The Tortured Artist
"François Carbone is a fine master and a brilliant painter," Émilienne LaSalle told her young niece, Colette, when she arrived at Chateau Carbone, "but I can't help feeling sorry for him. He seems like such a lonely man."
Émilienne had been the housekeeper at the chateau since before her young master was born. After François's parents died in a tragic boating accident, the teenage boy looked to the older woman almost as a substitute mother, and even though he was now a grown man, Émilienne still felt a strong affection for him.
Colette LaSalle, a pretty seventeen-year-old girl who had been raised on a farm near Louviers, moved to the grand house to assist her aging aunt in overseeing the care of the centuries-old chateau.
"When am I to be introduced to him?" she asked, eager to meet her new employer.
"Not yet, I'm afraid. He's not here. He left for Paris a week ago, and I'm not sure when he'll return home."
"You say he's lonely. Doesn't he have any friends?" Colette asked.
"A few, but most of them have moved to Paris," her aunt replied. "Young gentlemen these days want to live in big cities."
"What about female friends?"
"I have seen him bring women home from time to time, but they don't stay long. And then, of course, there are his models."
"Does he paint them—you know?"
Colette blushed, unable to continue.
"Sometimes," Émilienne replied, gleaning her niece's meaning, "but then most artists paint nudes. So, if you want to avoid embarrassment, don't go near the studio when the master is in there."
Three days later, Colette finally encountered her employer when he returned from his visit to Paris. The young servant was immediately attracted to the darkly handsome, moodily romantic painter. François, in turn, was enchanted by the fresh innocence of the pretty farm girl. He was, after all, used to the company of women who were willing to take off their clothes—and do much more—for a few francs. Not that he judged them for what they did; he knew that women had few options when it came to supporting themselves and that many had to resort to selling their bodies in order to earn enough money for food and shelter.
Despite the difference in their social positions, a close friendship soon developed between the fresh-faced farm girl and the young master. When she was not helping her Aunt Émilienne with her household duties, Colette spent her free time outdoors, watching the master paint. Thankfully, she had yet to come across any of his models, for with the advent of spring, François became more interested in capturing the verdant French countryside on canvas than in painting human forms.
One warm, sunny day, while the master was busy at his easel, he told the young girl about his introduction to the works of great artists like da Vinci, Renoir, Van Gogh, Manet, Raphael, Rubens and Rembrandt.
"I knew I wanted to be an artist the first time my father took me to Paris when I just was a boy," he explained. "While we were there, we visited the Musée du Louvre. I was in awe of all those masterpieces on display. Ever since that day, I have devoted my life to art, to the exclusion of all else."
As close as the two young people had become, however, François never invited Colette into his studio.
"That must be where he keeps the paintings he thinks that I'm too much of a lady to see," Colette suggested to her aunt while they were helping the maids wash the chateau's windows.
"At least it shows that he respects you," Émilienne said with pride in her niece.
"Do you ever go in there to supervise the cleaning?" she asked, burning with curiosity.
"No. Neither I nor any of the maids are allowed in the master's studio."
"Then who scrubs the floors and dusts the furniture?"
"Maybe he cleans it himself—or maybe not. Most men aren't as concerned about such things as women are, you know."
In the excitement of their budding romance, however, Colette eventually lost interest in François's studio.
* * *
When the new year brought with it another spring, François proposed marriage. Soon to be mistress of the house, Colette was no longer expected to work as a housekeeper. In her newly acquired free time, she attempted to bridge the gap between her education and that of her prospective husband. Not wanting François to be ashamed of her ignorance, she learned to read and write.
As the months went by, however, François became increasingly melancholy.
"Don't fret, my dear. The master gets that way from time to time," Émilienne assured her niece. "It has nothing at all to do with you. It's just that every once in a while he loses the inspiration to paint. When he does, he runs off to Paris for a few days. Then he comes back as good as new and paints as if he'd been granted a private audience with his own personal muse."
Colette felt a stab of jealousy.
