27 January 1910
The river had almost reached boulevard Saint-Germain and the cellars were filling on both sides of the street. It was easy for Sasha to deliver some note of pretended appeal to the concierge which sent her a safe distance into Rue Mazarine. Dawn was still an hour away when Maud walked briskly through the hall and up to the first floor. The door was unlocked, as she had thought it would be. One key was still in the cellar in Morel’s coat, the other belonged to the concierge and would never leave the ring on her belt. The image of the moment Sylvie pulled the trigger kept appearing in her mind like the pulse under her skin, the explosion of red under the lamplight.
She let herself into the flat and flicked on the electric light. The smashed vase on the floor reminded her of Mrs Prideux. She walked through the drawing room to Christian’s room. It was the part of the apartment she hadn’t entered before. The bed was unmade, an angry twist of blankets and sheets. His sickbed. His desk was up against the right-hand wall, cherrywood and roll-topped. She pushed it open and began to make her way carefully through the papers. She looked in herself for grief or doubt, for guilt, but could not find anything so simple. She was bruised, hollowed-out, and her heart seemed to beat slowly – an exhausted animal finally allowed sight of home, but not there yet. Whatever she had to feel about the Morels would come later – slowly, she hoped. Home. Not Alnwick, but Richmond or Darlington perhaps. Somewhere honest with wide landscapes. Countryside you could walk through for days on end where the light changed because of the moods of the sky, not the electric glare of Paris. Peace. There she would be strong enough to feel, let these bruises heal. The Quaker families in Darlington had built libraries large enough to keep Yvette happy for months, and James had mentioned there was a lady doctor in town. He seemed to approve of her. If the town could accept a lady doctor they would probably accept a female painter and a Frenchwoman.
She sighed and went back to her task. There was some correspondence – bills for the most part, but there were also the papers she needed: a birth certificate in the name of Sylvie Morel, born 1 January 1888, in Toulouse. She had lied about her age, just a little. Just as she couldn’t stop herself thieving just a little under Maud’s nose from the jewellery shop. Maud took it and put it in her handbag, along with any other piece of paper with the name Sylvie Morel on it, and then she made a fire in the grate and burned the rest.
After that she went into Sylvie’s room, took a pair of suitcases from under the bed and packed them with the dead woman’s clothes – the delicate lace underthings, a pale chemise and long white skirts. A dark blue tea-gown, collars and cuffs. She filled the lacquered jewel-box with the loose trinkets scattered on the tabletop, fitted in brushes and combs, stockings and shoes. Everything a respectable Frenchwoman might take with her on a trip to England. She would not ask Yvette to wear them, but they gave the proper impression as they travelled, and selling them in London would give them some money. Might they travel a little around England before deciding where to settle?
She thought of the plans Sylvie had been making with Morel: the vision of her pulling the trigger returned and she felt the soreness in her heart. Regret and hope folded their arms around her like twin angels. She took the two suitcases into the hall and checked that the papers in the grate were fully consumed and the embers dark. Suddenly the lights fizzled and went out. She closed her eyes and waited, a ghost among ghosts, to see who might come for her, but there was no sound apart from the gentle fall of the rain against the glass. The power had finally gone in this building as the water wound its way in, that was all. The ghosts were gone. She went back into the hall, picked up the suitcases and left.
Portrait of Madame de Civray oil on canvas 31.7 × 26.7 cm
The warm earth tones of this portrait give it an unusual intimacy, as does the casual posture of the sitter. Note the reflections of light on her evening clothes and jewels. Uniquely among the anonymous paintings in the de Civray collection, this picture has at some point been clumsily retouched: you can see with the naked eye the uneven patch of colour on the table in front of the Countess. X-rays suggest that this patching was done to cover an egg-shaped white object that lay there in the original. Some have suggested this was the golconda diamond that Madame de Civray had removed from the Empress Eugénie tiara and converted into a pendant at some time before World War I. Her removal of many of the original stones from the tiara was discovered only after her death, and was greeted with horror in France where the tiara had once formed part of the crown jewels. She left no explanation for what some regarded as an act of vandalism, other than a note in the case itself which said only, It was a fair trade. The pendant was eventually bequeathed to the Smithsonian Institute in New York, in spite of protests from some French newspapers.
