“Welcome back, Rat Catcher,” said Pissarro.
Mère Lessard pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and hurried from the room to hide her tears.
“Oncle Camille,” said Lucien. “How?”
“I came with Gachet. I was in Auvers, painting with Gauguin.”
“Is Minette with you?” Lucien’s voice was dry as dust.
Régine held a cup to Lucien’s lips and he took a sip of water, which gave Pissarro time to recover from the reminder of his daughter, dead now eighteen years. He looked to the doctor and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if he should speak the truth to the boy, who was obviously still disoriented.
Dr. Gachet stroked his pointed red beard for a second, as if the friction might yield a prognosis, then nodded.
“Minette is gone, Lucien,” Pissarro said. “Many years ago. Don’t you remember?”
“Blue!” said Lucien, sitting up quickly, grabbing Pissarro by the lapels of his jacket. “Did it take her?”
Pissarro looked past Lucien to the corner of the room. There was nothing there to look at, just paint on the walls, but he couldn’t look at Lucien, whose gaze was begging for answers. The old painter’s vision glazed over with tears.
“She was sick, fever,” he said. He shook his head and looked down at the floor, ashamed. “A long time ago, Rat Catcher.”
Lucien looked to Dr. Gachet. “Did it take her?”
The doctor pulled a stool up next to the bed and sat. “Lucien, you’ve been unconscious for over a week. Do you know what happened to you?”
“I’m fine,” Lucien said. “I was painting. Wait. Juliette? Oh, Oncle, the painting! You must see the painting!”
Pissarro shook off his distress and looked at Gachet with a smile. “He’ll be fine,” he said, as if he were the physician now.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Gachet. “Lucien, did you eat anything different? Any shellfish, maybe? Mushrooms you didn’t know?”
“I had fish and chips. In London. With Juliette,” said Lucien. “Where is Juliette?”
“Mother brained her with a crêpe pan,” said Régine, who had been standing in the doorway. “She hasn’t been back.”
“But I love her,” said Lucien. “And the painting isn’t finished.”
Gachet stood. “Why don’t you rest a bit, Lucien. Camille and I will go look at your painting.”
IN LUCIEN’S STUDIO, DR. GACHET AND CAMILLE PISSARRO STOOD IN FRONT of the blue nude of Juliette.
“Extraordinary,” said Gachet.
“It reminds me of Renoir’s olive trees. In those days he had gone to the South and was working through a theory that all shadows were made of blue light—he would paint them no other color. His whole palette was built up from blue.”
“Really, Camille? She reminds you of olive trees? Let me check your pulse, my friend, you may be dead.”
“I meant the colors.”
The studio door opened and they turned to see Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, looking quite rumpled, as if he had been recently unpacked after having been stuffed in a small box for a long time.
“Bonjour, messieurs.” Henri had met Pissarro at Theo van Gogh’s gallery, where both were showing paintings. The moment Toulouse-Lautrec entered, the air in the studio had changed from the rich, nutty smell of linseed oil, with the slight astringent note of turpentine, to a choking miasma of patchouli, musk, absinthe, tobacco, and secretions of well-ripened lady-parts, possibly of the deceased. Dr. Gachet surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trousers after shaking Lautrec’s hands.
“I have seen your work, monsieur,” said the doctor. “Your lithographs in particular are very striking. I am a printmaker myself.”
“I have heard,” said Henri. “I look forward to seeing your work. But now Lucien, I was told that he is awake?”
“An hour ago, perhaps,” said Gachet.