"Is that when he brings those women home?" she asked with a pronounced pout.
Émilienne stopped cleaning and looked at the girl sternly.
"You are going to marry an artist. If you have a problem with his painting women, naked or fully dressed, you'd best get it straightened out now."
A month before her wedding day, Colette was awakened late one night by the sound of voices coming from the floor below. She put on a robe and slippers, crept downstairs, stopped outside the door to François's studio and listened carefully. The voices were muffled by the heavy door, but after a few minutes, she clearly determined with a good deal of relief that the two speakers were both males. Curious, she knocked softly.
François slowly opened the door a crack and peeked out.
"Colette, darling," he said with surprise.
He stepped through the narrow opening and quickly shut the door behind him.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I heard voices ...," she began.
"Forgive me, dear. You go back to bed. I'll try to be quiet."
"But, François," she objected, refusing to be sent away so easily, "who were you talking to?"
"No one important, dear. It's just a man who occasionally helps me with the business end of my art career."
"You mean an agent?"
"Yes," he said, smiling warmly. "He's my agent. I'd introduce you to him, but, frankly, he's a bibulous fellow and he's had a bit too much to drink. Now, please, darling, go back to bed. I want to finish my business discussions and turn in for the night myself."
Content that François's visitor was not some beautiful, undressed model, Colette returned to her room.
The following morning at breakfast François informed his fiancée that he would have to take a short business trip to Paris. Colette was quite excited; she had never been to the city before.
"I'll go pack now," she said.
"You can't go with me; we're not married yet. It would cause quite a scandal."
"We could bring my Aunt Émilienne along. Surely she is an adequate chaperone."
"I'm sorry, Colette," he said firmly. "I have important business to attend to. I will not have the time to entertain you and your aunt." Then he added more gently, "Besides, you will no doubt be kept quite busy preparing for our wedding."
At the end of the week, François returned from the city in the early morning hours. When Colette heard his carriage on the cobblestone drive, she got out of bed and rushed to the foyer to greet him, only to discover that he had gone directly to his studio and locked the door behind him.
"François?" she called softly, knocking on the door.
"Go back to bed, Colette," he replied, in a strained, exhausted voice.
"François? What's wrong? Are you feeling well, my darling?"
"I feel fine; now please go back to bed."
A woman laughed, and François tried to quiet her.
Seething with jealousy, Colette cried, "François! Open this door at once!"
"Leave me alone!" he yelled, his voice quivering with anger.
Colette held back her tears as she ran down the hall. When she returned to the privacy of her own bedroom, however, she shed them freely.
The following morning, François was most apologetic.
"I had been drinking," he admitted, "and was not myself."
"Where is she now?"
"I gave her a few francs and sent her away this morning. She was here only a short time, darling. I swear. Only long enough for me to quickly sketch her."
"How come I didn't hear her leave?" Colette asked with suspicion.
"Perhaps you were sleeping. If you don't believe me, come to the studio. You can see for yourself that no one is there."
Colette looked at her aunt. She knew Émilienne would expect her to take François at his word and not make him prove the veracity of his explanation, but she could not resist the opportunity to finally enter his sanctum.
"See," he said, as he unlocked the studio door and opened it wide. "The room is empty. I'm not hiding anyone in here."
Colette stepped inside the studio and looked around. There was nothing at all remarkable about the place: just an old wooden stool, paints, easels and canvases, some finished, others not. They were all bizarre and, in her opinion, not very good. Garish colors and sharp angles made the subjects unrecognizable.
"Where are all the beautiful landscapes you painted?" she asked, staring at a portrait of a woman whose purple and blue face was triangular in shape.
"Those are the paintings that I send to the gallery to sell. But these," he said, proudly showing off his art, "are my masterpieces."
"Does anyone buy paintings such as these?" his fiancée asked dubiously.
"No. The people who go to the gallery want pictures of trees and flowers and pretty girls to adorn the walls of their homes. They have no appreciation of art in its truest form."
Apparently neither did Colette, for she thought the abstract paintings in his studio were hideous.
