Chapter 93 1879

Yves stays half a week, walking the beach with a hand on Olivier's shoulder, kissing Beatrice on the back of her neck when she bends to pin up her hair. He is having a veritable holiday--in private he calls it a honeymoon. He loves the view of the Channel; it rests him enormously. But he must go back, to his regret, and he apologizes for having to leave them so soon. She does not dare look at Olivier the entire time Yves is there, except to pass salt or bread at the table. It is intolerable, and yet there are moments when she glances at herself in the mirror, or sees them strolling together, and feels surrounded by love, beloved by both, as if this is the right thing. They take a hansom with Yves to the station in Fecamp; Olivier demurs, but Yves insists that he must come along so that Beatrice will not have to ride back alone. The train exhales loudly; the wheels begin their husky motion. Yves leans out the window and waves, his hat in his hand.

They ride back to the hotel and sit on the veranda, talking about ordinary matters. They paint on the beach and eat their dinner--an old couple now that the third guest is gone. By some mutual consent, she does not visit Olivier's room again, nor does he visit hers. Every wall between them has fallen already, and she does not long for a repetition. It is enough to have this silent memory in their midst. The moment that he--or the moment that she -- or the way his tears of surprise and pleasure fell onto her face. She had thought he would belong to her forever after such a transgression, but it is equally the other way around.

In the train back to Paris, when they are alone, he holds her hand like a bird in his large glove, and kisses it before she alights to claim her luggage. They speak very little. She knows, without asking, that he will come to dinner the next day. Together they will tell Papa almost all about their vacation. They will begin work together on their great painting. She will remember him, his long smooth body, his silvery hair, the young man in love inside him, until the day she herself dies. He will always be near her, a spirit of the Channel.

Chapter 94 Marlow

Henri Robinson's reply came as a shock.

Monsieur le Docteur:

Thank you for your letter. I think your patient must be a man named Robert Oliver. He came to see me in Paris nearly ten years ago, and again more recently, and I have good reason to believe that he took something valuable from my apartment on his second visit. I cannot pretend to want to assist him, but if you can bring some light to this matter I will be happy to see you myself. I will consider allowing you to view The Swan Thieves. Please be aware that it is not for sale. Shall we say during the first week of April, any morning, if that suits you?

Respectfully yours,

Henri Robinson

Chapter 95 Marlow

I wished devoutly that I could take Mary to Paris with me, but she had to teach. From the way she declined, I knew that she wouldn't have come even if I'd arranged the trip to fall during her next vacation; it was too big a gift for her to accept from me after Acapulco. Once had been a pleasure, but twice would be a debt. I found a book on the Musee d'Orsay, which I knew she'd longed to see, and she turned the leaves over slowly.

Still, she shook her head, standing in my kitchen, her long hair catching the light. A decisive shake: no. It was less a rejection than quiet self-knowledge on her part. She was making breakfast for us as we talked, a surprising gesture of domesticity. It was the fourth time she'd stayed over at my apartment--I could still count those nights. When she departed, even earlier than I--for her university studio or classroom, or for the cafe where she liked to draw on lighter workdays--I left the bed unmade behind me and closed the door to the bedroom, to hold her scent. Now she flipped over four eggs and some bacon and set them in front of me with a grin. "I can't go to France with you, but I can cook you an egg, this once. Don't get any ideas, though."

I poured coffee. "If you go to France with me, you can have those nice hard-boiled eggs in little cups with your bread and jam, and much better coffee than this."

"Merci. You know the answer."

"Yes. But what will you say when I ask you to marry me, if I can't even get you onto a plane to France?"

She froze. I had uttered it casually, almost not knowing I was going to, but now I understood I'd been planning it for weeks. She was playing with her fork. My obstacle, I thought, too late, took the form of Robert Oliver, lounging somewhere behind me. No need to ask her what held her gaze, no point in pointing out that there was no one there, or that the Robert she'd known had been replaced by a lethargic man sketching on an institutional bed. Had Robert ever asked her to marry him, even jokingly? The answer, I thought, was written in the lines around her mouth, her eyes, the droop of her hair.

