The Green Muse (22 page)

“You should tell her,” Theo said to me seriously—­so seriously that I did not at first realize that it was he who spoke.

I said, “I know,” and Theo smiled at me, then turned to the young man next to him and said, “But you haven't read it!”

“Of course I have!”

“I meant that you haven't experienced it.”

I noticed that Theo wore a dyed-­green carnation in his lapel.
Oh my Lord, I thought, I have landed in Sodom!
But somehow I was not disgusted. I was more inclined to laugh, for what could be funnier, after escaping the clutches of the siren, to land among a temptation so far from my nature as to seem of another planet? But I did not laugh. I liked what Theo had said to me far too much for me to wish to hurt him in any way. And what a man does who hurts no one is not any business of mine.

“He is a great writer,” I said quietly, almost to myself.

Immediately Theo pounced. “And what do you think is the greatest of his works?”

“His cape,” I said, laughing. Oscar Wilde, some of whose fans affected green carnations after Wilde appeared onstage in one. Some of his followers called themselves the Green Carnation Society.

“Give the gentleman another drink!” But I protested, and was not pressured. My head was beginning to ache. I did not want to think about what had passed between me and Odette. I did not even want to think about Augustine; I felt I had done her an injustice. Talking about Oscar Wilde with cultured young men of this ilk seemed a good tonic for now.

At this point I decided that the swirl of activity around us was making me lightheaded, and decided that after all another drink, as well as some tobacco, would best steady my nerves. That, and more talk.

“What do you really think is his most important work?”

“His cape!” I said again, and then, as Theo lit my cigar. “I know that Wilde is most famous for his plays, and indeed they are delightful. But the work I most respect is
The Picture of Dorian Gray
.”

“Edouard!” We all turned at once, a dutiful audience. And Odette fulfilled her role: Her hair was in a pretty state of dishabille (it had been neater ten minutes ago), her eyes were sparkling, and her lip rouge made her look as if she had sprung from some fairy ring of violets.

She looked healthier than she had so shortly before, but I knew it was an artificial opium shine. The glimmer in her eyes was something she used as she used a brush to smudge the kohl about her eyes; and when the opium glimmer was gone her eyes would be dead again, as I had last seen them, naked and dead.

But I watched with amusement as Theo and the others became fools in the face of her beauty. I knew that these young men were not drawn to Odette as I had been. (I felt disgusted as I remembered how enamored I had been of that attraction, that temptation, more enamored of that than I had ever been of the actual woman, and how close I had been to losing my self-­possession, my integrity, my very right to care for a girl as pure as Augustine.) No, Theo in particular was clearly awestruck by Odette's aura of danger, her obvious, experienced decadence. One need not desire her physically to be fascinated by her; I could see the effect she had on the women around her, who, while they stepped away from this obviously
bad
woman, stared at her covertly with hooded eyes and unconsciously open mouths, ready to drink in whatever it was that made Odette, Odette. She cast her net wide and without discrimination, and as I watched Theo rise to kiss her hand I felt a dart of worry for him:
He is in danger
, I thought.

“Edouard,” Odette protested. “You should not have left me alone!” Never had there been a woman in less need of protection, but I rose and kissed her hand again and made my obsequies, feeling only amusement. Was this woman really the creature I had so lately found utterly hypnotic? Perhaps I had just wanted to lose my head, but not to Odette. No, not to Odette.

She continued to make pretty remonstrations for her audience's sake, but clearly she had lost interest in me. Theo, however, seemed to be proving satisfactory; although his interest was clearly not romantic in nature, it was intense, and his flattery genuine: He was mesmerized by her.

As I watched their gentle thrust and parry, I began to feel fatigued. I was not made for social excitement, I reflected; my nerves were overstimulated, and besides, I felt a headache coming on, likely the effect of Odette's “Egyptian” cigarettes.

I longed for home, for my desk near the fireplace. I wanted nothing more than to be seated there now, my little cat Goncourt purring in my lap as I composed a letter to Natalie. I rose to take my leave of Theo, only to find him gone, and Odette as well; and his friends had scattered to the trays of food and drink circulating about the grand room. I made my way to the door, pausing to find and thank my hostess, and doing my best to catalog in my memory the various dresses, fabrics, hairstyles, and diamonds I passed along the way. If I failed in my mission to bring every essence of this party to life for Natalie, my now-­terrible headache would be for naught. I looked in vain for Richet but could not bring myself to go back to the patio, although I knew he loved a good smoke and might easily be found there.

As I stepped outside I felt I had never before appreciated a cool breeze. I decided to walk the three miles to my lodgings, hoping to clear my poor sick head while cementing all of the evening's important details in my memory.

But, I thought ruefully, there were certain experiences of this night that I would definitely not be sharing with my baby sister.