"What's that?" she asked, spying in the corner of the room an easel that was covered with a paint-stained cloth.
"That's nothing," François said quickly. "Just some new technique I'm experimenting with. I haven't got it quite right yet."
"Let me see," she said.
François grabbed her arm and gently pulled her back.
"I'd rather you didn't see it right now. It's not finished."
"It's a painting of her, isn't it?" she asked suspiciously. "The woman you had in here with you last night."
François's face flushed.
"Will you forget about that woman? I already told you that you've no reason to be jealous. She was a common prostitute, for heaven's sake. Why would I be interested in her?"
Reluctantly, Colette let her fiancé lead her out of the studio and lock the door behind them.
* * *
Colette decided to put the unpleasant incident out of her mind and concentrate on improving her knowledge of current events. To this end, she frequently went to the chateau's library to read the newspaper from Paris.
"Aunt Émilienne," she asked one afternoon, "have you seen today's paper?"
"Yes. I gave it to the master this morning when it arrived."
"He always leaves it in the library for me to read when he's done, but it's not there."
"I'll keep an eye out for it, dear," Émilienne promised as she continued with her chores.
Colette found the newspaper an hour later. Someone had crumbled it up and thrown it in the parlor fireplace grate. She retrieved it and brought it to the library. On the first page, there were three articles: one about the political situation in France, one that concerned the British Prime Minister and another on the disappearance of a young woman. Since Colette had no interest in politics—either French or British—she chose to read the article on the disappearance.
Marie Rousseau, a homeless orphan who made her living on the streets of Paris, was reported missing by a close friend. Marie was last seen six nights ago leaving the city with a well-dressed young man.
Colette had a terrible sense of foreboding: it was six days earlier that François brought the woman from Paris home to his studio. Could she have been Marie Rousseau, the woman that the Paris police were searching for?
She chided herself for her foolish suspicions. Even if it was the same woman—which odds were it wasn't—it was highly unlikely that she had come to any harm. Perhaps she simply took the money that François had given her for her modeling services and went off on a drinking binge. Reassured, Colette returned to the article.
The missing woman makes the fifth such disappearance in Paris in the last twelve months. Police refuse to confirm the rumor that for the past several years at least a dozen young women have disappeared from the Paris streets, never to be seen again.
She took the paper to the kitchen and read the article to her aunt.
"Poor things," Émilienne said, shaking her head. "I doubt any of them will be found alive."
"It says here that the last woman went missing the same night François came back from Paris," her niece pointed out.
Émilienne was shocked.
"You're not suggesting the master had anything to do with these disappearances!"
"No," Colette replied, but her strained voice conveyed her doubts.
"I never heard of such nonsense! Women in that profession run a high risk of disappearing. Why, they go off with anyone who has a few francs in his pocket. Look at what happened with that Ripper fellow in London a few years back. They never caught him, you know. Maybe he's crossed the channel into France, and now he's back to his old tricks."
"But the London police found his victims' bodies. Here, there are only disappearances."
"Maybe the Ripper has learned to be more careful with the remains."
* * *
François and Colette were married at the beginning of August as planned, despite the bride's lingering doubts. They had a simple ceremony on the grounds of the chateau. Émilienne and several of the village women prepared a wedding feast for those in attendance. After the celebration concluded, the bride and groom retired to the master bedroom to consummate their union.
Later that night, Colette woke from a light sleep. François lay beside her, deep in slumber. She got up and walked around her husband's bedroom, idly examining the fine furniture, the exquisite drapes and the polished silver candelabra. Then she spied his clothes, tossed carelessly on the floor. She picked them up, folded them neatly and laid them lovingly across the back of a chair. As she did, a set of keys fell from his jacket pocket onto the thick bedroom carpet.
She shot a quick glance at her husband to see if the noise had disturbed him, but François was sleeping soundly. The bride's curiosity got the better of her good sense. She picked up the keys and the lighted candelabra and headed toward her husband's studio. Quietly, she unlocked the door; and holding the candles high, she headed toward the covered easel in the corner of the room.
