Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope Page A

or you could go to jail.” He paused to let this sink in. “Did they quarrel about Cézanne? Or about something else?”
    Arlette twisted the handkerchief in her lap. Martin kept his eyes fixed on her, giving her no escape.
    Finally, she began to speak. “It happened right after we returned from the procession on the Virgin’s feast. He had found the letters. Mme Solange should have destroyed them when she got them, but . . . but she told me that she needed them in case Cézanne returned, to help her figure out what to say to him. That’s what she told me later, when it was over.”
    “M. Westerbury was very angry, then.”
    She nodded. “He kept shouting and shouting. Just like Jacques—my husband, Jacques.” Her chest began to heave. “I ran into the kitchen and covered my ears. I couldn’t stand it. They had never quarreled before. Not like that.”
    “Did you hear anything of what they said?”
    “At first I was too afraid. But they just got louder and louder. My mistress had protected me. I couldn’t just sit there and be a coward. If he raised his hand to her, I had to help her. So I ran back. He had the picture from the wall. He had it over his knee. He cracked it open and tore up the canvas. Threw it into the fireplace. The letters were already there. Torn up into little pieces. Mme Solange began laughing. But not like I had ever heard her laugh before.
    “She kept telling him that he was a fool. Men were fools. I remember that. And I remember the last words she said before she ran to her room and locked the door. ‘ Only two men could fight over a mountain .’”
    “What did she mean by that?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    “And Westerbury? What did he do?”
    “He kept stoking the fire until everything was all burned up. Then he shouted at me to have his things sent to the Hôtel de la Gare—where we stayed when we first arrived in Aix. Finally, he left.” The maid sank back into her chair, as if relieved that the worst was over.
    So at first Westerbury had merely taken out his rage on Cézanne’s homages to his lover, not on her person. In the two days between the quarrel and the murder, had this rage simmered inside him and finally boiled over? Or had Cézanne returned? Martin glanced at Arlette.
    “Do you think Mme Vernet had any reason to fear Cézanne?”
    The question seemed to surprise her.
    “I don’t think so. He always scared me a little. The two times he came to the salon, he sat there all silent and gloomy, and then he’d burst out with something, disagreeing with someone. He always sounded angry. I think Solange felt sorry for him.” Arlette paused for a moment. “Around her he was always gentle as a lamb. I don’t think she was afraid of him. I don’t think she was afraid of anything.”
    “Did Cézanne ever come here when M. Westerbury was not around?”
    “Only a few times.”
    Only a few , spoken like a loyal servant.
    “Did your mistress ever go to meet him somewhere else?”
    “I don’t know,” she whispered.
    “You don’t? Really?”
    She shook her head. “She never said anything to me.”
    And if she had, would Arlette tell? Martin was becoming more and more convinced that she would betray Westerbury, Cézanne, any man, rather than Solange Vernet, and would go to great lengths to protect her memory. Still, he was learning a great deal. He had verified the fact that Westerbury was jealous of Cézanne, and that the Englishman had been less than truthful about the last days of Solange Vernet’s life.
    “Now, let’s return to what you do know. What happened after Westerbury left?”
    “Mme Solange cried for hours and hours. I thought she would never stop. She kept saying things like ‘I thought Charles was different’ and ‘What things we women have to suffer.’ She had so many plans. She wanted to adopt a poor child. She had been so happy.” The maid sniffled and wiped her dripping nose with her handkerchief. Martin pressed her to tell him more about