Then she laughed--"If I've gotten this far without marriage, Doctor, I don't need it now" -- and surprised me, in that way she had of knowing things I hadn't thought someone of her generation would, with a line from Cole Porter: " 'For husbands are a boring lot and only give you bother.'"

"Kiss Me, Kate," I said promptly, slapping the table. "You're too young to get married without your mother's permission anyway. And I'm no cradle robber, no Humbert Humbert, no--"

She laughed and flicked a drop of orange juice at me. "Cease the flattery." She picked up her fork again and cut into her eggs. "When you're eighty, buddy, I'll be--"

"Older than I am now, but look how young that is. 'Come on and kiss me, Kate!'" I cried, and she laughed more naturally and came around the table to sit in my lap. But there was a strange echo in the room, the name, Robert's Kate. We felt it together without a word. Perhaps to silence it, Mary kissed me hard. Then I gave her my last piece of bacon, and we finished breakfast like that, Mary on my lap, keeping out bad spirits by huddling together.

I had a great deal to do before I traveled, and it took me much of the morning, the day before I flew to Paris, to get through my paperwork. I saw Robert at noon and sat with him in the usual silence; I had no intention of telling him yet that I had decided to visit Henri Robinson. He would probably notice my absence, but

I was willing to let him wonder where I was, since he wouldn't be willing to ask anyone.

There was something else I had to take care of, too. Around four o'clock I went back to Robert's room, when I knew he was painting on the lawn. His door was open, to my relief, so that I didn't have quite the sense of breaking and entering that I might otherwise have felt, although I did look over my shoulder at the corridor a couple of times. I found the letters on the top shelf of the cabinet, a neat package. There was pleasure in having the originals in my hand again, as if I'd missed them without knowing it--the worn paper, the brown ink, Beatrice's elegant penmanship. Robert might well be upset when he discovered they were missing, and he would guess who had taken them again. There was no help for that. I put them in my briefcase and went quietly out.

Mary spent the night at my apartment. I woke once to find her awake, too, and staring at me in the half dark. I put a hand to her face. "Why aren't you asleep?"

She sighed and turned to kiss my fingers. "I have been. Then something startled me. Then I started thinking about you in France."

I pulled her silky head to my neck. "What?"

"I feel jealous, I think."

"You know I invited you."

"Not that. I didn't want to come. But in a way, you're going to see her, aren't you?"

"Don't forget that I am not--"

"You are not Robert. I know. But you can't imagine what it was like, living with them."

I struggled up onto my elbow to see into her face. "Them? What are you talking about?"

"With Robert and Beatrice." Her voice was sharp and clear, not fuzzed with sleep. "I think that's something I could say only to a psychiatrist."

"And that's something I could hear only from the love of my life." I saw the glint of her teeth in the dark; I caught her face and kissed her. "Stop it, my darling, and go to sleep."

"Please just let her die properly, the poor woman."

"I will."

She found the place for her forehead on my shoulder, and I arranged her hair around her in a wide shawl before she slept again. This time I lay awake myself. I thought of Robert, sleeping, or not sleeping, at Goldengrove, the bed a little small for his massive frame. Why had he gone to France those two times? Had it been because he wondered, as I did, whose hand had painted Leda? Had he found an answer? Maybe it really would have been too strong a subject for a woman, in a Catholic country in 1879. If Robert believed his Mistress Melancholy had done the painting herself, why would he have attacked it? Had he been jealous of the swan for some reason I couldn't fathom? I thought of getting up, dressing, taking my car keys, and driving to Goldengrove. I knew the alarm codes, the front desk procedures, the night staff. I would go silently to Robert's room, knock on the door, open it, and shake him awake. Startled out of sleep, he would speak. I took a knife with me to the museum. I attacked her because...

I put my face against Mary's hair and waited for the urge to pass.