The Witch of Painted Sorrows (8 page)

Suddenly, I was embarrassed to look at the architect for fear he would see what was on my face, in my eyes. I did not understand what was happening. I had been married for almost four years and had never imagined an erotic scene, not even in my dreams.

But Monsieur Duplessi was not looking at me. Not paying any attention to me at all, in fact. He was bent over the paintings, intently examining one after the other. And then suddenly, he did turn. Quickly. And caught me looking at him. Our eyes locked for a moment.

No, this was unfair. My mind was mocking me. My body wasn’t capable of enjoying the idea of lovemaking.

I flew out of the room, down the steps. Going dangerously fast on the narrow, slippery risers. Behind me Monsieur Duplessi’s footfalls followed.

“Sandrine! Stop! What is it?” His voice echoed, and it sounded as if he was calling out in this moment and in moments past.

I didn’t notice that I had gone from being Mademoiselle Verlaine
to Sandrine. I just ran and ran, trying to escape my shame. But he was faster and caught up to me just as I tripped down two steps and was heading toward a nasty spill.

He grabbed me and pulled me back, kept me from falling.

I was out of breath, panting.

We were both covered in dust, rivulets of perspiration dripping down our faces. What a fright I must have looked!

“What are you doing? Are you mad? You can’t take these stairs so fast! You could kill yourself! What were you running away from?”

I shook my head. Even if I had wanted to explain, I was too out of breath to talk.

“I wanted to show you the most extraordinary thing,” he panted.

“What?” I asked, forgetting myself for the moment.

“The paintings all are dated.”

“Yes, I noticed the dates . . . They were mostly 1606 and 1607.”

“But there were some that were later, Sandrine. Some were dated the mid-1700s. Some even in the early and mid-1800s.”

“There were?”

“Yes. But what was even stranger is there’s one dated this year, and there are two dated in the future.”

Chapter 7

“I’d like to know something about our family history,” I said to my grandmother the following night at dinner. It was her birthday, and we were dining at Le Grand Véfour, a fine restaurant tucked away in a corner of the Palais Royal. From our table we could look out at the elaborate gardens in the courtyard, the
cour d’honneur
, which was surrounded on all four sides by the palace once occupied by Cardinal Richelieu and his court. As we alighted from her carriage, Grand-mère had told me that the restaurant was more than a hundred years old and that Napoleon had often dined there with Josephine.

“Our family history?” Grand-mère asked as she watched the sommelier fill the crystal flutes with champagne. “We come from a long line of courtesans dating back to the 1500s. Cultured, lovely women born into a life that offered little escape.”

“Tell me more about them. Who was the first?”

“Why are you asking about this?”

“There’s so much history in Paris. All around us, everywhere we go. It’s made me curious. Tell me about La Lune.”

She looked at me strangely with an expression that I couldn’t quite read. But clearly she wasn’t pleased.

“Why bring her up specifically?”

“She’s part of my heritage.”

“There are more interesting things to discuss. Such as which operas we will be going to see this winter and how we are going to introduce you to society. Are we going to say you are married or unmarried? And if married, why are you using the name Verlaine?”

“I have no interest in being introduced to society.”

“You are pouting, and it’s not flattering. We do need to discuss the question of your marital status and your plans.”

The main dining room of Le Grand Véfour was decorated in an eighteenth-century Italianate style, with red velvet banquettes, crystal chandeliers, and tall mirrors framed in gold, flanked with delicate neoclassical paintings under glass of women with baskets of flowers. Roses and stucco garlands graced the
boiserie
ceiling, where more women, as well as paintings of fish and game and flowers, filled in every space. Lovely and busy decorations that gave the restaurant a timeless quality. In the mirrored wall behind my grandmother, I glanced at my own reflection. Was I pouting?

But I didn’t see my own face glance back at me. The face of the woman in the paintings in the stone tower was superimposed over my own. I shivered. The ghostly image was at once beautiful but also deeply disturbing. Who was she? Why was she haunting me? And why was the tower shut off like that?

“I really would like to hear about La Lune. What reason could there be for not telling me about her?”

Rather than answer, my grandmother lifted the crystal champagne glass and brought it to her lips.

We were seated beside the windows, which were as tall as the mirrors and faced the gardens. Snow began sprinkling the trees and flower beds with a fine white powder that reminded me of the dust in the artist’s studio that Monsieur Duplessi and I had found.

“Why don’t you want to talk about her?” I asked.

“It’s all legend and myth and not very pleasant.”

