“But since you’re offering,” said Henri. “While you two are talking?—”
“Oh, all right,” Juliette said, turning aside and pulling her blouse closed. “Marie’s death was convenient. I didn’t cause her to fall off the roof, but when she did, it served the purpose, she became the sacrifice. Poor Père Lessard didn’t have to die for the Sacré Bleu. That was that bitch Fate.”
“Fate is a person, too?” asked Henri.
“No, that’s just an expression. And yes, Lucien, yes, yes, yes your sister’s life was the price for the Sacré Bleu. I’m sorry. And I’m not a monster. I love you. I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
“And you possessed me.”
“To know you. No one knows you like I know you, Lucien. I know how much you loved your papa. Really know. I know how Minette’s death broke your little heart. I know your passion for painting, like no one else will ever know. I know how it feels to be hit in the head, morning after morning, with a perfect baguette. I was there when you discovered the magic, elastic properties of your willy. I—”
“That’s enough.”
“You are my only and my ever, Lucien. I’m free now. I am yours. Your Juliette. We can be together. You can paint.”
“And what will you do?” asked Lucien. “Work in the hat shop?”
“No, I have money. I’ll model, for you. I’ll inspire you.”
“You’ve given him syphilis, haven’t you?” said Toulouse-Lautrec.
“No, I haven’t. But it appears Monsieur Lessard needs to consider our good fortune. Dear Henri. Dear, brave Henri, you have some cognac around here, don’t you?”
“But of course,” said Toulouse-Lautrec.
Twenty-eight
REGARDING MAMAN
LUCIEN WAITED A WEEK AFTER THE COLORMAN WAS DEAD, FOR HIS ANGER to cool, before he was ready to tell Régine that their father had not been a philanderer and that she was not responsible for their sister Marie’s death. The trick was how to tell her without revealing the entire bizarre story of Juliette and the Colorman. He’d been faithful to his duties at the bakery, letting his sister sleep late and relieving her at the counter as soon as the baking was done, which went a long way in lightening her disposition.
It was Thursday morning, around ten, when the push of the day was already past, and he heard her singing a sweet song to herself as she swept the crumbs from behind the counter, when he decided to share the news that he thought might relieve her of a lifetime of guilt.
“Régine, Maman is a slut,” he said. “I thought you should know.”
“I knew it,” said an old man who had been sitting at one of the high tables by the window, so still up until that point that he’d become part of the furniture.
“You just mind your own business, Monsieur Founteneau.” She turned so abruptly to Lucien that had the broom been her tango partner she would have snapped his neck. “Perhaps in the rear,” she growled.
“Oh, I’m sure she likes it that way, too!” said Monsieur Founteneau. “You can tell by the way the slut waves it around.”
Lucien stepped gallantly between his sister and the customer. “Monsieur, that is my mother you are talking about.”
“Don’t blame me, you brought it up,” said Monsieur Founteneau.
Régine grabbed Lucien’s sleeve and dragged him through the curtain into the kitchen. “Why would you say such a thing? And in front of a customer.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been waiting to tell you. I don’t mean that Maman is a slut, I mean that she is the slut.”
“She could come down the stairs any second and if she kills you, I’m not going to save you again.”
Régine started to walk away. Luci
en grabbed her arm and spun her around. “I will tell you, but you must not mention it to Maman.”
“That she’s a slut?”
“That she was the woman you saw go into Papa’s studio all those years ago.”