartedly—she could feel him still staring at the paintings around the room. “My carriage is waiting,” she told him. “You should come to dinner at our house next week. Antoine is concerned about you.”

“I will,” he told her, the words slurred more than usual. “You're right. It's just the times we live in . . .”

Marie-Anne reflected on that as she left the studio. Returning to Paris had felt so right, like coming home after a long time spent away. And being with Antoine had also felt right. His soul-heart was different from most she'd experienced: the visual artists, musicians, and writers. His passion was also hers; he loved the exploration of chemistry, and so she nurtured his energy and bound it to herself, allowing him to fall in love with her.

And theirs was a
true
partnership and exploration. Oh, certainly society credited Antoine with all the breakthroughs and discoveries, but he always insisted that she deserved just as much credit even if the world would not give it to her. She could be his Muse and allow his green heart to grow, and she learned as he learned.

She had already nearly gained back all the skills and knowledge she'd lost so long ago.

Antoine also allowed her to continue to pursue her other interests and abilities. As Marie-Anne Lavoisier, she translated the Irishman Richard Kirwan's “Essay on Phlogiston” from English to French, which allowed Antoine and others to dispute Kirwan's ideas on the respiratory process. One of the reasons she was taking lessons from David was so that she could create the sketches and engravings of her and Antoine's laboratory equipment for their joint treatises. As the spouse of the famous Monsieur Lavoisier, she hosted gatherings where the great minds of the day could discuss this new “chemistry” and her and Antoine's ideas.

She felt fulfilled; she felt creatively satisfied herself as she rarely had in her long life. She was happy; she was content.

They spent most of their time together working in the laboratory conducting research. Marie-Anne and Antoine had the relationship that she'd wished she could have had with Nicolas: a true collaboration, a genuine partnership. With him, with his unknowing aid, she was as close to the secret of the elixir as she had been in her last years with Nicolas. The aged mice to which she gave the current version of the potion regressed immediately in age, and would remain that way for weeks before the sudden, aggressive aging took them.

So close. So very close.
She'd made certain to write down the process and ingredients, and to place those notes in more than one place. She was determined not to lose the notes again, not after the long centuries it had taken her to come back to this place in her research.

She loved Antoine as she had Vivaldi and as she had Bernini. And there was more with him as well. She was his friend; she was his peer and equal. It made their relationship very easy.

Or it had until the last few years, with the establishment of an Estates-General; with the Réveillon Riots in Paris, caused by low wages and food shortages; when the dismissed members of the Estates-General swore their oath in the Tennis Court; when the Bastille was stormed and taken by the citizens.

The world had turned uncertain and dangerous around her. Her precious Paris had become a place she sometimes didn't understand.

It was raining outside—a cold, teeming October rain. Pulling up her skirts, she ran from the studio to the carriage, glad for her cloak and wig, which kept her head mostly dry even if it itched her scalp. The carriage jounced as she stepped into it, the driver looking soaked and sullen as he held the door for her. Distantly, she could hear church bells ringing, which seemed strange. “What's going on?” she asked the driver, who shrugged silently. “The house,
s'il vous plaît,
” she told him as he climbed onto the seat and slapped the reins at the placid horse. The carriage's ironclad wheels rang against the cobblestones as Marie-Anne leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes and wondering how she wanted to tell Antoine that their portrait wasn't going to be permitted in the Salon.

She wasn't sure how long it was when she became aware of the sound of drums and many voices, chanting in unison and shouting. She glanced out through the rain-spattered window to her right, seeing the Hôtel de Ville besieged by what appeared to be thousands of people—nearly all of them women. It appeared that the mob had successfully breached the door of the hôtel, as she could see figures running from the doors with arms full of provisions, the few uniformed guards helpless in the face of the thousands. Nearby, several women were pushing a small cannon toward the street. The drums were loud and beating a cadence.
“À Versailles!”
she heard the crowd roar in unison.
“Apportez la maison de roi!”

