The Witch of Painted Sorrows (26 page)

A scream rent the air. At first I thought it was Charlotte but then realized I was the one screaming. She was laughing, drunkenly, hysterically, pathetically, and the sound of it rose up on the wind and splashed my face along with the cold, cold rain.

Chapter 27

I arrived at the bottom of the tower, shaking and disoriented. I looked around, trying to figure out which direction to take to leave, to make my way to the road, to find a carriage, to go home.

There were so many people milling around I couldn’t see any street signs.

To the right, at least a dozen uniformed officers had formed a barricade and were blocking off a section of the plaza. Was that where Charlotte had fallen? Was her body there on the pavement? I tried to see through their legs, but they had formed too solid a wall. Standing on my tiptoes, I searched for a glimpse of Julien between their starched caps. I didn’t see him, but I did catch sight of the German.

Then one of the policemen shifted position and nothing but uniforms were visible.

Not knowing which way to go, I decided just to walk in the opposite direction from the disaster site. I would be able to find a carriage on any street. It didn’t matter if it was in the opposite direction from La Lune. Heading a few blocks out of the way was of no importance now. I needed to get home. Everything would be all right once I got home.

I began to walk, two terrible words going around and around in my head, in some crazy rhythm that wouldn’t abate.

Fire, fall . . . fire, fall . . . fire, fall . . .

There was no avoiding the awful truth. The fire had been her first attempt. This had been her second.

My legs were shaking so badly each step seemed to take forever.

I began to notice more police had arrived. Or had they been there all along? Dozens of them, their hats standing out like white caps on a stormy sea. It appeared the gendarmes were stopping random people and asking them questions.

What would happen if they interrogated me?

Nothing, I reassured myself. I had nothing to hide. No reason to be so nervous, to be
this
nervous.

Trying not to attract any attention, I continued moving through the crowd, heading toward the street. Despite my efforts, one of the gendarmes focused on me. I bent to pick up an imaginary something from the ground.

How was I going to answer his questions? I didn’t even understand what I’d seen. I was only sure of what I’d felt—someone in the crowd had shoved me; the wind had pushed me. Such a strong wind. It was the wind that had picked up the umbrella. Why had Charlotte been determined to grab it? Had she drunk too much champagne?

“Monsieur?” The policeman blocked my path.

I stood up and looked at him, meeting his glance, at the same time pretending to put whatever I’d picked up from the ground into my pocket.

“Oh, excuse me, Mademoiselle.” He was embarrassed to have gotten my sex wrong.

“That’s all right.”

“Were you up on the terrace?”

I nodded.

“You are aware of what happened?”

“It’s so terrible,” I said, my voice breaking.

He gave me a sympathetic nod. “It is. Did you witness the accident?”

“No, I didn’t. I was on the other side of the balcony.”

He was trained to know when people were telling the truth. Would he know that I was lying?

“And so how is it you know what happened?”

“On the steps . . . it’s a long way down . . . there were people who saw it and were talking about it . . . Is it true what they said? A woman fell to her death?”

Was he looking at me strangely? Had he guessed? Did he think I had been involved? Had I somehow implicated myself? But I hadn’t been involved. There was no way I could be found guilty. It was not me. I had not touched Charlotte. I had nothing to do with her accident.

“So then, you didn’t actually see anything?”

“No, nothing but the crowd surging toward that side of the terrace.”

“Thank you then.”

I turned.

“One more thing.”

My heartbeat quickened.

“Yes?”

“May I have your name?” He had taken out a pad and a pencil.

“My name?”

“We need to keep a record of the eyewitnesses.”

“But I didn’t actually see anything,” I insisted.

“A record of people on the platform.” His pencil was poised; he was waiting.

“Of course. My name is Eloise Bedford,” I said, giving him the name of the same girl I’d gone to school with whom I’d used in another lie the day I’d applied to the École des Beaux-Arts.

Closing his notebook, he moved on.

I tried to keep my pace calm and not hurry as I kept walking.
Fire, fall. Fire, fall.
I wanted to run. I could barely breathe. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I was shivering. And still I had to keep going at an even gait.
Fire, fall. Fire, fall.

Chapter 28

It was the accident, not my grandmother, I thought of during the carriage ride from rue des Saints-Pères to Dr. Blanche’s clinic in Passy. I could think of nothing else. I kept seeing Charlotte falling. Kept remembering the policeman questioning me. Kept wondering how Julien was.

I had not heard from him that night. Or the next day. Of course I hadn’t. He would have been in shock. Then plunged into mourning. Any strength he had he would need to devote to helping Charlotte’s father cope. As the cab traversed the city, I wished I were on my way to him. How was he faring? How was he enduring the solemn ceremony of his fiancée’s funeral? I’d thought about attending, to be with him, to offer support, but he had not come to me, and under these circumstances I did not think I should go to him unasked.

This was the fourth death that had touched my life in so very few months. My father, my grandmother’s uncle the doctor, our cousin Jacob Richter, and now Charlotte. Too many deaths. Too close together.

