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

ones that should be making the lunch. Yet Father treated Madame Chevalier more tenderly than he did my late mother, and he certainly appeared to shower Louise-Josephine with affection. He never asked either of them to do the errands or the cooking. The only housework she or her daughter really did was a little dusting or light sweeping. They didn’t even do the laundering, as Papa insisted that it be sent out.
    I would be lying if I said that I did not suspect that Louise-Josephine was his daughter, born out of one of his long visits to Paris when my mother was alive. She had a sense of entitlement that I would otherwise think peculiar in a typical servant’s child. However, I never questioned it out loud. Just as I never mentioned my suspicion to Paul—though I’m sure he, too, heard Madame Chevalier’s footsteps, the tiny patter that echoed through the house as she routinely walked down the stairs at night to visit Papa in his room.
    As I trimmed the tough ends of the asparagus stalks, I found myself wishing that I had secrets of my own so that I could distract myself from the ennui of my everyday life. I thought about how my mother must have felt quarantined in this house, distanced from her beloved Paris. No place to dress up in the silk gowns that lined her closet. No boulevards to promenade down or damaskupholstered salons to visit, where one could gossip for hours and sip tea. It would have been a painfully lonely life for her—remaining indoors all day with few or no distractions. But now I realized that my late mother was not the only one who led that life. So, clearly, did I.

    S HORTLY before Vincent was scheduled to arrive, Paul came into the kitchen. “Do you think Father would mind if I showed Vincent some of my paintings?”
    I was stirring some poached pears, trying to ensure that I didn’t get any red wine on myself. “I don’t know, Paul,” I replied. “Perhaps you should ask Papa.”
    He looked crestfallen. “He’s been in the studio all morning, and I think he’s preparing to show Vincent some of his paintings.”
    “Well, lunch is supposed to be for Vincent and Papa, not really for us,” I reminded him. “We should be happy that he’s including us at all.”
    It would never have occurred to me to be so brazen as to show Vincent my watercolors. I would have been embarrassed to show him something that I knew he would consider amateurish.
    “Do you think he might like them, Marguerite?” Paul asked. For several moments I ignored him. I was trying to focus on the food preparations and making sure that the table was set with great sensitivity—silently hoping that Vincent would notice my efforts to create some semblance of beauty in our otherwise crowded, dark house. Paul, however, was too absorbed in his own dilemma to notice my concentration on matters besides him.
    He clanked one of my pot lids down and the noise startled me. “Paul!” I cried. I poked him with the wooden spoon I had been using. “Vincent will be arriving in a few minutes and nothing is done yet!”
    “But what about showing him my paintings? I am going back to Paris this evening and I won’t have a chance to see him all week!”
    I let out a loud sigh, unable to conceal my growing impatience with him. “I don’t know, Paul…. Papa wants us each to play him something on the piano. See how much he enjoys that. If he likes that and shows enthusiasm, then you might ask him if he’d also like to see your paintings.”
    Paul straightened his back and beamed.

    V INCENT arrived twenty minutes late, huffing and puffing like a laborer who had been in the fields all day. He had changed his clothes and wore a jacket and hat, but the cloth seemed worn and his shoes were scuffed and tracking mud. “Mademoiselle Gachet,” he said when I opened the door, “your father has been most kind to invite me for lunch.”
    “Yes,” I said. “We’ll be eating in the dining room this afternoon.” I motioned for him to come in.