Lautrec laughed, and the doctors laughed with him.

From Péan’s clinic Lautrec took a cab to a popular sidewalk café on the Rue Lepic, not far from his studio. There he joined his friend and fellow artist, Émile Bernard, at a small marble-topped table set up on the sidewalk under a fluttering yellow awning. The day was sunny, warm and pleasant under a clear blue sky. A variety of horse-drawn vehicles clip-clopped and rumbled up and down the cobblestones; a persistent conversational buzz pervaded the café, emanating from its diverse clientele—bohemians, bourgeoisie, working men and women, tourists, and flâneurs.

Lautrec and Bernard drank coffee and pastis. As they talked, Lautrec doodled on the tablecloth. His subject was a stocky, balding man with mutton-chop whiskers and a stained bib round his neck. The man was slurping his lunch, an immense bowl of onion soup. The man bore a remarkable likeness to Péan. Lautrec’s purplish lips grinned wryly as he drew objects floating in the soup that resembled the woman’s extirpated organs.

Bernard, a thin, intense young man in his early twenties with a thick shock of brown hair and slight beard, eyed the tablecloth caricature. “So, you attended another of Péan’s surgeries. Frankly, I find the subject morbid and rather distasteful.”

Lautrec stopped doodling and confronted his friend with a quizzical squint. “Morbid and distasteful, you say? Leonardo and Rembrandt attended dissections, and Gericault studied guillotined heads and cadavers at the Morgue. I assure you, my dear Émile, we artists can learn something of the human animal by witnessing its evisceration.”

Bernard made a face, registering his disgust. He changed the subject. “I’ve news from Theo; Vincent’s making progress at St. Remy. He’s working again.”

“I’m glad to hear it, though it’s his work that put him there. Rather, I should say his work and a host of other things, among them metaphysics, mysticism, hashish, absinthe, whores, the clap, rejection—and Gauguin.”

Bernard was accustomed to his friend’s cynical observations, and typically let them pass without comment. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear Vincent’s doing better. Theo worries too much about his brother and he has his own troubles, with a family to support and his own poor health.”

“Life’s no joke, Émile. We all have our crosses to bear in this vale of tears.”

Bernard used the biblical reference as an opening to a topic much on his mind of late. “Vincent and I corresponded on the subject of religion and the use of symbolism in modern art. In one of his letters he wrote something immensely profound, so much so I’ve committed it to memory: ‘Christ alone, of all the philosophers, magicians, etc., has affirmed eternal life as the most important certainty, the infinity of time, the futility of death, the necessity and purpose of serenity and devotion. He lived serenely, as an artist greater than all other artists, scorning marble and clay and paint, working in the living flesh. In other words, this peerless artist, scarcely conceivable with the blunt instrument of our modern, nervous and obtuse brains, made neither statues nor paintings nor books. He maintained in no uncertain terms that he made . . . living men, immortals.’

“Until now, I’ve looked for new styles, techniques, forms of expression suitable to our modern age. But I was wrong. What we really need is a new substance, a new essence in our art, to portray beauty and truth and to use our skill to transform souls. I believe that religious symbolism is the way forward. Not the old symbols of the Church, but something different that attempts to see modern life through the eyes of God, or at least as we conceive God would see it, and to imitate Him in the transformative, creative process as well.”

Lautrec almost snorted, “Rubbish!” but he checked himself. Instead he replied coolly, “That’s a fine ambition, and I wish you well. But as you know, I’m not religious and I certainly do not see the world through God’s eyes anymore than I see invisible, transcendent beings from the moon. For unlike God, assuming He exists, I’m mortal, changeable, fallible, and ignorant. I see the world with the keen, trained eyes of an artist who just happens to be a misshapen, ugly, dwarf. I make an accurate record of what I observe on the streets, in the dance halls, brothels, café concerts, in the surgery and morgue. What I see might be the work of God or the Devil, but that’s really of no consequence to me. It simply is what it is.”

Bernard knew that an argument with the skeptical Lautrec would prove futile, or worse. Disputes among artists were often vicious and destructive; Gauguin and Van Gogh were a tragic example. Rather than pick a fight, he asked about Virginie Ménard. “Henri, I’ve begun work on a new project, and I’d very much like to use Mademoiselle Ménard. I know she’s modeled for you in the past. I’ve gone to Cormon and checked with her concierge as well, but she seems to have disappeared. Have you seen her lately?”

“I saw her a few nights ago at the Moulin Rouge, but I’ve not seen her since,” he replied matter-of-factly. “A couple of rich American women were there that evening. As a matter of fact, they told me they liked my portrait of Virginie. I thought I was about to make a sale, but they seem to have disappeared too. Anyway, have you asked Zidler or some of his girls at the Moulin? They may know Virginie’s whereabouts.”

“Thanks, Henri, I’ll try them.”

“Well, I wish you luck. These lorettes are free, easy, and unpredictable. She could be living it up in Deauville with a rich Marquis, or sleeping it off in some hole with an apache.”

Émile frowned and shook his head. “Virginie’s not like that, Henri. That’s why I want her for my painting. I see her as an angel, a saint, or the Blessed Virgin Herself.”

Lautrec said nothing. He smiled knowingly, downed his pastis, and called for another round, paying for both.

Bernard thanked his friend. He liked Lautrec and admired his work, morbid and depressing as it was. But he often wondered: Why must he always be so damned pessimistic?

3

THE GRAND HOTEL TERMINUS & BOIS DE BOULOGNE

OCTOBER 14

Betsy Endicott and Marcia Brownlow shared a lavish suite at The Grand Hotel Terminus. On this morning, Betsy stood at a window overlooking the broad, tree-shaded avenue. A street-cleaning wagon pulled by a team of horses rumbled by, wetting the pavement with water spraying from its large, cylindrical tank.

She held back the white lace curtain and gazed across the thoroughfare at a great heap of mansard-roofed masonry, the Gare St. Lazare. She recalled how Marcia had admired Monet’s painting of the immense, steam- and smoke-filled cast iron and glass train shed. The railway station stirred thoughts of a longed-for journey, her desire to be on board a fast steamer to New York.

She frowned at the leaden skies; the droplets running down the window pane seemed to mirror the tears Betsy had shed over her companion. Marcia lay in bed under the care of Sir Henry Collingwood, an eminent Harley Street physician. Like Betsy, Marcia, and many other affluent foreign tourists attending the Exposition, Sir Henry had chosen The Grand Hotel for its convenient location, luxurious furnishings, first class service, and modern accommodations. The fact that Sir Henry occupied a suite on the same floor as Betsy and Marcia was providential.

Three days earlier, following their evening at the Moulin Rouge, Betsy and Marcia had breakfasted meagerly on a baguette and coffee served in their suite. Neither of them had much of an appetite, and the tension between them smoldered like a smoking match. The tense mood was aggravated by Betsy’s hangover and Marcia’s chronic illness. Between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of baguette, Betsy rubbed her aching temples and blinked her bloodshot eyes. Her behavior got on Marcia’s nerves, and she finally broke the silence: