The Last Van Gogh (26 page)

“You? You? Why would you encourage her?”

Louise-Josephine was now standing in front of Papa. In contrast to her diminutive form, Papa appeared like a giant.

“Yes, I encouraged her! Why not? What does she have to live for here, in this house? Neither she nor I have any opportunity to marry. She, because you have never given her the opportunity. And I am denied it because I don’t even have a birth certificate.”

Her voice was as clear as a battle cry. I was kneeling on the flight of stairs, my crossed arms covering the neckline of my dress.

“I was the one who encouraged her because I thought we both had little to lose in our present situation!”

Louise-Josephine’s face was now as red as a stick of rhubarb. I had never seen her so impassioned, and I stood there completely in awe of her.

Papa, however, was clearly not impressed with her behavior. He wrinkled his face with disgust. “You don’t know what you speak of, Louise-Josephine. When you were two years old, I helped your mother secure the proper papers for you—the ones that verify that your birth was not through incest or an adulterous relationship. You are in fact free to marry…. My daughter’s behavior, on the other hand, is unacceptable!”

Louise-Josephine took a step backward and I could see the shock register on her face. “What do you mean? Why have I never been told about this certificate?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe my mother never mentioned it to me before!”

“It is true. But that is another matter.” Papa turned to face me. “None of this, however, is any excuse for Marguerite’s behavior.”

Louise-Josephine began to stammer as if she wasn’t sure she should thank Papa or continue to defend me.

“Please do not be cross with Marguerite, Pa—” She nearly said Papa. I heard it at the tip of her tongue, but she stopped short. “I was the one who put this fantasy into Marguerite’s head. She was only trying to ensure that Vincent was feeling better.”

“It’s true…,” I managed to interject.

“It is very courageous of you to defend my daughter,” he said to Louise-Josephine as he reknotted the sash of his silk robe. “But only she can be held responsible for her actions. Marguerite has insulted her upbringing, embarrassed me and our family name. Do I need to remind the two of you that Monsieur Van Gogh is a patient of mine? And a very troubled one at that, sadly. He is not a potential suitor for any young girl, especially my daughter. I have told her this before. Yet, still she went against my wishes. What sort of practice can I have if people hear that my children are cavorting with those entrusted to my care?”

I was now sobbing and my knees were rattling like two winter branches underneath my dress. Had I not had the support of the banister, I would have fallen to my knees.

Papa was still staring at me. Although his face had softened slightly, traces of his anger still remained. I noticed that he had bitten through the skin of his lip.

He now looked exhausted, as if he had used every ounce of his energy confronting me. “This is simply unacceptable behavior.”

Louise-Josephine, realizing there was little further she could say to Papa, walked over and pulled me up from the stairwell.

Papa continued to stare at us both.

“We will speak of this tomorrow, Marguerite. I want you in my study after breakfast,” he said sternly. His blue-gray eyes looked like sharp, broken pieces of china in the moonlight. He walked past me and said nothing as he solemnly returned to his bedroom.

FORTY-TWO

A Fitful Night

I
EMBRACED
her that night. We clung to each other, her arms wrapped around me as the tears fell down my cheeks and my half-braided hair fell in tangles around my ears.

“He will be less angry in the morning,” she promised. But I could tell in her voice she didn’t believe it. After so many weeks of secret meetings and whispering, Louise-Josephine and I could read each other too well.

“He will forbid me from ever seeing him again,” I said, burying my face in the cloth of Louise-Josephine’s nightdress. “Tonight was a mistake.”

“Tell me,” she said stroking my hair, “tell me what Vincent said. Were you able to see him?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said through my tears. “But it is wonderful news that this certificate exists for you. You will be able to marry Théophile.”

Louise-Josephine shook her head. “Yes, but let’s not talk about that now. Your situation with Vincent is far more pressing. Tell me what happened.”

I tried to gather myself and tell her what had transpired.

“I did see him,” I said. “But his meeting with Theo has sent him into a deep depression.” I took a deep breath. “I hardly recognized him.”