 

“
A
UGUSTINE
, YOU MUST
keep our visits a secret.” V and I were sitting, as we had during her first visit, on my pathetic bed. In a beige faille skirt decorated with lavender leaves, and a lavender jacket with half-­moon-­shaped ivory buttons, she was so finely dressed that I was astonished she did not even brush off the sheet before she settled herself onto the bed.

I had to smile. “But Madame Soulavie, the entire ward already knows by now! News travels as fast as thought in this place!”

“Not from the other patients,” M. Soulavie said with his clipped politeness. “From any other visitor you might have. From your parents.”

An expression crossed Mme. Soulavie's face as swiftly as the shadow of a hummingbird: contempt. And then she lay her hand gently on her husband's arm, and said, “Don't frighten her, Charles,” and her voice was loving, her face calm, and I knew I had misread her eyes. “ It's just . . .” She turned to me. “It's just that we are well known in certain circles. I would not wish for ­people to think that our visiting you gives them the right to do what was so awful years ago: to tour the hospital to visit the pitiable insane. That is not why we are here, Augustine. But we travel in fashionable circles. And it is so easy for some simple thing one does to become fashionable to all the rest. There are those who would come and stare while telling themselves they are making a charitable gesture.

“And you do not need charity, Augustine. I did originally come for selfish reasons—­you look so like my dear sister! But now that we have become friends—­we are friends, aren't we, dear Augustine?” And suddenly she was at my feet, her little hands surrounding mine, her flower face imploring.

“Yes, Madame Soulavie,” I stammered.

“V. You must call me simply V. I am just a girl like you.”

I burst out laughing, and so did she.

“It's true!” she said, tugging at my hands in mock anger. “We are not so different, Augustine!”

“Oh, V!” I exclaimed, surprised at how easy it was to use her Chris­tian name. “You are from a very different world. I am just a farm girl. Even now I sometimes fear I smell of dandelions and cow pies!”

V's lovely face became pensive. “I spent one summer in the countryside. I was at boarding school; I was ten. Usually my summers were spent traveling with my family. But this summer I spent with the other children from the school, those with no family to go home to, those whose families did not want them. We played every day out of doors in a great meadow filled with dandelions. I love that smell to this day. It brings it all back: the sun, the freedom, the innocence.” She paused. “I cannot say that I am familiar with the smell of cow pies, though.”

She lightly squeezed my hands and jumped up; sometimes she really was like a little girl.

“Augustine, I have something for you.” Her husband, who had been standing at a discreet distance, stepped forward and handed her a wrapped package from his coat pocket. He was regarding her as he always did, with indulgence and pride and a kind of secretive admiration, as if each time she surprised him again with her grace and kindness.

“For you,” she said, handing me the parcel and sitting once again at my feet. She leaned her arm companionably on my thigh and said, “Open it!” Then, turning to M. Soulavie, she said, “Darling, would you be so kind as to wait outside? This can be of no interest to you. It is silly girls' business.”

“Of course, my love,” M. Soulavie replied. He bowed his head to me and left.

“He will go wait in the carriage,” V assured me. “And he has his newspapers to read. You know, those things that are so fascinating to men and so utterly useless to women.

I felt a sharp pang of longing for my father, but I also found myself wanting to be the girl V thought I was. And I wanted to open my package, because I had known instantly what it was.

And it was more beautiful than I could ever have hoped for or imagined. I had opened it with its back to me, and it was fine bright silver, and the oval was bigger than my whole hand. It was etched from the bottom of the handle with raised vines that spread up and resolved themselves into a lilac tree that enveloped the entire back. I was afraid to turn it around. I was afraid to look into it.

“You are beautiful, Augustine. Do not be afraid.”

But still I could not look. Surely my face would be as dark as any farm laborer's, to V's cool porcelain. My lips had probably lost what little color they had in this place, whereas hers were rose petals. My hair was coarse to the touch, hers a silken waterfall.

“I knew you would be this way, silly girl! So I have brought along some other things for you. And she brought out of her bag two small tin pots and a blue glass-­stoppered bottle. “Green rice powder,” she said. “ It is what I use. And blush—­I thought Cherry Blossom would be right for you. I use Ashes of Lavender myself. And hair oil with chamomile and honey.”

“That is what my mother puts on my hair!”

“You have a wise mother. Now come, let us make you feel beautiful. It does not matter in the least that you already are. No woman is ever completely assured of her own beauty.”

I picked up the tins one by one. The rouge was Bourjois, the finest brand in Paris; it had also been the first. I opened the top gingerly and almost gasped in delight at the lovely shade of pink that met my eye. I put it down reluctantly and opened the next. Green rice powder! That was for women with fair skin—­surely V could not think me half so fair as she? But just as surely she would not have gotten me the wrong color powder. I started to stammer out my thanks but I was so moved as to be near tears.