The sommelier arrived with the bottle of Bordeaux my grandmother had ordered and poured the ruby wine. The waiter arrived
with our first course. Placing china bowls in front of us, he ladled out spoonfuls of lobster bisque. Once the waiter had filled the bowls three-quarters full, he sprinkled lightly toasted croutons on the top and wished us Bon appétit.

I tasted my soup. Fragrant and flavorful, the bisque offered the essence of the sea mollified by luscious cream.

“I need to talk about her,” I said.

My grandmother lifted the spoon to her mouth, then dipped it in the soup again.

The sounds of the restaurant made the silence between us all the louder. All around, silverware clinked, glasses tinkled, conversations flowed, guests laughed, waiters recited specials. Only at our table was there such quiet.

There we were, two women, both wearing black silk mourning dresses, while around us were women bedecked in jewel-toned gowns, fanciful lace and ribbons, rich velvets and shimmering satins. My grandmother followed my glance.

“Yes, we’ve had enough black,” she declared, as if she’d been reading my mind. “On your birthday you get a wish, don’t you? Mine is that we stop being so very sad.” She finished off her soup. “None of this moping will bring your father back. Besides,” she said as she laid her spoon down, “I knew my son, you knew your father. He would most certainly not approve of us languishing.”

She was right about that. My father took great pleasure from life. But would changing the color of the silks we wore make us miss him any less?

“Papa,” I said, tying in the last conversation with the previous one, “told me that you knew much more of the story about her than he did. That she was a woman of grand passions.”

“About who?” my grandmother asked.

I knew that she was pretending not to know who I was asking about.

“La Lune.”

“Oh, Sandrine, really. What is there to discuss? She lived over
three hundred years ago. She was a very successful courtesan who inspired a few poets and painters and dabbled in painting herself.”

“Did she marry?”

“We don’t know.”

“Did she have children?”

“Yes. She had a son who became an actor and two daughters who continued in their mother’s footsteps, or so the story goes. It seems many of the male children in our family go on to become quite respectable, but the women . . .” She shook her head.

“Are you saying that you aren’t respectable?”

“Well, I’m not a duchess living in a château, am I?” Grand-mère laughed. It was such a wonderful sound. Not a light laugh like crystals tinkling, but a rich, seductive laugh that came from her throat and was tinged with a voluptuousness that, suddenly that night, for the first time, made me envious.

“Papa always said that he could hear your whole personality in your laughter. He said it was all there—your joie de vivre, your refusal to allow life’s troubles to weigh you down. And in the lower notes, he could sense your indefatigable determination.”

Tears sparkled in my grandmother’s eyes for a moment.

“Will it always be like this?” I asked. “Will remembering Papa, even happily, always make me sad . . .”

“No, the sadness will soften, its edges will become less rough. In time missing him will be the way you love him.” She reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin felt like velvet. “You’ve lost a lot. Your mother when you were seventeen and needed her the most, and now your father, and in a way your husband. You speak of him so little,
mon ange
. We should, you know.”

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll answer all your questions about Benjamin and why I am afraid of him coming after me if you tell me what you are hiding about La Lune.”

She shook her head. “I’m not hiding anything. So much time has passed, she’s nothing but a fairy tale.”

The waiter approached and refilled our wineglasses.

“All right. If you want to hear about Benjamin, tell me the fairy tale. It’s been a while since I heard one, and I might quite like it.”

“So stubborn, just like your Papa, aren’t you? And he was so like his father. I wish Albert were still alive so you could spend time with him while you are here. He would be delighted by you.”

“Was he your favorite? Did you love him?”

She shook her head. “I loved only my son. It’s best for our kind never to fall in love and become vulnerable. But I liked his father more than most. Albert was a good friend to me. He taught me about money and how to invest it. And he took care of our son. I have much to thank him for.” She raised her glass to the long-gone lover and took a hearty sip.

Before I could pressure her to tell me about La Lune, two waiters arrived with identical silver domes. One was placed in front of each of us, and then at the same time, with great ceremony, the lids were lifted off. The aromas and perfumes rose up. We had both ordered capon with truffle sauce, and for a few moments we admired our beautifully appointed plates before we began to eat.

“My husband is a very cruel man,” I said finally.

“Clearly, from what you’ve told me, he is certainly a ruthless businessman. Do you mean he is also cruel to you?”

I nodded.

“In bed?” my grandmother asked.

I was startled by her bold question for a moment, but only a moment. She was L’Incendie. Making love was her occupation. Matters of the bedroom were not a subject of embarrassment to her.

“In all ways.”

Since we were seated beside the window, there was no one to my right, and to my left was a party of six, busy conversing and not listening to us, but still I was uncomfortable talking about this at dinner.