Louise-Josephine threaded her hand into mine. Her fingers wrapped around my own, like a child holding on to something precious.

“He’s depressed about Theo and worries about money. He says he’s tempted to have a wife and speaks of yearning to have a courtship with me….” I paused. “But he knows he’s incapable of it. He believes it’s impossible to have both love and art in the same life.”

She said nothing but continued to hold my hand.

“You were right,” I said. “You were right. It was just as you suspected.”

“Marguerite,” she said soothingly, “I will not let you waste away here. I promise you that.”

“No, one day you will get married and you will forget about me.”

“Never!” she said. “I would never do that to you, Marguerite.”

I could read the sense of determination she had in her voice. “I have the railroad timetables, and you will join me and my fiancé. We will ride away on the train and never return to this place.”

I closed my lids, imagining the three of us riding off as she described.

I wanted to call her “sister.” But this time, I was so overcome in my own grief, the word only floated through my mind, unable to fall from my lips.

I
SLEPT
fitfully for those few hours before daybreak. As the roosters sounded in the morning, I rose slowly, unwrapping Louise-Josephine’s tangled limbs from mine.

There was nothing I dreaded more than seeing Papa at breakfast. The image of him standing atop the staircase, his face swollen in anger and his hand swiping across my cheek, was now indelible in my mind.

In a desperate attempt to soften his mood, I decided to bake madeleines for him and prepare a pot of hot chocolate. I took out the heavy cast-iron mold from the cupboard and prepared the golden batter to ladle into the delicate shell formations.

At least he’ll awaken to one of his favorite scents,
I thought as I inhaled the sweet aroma of the madeleine mixture.

Paul came downstairs before Papa and came into the kitchen.

“What’s this?” he said, opening up the door of my oven. “Madeleines for breakfast?”

I didn’t answer him. I wiped my hands on the front of my apron and began to fill one of the work bowls with water.

I had made up my mind that I was not going to discuss the details with him, so I tried to busy myself with the cleaning of my pots. Paul, however, seemed determined to get the full story from me.

“So where were you last night?” He swiveled around on the heel of his shoe before nestling against the counter. “Madame Chevalier had to hold me back. We were both listening to you and Papa from the hallway.”

I winced. If Madame Chevalier was on the second-floor landing when this all occurred, it meant she had spent the night with Papa. The hypocrisy of his anger infuriated me.

I tried to ignore my brother. “I’m not discussing this.” I paused. “It was an unfortunate event.”

“You had another secret meeting with Vincent, didn’t you?” He had one finger idly hooked in his breast pocket, but his eyes were firmly planted on me.

I didn’t answer him. I took out a saucepan and filled it with milk then lit the stove.

“There’s no reason to be so coy, Marguerite,” he said. “I’m your brother—you should be confiding in me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not confiding in anyone.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked deeper at me. “You’re confiding in Louise-Josephine and she’s not even blood!”

“Are you sure of that, Paul?” I stepped closer to him.

Paul’s eyes now grew wide. He could not believe I would be so bold as to suggest we were related to Louise-Josephine. But I knew he, like me, had contemplated the possibility before. He just couldn’t believe I would utter it aloud.

“Why do you think Papa has gone out of his way for Louise-Josephine all these years? Why do you think he went to all that trouble to secure that certificate he spoke of last night?”

Paul was shaking his head. He did not want to listen to what I was saying. “It is because he has deep affection for Madame Chevalier! That is why he has done so much for her daughter.”

“Don’t be so naïve, Paul.”

“I am not naïve,” he said. “You’re the foolish one, Marguerite, if you think Papa will stand for your indiscretions.”

I didn’t answer him. He reached over to the fruit basket and took a pear before leaving.

“Good luck with Papa,” he said as he left me. His voice was full of venom.

A
S
I lay the cooling madeleines on the wire rack, I heard the sound of Father’s footsteps treading slowly down the stairs. The garden door shut and he was suddenly in the garden talking to his animals.

