Carmen’s eyes rolled back down, she took a deep breath, then she assumed the same smile that Juliette had worn a second before. “That was new,” Carmen said.
“You said that,” said Henri. “I mean, she did.” He nodded to Juliette, who was now the vacant beautiful doll with the torn dress standing in a pile of sand and laundry.
“That’s just it, Henri, it’s new.” She grabbed him by the ears and kissed him chastely. “Dear, brave Henri, don’t you see, nothing is ever new. He’s really gone, for good.”
“How? He was burned to little more than cinders before. Why is this different?”
“Because I don’t feel him.”
“But you didn’t feel him when we thought he was dead before, then you did.”
“But now I feel the presence of another. I can feel my only, my ever, my Lucien. He saved us, Henri. I don’t know what he did, but I can sense him, like he is part of me.”
Toulouse-Lautrec looked at her hands, her rough, red laundress’s hands, and nodded. “I suppose that Carmen’s time modeling for me is finished?”
The redhead cradled his cheek. “She can’t be allowed to remember this. It would break her. But she will always know that she is beautiful because you saw the beauty in her. The woman would have never known but for your eye, for your love. Because of you, she will always have that.”
“You gave her that. You are the beauty.”
“That’s the secret, Henri. I am nothing without materials, skill, imagination, emotions, which you bring, Carmen brings. You obtain beauty. I am nothing but spirit, nothing without the artist.” She reached into her—into Carmen’s—bag and pulled out an earthenware pot about the size of a pomegranate and worked the wide cork lid off. The Sacré Bleu, the pure powder, was there. She poured a bit, perhaps a demitasse spoon’s worth, into her palm.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
He held out his hand and she rubbed the color over his palm, between their palms, until both of their hands were colored a brilliant blue.
“Carmen is right-handed, right?”
“Yes,” said Henri.
With her uncolored hand, she unbuttoned her blouse. “What I just told you, about being nothing without the artist, that’s a secret, you know?”
He nodded. “But of course.”
“Good, now put your hand, with the blue, on my breast, rub it in as long as you can.”
He did as he was told, looking more perplexed than pleased. “As long as I can?”
“I hope there isn’t much pain, my dear Henri,” she said, and she jumped to Juliette.
Carmen Gaudin became aware of a strange little man in a bowler hat and a pince-nez kneading her breast under her blouse with blue powder, and as quickly as she realized it she slapped him in the face, knocking his pince-nez completely into the hallway (as the door had been open all this time), sending his hat askew, and leaving a blue handprint from the tip of his beard to his temple. “Monsieur!” she barked, then she pulled her blouse together, stormed out the door, and ran down the stairs.
“But…” Henri looked around, perplexed.
“Ah, women,” said Juliette with a shrug. “Perhaps you should follow her, or instead, take a taxi to rue des Moulins, where the girls are more predictable. But first the secret.”
“What secret?”
“Exactement,” said Juliette. “Good night, Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec. Thank you for seeing me home.”
“But of course,” said Henri, having no recollection of having seen anyone home, but then, he thought it might be a safe guess that he had been drinking.
Thirty
THE LAST SEURAT
THE MUSE LOUNGED ALONE IN THE PARLOR OF HER FLAT IN THE LATIN QUARTER, sipped wine, and gloated over the remains of her enslaver, which were contained in a large glass jar on the coffee table. Occasionally she giggled to herself, unable to contain the rising, ecstatic joy of freedom from the Colorman, whom she’d found was much more appealing as a jar full of multicolored sand.
“Hey, Poopstick, the only way you’ll frighten the maid now is if she forgets to bring her broom, non?”