“Juliette,” said Lucien. What is Henri doing? He only had to get dressed, not paint the whole scene.
“That’s right, Juliette. Did you ever get over that slut?”
Another elbow, this one from the other whore, and to the ribs.
“Ouch. Bitch. I was just showing an interest.”
“I’m fine,” said Lucien. He was not fine. He was even less fine now that he thought he may have tried to find comfort on the body of this rough beast.
“Ladies,” called Toulouse-Lautrec from the staircase. “I see you have met my friend Monsieur Lucien Lessard, painter of Montmartre.” He was pacing off the steps with his walking stick, stopping on each step. Sometimes his legs hurt him more than others, like when he was coming off a binge.
“He was here before,” said round clown.
Henri must have seen the alarm on Lucien’s face, because he said, “Relax, my friend. You were entirely too drunk and sad to avail yourself of the ladies’ charms. You remain as pure and virginal as the day you were born.”
“I’m not—”
“Think nothing of it,” Henri said. “I remain your protector. Apologies for the delay, it appears that my shoes escaped during the night and I had to borrow a pair.” As he reached the foot of the stairs he lifted his trouser cuffs to reveal a pair of women’s high-button shoes, rather larger than one was used to seeing in a women’s style, for although Henri was short, only his legs were of small proportion, due to a boyhood injury (and his parents being first cousins); his other parts were man size.
“Those are my shoes,” said round blond.
“Ah, so they are. I’ve made an arrangement with the madame. Lucien, shall we go? I believe lunch is in order. I may have not eaten in days.” He tipped his hat to the whores. “Adieu, ladies. Adieu.”
Lucien joined his friend and they walked through the foyer and out the door into the bright sun, Henri a bit wobbly on the high heels.
“You know, Lucien, I find it very difficult to dislike a whore, but that blond, Cheesy Marie, she is called, has managed to provoke my displeasure.”
“Is that why you stole her shoes?”
“I did no such thing. A poor creature, trying to make her way—”
“I can see your own tucked in your waistband in the back, under your coat.”
“No they aren’t. That is my hunchback, an unfortunate consequence of my royal lineage.”
As they stepped off the curb to cross the street a shoe dropped out from under Henri’s coat and plopped on the cobblestones.
“Well, she was being unkind to you, Lucien. I will not stand for that. Buy me a drink and tell me what has happened to our poor Vincent.”
“You said you hadn’t eaten in days.”
“Well, buy me lunch then.”
“Did you ever get over that slut?” In Rat Mort—Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, 1899
THEY DINED IN THE WINDOW OF THE DEAD RAT AND WATCHED PASSERSBY IN gay summer apparel while Toulouse-Lautrec tried not to vomit again.
“Perhaps a cognac to settle your stomach,” said Lucien.
“An excellent idea. But I fear Cheesy Marie’s shoes are ruined.”
“C’est la vie,” said Lucien.
“I think Vincent’s passing has upset my constitution.”
“Understandably,” said Lucien. He thought he, too, might have converted his repast to a spectral roar, if he’d tried to layer his dismay over a dead friend on top of three days and nights of debauchery as had Henri. They had both attended Cormon’s studio with Vincent, painted alongside him, drank, laughed, and argued color theory with him in the cafés of Montmartre. Henri had once challenged a man who insulted Vincent’s work to a duel, and might have killed him had he not been too drunk to fight.
Lucien continued, “I was in Theo’s gallery just last week. Theo said that Vincent was painting like a fiend, that Auvers agreed with him and he was doing good work. Even Dr. Gachet pronounced him recovered from his breakdown in Arles.”