I knew Papa would be waiting for me shortly to come out with his breakfast tray, so I quickly arranged everything—placing the soft yellow madeleine shells on a scalloped plate and pouring his hot cocoa into a ceramic bowl. For a finishing touch, I broke off one of the stems of roses from the arrangement in the hallway and placed it in a small vase on the side.

I walked down the hallway and opened the door to the garden. Papa was reclining on his lawn chair and I could tell from the way his eyelids fluttered, he was just as tired as I was.

“Good morning, Papa,” I said as I placed the tray down beside him.

He didn’t answer me but continued to stare at the animals pecking at the ground.

“I made you something different for breakfast today.”

He peered down at the three madeleines and hot chocolate and nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

I stood there for several seconds waiting for him to speak, but he uttered nothing. The broad, flat leaves of the lime tree had cast a large shadow across his face so that half his features seemed to be in darkness. He had not shaven and there were tiny strawberry and white whiskers where his cheeks were usually soft and clean.

“I don’t know what to say about last night,” he finally said to me.

I lowered my eyes.

“I cannot tell you how much you’ve disappointed me, Marguerite.”

I looked up at him and saw that his gaze was still focused on something other than me. He couldn’t bear to look at me when he spoke.

“Your behavior has left me speechless.”

He reached over and took a small bite of one of the madeleines.

I felt a small noise come from my lips—a feeble protest—but he silenced me before I could articulate the right words.

“Vincent is a sick man, Marguerite. He may very well be a genius, but he
will
not be a potential suitor for you. Is that clear, Marguerite?”

I nodded my head.

“Furthermore,” Papa added, “you are far too young to be considering marriage.”

“I am twenty-one!” I cried. “I am not too young—I am actually close to being too old!” The words were now flying from my lips.

“Stop this!” He had no patience to listen to my protest. “You belong here taking care of me and Paul. We are alone here. Your mother died and left me with you and your brother…. I don’t understand why you think a life helping out your family is shameful. Especially with all the good work we do here for my patients. I need you here with me if I’m to keep on helping them. We can’t only be thinking of ourselves and our own needs!” He placed his head on the table as if in despair. “These are very important people, Marguerite…artists! And if I cure Vincent, more artists will come….”

“Father, but you would not be alone here. Madame Chevalier could assist you. She’s devoted—”

“Madame Chevalier has nothing to do with this conversation, Marguerite. Your responsibilities and hers are wholly different.”

I could not respond to him as I wished. What I wanted to say would have resulted in another slap across my face. I didn’t even risk raising an eyebrow in response.

“Yes, Papa,” I said, instead.

It was just as Louise-Josephine had forecast. It wouldn’t be Vincent or anyone else if Papa had his way. I belonged to him and this house, like a piece of furniture. I was to remain.

FORTY-THREE

A Suitable Punishment

T
HE
next day when I asked permission to go to church, Papa shook his head no. Then Monday, when I needed to go into town to do my shopping, he told me he had already sent Madame Chevalier out to do the errands.

When Papa informed me that my brother would be keeping an eye on me when he was away on business, I was mad with fury. To be watched by my younger brother was the worst insult I could imagine. But Father would not tolerate my protests.

It was clear Papa was now limiting my movements, to prevent any future contact with Vincent.

“You have brought this upon yourself, Marguerite,” he told me. “You have proven you cannot be trusted.”

His words were chosen to inflict the maximum amount of cruelty.

“You will no longer be allowed to see Vincent at all. When he comes here to receive his tinctures or to paint in our garden, you will remain upstairs in your bedroom.”

“Papa.” I felt his name fall from my lips as if I were uttering a lamentation. “Please don’t do this….”

“Marguerite, there will be no further discussion.” He cut me off before I could say anything more.

Henrietta was now nuzzling at the ankle of Father’s boot. I watched as he dug his wrinkled white fingers into her fur. She looked up at him with those big, wet eyes of hers, the whiskers of her chin rubbing against his knee. He was so pleased to be in the company of his pets, and I wondered why he felt the only company worthy of his attention were animals and artists. There was obviously little room in his heart for me.