“What were his particular persuasions?”

“He is . . . He was very rough—” I broke off. I’d never spoken of what went on between us to anyone.

“
Mon ange
, there is nothing that a man can want that I have not heard of and probably done for him. You don’t have to be coy with me. Did he hit you?”

“No, no.”

“Did he ask you to perform uncommon acts?”

“I’m not sure I’d know what is uncommon, but I don’t think so.”

“What then?”

“He was violent and quick. It was always very painful, and he didn’t care. Sometimes I thought he even enjoyed my pain.”

“It was always like this?”

I nodded. It would have been difficult answering her questions if we were at home, but it was especially so in a public place. Despite my discomfort she pursued the topic.

Leaning forward, she asked, sotto voce, “Did he ever pleasure you?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No. I said no. Not ever.”

“How long did he take when he made love?”

“Do you we need to discuss this here?”

“I find that sometimes lovely surroundings, wonderful food, and amazing wine make it easier to deal with the unpleasantries.”

“But the more you ask, the more I have to picture him, to remember him, his stench of cigars and whiskey . . .” I was feeling Benjamin’s large, strong hands squeezing my breasts and his fleshy mouth slobbering over me as he shoved himself in between my legs.

“How long did he take?”

“Two or three minutes.”

“Always? From the very beginning,
mon ange
?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “He told me there was something wrong with me on our honeymoon, and he seemed never to forgive me for it.”

“What do you mean something wrong with you?”

“With how I couldn’t respond,” I whispered.

“Did he tell you that you were frigid?”

The word shocked me. Especially said out loud in a fine restaurant. “Yes.” I drained my wineglass. Felt the warmth flood me. The worst part of it had been said. There was some relief in that.

“I knew it was not a love match, but I never suspected that it was so unsatisfying and hurtful. Based on your description of his performance, you can’t assume there’s anything at all wrong with you.”

“But I am sure. I know it. I can feel it.”

“No, lovemaking with a callous brute is never pleasurable.” She looked at me and smiled sweetly. “Until you’ve taken a gentle lover, you can’t know how responsive you are. No woman is incapable of pleasure, but some must be taught. Now, eat a bit more. You’re too thin to be healthy.” She put another pat of butter on my bread plate. “I promise, there’s nothing wrong with you. The women in our family aren’t made frigid.”

I knew she was mistaken. I’d bought illicit books and tried to do things to myself, and I’d failed to coax my body out of its frozen state. But rather than argue I took a forkful of the delicious food and put it in my mouth.

We ate in silence for a few moments more, and I allowed the sounds of the restaurant to lull me into thinking that this was an ordinary night, with a grandmother and granddaughter having a delightful dinner in one of Paris’s most famous restaurants.

“You have only told me a sketch of what happened in New York. Are you certain of what you heard between your husband and father?”

“That Benjamin gave Papa no choice? That it was shame either way?”

She nodded.

“Certain that I heard the conversation, yes.”

I again described walking into my father’s study and seeing him pointing the gun at Benjamin and then hearing what was said. I was calm in recounting the events of the night and how the next morning I had sent the valet to my father’s room, and the poor man returned to tell us why my father was not yet at the breakfast table. But when it
came to describing the scene of her son’s death for my grandmother, I could not continue.

Our dinners had grown cold. The waiter removed the plates, and my grandmother ordered us cognacs and coffees without asking me if I wanted one.

“For money,” she said in a sad faraway voice. “All for money.” Her eyes filled with tears, but only for a moment. I had seen her eyes fill like this before, and I marveled at how she could blink away her grief so efficiently.

“Did you know Benjamin was gambling?” she asked.

“Papa had only just told me.”

“Your father was such a good judge of character. I wonder why he never saw through Benjamin?”

I shrugged.

“I think . . . ,” Grand-mère said as the idea occurred to her, “that he didn’t want to believe he could have been so wrong about someone and doomed you to such a life all because of—” She broke off.

One waiter approached with the crystal balloons of brandy and the fine china cups for coffee. Another approached with a plate of pastel-colored petit fours and chocolate bonbons.

“Because of what?” I asked.

While I waited for her to resume explaining, I put one of the chocolates in my mouth. It was darkly suggestive, slightly bitter and lushly sweet all at the same time.

“Because I warned your father so often and so vociferously that love is dangerous for Verlaine women. It leads to heartbreak and tragedy. We are too passionate, and it is a poison for us. I told him to marry you off to someone who would take care of you and be good to you, but someone whom you wouldn’t fall in love with. Philippe made fun of my superstitions, but in the end he listened to me, didn’t he? Or at least he tried to.”