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“And you feel that this is why Vincent killed himself? That he had bought color from this little color man?” asked Lucien.
“I’m not sure anymore,” said Dr. Gachet.
“Well,” said Henri, “you will be more assured soon. I’ve commissioned a scientist from the Académie to analyze color I bought from the Colorman. We should know any day.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Gachet. “I mean, yes, he may have been under the influence of some chemical compound, but I’m not sure that Vincent killed himself.”
“But your wife said he confessed it when he came to your house,” said Pissarro. “He said, ‘This is my doing.’”
“That was enough for the constable, and at first, I didn’t question it. But think: who shoots himself in the chest, then walks a mile to the doctor? This is not the action of a man who wants to end his life.”
Fifteen
THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN
THREE DAYS AFTER LUCIEN AWOKE FROM HIS COMA, TOULOUSE-LAUTREC arrived at Lessard’s bakery to find the young painter not only on his feet, but forming great, disc-shaped loaves and laying them on trays to be proofed. The kitchen was rich with the smell of yeast and the sweet aroma of fruit confits that were simmering on the stove.
Before venturing a greeting, Henri fished a gold watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and checked the time.
“Oh thank God, when I saw the bread I thought it might be before dawn.”
Lucien smiled. “These are not today’s loaves, Henri. Those came out of the oven hours ago. I’m going to proof these loaves twice, the second time overnight. It’s an Italian recipe. They call it focaccia. The bread becomes dense but not heavy, good for carrying sauces, cheese, meats.”
“French bread is superb for cheese and meat, Lucien. What is your sudden fascination with the Italian way of doing things? I noticed you used thin glazes on your painting like the Italians.”
“They were the masters, Henri. They say that the Italians taught the French to cook. That when Catherine de Medici married King Henry the Second, she brought a whole brigade of Italian chefs to France, toured them around the country holding banquets and teaching the people how to cook.”
“Blasphemy!” said Toulouse-Lautrec. “It is accepted science that God himself gave the French the gift of their cuisine, and while he was downstairs, cursed the English with theirs.”
“But the painting—”
“Fine, there were a few Italians who could paint.” Henri had made his way over to the stove and scooped a handful of steam off a cherry confit and inhaled it. “This is delightful.”
“Régine will put it in croissants tomorrow. Taste it if you’d like.”
“No, the aroma is enough for now.”
Lucien turned the last of the loaves on the floured table and plopped it onto the proofing tray. “Speaking of which, you are slightly less aromatic than when we last met.”
&n
bsp; “Yes, apologies. One loses perspective after a week in a brothel. I have since returned home, bathed in my own apartment, without the help of my maid, who left me, I might add.”
“Well, when you don’t go home for weeks at a time, without notice … servants need to be paid, Henri.”
“That wasn’t it. I had paid her in advance, thinking I would be away at Mother’s for the whole month.”
“Then what was it?”
“Penis,” explained Toulouse-Lautrec.
“Pardon?”
“I was conducting an experiment. A theory based on information I had recently obtained, for which I sought confirmation. I strolled out of my bedchamber, au naturel, and the maid tendered her resignation on the spot—with far more histrionics than was called for, I thought. The woman is sixty-five years old—a grandmother—it’s not as if she’s never seen one.”
“I assume you were wearing your hat?”
“Of course, what am I, some philistine?”
