The Devil in Montmartre (4 page)

“My dear Miss Endicott, I shall wire one of my colleagues and make appropriate arrangements for my practice. You needn’t worry in that regard. If you and Miss Brownlow are agreeable, I shall most certainly accompany you to Colorado.”

Marcia Brownlow appeared doll-like as she sat, her back supported by two plump down pillows, in the midst of an immense Louis XV canopied bed. Betsy reclined on the bedcovers beside her friend. She clutched one cold bony hand between her warm, soft palms as if by that operation Betsy could reinvigorate her dying companion.

When Marcia hemorrhaged and collapsed on the floor, her last thought had been:
This is the end—so be it.
But upon regaining consciousness, a strong will to live had given her strength to crawl to the settee and struggle to get back on her feet. She was thirty-nine, older than her mother had been when she died of typhoid. The last time Marcia looked in the mirror she saw her dead mother staring back at her—gaunt, pale, and exhausted from her battle with death.

Her dry, un-rouged lips smiled wanly, her green eyes gazed searchingly at Betsy. Marcia sighed as she wondered:
Why persist in this farce?
But she would not succumb to despair; as long as she lived and had the use of her eyes and hands, she would draw and paint. And she had discovered a new source of inspiration, Virginie Ménard. She would try to explain her fascination with Virginie to Betsy, but before making the effort she again sighed deeply.

Taking the sigh as a sign of discomfort, Betsy asked with a worried frown, “Are you all right, dear? Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’m quite well, I assure you. Frankly, I’m getting cabin fever lying in this catafalque of a bed day and night. This afternoon, I’m going to insist that Sir Henry let me get up and walk about.”

This was what Betsy wanted to hear. “I shall insist upon it too! If the weather permits, I’ll hire an open carriage and take you for a ride through the Bois de Boulogne.”

Marcia smiled and nodded in agreement. “Yes, that would be splendid.” She paused a moment to collect her thoughts before pursuing a touchy subject. “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking, these last couple of days. There’s something I must explain to you; I want you to understand—”

Betsy apprehended her meaning, and interrupted: “Let’s not discuss anything unpleasant, dear. It’s unnecessary; I understand perfectly.”

Betsy understood nothing, and her moods shifted unpredictably between passivity and aggression. At times, she would confront danger or adversity with an almost inhuman composure. At others, she used wealth to avoid unpleasantness, purchasing a first class cabin ticket on the next luxury steamer bound for somewhere else.

Marcia thought she knew all Betsy’s moods; she would plead for comprehension and hope for the best. “Please dear, what I have to say is important. It’s the truth, and it’s not what you think. I’m going to tell you everything about Virginie Ménard.”

Betsy dropped Marcia’s hand. “No, no, no! I don’t want to hear it!” She put her hands over her ears like a petulant child.

Marcia put her arms around Betsy and held her until the tension subsided. “Darling,” she whispered, “believe me, I don’t want any more lies on my conscience. Not now; it’s too late for lies.”

Betsy retrieved a lace handkerchief, wiped her tears and blew her nose gently. “All right, Marcia, I’ll listen. I apologize; I’ve promised the doctor not to do anything to upset you.”

Satisfied that Betsy had pulled herself together, Marcia began her “confession” with the past as prelude. Years earlier, Marcia had impersonated a man to achieve success in the male-dominated art world. Calculating and opportunistic, she had entered into the deception on the theory that it was a small price to pay for recognition, patronage, and lucrative commissions. Betsy was one of the wealthy women she had deceived.

Betsy listened patiently, but she could not help interrupting: “Please Marcia, why dredge up the past? It’s too painful.”

“Life
is
painful, dear. You’ve been kind, generous, and forgiving but those lies I told you still weigh on my conscience. I’m now confronted with the horrible realization that my art, my life’s work, has been a lie. Since childhood, I’ve tried to see beauty in nature, to capture beauty’s essence and transform it into art. And my paintings have been popular and sold well because I painted the world as people wanted to see it, not as it really was. But can beauty exist without truth? I’ve asked myself that question over the years, without having reached a conclusion.

“When I first saw Virginie, her beauty ignited the flame of my artistic passion, a flame, I might add, that had been guttering of late. I wanted to paint more than the beauty I saw; I needed to get under her skin, to penetrate her very essence. I desired the most intimate knowledge of her, to discover her secret so that truth and beauty could be merged into one ineffable image on canvas. That’s why, after sketching Virginie at the
Atelier
I invited her to a nearby
boîte
for drinks and conversation. Despite our different life experiences, we seemed like kindred spirits, sharing our innermost secrets. She opened up to me, revealing a world I could have hardly imagined. She had suffered a cruel childhood and was haunted by a memory of her aunt and uncle slaughtering Virginie’s pet pig, Buttercup.”

Betsy listened sympathetically to a story of physical and mental abuse, until she interrupted: “Please dear, that story is too awful to relate. And what in heaven’s name has it to do with art?”

“That story has inspired me. But there’s more. Virginie told me about a revenge fantasy. It gave her strength to endure her aunt’s beatings. The fantasy took place in the slaughterhouse where the Mercier’s had slaughtered Virginie’s pet. Madame Mercier came out of the chute, naked, covered with filth, crawling on all fours and grunting like a swine. Buttercup followed, walking upright with a prod in her human-like hand. Prodding Madame’s rump, the anthropomorphized pig growled in Virginie’s voice, ‘Move your arse you ugly sow, before I flay it raw!’