As I alighted from the carriage, I noticed Dr. Blanche was coming down the street, and we reached the front door at the same moment. Greeting me warmly, he said, “Your grandmother is doing so well, Mademoiselle. I think you’ll be delighted.”

As we walked down the hallways toward her room, he explained some of the treatment she’d been getting and how responsive she was. “She’s even started flirting with the male patients, which is a very good sign.” He smiled.

When I entered Grand-mère’s room, her face did indeed light up. No longer confined to her bed, she was sitting at the table set for tea, presumably for my visit. I was delighted and relieved to see she appeared rested and much better groomed. Her hair was clean and up in a twist, and she had on rouge and lipstick and was dressed in a salmon silk morning dress I’d brought from home the last time I visited. The change in her since then was astonishing. This was my grandmother again, not a deranged stranger. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at me.

Had I ever been as happy to see anyone?

I took her hands and leaned down. She kissed me. I wasn’t sure if it was her tears or mine that wet my cheeks.

“Your perfume smells wonderful, Sandrine. I don’t have any perfume here. Can you bring me some? And my tortoiseshell combs.”

“Of course.”

“Sit down,
mon ange
. They have made a tea for us.”

She poured with a hand that trembled only a bit, and I relaxed seeing how much herself she was.

“Dr. Blanche said that I might be able to go home in another two weeks or so.”

“Not soon enough,” I said.

“Is the apartment all right? Is everything running smoothly?”

“Of course,” I lied. I wasn’t ready to tell her I’d moved back into the house for fear I’d set her off. It was too good to have her back, sane and calm. “I’ve even been keeping the salon afloat.”

She smiled.

“All your beaus miss you and wish you well.” From the bag I’d brought, I pulled out a box of chocolates from Debauve and Gallais, the oldest chocolatier in Paris, which was just a few doors down from La Lune. “Monsieur St. Simone sent you these.”

“How very thoughtful.” She took the beautiful cream-colored box with its gold-and-navy insignia and gazed at it like a fine jewel. The ribbon was ornate, navy satin embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis, and she traced the decoration with her forefinger, for the moment lost in thought.

“Dr. Blanche said that I might be able to go home in another two weeks or so.” She repeated what she’d said before but whispered it this time, and I wondered how many times a day she soothed herself with that single thought.

“Would you like a chocolate?” I asked.

“Perhaps later.” She placed the box on the table, picked up her teacup, and took a sip. She turned back to me, watching me carefully, as if searching for something in my eyes. She frowned. Shook her head. “I am worried for you.”

“No need, I’m fine.”

“But you are lying to me. You moved into the house.” Her voice quivered.

“How did you know?”

“Alice came to visit me yesterday.”

Of course her maid would have come to visit—she was devoted to my grandmother.

“I miss you less there. I even miss Papa less when I am there.” All that was true. It was also true that I felt more welcomed there than anywhere I’d ever lived.

“But you can’t live in that house. You’re in danger there.”

“No, no, I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with your beautiful house. The pipes and the plumbing are all fine.”

She shook her head impatiently. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Don’t try to fool me. Something has changed, hasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know exactly. But I can see it in your eyes. Something terrible has transpired since the last time you were here. What is it, Sandrine, what is it?” She had become highly agitated.

What to tell her? Some version of the truth? “I was at
la Tour Eiffel
yesterday and saw an accident.”

“You saw the opera singer fall?”

I nodded.

“I know her fiancé,” my grandmother said. “He has been doing work for me, and when I read about the accident in the newspaper, I was so upset for him. It’s very tragic. They had a photograph of her . . . so young and lovely. And you were there? It must have been horrible. But what were you doing there?”

“I hadn’t been to see the tower. All this time in Paris and I hadn’t yet gone up.” Too late, I remembered that was the wrong lie.

“No, not so,” Grand-mère said. “We visited the tower your first week. We had a lovely luncheon there. Surely you have not forgotten that. Why are you lying to me about this, too?”

I didn’t know what else to say. “Yes, you’re right, we did.”

“So then why were you there?” She was examining my face and thinking out loud. “The article said she was there with a German businessman who is building a department store in the 5th and her fiancé and . . .” She put it all together and let out a small scream. “Oh no! It was La Lune. She caused the accident? This is how it begins.”

Fall, fire. Fall, fire.
I could not hear what my grandmother was saying anymore. I was seeing my burnt gloves, the blackened pearls. Hearing Charlotte’s laugh as she sailed over the balcony railing. I put my head in my hands. Dug my fingers into my forehead. Wanted to feel pain. Searing stings. Anything to stop thinking what I was thinking. Accepting this horrible reality.
Fire, fall.

I heard a noise. Glass breaking. My grandmother was reaching across the table. She’d knocked over one china cup, now was knocking over the teapot, which spilled onto the cloth and her dress, grabbed my hands and pulled them to her. She was holding them so tightly I worried she might break my bones, and then how would I paint?

“This is what she does. She wants her passions fulfilled, Sandrine. At any price. She craves it. And she uses us to do it.”

“Tell me,” I whispered, needing to hear the story. I had seen a woman die. I had felt the push at my back, and it hadn’t been the wind.