Colette's heart beat rapidly as she lifted the cloth and revealed the painting beneath. Her scream shattered the silence of the chateau. Master and servants alike woke in fright. When François discovered that his wife was not in their bed, he ran out into the hall in search of her.
"Colette?" he cried, and then he heard another scream coming from the direction of the studio.
The former farm girl stared in horror at François's painting. There were nearly two dozen terrified women whose complexions beneath their gaudy makeup were deathly pale. Their eyes were disturbingly lifelike and seemed to peer out at her from the canvas. She correctly surmised that they were the missing prostitutes from Paris. They were not dead, as everyone feared, but their souls were being held captive in the hideous painting.
"Colette!" François moaned when he saw his wife standing in front of the easel. "Why?"
"Because she's a female, and, as such, she's an incurable snoop!"
The frightened young woman cringed at the sound of the voice. A man appeared out of nowhere and stood beside the repulsive painting. The bride screamed again and ran into her husband's arms.
"It seems as though we now have to renegotiate our deal," the mysterious, sinister man said.
Colette recognized the voice. She had heard it coming from inside this room one night while she was at the door in the hall. But if this man was his agent, why was her husband trembling with fear?
"There's no need for that," François said.
"She has seen the painting," the stranger argued, nodding toward Colette.
"She won't say a word," François quickly assured him. "Besides, she has no idea what it means or who you are."
The stranger smiled sardonically.
"Don't be so certain of that! You men always underestimate the opposite sex. They're much smarter than you give them credit for."
"But she's no threat to you; I promise."
"Do you think I fear a mere mortal? No. But you and I had a deal. You provide me with 'appropriate homage,' and I bestow artistic genius on you."
"And I have faithfully kept my end of the bargain," François insisted. "Look at the women I have sacrificed to you."
He pointed toward the painting where the agonized faces of the missing prostitutes stared back at him with loathing. The stranger shrugged indifferently.
"That wasn't really much of a sacrifice on your part now, was it? What did you care for those pathetic wretches?"
"All right, then, take my talent from me. You can have it back."
"Oh, no. It doesn't work that way. I gave you the talent, and you used it to create quite a few paintings—some for money and some for art's sake. Now you must pay up."
François shook with apprehension, dreading what the infernal agent provocateur would ask of him.
"This woman pleases me," Satan announced, looking appreciatively at Colette.
"Never!"
François quickly snatched the candelabra from his wife's hand and set fire to the sacrificial painting.The tortured, high-pitched screams of the imprisoned souls filled the air. Colette held her hands over her ears to block them out. François then proceeded to destroy his other paintings, yet Satan made no attempt to stop him. Soon flames were spreading across the room, feeding on the canvases and paints.
Aunt Émilienne, who had heard her niece's screams and run down from her third-floor room, made her way to the studio.
"Get Colette out of here!" François shouted when he saw his housekeeper standing in the doorway.
Though hampered by age, she rushed into the inferno with the speed of a much younger woman and pulled her niece to safety.
* * *
Several decades later, an aged Colette Carbone walked the silent halls of a Paris art gallery and stopped in front of a masterpiece by the great Spanish artist Pablo Picasso. The colors and shapes he used in his painting painfully reminded the old woman of her late husband's work. Many years earlier, when she had seen the canvases François kept in his studio, she judged them to be of poor quality and of no artistic value. Now she realized what a true genius her beloved had been. It was indeed a tragedy for both her and the art world when he died in that fire on their wedding day.
Colette never spoke of the events that took place in François's studio that night. No one, not even her late Aunt Émilienne, was aware that François Carbone had sacrificed the lives of poor young women in his pursuit of greatness. Yet despite his crime, Colette never stopped loving him; for in the end, he had sacrificed his paintings, his life and even his immortal soul to save the woman he loved.
Detail of The Artist's Workshop (shown in upper left corner of page) by Adriaen van Ostade.
Salem loves fine art and once had his portrait painted by Pablo Picatso.