“Virginie waited by the gate, mallet in hand. When Madame entered the shed she glanced up in terror as the girl gleefully poleaxed her squealing aunt. Then, assisted by Buttercup, Virginie hoisted, stuck, boiled, singed, scraped, butchered, and dressed Madame Mercier, grinding what was left into feed for her porcine friends. Pretty little Buttercup always got the most generous portion.”

Betsy made a face as though she’d smelled something offensive. “How disgusting. But then, you were always drawn to the macabre. Thank goodness it hasn’t affected your painting.”

Marcia smiled. “Virginie’s tale of cruelty and imagined revenge gave me an idea. I would paint her experiences as an indictment of child abuse. It would be something entirely new, at least in my art; a plea for tormented children, the victims of indifference and intolerance.

“Until now, I’ve avoided social comment like the plague. I’ve spent my life earning good fees and prizes painting pretty pictures for the well-heeled bourgeoisie, so I suppose my deathbed conversion will strike many as insincere. Do you think I’m a hypocrite?”

Betsy took Marcia in her arms and held her close. She pitied her longtime companion, but could not forget Marcia’s past transgressions. Even in her present condition, Marcia might be lying to cover-up an affair. Betsy closed her eyes, her jealous mind conjuring a vision of the beautiful dancer.“No, dear,” she whispered, “I’d never think that of you.”

Marcia, Betsy, and Sir Henry rode in an open barouche down a shady avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, past the race course and round the serpentine lake. The weather had changed for the better. The afternoon was unseasonably balmy with a few wispy clouds in a bright blue sky. Sir Henry considered it a good opportunity for Marcia to get some fresh air and sunshine. She sat across from Betsy and Sir Henry, half-lulled to sleep by their monotonous chatter, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and the rumble of carriage wheels.

Marcia looked tiny sitting by herself on the broad leather seat; she seemed to be fading away by the hour. Her wasted body was wrapped in a pure white, furbelow-frilled dress, her gaunt skull half hidden under a black ribbon-trimmed and flower-bedecked straw hat and small, fringed parasol. A crocheted shawl draped her bony shoulders.

Marcia’s bright green eyes fixed on Betsy, who giggled like a schoolgirl while flirting with the handsome English doctor.
She’s far away from me now. So much the better.
Marcia did not want her friend to be shackled to a corpse. Life is for the living; the dying dwell in a twilight world of their own, a sort of limbo between the quick and the dead. A wry smile crossed her rouged lips.
Où sont les neiges d’antan?
Villon’s poem had taken on a new meaning for her. She would soon join those beauties of yesteryear.

Marcia turned her attention to the trees and their dying leaves. Bright red, orange, and old gold, they fell from branches, drifted in the mild breeze, floated for an instant before landing on the surface of the mirror-like lake.
How beautiful.
She had devoted her life to beauty, her art. But her art was dying, too. Why had she committed herself to something so ephemeral? Beauty was fragile and transitory, like the floating leaves. Truth endured, though it could be ugly. She predicted the new art would be ugly in its uncompromising honesty, reflecting a changing world, a fin de siècle ethos oriented toward darkness and despair.

She had changed her mind; she would not return to America to die in a sanatorium. She had not yet told Betsy or Sir Henry, but she intended to remain in Paris. Marcia wanted to finish one last great testament, her painting of Virginie’s suffering, but her will had been dissipated by disease, oozing out of her like gummy sap from a dying tree. She closed her eyes and sought inspiration in a vision. The image of Virginie Ménard appeared shining through Marcia’s closed eyelids like a celestial being floating in a golden nimbus. A single tear formed a rivulet running slowly down her powdered cheek, but no one noticed.

4

MONTMARTRE

EVENING, OCTOBER 14;

EARLY MORNING, OCTOBER 15

L
e Chat Noir occupied a three-story half-timbered building on the Boulevard de Clichy, not far from the Moulin Rouge. Originally located on the Boulevard de Rochechouart, the popular cabaret had opened to promotional hoopla; a torch-bearing parade of
Hydropathes
costumed like Swiss Guards, led by a flamboyant mountebank, Rodolphe Salis.

Prior to opening his cabaret, Salis, an artist of modest talent, and three of his painter friends, had eked out a living by painting cheap religious paintings. Each friend contributed to the product, the Stations of the Cross, according to his specialty, drawing and painting faces, bodies, draperies, or background. But in a marketplace glutted with shoddy artwork the scheme could never prove lucrative. On the other hand, Salis’s idea for a new cabaret was, like Oller and Zidler’s Moulin Rouge, a stroke of entrepreneurial genius, meeting a demand for bawdy, avant-garde entertainment in exactly the right place at the right time.

Salis based his interior design for the cabaret on a fanciful seventeenth-century tavern that might have been frequented by Cyrano de Bergerac or Dumas père’s Musketeers. Customers sat at long wooden tables in a hall lit by cast iron chandeliers. Paintings and posters decorated the walls, and Salis added iron, glass, and stone
objets d’art
, the genesis of Art Nouveau.

In addition to serving cheap wine and absinthe to his thirsty crowd, Salis provided an innovative form of amusement—the stage was open to anyone who had the daring to take it and the fortitude to hold it. On a given night a genius like Verlaine might recite one of his poems, but for the most part the performers were amateurs. And Salis encouraged these naïve hopefuls with free absinthe.

Fortified with cheap liquor, the trembling tyro would brave his audience like the condemned at the guillotine, showing his grit to the bloodthirsty mob. He would begin his quavering declamation in relative silence, which he might mistake for rapt interest. But the performer would soon be disabused by the rowdy audience, consisting of all classes, almost all of whom were pissing drunk.