Extract from the catalogue notes to the exhibition ‘The Paris Winter: Anonymous Treasures from the de Civray Collection’, Southwark Picture Gallery, London, 2010
‘So, Tanya, I have come. What do you want of me? Talk quickly, honey, I’m already late.’
The Countess looked around the drawing room in Rue Chalgrin and seemed to approve. The room was lit only by fire and candles, giving it the feel of an eighteenth-century salon. She dropped the furs from her shoulders and took a seat on the sofa, her arm stretched out along the back. Tanya stood to one side of the fireplace, her hands clasped in front of her as if about to recite or sing to the company.
‘I want you to leave Maud Heighton alone, and Yvette. I want you to never mention either of them again. Or the Morels. Please do not employ any of your Pinkertons in France or anywhere else to look for them or enquire after them – and if you ever hear of them again, please do not give any sign you know anything of them.’
The Countess’s face had grown serious while Tanya spoke. She raised her eyebrows. ‘That is a great deal to ask, Miss Koltsova. In light of what has been taken from me, a very great deal. Why should I do this?’
Tanya stepped away from the fireplace and put the stone she had been holding on top of the table in front of the Countess. The woman looked at it, but did not pick it up. ‘That is my diamond, I assume.’
Tanya went back to the fire. ‘It is, though I do not think you could ever prove it. Not if Henri has done his work well.’
The Countess looked up again. ‘And the rest, Miss Koltsova? The other twenty stones Henri chiselled out and gave to Morel? Where are they?’
Tanya could not meet her eyes; instead she stared into the fire. ‘No one will profit by them and the guilty couple are dead.’
‘I guess you don’t want to tell me any of the particulars?’ Tanya shook her head. ‘That’s a lot of diamonds to lose, Miss Koltsova.’ There was a decanter of whisky on the table next to the diamond and a glass. The Countess poured herself a drink and continued to stare past Tanya into the flames as she sipped it. She still did not touch the huge diamond next to her. ‘Is she here? Miss Heighton, I mean.’ She stabbed a finger suddenly onto the table. ‘In this building?’
Tanya hesitated and then nodded. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘So why am I having this conversation with you, honey?’ She was looking at Tanya with fierce concentration.
Tanya remembered the maid, the dismissal, how charming the Countess of Civray could be until she stopped trying. ‘Because she doesn’t like you much any more, Madame, and thought there was a danger she might spit in your eye if she saw you. So I said I’d return your stupid diamond.’
For a moment the Countess was completely still and then she burst into laughter. ‘Oh, you girls! God, you kill me.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘It won’t be the first time I’ve negotiated with people who want to spit in my eye. Tell her – no, please ask her – to come in and bring any work of her own she happens to have with her.’
‘This is not a negotiation,’ Tanya said stiffly.
‘Like hell it isn’t,’ the Countess said and poured herself another drink. Tanya still hadn’t moved. ‘Please, Tanya, I’d be very grateful if you could ask Miss Heighton to step in.’
Tanya could not refuse her when she asked that way; all her breeding demanded it. The Countess studied the diamond in front of her, watching its colours dance in the firelight until Tanya returned with Maud beside her. Maud came in and stood in front of her, looking, the Countess thought, very much like the polite, thoughtful young English girl she had welcomed into her house before Christmas. She examined her for a while in silence. She liked it when people came to her house and admired her paintings, admired her – and she realised with a slow smile that she was not so sure she liked it when they did anything else. Well, that was one new thing she had learned – and her father always told her that the best lessons were the ones you paid for. Those you remembered.
Maud put a painting on the table beside the diamond and her whisky glass. It was a portrait of Sylvie Morel with her opium pipe. The Countess considered it for a while, thinking hard, and then looked up at the artist.
‘Miss Heighton, I’m going to guess a couple of things and you’re going to tell me if I’m right or wrong. You are leaving Paris?’
‘I am.’
‘And I think that model Yvette I am not allowed to ask about in future is going too?’
‘She is.’
The Countess sighed and leaned back again, cradling her whisky. ‘My father taught me never to come out of a bargain with what you are first offered, and I take his advice very seriously. Now this diamond is here and I’m told this lady,’ she tapped the portrait, ‘and her brother or husband or whatever he was are dead, so I think I have an idea of what happened. The guilty will not profit, you say, and I don’t think you’d be able to look me in the eye if you were taking the rest of the haul back to England.’ She saw Tanya glance at Maud, but the Englishwoman made no sign.