V sat on the bed and patted the space next to her. “Now,” she said in a practical voice. “Down to work. I suspect you have never applied makeup before.”

I did not say that I had used Adelaide's blush; I felt somehow that it would disappoint her, and I found myself more willing to lie than to disappoint V, something I thought myself incapable of just a few months ago. “Heavens no!” I said. “Papa says that the application of makeup is simply the first step toward a woman's degreda—­Oh! I'm so sorry!”

Her laugh was golden. “A girl should have a strict papa.”

I thought again of Papa, and home, and V became serious. “We are here, Charles and I, to free you, Augustine. Charles has connections. You have already become dear to me. Now, don't cry! There is nothing I can do about red-­rimmed eyes with only the small arsenal at our disposal! Have patience, you will see how much better things will get for you, and how soon. Come, let me show you how, Augustine.”

 

T
HEY FO
UND HIM
sprawled in the gutter, his pockets turned out, his face horrible. I was not disposed to get up, to say the least, when Martin arrived at my apartment so early in the morning. My head was still full of smoke and pearls and whisky; I did not feel at all well, or at all intelligent. How anyone can smoke such stuff on a daily basis! I had Martin fetch me a coffee and some bread. I broke off half the loaf and gave it to him, for which he was silently grateful, and sent him on his way with four sous in his pocket.

As I readied myself I thought about the world I had entered last night, and I was profoundly grateful to be back in my own mundane reality. I was due at La Salpêtrière at nine and hoped to visit with Augustine after my work was through. I hurriedly boarded the bus, barely missing the mud kicked up by the horses that drew it, and stood in excruciating proximity to a woman loaded down by an impressive amount of garlic.

Capt. Bezier was waiting for me. “An easy case,” he said without preamble as I approached. “But there was no identification found on the body. Obviously he was robbed, most likely by his own kind.”

I expected to see the sort of gutter criminal one sometimes found, his clothing in tatters, beaten and robbed by fellow thieves. But this young man was exquisitely dressed, although his jacket was missing, as well as his tie. Matted blood about obscured the color or print of his vest or shirt, even the color of his hair. I leaned to look at his hands: They were perfectly manicured, although two of the nails on his right hand had been torn away, and his palms and fingers bore slashes on both hands. His face was turned away. I moved to his feet, which were shod in softest calfskin. This man had been a dandy, not some member of the criminal gang. I glanced up at the captain, who was regarding me with an indulgent expression.

“You haven't noticed the flower that lies near the body? A lovers' quarrel, I have no doubt.”

A green flower, smashed but recognizable. Suddenly I found myself kneeling with my hand on his hair, brushing it back to reveal a pallid cheek, a closed eye.

“I know this man,” I said quietly; my heart was not quiet. It was all I could do not to give way to tears.

“What? How on earth?”

“I met him at a party at Mme. Gaudet's house last night, just a block from here.”

“A party? With this sort of man? Do you know what the green carnation signifies?”

“Yes. He was a very pleasant gentleman. His name is Theo. Was. Theo DeManard, I think. Certainly he took pains to resemble Oscar Wilde—­his cape is missing, you know. He was quite witty.” I was moved to unbearable sorrow by the look on Theo's dead face. Rigor had not set in: His horror was genuine.

“A lovers' quarrel, as I said,” Capt. Bezier continued. “That sort is not difficult to—­”

Sadness turned instantly to anger. My head throbbed, I was back in Mme. Gaudet's lovely ballroom, there were beautifully dressed ­people and the smell of fresh-­cut flowers and melting wax, and the candlelight set certain things aflame: a woman's elaborate hair, a man's bright cravat, the delicately patterned purple of Theo's vest.

“He was a human being, Captain Bezier! He has as much right to live as any of us. And he was so full of life. Why would I care in what manner he loved?”

“Ah, Edouard, I am sorry. I was unaware he was your friend, and of course I should have known that you would not possess the prejudices common to the ordinary man.”

“I am nothing if not an ordinary man,” I said wearily. “I am almost finished here. Is there more you would require of me?”

“Only your forgiveness, Edouard.”

I looked up, surprised. I had never thought Capt. Bezier had even noticed me as a human being, really. I assumed he thought of me merely as another apparatus used in the investigation of crime; that I was nothing more to him than my camera and photographs.

“Of course I forgive you, Captain Bezier. I know that my thinking is unorthodox in some ways. I cannot help it.”

“Nor should you,” he said warmly, then seemed instantly ashamed at having shown so much. “Now run along,” he said brusquely. “Get to La Salpêtrière. You are no longer needed here.”