Paris: The Novel

letter was waiting for him in Paris on his arrival back at his studio. The next day, when Hadley came around, Marc showed it to him.
    Mon Chéri
,
    Welcome back. I long for you. Every time we make love, I only want you more, and I believe it’s the same for you
.
    But now, chéri, the time has come to make a decision. Is it going to be better than this with someone else, for you, or for me? I don’t believe so
.
    I want to have your babies. There is still time. You know that I am a woman of fortune. Why not make your life more easy? Why not have babies with a wife who loves you, instead of these mistresses who have children you have to hide?
    But if you decide that this is not what you want, if you don’t want to marry me, then although I love you, chéri, I am leaving you to find someone who will give me what I want, and what I deserve
.
    Think about it
. Je t’aime,
    H
    As he passed the letter to Hadley, Marc shrugged.
    “She wants to marry me.”
    “Evidently.”
    “What do you think?”
    “You could do worse. How do you feel about her?”
    “She never bores me. There is always something new. She has …”—he searched for words—“a ruthless intelligence.”
    “Ruthless?”
    “It fascinates me. And I also get a lot of work done when she’s around.”
    “Marry her.”
    “She’s older than me.”
    “That’s not everything. She looks as if she’ll age well.”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know what my parents would think.”
    “If you marry a woman with a small fortune and stay out of trouble, Marc, I suspect they can live with it.” Hadley shook his head. “You’ll have to make a commitment, that’s all.”
    “But I’ve never made a commitment in my life,” Marc objected.
    “You could start.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You’ll lose her. I don’t think it’s an idle threat. She’ll go.” He stared at Marc. “I guess the question is, can you live without her?”
    “I can live without everybody.”
    Hadley sighed.
    “Spoken like a true artist.”
    Marc looked at him in surprise.
    “You think so?”
    “They say that most artists are monsters. Not all. But most.”
    “I meant, do you think I’m a true artist?”
    “Oh, I see.” Hadley smiled. “Well, at least you’re a monster. Be grateful for that.”
    He handed the letter back to Marc, who put it on the table.
    “By the way,” said Marc, “I promised Marie that we’d meet her at rue Laffitte. We’d better get going. I’ll think about Hortense on the way.”

    The Vollard gallery was just up the street from the older Durand-Ruel gallery. Its owner was a gruff fellow. Unlike Durand-Ruel, he did not support artists. “He churns work, buys a lot cheap and sells it quickly. But he has the most interesting shows, all the same,” Marc had told Hadley. “In ’95, he had a big show of Cézanne, who most people had never heard of, and made quite a name for himself.”
    They waited awhile for Marie to arrive, but as she didn’t, they made themselves known to the owner.
    Vollard was a large, sharp-eyed, bearded man. Marc asked to see a Cézanne. “He’ll deliberately ignore what I asked for and bring something else,” he whispered to Hadley, and sure enough Vollard returned a few moments later with a painting by Gauguin, a scene from Tahiti.
    They gazed at the strange, exotic colors.
    “It’s powerful. Astonishing,” said Hadley.
    “Come back in two months,” Vollard told them. “I’m having a big Gauguin show.”
    “What else would you like to show us?” asked Marc.
    “What about this?” Vollard produced a small painting of the French countryside, the Midi somewhere, by the look of it. In some ways there were hints of similarity with the Gauguin painting. But there was a strange nervousness, a sort of cosmic urgency and fear in the work that was hard to define.
    “Who’s this?” Hadley asked.
    “He died nearly a decade ago. His brother was a dealer. Small time, but good.” Vollard shrugged. “I bought some. Still got a few. They’re not expensive.” He didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “Van Gogh is the artist’s name.”
    “I haven’t heard of him,” Hadley confessed.
    “Not many people have,” said Marc. “Buy one if you like it.” He smiled. “Just don’t expect to make any money from it.”
    They looked at some more work, hoping that Marie might still appear, but she didn’t. After half an hour, they left. On the way back to Marc’s studio, they stopped for a drink.

    Marie was