He had a good eye and an even better business mind. He understood that the best galleries featured a mix: the stylistically avant-garde to get people whispering about how bold he was, classics to soothe the soul, some lower-priced art to inspire impulse purchases, and other pieces that would be considered investments. People were desperate to forget about the horrors of the war and set their eyes on beauty. Dabbling in the local art scene appealed to the tourists, and so the gallery flourished.
That night at the Marsden Hartley opening, I was impressed by the guests who stopped by for a look at the new paintings and to sip a glass of champagne and engage in some witty repartee. Mixed in with the French were quite a few Americans who had left the States for the more libertine and much cheaper lifestyle in France. Sebastian introduced me to Gerald and Sarah Murphy, who arrived with F. Scott Fitzgerald, and to Jean Cocteau.
Aware of the artists and writers Sebastian now included in his circle, I saw my brother in a new light. He’d done a rather good job of finding a place for himself in this world. What a long way he’d come since our Paris days, when I was at L’école studying and making close connections with my fellow classmates and he struggled to work his way in as an outsider. I was the first artist he ever represented, and now I wasn’t sure he needed his witch of a sister and her shadow portraits any longer. As pleased for him as I was, I felt a little left out and wondered if I’d ever find my own circle after abandoning Paris and living in New York for so long. Hating that I was indulging in self-pity, I found a waiter who was happy to refill my champagne glass.
I was wandering through the exhibit, thinking that perhaps I should leave, when my brother waved at me from across the room and motioned for me to come over.
Reaching his side, I found him standing with the renowned opera singer Emma Calvé, whom I’d met briefly years before at the Dujols bookshop in Paris. I remembered how everyone flitted around her, in awe of her stardom.
“La Diva.” My brother introduced her, using the name by which she was most well-known. “This is my sister. Delphine, Madame is an old friend of Maman’s, and she said she thinks you two have been introduced before.”
I extended my hand. She took it and held it in both of hers. A critic had once said she had the voice of an angel—an angel of darkness. I’d never heard her sing, but she looked the part, with raven eyes and hair to match.
“We have met, I’m sure. You weren’t with your mother, though. I would remember that. I knew Sandrine when she was young. I haven’t seen her in years. You look like her, too, but that is not why I think we’ve met. Who could forget your glorious red hair? Where do I know you from, dear?”
Her musical training was audible in her speaking voice. It poured like molten gold, without impurities. She’d aged a little since I’d seen her last—she was heavier—but her somber beauty was still arresting and her eyes still sparkling.
“It is nice to see you again, Madame,” I lied. She exuded nothing but benevolence, and yet all I wanted to do was run from her, get back in the car, and go home. “We did meet once before, in Paris,” I said. “At Pierre Dujols’s bookstore.”
Madame Calvé was one of the greatest divas of her time and had created the major roles of Mascagni and Massenet, but it was her Carmen that had made her famous. She was said to have performed the character as a wanton woman, leaving nothing to the imagination, employing diabolical witchery to seduce Don José. And from what I’d seen of her in Paris, I never doubted it. Madame had been a regular at Librairie du Merveilleux, where Mathieu’s bookbinding workshop was also housed. Interested in the esoteric and spiritualist movement, Madame had attended many lectures given by Mathieu’s uncle and contemporaries, and I’d often seen her in the audience.
Dujols had some of my artwork on the walls of the shop. When she’d inquired about them, he introduced us. The exchange couldn’t have lasted for more than a few minutes. Of course, I’d remember meeting a great star with more clarity than she would remember being introduced to a young painter just starting out.
“Ah, yes. And you were a friend of Mathieu Roubine, weren’t you? He was engaged to be married. Did you know? The woman broke his heart. His uncle told me it never healed.”
For a moment, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe but forced myself to act nonchalant. I couldn’t react. After keeping Mathieu a secret for so long from everyone but my older sister, the last thing I wanted was for the truth of our romance to be revealed at this moment with Sebastian at my side.
Was I the fiancée she was referring to, who had hurt him so badly, or had there been someone after me, the idea of which made me feel worse? I was nervous just hearing his name. I longed for him still. I always would. Our connection was forged with unbreakable bonds. But I was Mathieu’s poison. In New York, he’d been an ocean away. Now it was just a train ride. Far too close.
“I did know him slightly. I’m sorry to hear about his troubles.” And then, changing the subject, I asked her, “Are you in Cannes for the summer? Do you have a house, or are you visiting friends?”
I was thankful when she didn’t notice my abrupt transition, but from the way my brother was looking at me, he did.
“Yes, visiting friends, but I do have a house nearby. An afternoon’s ride away, in Millau. I’ve retired, but I still have soirees there and take in students for the summer.”
The aura around Madame Calvé changed from a soft peach to a teal blue, and I knew that for all her greatness and success, she was supremely unhappy and frustrated. My instinct was to put my arm around her and comfort her, but of course, I refrained.
She continued, “My house is the reason I’m here. I bought it in 1894, after I had learned its history. It’s said that in the Middle Ages, Nicolas Flamel, the greatest alchemist of all time, was given a rare and magical book called The Book of Abraham the Jew, which was rumored to hold the secrets to immortality and transmutation. Flamel spent more than twenty years traveling the world trying to learn its secrets. And once he did, they changed his life. Eventually, the book was stolen by or fell into the hands of Cardinal Richelieu, who, according to legend, was obsessed with learning Flamel’s formulas. At some point toward the end of his life in 1642, he hid the book in my chateau.”
As befitting any world-class opera singer, Madame Calvé had the skills of both an actress and a storyteller, and she was calling on all her powers to draw me in. I couldn’t resist the melodious voice spinning the tale. And at the same time, I sensed danger. Then I thought myself foolish. I’d only had a fleeting impression of something malevolent. It could be nothing. Or a connection to the history of the book she was talking about, not related to her at all.
“Flamel was a great sage and seer,” she was still explaining, “and in his lifetime was known for his kindness and generosity. When he was eighty years old, he faked his and his wife Perenelle’s deaths and funerals so they could travel to India and live with the mystics for eternity. Some say . . .” Madame paused for effect and lowered her voice theatrically. “Some say they are still alive almost six hundred years later.”