The Last Van Gogh by Alyson Richman Read Free Book Online Page A

Mother died. “There are hundreds of books in my house, and if my children are curious, they can read and do their own investigation!”
    But marriage and love could not be found in a library of old books. And I wondered if Papa realized that, but preferred to have me wait—on him and his household. Me, the child who reminded him of his late wife, but with healthy lungs and a quiet demeanor.

    F ATHER arrived home the following evening, and went straight to his office to tell Madame Chevalier the reason for his good mood. His meeting with Theo had apparently gone well and, as Papa made no effort to stifle his voice, it was easy for me to hear the details of his afternoon. “Vincent is lucky to have such a devoted brother. The boy idolizes him, will do anything for him…. He’s confident that the art world will eventually recognize Vincent’s genius.” Madame Chevalier did not answer Father. I imagined that her head was down and she was concentrating on her knitting. “He’s entrusting me to maintain Vincent’s health and to make sure that he’s able to paint.” I could hear Father dropping his cuff links into the ceramic box he kept on his mantel.
    “We ate a wonderful lunch at La Coupole,” Father continued. “I told him how I was not unfamiliar with the artistic world. He already knew about my collecting but he had no idea about my ‘Wednesdays at the boulevard Voltaire.’” Papa chuckled. He was referring to the address of the pastry chef Eugène Murer, who hosted a weekly salon at his apartment that was frequented by the painters Pissarro, Sisley, Monet, and Renoir. Somehow, Papa had always managed to get himself invited.
    “I told him I’d pay him a visit at Goupil’s and take a look at the other artists he’s representing.”
    “You might want to invite Theo and his family here to visit Vincent,” Madame Chevalier suggested quietly. “It might make him feel less isolated in Auvers.”
    “I will—it’s an excellent idea.” I could hear his footsteps treading over the floorboards. “And that reminds me,” he continued. “There was a note from Vincent saying that he would accept my invitation to lunch this Sunday. Make sure Marguerite prepares something appropriate.”
    I could not believe my ears. Did Father think I wouldn’t make something appropriate? I wouldn’t have that much time to prepare my menu, but I would certainly never make something that would embarrass Papa or insult our guest.
    I felt my entire body stiffen with annoyance. I was more than capable of making a meal that Father wouldn’t be ashamed of!
    Irritated by his words, I tried to distract myself. I walked over to my window and opened the shutters. Outside, the sky began to fill with stars, and I could hear the grasshoppers down below chirping at the moon.
    I opened my journal and found the folded red poppy that Vincent had given to me a few days before. It was still damp between the pages.
    I picked it up carefully and studied its scalloped edges and crimson petals.
    When folded, it was like a fan. I imagined it as a miniature opera fan that, had it been larger, might have accompanied a woman who wore black gossamer silk and an enormous bustle attached to her skirt. One who was chic and elegant. One who alighted from her carriage with creamy white skin peeking from her collar and fingertips gloved in black satin.
    That night, I fell asleep with the pages of my journal open, imagining my mother as I had last seen her, though in my dream she wore two matching velvet shoes and held a magnificent scarlet fan.

SEVEN
     

Like Two Eagles
     
    S UNDAY morning, I awakened early and began my preparations for the luncheon. I didn’t ask Louise-Josephine to assist me because I thought that might appear a bit cruel, considering that neither she nor her mother would be invited to eat with us. It was at times like these that I didn’t know how to treat her or Madame Chevalier. In name, they were servants and, truth be told, the