My grandmother leaned forward conspiratorially, as if she were afraid for anyone but me to hear. “She incubates in a host in order to relive her past. That is what my mother told me. What I told your father. She incubates. Always trying to re-create her time in Paris when she was painting, when she was with Cherubino, being in love and being loved back, before her jealousy cost her lover his life. None of the women she’s infested have been strong enough to withstand La Lune’s spirit and stay sane or talented enough to become the artist she was. Marguerite, Camille, Eugenie, Clothilde, Simone . . .”

My grandmother was naming all the women in the portraits on the stairs.

“Marguerite claimed that within days of becoming betrothed to her lover, she began to see La Lune when she looked in the mirror. A month later, she threw herself off of the Pont Neuf in the dead of winter and froze to death in the swirling, black waters.

“Under La Lune’s influence, Simone became so passionate, so hungry for her lover, that she drove him away. Her beau was so frightened by her appetite that he left her the night before they were to announce their betrothal. She painted over a hundred portraits of him—all ­terrible—and, when she completed the last, took poison and died.”

And then my grandmother’s voice changed and became a hoarse whisper with a heavier accent. Completely and totally unrecognizable.

“Don’t be afraid, Sandrine. I’ve learned from my mistakes. From each woman I learned a little bit more. I know better how to control my appetites. I won’t force all my desperation onto you. I won’t overwhelm you with my appetites. I will just show you the life that you can have and you will want it enough . . . want it so much . . . that you will invite me to stay. And then we will both have what we want. What we need.”

“Grand-mère? Grand-mère?”

She didn’t say anything more, just sat frozen like one of Rodin’s marbles, sightless eyes staring straight ahead, not speaking, not acknowledging that she could even hear me.

“Grand-mère? Grand-mère?”

Finally she blinked, and then her eyes widened in horror. She knew, as did I, what had happened.

My grandmother rose, came around the table to me. Reaching out, she grabbed the neck of my dress and jerked it open. Buttons flew. Fabric ripped. I pushed her hand away. She stumbled and fell against the bed.

My grandmother looked so helpless then, sprawled half on and half off, clutching at the comforter for balance. She was breathing heavily, sweat on her forehead, her eyes glazed.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“She got inside me. She made me talk to you for her.” She lunged at me again. “You have to take her necklace off,” she yelled as she pulled at the rubies around my neck. “Off . . . off . . .”

Alerted by the noise, the nurse ran into the room. “Madame Verlaine, please, please. It’s not good for you to become overexcited.”

The nurse tried to disengage my grandmother from me, but she resisted.

“Let go of your granddaughter, Madame, or you will not be able to see her again.”

My grandmother pushed her off. The nurse fell. Grabbing hold of me, my grandmother gripped my arms. Her fingers dug, like talons, into my skin. Her hair had come undone, and tears had melted her mascara. The charming coquette had disappeared. My grandmother was gone, and once again I was facing a madwoman I did not know.

The nurse, who’d gone out to get help, returned now with two orderlies who rushed in and dragged my grandmother off me, but not before she’d ripped the sleeve of my gown and scratched the skin beneath the fabric.

I backed up, away from her, and stood against the wall, watching the scene.

“She’s a succubus . . . She sucks us dry like a whore sucking a cock . . . like a bitch in heat . . .”

While my grandmother continued ranting, the two orderlies held her down and the nurse administered the sedative. That done, the male helpers tied my grandmother to her bed, first her wrists and then her ankles.

My grandmother, who wore the most expensive silks and satins, who slept on the finest Egyptian cotton, was bound by coarse hemp, fabric too rough for her skin.

And all I could do was watch in terror.

“If you keep this up, Madame, the doctor isn’t going to let you go home. And you want to go home, don’t you?” the nurse said soothingly, trying to calm my grandmother.

“La Lune needs a host, Sandrine. You think I’m mad, but I’m not. I’m as sane as anyone around me. You need to believe me. Go home. Look at the portraits . . .” She was slowing down. The sedative was taking effect. “They are all wearing the rubies . . . Look at the women . . .” She was falling asleep as she spoke. Now her voice was just a whisper, and I had to move forward to hear what she was saying.

“Look at the women . . . in their eyes . . . the same . . .”

And then she was asleep.

At rest, she looked once again like my grandmother. I reached out and touched her cheek, wanting so much to relieve her suffering.

The nurse put her arm around me. “I know it’s very hard to see her like this, but it’s just a little setback. She didn’t have an incident all week. She’s been just wonderful.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. Would it do any good to tell the nurse that it was me? That my grandmother couldn’t be around me for any length of time without becoming deranged and spouting lunatic theories that were all ridiculous?

My fingers moved up to my neck, and I touched the rubies. I’d been careful to wear a dress that would cover the carved stones lest she see them and try to take them off me again. I wouldn’t allow that to happen. No one would ever remove them from my throat but me. They’d been hidden in the house for me to find, and I had. Good things had happened since I’d put them on. Hadn’t Julien become my lover since I’d found them? Hadn’t I begun painting? Wasn’t I becoming exactly who I was meant to be?