To Versailles! Bring the king home!

Before Marie-Anne could react or tell the driver to move on, she felt the carriage start to rock violently, the springs protesting madly as the mob pushed at it. Before Marie-Anne could react, the doors were yanked open and grubby hands were pulling her out. She glimpsed the faces—women, all of them, poor and dirt-streaked, many gaunt, drawn, and gap-toothed, their clothing soaked in the persistent rain. “Join us!” one of them shouted to her as she was pulled from the carriage. Her wig and bonnet were knocked from her head in the tussle, lost beneath the crowd. The rain soaked her bare head, darkening her red-hued, matted hair. Somebody pulled her to her feet, just as she was afraid that they would trample her as well. “We go to Versailles to tell our king we need bread and that he must come home to the people! Come with us!” The woman grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the carriage.

Marie-Anne had little choice but to go with the woman. The crowd was pressing all around, and she was forced to move with it. The rain beat down on them as they moved eastward on the boulevard from the hôtel, with Marie-Anne stumbling along helplessly with them. When the woman holding her arm released her, Marie-Anne began inching slowly to the side of boulevard away from the mob's center, taking her time. She saw the women at the edges of the crowd grabbing other women who were watching, pulling them into the group as Marie-Anne herself had been drawn in. People were waving banners and flags from the houses as the group passed with drums hammering, voices raised in chants and political slogans, and torches hissing and fuming in the rain. The crowd was growing ever larger and more boisterous—not just women now but also some men. Marie-Anne saw more cannon—taken from the hôtel's defenses, she assumed—being pulled along by women.

They were approaching the Place de Grève as Marie-Anne continued to seek the edge of the marchers. Over their heads, she could see the colorful uniforms of the National Guardsmen. The marchers began to call out to the soldiers: “Join us! We are the people! Join us!” Marie-Anne could see the Marquis de Lafayette, their commander and one of France's war heroes, on his horse; he was talking urgently to his lieutenants as the mob began to bunch up in the face of the soldiers. The noise level rose, and Marie-Anne was afraid that the confrontation would soon turn brutal. She pushed her way to the far edge of the crowd, toward the nearest cross street. Fists and elbows flew as she fought her way through, one smashing into her mouth so hard that she tasted blood.

Then, staggering, she was free of the worst of the mob and was lurching out among the onlookers on a side street. Exhausted from the struggle, Marie-Anne leaned in the lee of an alleyway between buildings. She was disheveled, her skirts torn, her hair a mess, and she could feel blood trickling down the side of her face and taste it in her mouth. She wiped at her mouth, drawing in a hiss as she touched puffed and split lips. That brought back a brief memory of Nicolas, when he'd attacked her just before she'd taken the elixir.
She'd tasted blood in her mouth then . . .

Marie-Anne's eyes widened, her breath held.

Nicolas had scoffed at her in the garden of the palazzo. “There was something different with that version of the formula, some change you made but didn't write down, or perhaps it was some accident—something introduced to the potion that you didn't notice . . .”

Nicolas had been right. There had been one change that was never written in her notebook. She stared at the red stain on her fingertips.

Energy flooded back into her. She pushed herself away from the stones of the building. As quickly as she could, she left behind the cries of the mob and made her way toward home.

 * * * 

“Marie-Anne!
Mon dieu
, what happened to yo
u! I was frantic with worry.” Antoine ran down the stairs to hug Marie-Anne, his wig askew on his head as the servants fretted and fussed over her. After a moment, he held her at arm's length, his face registering distress. “You've been hurt, and you're soaked entirely through. Etienne, fetch some blankets; Josette, get a cloth to clean your mistress' face . . .”

“I'm fine,” Marie-Anne protested. Antoine looked so worried that she hugged him again. “Truthfully, my dear. I'm fine, especially now that I'm home.”

“What happened? The carriage driver came back saying that you'd been attacked and taken.”