The Countess was impressed. ‘No – scratch that. You might be able to, Miss Heighton, but Miss Koltsova could not.’ She drummed her fingers on the table-top. ‘Twenty, five-carat diamonds.’ She tapped at the portrait again. ‘They are worth a fortune. Not as much as this big one, of course, but still a fortune. I tell you what – I’ll sell them to you, Miss Heighton. I’ll take this picture, and every year for the next twenty years – if both of us live that long – I want you to send me the best thing you’ve painted. For that you can have my silence. I’ll also pass on any rumours I hear that might disturb your peace, and,’ she nodded to Tanya, ‘I’ll give this girl a commission to paint me, and to paint my children. Then I’ll tell everyone in Paris what a clever artist she is. How’s that?’
Tanya had blushed a little and was looking at Maud hopefully now, but the Englishwoman’s voice was even. ‘I’ll paint something for you, specifically for you, whenever I wish to. I promise I will never do any less than the best I can for you, and you shall have twenty paintings within twenty years if not before.’ She paused. ‘But for our safety, in case anyone makes the connection between the pictures, the diamonds and what has happened here, I shall not sign them.’
The Countess considered for a second then knocked back the last of her whisky and stood up.
‘Deal. You’ll go far, Miss Heighton, and I’m glad you’re not dead. The world is more interesting with you in it.’ She slung her furs around her shoulders again then picked up the diamond and put it in her pocket as casually as if it had been a cigarette-case.
‘Miss Koltsova, have that picture mounted on canvas, framed and sent to me, please. So just nineteen to go now, Miss Heighton. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Comédie Française are having a candlelit benefit for the flood victims, and absolutely everyone is going to be there. Good night.’
She walked out of the room and left them in the glow of the firelight. As soon as the door shut, Tanya flung herself onto the sofa, filled the whisky glass to the brim and drank.
‘Oouf! That woman terrifies me!’ She looked at Maud and frowned. ‘How is Yvette?’
Maud came and sat down beside her, took the whisky glass from her hand and drank her own share. ‘She’s nervous, but she is willing to come to England and live under the name of Sylvie Morel. I’ve told her she could give French lessons to the schoolchildren of Darlington if she promises not to teach them to swear. She says it sounds a better future than the one she thought was waiting for her here.’ She handed Tanya the glass back.
Tanya looked a little doubtful. ‘Darlington is where your brother lives, is it not? Will he approve? I thought you might go to London or the West Country.’
Maud sighed. ‘Oh Tanya, if I know one thing I know I can cope with James now, and I want to see Albert, my little half-brother, grow up. I shall remain Maud Heighton so he can always disown me, and London is too like Paris. No air.’ She saw Tanya’s confusion and put her arm through hers. ‘And I absolutely guarantee there are no opium dens in Darlington. Just a great many Quakers. Yvette is giving your Aunt Vera lessons at the moment on the rates models should be paid, which are the best colour shops, and how to get the best prices.’ Tanya laughed. ‘Will you come to see us in England? When you are married? You will like the North, and however modestly you dress, the whole county will be amazed at your wonderful sense of style and flock round you like moths.’
Tanya took her hand. ‘Then yes, I shall. I will bring my husband and my two – no, my three – children and Sasha, and we will leave all the ghosts behind us.’
Maud laid her head on her shoulder and they were still there when Yvette came to find them a few minutes later. She claimed the whisky glass and sat on the floor between them as they told her of the conversation with the Countess.
‘You really won’t sign them, Maud? The risk is very small, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Maud replied, taking back the glass. ‘But I still don’t like her.’
Yvette snorted. ‘You’re buying those diamonds from her in a way, aren’t you? A picture for each one.’
‘In a way, yes, I suppose I am,’ Maud replied.
Yvette twisted round so she was looking up at them both. ‘That must make you one of the most expensive artists in the world.’ Maud almost dropped her glass and Tanya put her head back and laughed. ‘Oh and Maud, I sold that picture of Tanya you did in class to her Aunt Lila. It should be enough for travelling clothes, if you still have enough for tickets.’